by John Holman
The Sagittariids began at the start of the month, although here in the sub-Arctic there is no darkness for us to enjoy the celestial delights thereof. What do we get instead?
Well, the horseflies also appeared on the same day the Sagittariids began. The horseflies, we call them similarly “bulldogs”, are from the family Tabanidae in the order of Diptera, and are known as true flies. These are common to our Northern bug screens as the unfortunate buzzing bug banging against the windows, or trying in vain to get out of the house, most often resulting in their dried carcasses littering the window sill.
Our house was lucky because the tables were turned on the flies, as one of my youngest brothers used to sit in his high chair at the window, casually grabbing them and eating them, instead of the reverse. Snacking with great relish, he consumed them as he watched the then flowery wild fields off to the left to the air base in town, the sunshine and the clouds of bees; the old school equivalent of having a television babysitter.
I was a child then with dirty knees, muddy or dusty hair, and cuts and scrapes from running the woods and climbing trees, until we got bicycles, and then it was road rash and massive bruises. We drank water from the ditches once the silt had settled, and instead of gum we pulled taffy-like gobs of freshly-oiled tar from the roads. It kept down the choking and ubiquitous dust on the dirt roads, but closely resembled the catastrophic oil slicks seen on television. To this day I wonder how much dioxins and furans we had unknowingly ingested, but then coupled with the bacterial and viral count from the standing water in the ditches, perhaps all toxic effects cancelled out?
The island of Fort Simpson itself was a different haven of wildlife. The bees proliferated among the yarrow, both of which are now shades of their former populations. The ground melt in spring would also replenish the island’s marshes, which we would wade through up to our waists, capturing water beetles, frogs, and freshwater arthropods, the latter of which I have not seen in decades. Now our marshes are also largely disappeared. Even the river breakups used to be spectacles of intimidating and growling ice chunks, which would cause cool breezes to break over us as the ice flowed by.
What have returned to the island are the swallows, whose nest holes used to riddle the high clay banks, and whose whistling calls rang through the air. At one time, I remember they had not returned one summer, but now have come back. New since my return from Grande Prairie are the crows, and this year the magpies, which were also new, also seem to have disappeared this spring. I can only imagine some type of bird war that caused this, occurring in the guerrilla backwoods.
We boys would go chub fishing, for those of us who had dogs, and also as a baitfish for our loche lines. Also known as lingcod, these fish provided sweet fillets for our families, and today are still a delicacy after being beer-battered and deep fried. The mighty Dehcho fed us, and cooled us on those hot summer days, especially when there was a forest fire haze, as if we were in purgatory, or at the gates of Hell.
I don’t remember my dreams as a child, but these reminisces float to me in vivid washes of colour, lush noise, and fleeting emotions, as if in a sun-drenched reverie.
At one period of my life I thought I’d never make it to 40 years old, which is now nine years gone. As a Gemini. I was fatalistic not because of youthful angst or depression; I just though my own recklessness would do me in with a catastrophic accident, or other misfortune. Now that I am middle-aged, I’m quite certain of my mortality, which just puts me back at square one, in a way. But, instead of a speeding vehicular crash, or a fall off a mountain side, or getting crushed by a rock fall, I anticipate high blood pressure, chronic wasting, or years of sitting in a rocking chair, telling kids to get off my lawn.
My body, like the bush around me, has changed, but the bird songs are just as sweet in the morning, when it isn’t hailing or pouring rain. It seems folly this pursuit of happiness and as lethargic as a reflection this must be, appreciating instances of joy immerse my perceptions to those pellucid moments. Eventually all those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain, and yet; even I know that the sun shall continue to shine, and this land shall last.