Pop 89: Not Altogether There

By Madonna Hamel

Last night I showed my brother the documentary “Wild Prairie Man” about my friend James R. Page who has spent the last few decades photographing the wild prairie of Grasslands National Park. Watching the opening credits, seeing my village with the grain elevator towering at the end of the main road, brought tears to my eyes and a lump in my throat. I miss the subtle beauty of the place, how it slows me down and allows me to absorb the small, enormous beauty of wildflowers in Spring, heady scent of baking sage in Summer, the hooting owls in Autumn and the animal footprint highway in Winter. I miss the wide open spaces - the vast vista, the way time is no longer measured by alarms and clocks and timers but by the sun’s long and slow sumptuous rising and setting.

While my brother enjoyed the documentary, he also understood, once more, how his stroke affected his visual field. Time and space are still concepts he is working to become familiar with again. Every day he does fascinating exercises that help him articulate his challenges, and most of them have to do with synchronizing his eyes to a wide open visual field. Watching long, slow panoramas of the wild prairie may be a thrill for me, but they are a challenge for him, a reminder of what he is up against.

The safe enclosure of my brother’s garden is a perfect size for him. I love these old growth trees like long lost loves, and yet I can’t help recalling the old prairie joke. When asked whether or not they enjoyed the view on their trip to the mountains or the rain forest, farmers often reply: “Well, I’m not sure. They tell me the view is quite something, but I couldn’t see anything for all the mountains/trees.”

I grew up in BC’s pulp and paper capital of the world and then went to university in Victoria and ran every day on the campus chip trail through the ferns and wild foliage, so I know tress. I was in love with the wild, breathing beauty of the rainforest, so much so that I told myself I should move away while young or one day I’d wake up sixty and still be living on the coast. Well, I’m in my sixties and back on the coast, and all I can think of is: Gee, these trees sure hem us in. I’ll be glad to be back on wide, wild prairie.

Still, there is something invigorating about the green air scent of Cortes. Especially when clearing Doug’s back rose garden. I began by hauling out renegade rose bushes. Their viney tentacles crawl their way across the garden, grabbing at everything in their path. While I haul and cut and prune, the fir trees bend and wave and breath their sweet scent on me, fueling me through the day. And raking the ground, uncovering scented paths of wildflowers and lilies and carpet ivies, I feel the earth’s pleasure, like scratching the back of my grandma: ooh yes, right there, ok, over a patch, that’s it. I stayed outside all day and half the next, praying for patience and forgiveness for my own hyper-vigilant prodding behaviours brought on by exhaustion and tremulousness. Fecund, year-round gardens are great places for releasing pent-up hurts, angers, fears and tears. Gardens are why so many people move here.

Turns out the paramedic who arrived to take Doug to the hospital back in March is from Manitoba. Besides having the gift of a calming presence and a healing hand, Tamara is also a gardener extraordinaire and is co-author of a book called “The Cortes Island Food Book.” Full of heritage photos and helpful hints as well as homesteader wisdom, it reminds me of the almanacs of the prairie. The section on Planning a Root Cellar reminds me that a root cellar is not limited to storing produce. “If you can keep the cellar 20 degrees lower than the outside temperature, you can keep your pickles, jams, and home-canning in the cool environment as well as your homemade wine and ginger beer.” These are self-sufficient people, like our prairie ancestors, people who regularly can and store hundreds of jars of beets, beans and relish in a season.

One of the reasons self-sufficiency is so essential here is that Cortes is a small Island surrounded by big waves. On stormy days ferries don’t cross. Unfortunately, trees fall most often on stormy days as well. On Easter, we experienced a day-long power outage due to a fallen tree, and we had to wait for the seas to calm before the crew could get here from the big island to find and fix the problem. Folks planning to be with friends for Easter dinner waited until the last minute to drive across Cortes, not wanting to have a tree fall in their path. Luckily we did get power in time to stuff and bake a turkey and invite a neighbour for supper.

Deb brought homemade bread and peanut butter cookies and ripping yarns about her days as a sea captain. Long after Doug made his way to bed, she kept us sisters enthralled with stories as ripping as those of Robert Louis Stevenson. She ran off to sea at the age of seventeen and sailed all over the world, working her way up from midshipman to captain. She’s been caught in cyclones and typhoons and dealt with stowaways and seasick shipmates. Later in life, she took a job as a ferry-boat captain. But that, she frowned, speaking softly, was like driving a cab. So she became a long-haul truck driver. People like Tamara and Deb are why Doug loves it here. They are a rare breed, not unlike those living on the wild prairie. As Tamara says: “We are all together here, because we are not altogether there.”