2 Dimensional

Whenever we stood at the edge of a roaring surf, or were out in our fishing boat and the winds began to churn the surface to white caps, my father’s voice could be heard booming above the gusting howl. Nature’s torments always seemed to make him wax poetic. Decades later, I could still hear this favorite poem of his by John Masefield running through my mind, his voice reverberating through my soul, memories flooding my very fingertips, as I worked on this piece.

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On the edges of most small towns, one can find the neighborhood junkyard. And just beyond the posted gate, the fiercest of dogs guard the rusted vehicles of days gone by and a myriad of parts and pieces of unserviceable machines. But lying in the overgrown pastures and strewn across abandoned anthills, there must be treasures still, for the guard dogs never relieve themselves from their post. Should you dare to ever unlatch the gate warning you to "keep out", you might be shocked to meet the owner of the ferocious growl.

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When we lived in northern Canada, my dad made friends with some Cree Indians. Before long, he had us lacing snowshoes (a som muk), trying new foods, and passing him the butter at the dinner table after he had called out “ To to saa poa pe me“, and then he would thank us “we naak komaa”.

He tells the story of a weekend spent with his friends catching salmon, and smoking them around the open campfire. He talks of how they trimmed fresh river branches, filleted the fresh, pink meat, and wove it to the wood, then staked it around the fire, and slowly smoked it. He remembers it tasting like something heaven might only wish to serve.

But my memory is locked in on the part of the story he tells of the great salmon that fight their way upstream, warriors of the turbulent glacier fed rivers, instinct driving them to spawning grounds. With reverence he speaks of the moonlit night, and the iridescent colors of the salmons’ scales as they burst from the froth, freeing themselves momentarily from the watery onslaught, tiny slivers of northern lights propelling themselves through a gyrating ribbon of liquid silver.

OH! I can only imagine…..