Three Things from Edmonton podcast -- episode 101: family reunion, what a drag!, Zamboni
1. Family reunion
On our way to share a Christmastime evening with musician friends, we crossed paths, in the lobby of their building, with Shelagh’s cousin. This happens routinely. Ninth of nine, with uncles and aunts with big families themselves, Shelagh reunites relatively often, impromptu-style, with her clan. One day we were walking in Ottawa, and there was Anna. We were out cycling near Beaumont, and there was Michael. Michael, the son of Mike, that is, the cousin of Michael, both Michaels the grand nephew of the late Michael—Michaels, and a Michaela, happen in Shelagh’s family, too. The Mike who is the father of Michael could have called his own uncle Michael Father, the latter being a Catholic priest. I’m now out too far on this limb, but it’s quite the tree. Focus.
On our way to share a Christmastime evening with musician friends, we crossed paths, in the lobby of their building, with Shelagh’s cousin. This happens routinely. Ninth of nine, with uncles and aunts with big families themselves, Shelagh reunites relatively often, impromptu-style, with her clan. One day we were walking in Ottawa, and there was Anna. We were out cycling near Beaumont, and there was Michael. Michael, the son of Mike, that is, the cousin of Michael, both Michaels the grand nephew of the late Michael—Michaels, and a Michaela, happen in Shelagh’s family, too. The Mike who is the father of Michael could have called his own uncle Michael Father, the latter being a Catholic priest. I’m now out too far on this limb, but it’s quite the tree. Focus.
On the night last week in the condo lobby it was cousin Dave (not to be confused with nephew Dave). Cousin Dave played for the Oil Kings back in the day, even played in a Memorial Cup against the Oshawa Generals. In a big family like Shelagh’s, it’s as likely that someone has played with Tommy Banks (that would be the elder S-E-A-N Sean, not to be confused with the younger S-E-A-N Sean, his cousin, once removed, who is a DJ of some note) as it is that someone has laced them up against Bobby Orr. Dave didn’t want to talk hockey that night. The Oilers had just blown a game against the Ducks. Instead, unexpectedly, he shared a regret from 33 years and a few months ago.
He remembered being at our wedding reception at the Ramada Renaissance on 105 Street. He remembered how we asked tables to get up to sing a song to get a kiss out of us. He remembered how his table wanted to sing, but, for whatever reason, didn’t. There in the lobby on Saskatchewan Drive, Dave started singing the song he had planned to lead the table in then.
“Sweet little Sheila [sic], you'll know her if you see her…”
Did I kiss the bride? No, I wasn’t thinking, I was frozen in the present. It hit me the next morning. I went upstairs with my mea maxima culpa. I had forgotten that, as Cohen might say, did say, are we ever all still sitting at the table. L. Cohen, that is, not to be confused with little Cohen, who’s making recordings but not yet speaking memorably, and is more change than banquet table anyway.
In the scheme of things, it was a walk in the park. Still, I felt traces of what my friend Pink and I call urban terror. Lit windows in houses on the riverbank above. Planes flying overhead. The sound of traffic in the distance. People around, people who might help, but theoretical people who might help, theoretically. In reality, I was alone. The sky was dark. The air was cold. The coyotes had been yipping all along, but now I was aware of them. Half of the teeth on my bike’s front sprocket had busted off as I pedalled on a single-track path near the Terwillegar Park footbridge. The mechanics call this kind of misfortune catastrophic failure. The bike, as a bike, was useless. The task now was to hike the five kilometres home, with my useless bike, did I mention it was cold and dark? Suddenly, the perspiration in the wool layers on my chest had cooled. I exhaled. I conducted a quick situation analysis. Confidently, in the dark, I made my first misstep.
I had mistakenly decided to use my broken bicycle as a scooter. The wheels still rolled. I propelled it along the narrow snow-covered path by footstrokes on the ground, two pushes on the right, then two on the left as I sat on the saddle. It was slow going, but faster than walking. But…the soft snow on the pathside spilled into the top of my boots and melted through my socks. My feet were now cold. I tasted futility in the Oleskiw Meadow. I abandoned the technique. The task changed its aspect. It wasn’t just to get home. The sub-task was to keep my feet warm while getting home. I adapted. I walked on the path, and pushed my bike through the shin-high snow beside the path. I made other changes, too. Instead of “getting home,” I broke the trek into segments. Get to the next footbridge. Then to Fort Edmonton Park and the ferris wheel, which, when it came into view through the black trees, was as beautiful as the lights of West Vancouver, gotta say. Then to the staircase up to the Quesnell Bridge and the Talus Dome.
Along the way, I talked out loud to my friends. I made them walk with me. LJ was a big help, without even being there. Part of what friends do.
When I got cell service back, I called Shelagh, who was across the city and too far away to get back quickly. I recounted my slog. What a drag, she said. What a drag, I thought, as my bike and I moved past 132 Laurier Drive, where there’s a light display in the shape of a howling coyote that I had seen, but, not really, ever before.
3. Zamboni
It’s a good word, Zamboni. Zamboni—the word itself diffused my thoughts. Like salami, spaghetti or Zambelli’s, it’s a word with the stress on the middle of three syllables…a kind of perfectly balanced poetic foot…Zambelli’s, a great deep dish pizza restaurant from another age out toward CFRN on Stony Plain Road…Zambelli’s with its echoes of Bellikka, Jerry Bellikka, who we called Belli when he reported with cameraman Semi or Korbs on the Nightwatch crew for ITV News decades ago now…they would go looking for news each night in a black 1994 Chevy Suburban rigged with a microwave transmitter on a hydraulic mast.
That vehicle brought me back to the surface as I watched the Zamboni on the outdoor skating rink in the Ice District in downtown Edmonton on a morning last week. I stop to watch a lot of things go by. Trains, toy trains, clouds, birds, bikes, snow, cement trucks, wind, letter carriers, time. There is nothing in this world like a Zamboni doing the rounds on a sheet of ice, filling the gouges, slowly making the uneven places level. It is a healing machine.
Happy Hanukkah, Merry Christmas, happy holidays. Thanks for being out there, friends.
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