frozen wild-berry Whistler
A Creative Non-Fiction piece (with Prose
Poetry tendencies) originally written for Hyperlocal on Canada Writes cbc.ca.
The objective was to write of how a place, that is or was important to you, had
changed over time.
Winter 1968
After Haight-Ashbury’s Summer of Love
Before the summer revolt of les soixant-huitards
My family went to Whistler and stayed at my
Godparents’ hand-hewn log cabin in Alpine Meadows.
Prince George-born, my Godfather was a childhood
hero of mine: brilliant weekday lawyer, weekend woodsman in a raggedy black
t-shirt. My Godmother was my mother’s best friend since they were the It Girls
of 1940s Prince Albert Saskatchewan. Each Christmas and birthday until my 21st,
she gave me a piece of Birks Regency Dinnerware: completed by a wood cutlery
box - a silver plaque on which were engraved my first and middle initials
followed by a blank space __.
The Cabin:
While our parents drank Canadian Club rye
whiskey inside, we four little kids jumped off the roof into 5-foot deep
powdery snow—frozen wild-berry bushes sloping, rampant,
beneath, to the end of the property (somewhere back there
in the trees). Nights we jostled for space and dominance in the open
sleeping-loft.
That first night, while straightening my
mattress, I stepped backwards off the railingless loft, landing
(white-nightied) 10 feet below on the solid oak-plank floor beside my father’s
chair.
“Nice of you to drop in!” he joked (we were
great friends) presumably trusting I’d scrambled down the ladder to throw
myself at his side.
The next day I fell 8 feet off the chairlift.
I had skied before but with only a rope-tow up the hill; wooden skis bound by
aluminum and leather straps to my lace-up leather ski-boot clad feet.
My father had explained that once you are
sitting on the chairlift you should reach up and lower the safety bar. I
reached too soon: the wind had angled the chair perfectly for falling into the
deep powdery snow.
My little sister followed on the next chair with
our mother in her Nancy Greene ski
jacket. Nancy “The Tiger”, rising star of the Canadian competitive ski scene,
was instrumental
in the development of Whistler-Blackcomb Resort. While the jacket
languished in the closet for four decades until our family house was sold,
Nancy was chosen to be a Canadian Senator and
Canada's Female Athlete of the 20th
Century.
Pulled from the snow, I got to be escorted up
by a “cute” ski patrol guy. He seemed so mature: unlike the long-haired hippy
ski-bums who were the main demographic of the fledgling mountain community.
The last time I skied at Whistler was after a
cold New Year’s Eve spent dancing to Blondie, Gary Numan, Elvis Costello… at the UBC student cabin: waking to frozen Kokanees forced up into
bottle-capped 15cm phalluses and a sobering -30 Celsius morning on the
chairlift, swinging 50m above the run.
By then my Godfather was a lesser hero; his
ever-present silver flask of Johnnie Walker Black Label nestled in his
silk-lined inner pocket. Admittedly, he still cut a dashing figure; motoring
Pierre Trudeau around Vancouver in his vintage Allard.
By then I was ready to trade my skis for a
mountain bike. I dodged urban obstacles, mounted 30 kilometer hills. I rolled
long roads carved across Spartan tundra, salty deserts, and flattest
wind-driven prairie. I spanned bridges suspended above engorged rivers and
glided tarmac over the placid Jordan baptismal River – there, where it feeds
the Sea of Galilee through common drainage pipes.
But I never ventured off-road on rocky
mountain trails.
When my Godmother developed Parkinson’s her
knees buckled under her like a plastic Push Puppet I realized later when I saw the “serial killer trophy”
toy giraffe of Dexter’s Hannah McKay.
Pushing up under the base; elastic collapsing the limbs.
When I developed Parkinson’s my chiropractor
taught me to pigeon-toe my left foot (on skis: the beginning of a snow-plough
turn) so as not to collapse that way.
And so I surrendered my mountain bike and its thrill of dodges and too-fast
descents.
Summer 2012
After I had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s
Disease
After we married in a simple DIY gathering in
my family’s back yard (no new initial to engrave in silver)
Before I’d seen real mountain biking
My husband and I went to Whistler and stayed
at Nita Lake Lodge.
The “Boutique Hotel”:
The Savile Row suited Japanese
father-of-the-bride paced the faux plank
floor of the lobby (nonplussed by the Teva-sandalled, Bermuda-shorted
“CONGRATULATIONS!!!”) until his powdery-snow tulle-enrobed icicle-girl
descended soundlessly by elevator to his side. Without a word he slipped her
into the impatient limousine.
Meanwhile, with neither skis nor competition
mountain bikes we were transported securely and comfortably by the Village
Gondola up to the Roundhouse Lodge near Whistler’s peak, unremarked by the Crankworx free-riders shredding only metres below, tricking
down my vicarious thrills (orthopedic cushion on my every-seat).
Then from Peak 2 Peak 435m up to Blackcomb’s Rendezvous Lodge patio: on the safety railing between us and the spreading empire of what was once known as “London Mountain”:
someone’s frozen wild-berry yogurt – thawing in the summer sun.
After many retouches… le
voilà!
The Reading:
I didn’t read as clearly this time as the 1st, but it wasn’t
a disaster I don’t think…
Some of the writers had very positive things to say about the writing.
Always helps!
One or two got stuck on details that weren’t important. And one was very
upset by my father’s joke when I fell out of the loft, even though I clearly
explained he thought I’d jumped…
After the 1st reading, some of the group had begged for
notes. With a few different writers present the 2nd time, the Notes
were rejected categorically. I agree. If a reference is not common knowledge,
the meaning can often be inferred by context. Or Goggled. I’m not trying to
reach a maximum of people nor am I trying to be elitist. Some effort is, I
hope, worth the reading.
But what was really interesting to me is how remarks on form made me see
where I’d been lazy and that after serious analysis of the structure, not only
do I feel I resolved the problems, I also saw how strongly the piece resembled
my visual work of the past: strong visuals set in groupings of elements (in this case words) with
space between. It was described as very “atmosopheric”. Repetition is
deliberate. Meaning is implied: emotion evoked…
It is definitely not a narrative story – which I hadn’t made clear. It’s
something like poetry in free verse, I expect…though I don’t have the training
to say for sure. Just declaring it to be other than a story loosens
expectations. A reader can more freely take away what the piece communicates to
them. Or doesn’t…
