The Sandbox Theory

  What an education, Sid can’t help thinking. The lessons Grandpa had available in his semesters as a war refugee. Sort of an endurance training program, staying alive depended on tabulating food supplies. Practical Accounting101 – Survival Focus. Maximized threat gives to peak learning performance … well for some. Grandpa’s little sister couldn’t stay alive any longer one day on refugee road. Not everyone passes every class, but why couldn’t one chose to sign up for a session that offers an intense survival experience … and still have the option to drop out?

  “The Russian front?” Andrew interrupts his thoughts.

  “That was World War I and then there was the Bolshevik Revolution. When they came back to their village, it was now part of Poland. So Grandpa went to work for a Polish farmer. Three months work to buy a pair of shoes.”

  “That’s harsh,” says Andrew. “Couldn’t he do something else?”

  “Yah, like what? At least he was basically literate, but his real advantage was he knew how to farm. That was the way to get ahead, and to get out, when Canada was advertising for agricultural immigrants. So he came here to grow grain. Grain in the fields, back then, was gold in the bank.

  “He must have really believed life would be better here than there, ‘cause he came to Canada with the clothes on his back and a debt for his passage. Looking for a better life in the land of plenty. What a quest, eh?”

  “And he met Grandma somehow,” says Andrew.

  “Yah. She lived in that shack, on another homestead. She was real excited to move to a place of her own. Her own home – her own pigs, her own chickens and they had six children to raise. They did really well, ‘cause they built a wood-framed house later. She was happy … at least at first.”

  Not far out of Blaine Lake, not a grasshopper in sight, the undisturbed bush grows across rolling hills, yes hills, stretching as far as the eye can see. Sid heaves a self-righteous sigh at the evidence. He glances furtively at Andrew, wondering how to ensure awareness, then decides to keep his peace. On this lonely stretch of highway, they pass one farm truck.

  On the horizon ahead mushroom clouds have escalated into thunderheads. Sid quivers as he watches the tall dark columns form.

  ###

  They come to Shellbrook, then north from there at the rodeo grounds. Just a half hour to go. Not far out of this town, a large building stands, alone, but clearly visible above the trees.

  “What’s that?” says Andrew.

  “Oh, actually, that’s a house,” Sid explains. “Can you believe it? It looks more like a town hall.”

  “Bigger than some in Blaine Lake.” Andrew looks out sideways.

  “Yep. The story has it someone from the States came up and built it a few years ago. Why here, is really the question.”

  “Well, why not here?” Andrew’s tone changes. “People can move from the States to Canada, can’t they?”

  “Yah, it’s just that it’s really close to Witchekan Lake.” Water comes into sight as they round a curve. “And you know what Witchekan means? It’s Cree, it means ‘Stinking’. It’s a really shallow lake; it used to dry up in the summer. Can you imagine a field of dead fish on the wind? So it’s weird to build here, ‘cause there’s lots of nicer lakes around.”

  Andrew laughs now. “Like John’s house in more ways than one. Stone balcony off the third floor, lots of polished glass. But the air in Redondo can be real bad too. With an offshore wind, we get all the inland pollution. We could call it Witchekan Beach, California.” Andrew’s voice saddens. “I’ll have to tell Lola. Maybe she’ll laugh.”

  Sid’s grin fades and he asks, “John, that’s your dad?”

  Andrew nods.

  “So you and Robert still live at home?”

  “Yes. There’s lots of space, and it can be nice on the oceanfront. Robert has a place in Malibu, but he works with John … Dad … with business. And our sister, she’s only twenty-three, still going to UCLA. Me, well, I left the house once or twice – lived in Europe for a year – but I haven’t really grown up yet.” Andrew looks sheepish.

  “Maybe you’ll move to Saskatchewan.” Sid lifts his eyebrow a couple times.

  “Not likely. It’s way too flat,” says Andrew, grinning.

  ###

  The Debden elevator marks the last town, as they slow by graveyard corner. Towering thunderclouds rumble loud, looming so much closer now. Neither cousin speaks.

  Speeding from the graveyard, they race up on a green sign; sixteen miles to Sahiya and, Sid knows, seven to Grandpa’s farm. Dwindling farmland passes, giving way to tall leafy poplars, and now the pine and spruce of sandy lake country.

  The first few raindrops spatter hard on the windshield. A tranquility envelopes Sid, a feeling of return, to an ancestral homeland, speaks to his roots. But the peace is disturbed by a shiver rising from those roots, trembling up the trunk, up his spine, quivering higher. That familiar shiver, he sighs.

  He wonders about his family tradition. His ancestors, the immigrants, brought their farming economy and their eagerness for a better lifestyle. He learned their frugality – a penny saved is a penny earned. The drive to attain a higher standard is ingrained. But that shiver always triggers the question; how much higher? He imagines himself in Grandpa’s shoes, scraping to get by in a world of scarcity. The truth is, in his own shoes now, he lives in a house that’s his, and he has had an automobile since age sixteen. And his cousin Andrew drives a European sports car. So just how well does the mindset of a poor peasant struggling to survive fit with this?

  The thunderclouds lead Sid into an altered state, kind of like a late night bottle of whiskey once did. Now it’s more mystical, not so inebriating. It still fills him with the philosophical beliefs that there’s got to be a singsong road to heaven somewhere.

  In the mystical, the emigrant tracks of his grandfather beckon him to run a parallel, and now he listens more than ever. They summon him to hack out his own version of a rich grain field. He listens as one voice speaks of something better, somewhere over the metaphoric ocean. What? Think like Grandpa, it says. So far, with an idealist’s outlook, and a critical eye, Sid believes Grandpa really did escape from poverty, in fact, quite successfully. True, but what does that mean?

  The rain comes down in torrents for the last few miles through the grain-free forest, thunder reverberating overhead. He glances enthusiastically around. Being in the storm feels like holding hands with a Greater Power. The thunderstorms preach out sermons in his version of church.

  “You cold?” He feels goose-bumps on his arms.

  “Yes, a bit.”

  He pushes the heater setting to warm. Silence washes back over them like the cleansing of the pelting rain.

  The voices won’t let him alone now. Signs of wealth surround him, material wealth that should certainly be a dream-come-true for any serf. Should make a peasant-farmer completely happy. Euphoric, in fact. Or is there something else?

  Like an immigrant on a journey to seek his fortune, he feels he now is on his own quest. Driven by forces like Grandpa’s, seeking to find another place, or maybe another way, he searches on for freedom from the entrapment of the old. Grandpa’s new country is now the Old Country for him, he feels driven to find another New Land. Where things will surely be better …

  There is one thing he can do, he decides, one way he can make a start. That hitchhiker was a lesson; he makes up his mind to be more attentive, to ask more questions, to shut-up and listen to the answers. Starting with family members, why not. To really hear what they have to say, their wisdom if they have any.

  They cross the train tracks and pull out onto Lakefront Road, where Sahiya lays barely visible in the driving rain. Lightning flashes, illuminating the water and sky for a brief moment, then multiple thunder-rumbles crackle their greeting. Sid senses the spirits of his ancestors in the maelstrom of the storm.

  “Sahiya Lake.”

  Andrew stirs. He glances over.

  “Cool.”

  Chapter
2

  The rain pelts down in sheets, but through it, the cabin windows beam out bright. Huge poplar trees stand tall in front and back of the cottage, and a dimly visible lawn stretches out as a stage, tonight appearing the beat of raindrop dancers. Sid pictures the place as from above; flower garden in front, fire pit at the back, the shrubs along the yard’s edge. Only one entrance gap. A washbasin of water back-stages the lawn dance, where the downpour floods up against the alley.

  “The door is on the other side, under a roof … but we have to get there. Maybe take your shoes off Andy – socks too. Here, put them in this.” He hands Andrew a plastic bag. His cousin seems captivated by the storm’s intensity. “We have to get around to the side door,” he repeats.

  They look at each other, then out again. Two vehicles form dim outlines, parked in the shallow grassy ditch beside the sand road.

  “Someone’s here. Looks like Franco’s newest truck. Franco and Ryan LaLonde, they‘re your cousins. Uncle Pete and Auntie Anna must be here too.”

  Andrew holds his bag of leather shoes tucked in under one arm, and with the other grasps the carrying handle of his light bag. He drums his fingers lightly on the armrest, an amused look on his face.

  “Ready?”

  “Anytime. You lead.”

  Sid swings his door opened, pulling his suitcase over the seat out into the rain. He races through the shrub gap, almost slipping in the wet grass as they round the fire pit. Run, but for what – they’re half drenched when they bound up under the roof. Sid opens the outside door to the porch. They set their bags down among the shoes and boots. Coats and jackets hang in their places along the wall, like patient dogs tied, waiting for owners return.

  “Helloo. We’re here. I found Andrew at the airport …”

  “Well, you’re just in time for supper. How was your trip?” Sid’s mom walks around from the kitchen to greet them. “Hello Andrew, I’m your Aunt Kathleen. C’mon in.”

  Sid’s dad Frank gets up from the couch, while the LaLonde family shuffles around.

  “Sure is wet out there,” Frank observes.

  “Very wet,” Sid remarks dryly. “Those Lalondes are gonna need canoes to get out to their trucks.”

  “Hey Sid.” Ryan grasps his hand. “How’s it shakin’?”

  “Hey Ryan, Franco … Uncle Pete … Auntie Anna.” Sid glances around the room. “This here is Andrew … Auntie Lola never made it.”

  The confusion and chaos of family coming together sets in. Andrew, the long lost cousin. For some he becomes the centre of attention, while others hesitate to approach him. A new addition, or redemption, from a far off place. They mill around, talking more comfortably about the road, about the weather. Then, Kathleen breaks up the milieu, organizing them into their chairs.

  ###

  “Looks like pike,” Sid mentions as the fish platter comes around after potatoes and salad. “Andy likes to fish.” He slowly forks off a bite-sized piece.

  “Fresh today,” Frank smiles proudly. “Caught that one this morning.”

  “So, you like fishing Andrew?” says Uncle Pete.

  “Well, we do some shallow fishing … some deep-sea …” he glances around. “We troll the San Pedro channel a lot …”

  “Wow.” Ryan jumps in. “What kinda fish you catch? Big ones?”

  Andrew chats about what he’s hooked, the larger rods and reels on the powerboat out deep, and the lighter equipment on the family sail boat. Ryan’s eyes sparkle.

  “You gotta come out tomorrow,” Ryan invites. “Franco got a new boat, right brother?” He turns to Franco.

  “Yah, why not? We can have a cousins’ cruise, you should come too Sid,” Franco gives one of his persuasive smiles. Organizing people is his strength, though he may also want due attention paid to what’s shiny and new.

  “Andrew doesn’t have a fishing license,” Sid smiles slyly. “I think he might even need an out-of-province.”

  “No doubt,” Frank chuckles.

  “Ahh … don’t worry,” says Ryan. “He doesn’t need a license. We’ll just say he’s our cousin, that’s good enough for the fish cops.”

  They laugh. Frank mentions the store will be open until nine o’clock, so they can take Andrew down to get a non-resident’s.

  “Just look at that storm out there though,” warns Uncle Pete.

  “Ahh Dad … it’ll be nice by morning,” says Ryan confidently.

  “Just a thunderstorm, Pete,” says Frank. “Good chance it’ll be gone overnight … maybe we’ll even see the sunset yet.”

  ###

  “So how is your mother?” Auntie Anna asks Andrew sharply. Lola is her little sister, though younger by almost a decade.

  “Oh, she’s doing quite well all in all,” says Andrew carefully. “She has not been feeling overly well this last month. She did wish to come.”

  “Yes, well, Teresa sent her that letter,” Auntie Anna commands attention. “At least you came, Andrew. You need to meet the whole family and you must tell your mother how well we are, and how much we miss her. She can come in her own good time. She’s always welcome.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Andrew stiffens. “I look forward to meeting everyone. And I hope mother does come up here … it is a truly beautiful place, and you people are so kind …”

  An awkward moment of silence settles in, like part of some religious ritual. They all focus to their food between guarded glances.

  “Wait ‘till you’re out on the lake tomorrow …” Ryan looks at Andy. “You’re gonna love it. It’s really good for pickerel early in the morning.”

  “How early?” asks Andrew.

  Ryan smiles.

  ###

  Talk picks up, as pie and raspberries disappear. Sid offers to wash dishes; dinnerware showing the mark of his sister. An artist, very intelligent, who pursues her passion, living the poor artist’s lifestyle by choice. Images of wild creatures peer out from each dish, special designs, custom made. Her big heart wraps its arms around the person she creates for, as she works clay and brush. He wonders about her version of wealth.

  Franco grabs the tea towel to dry.

  “So, what are you up to, Franco?”

  “Working hard. Business is good. Hey, how about those Trents? What’s Andrew told you … what’s it like in California?”

  Sid tells Franco of the house in Redondo Beach, the Porsches, the trip to Montana.

  “Nice. I wonder what kind of business they run,” says Franco.

  “I dunno about that. You gotta ask Andrew.”

  “Excellent idea, Sid. I’ll do just that. You let me know anything else you find out,” he adds smoothly.

  Sid raises an eyebrow. He wasn’t exactly thinking of listening for business tips, but Franco is such a slick talker. Dishes stashed in the cupboards, they return to the living room.

  “Kaiser anyone?” asks Uncle Pete.

  “Get out the cards. You can be my partner, Anna.”

  “Hey, we can have a little tournament. Eight people, four teams.”

  Intensity grows over a simple game, entertainment for some, but a serious matter for this family. Andrew learns of the Five of Hearts, second smallest card, yet strong in value, a sweet card. And the Three of Spades, the smallest, yet one that Kings and Queens tiptoe to avoid.

  The rain gradually lightens as they focus on their strategies, and as the playoff games come to dramatic endings, the sunshine peaks through across the lake.

  “Damn.” Uncle Pete throws his last card down. He looks up, shaking his head. Then he remembers. “You know, that store closes in a few minutes.”

  “Come on, Andrew,” says Franco. “We’ll give you a ride over there.”

  “We’ll see you tomorrow,” Ryan winks at Sid. “Early,” he adds softly.

  ###

  “Hey Siid. Hey Aandy … who catches the biig ones. Time to go fiishing …” Ryan comes playfully into the early morning cabin, followed by his brother.

  “Shhh … some people here are sleep
ing,” Sid slurs through his mouthful of cereal and milk. “Andy’s in the first door on the left,” he gulps. “Go throw a glass of water on him or something.”

  Ryan covers his mouth with one hand, mocking guilt. He slinks into Andy’s room to fulfill his childish needs. Franco sits down, wide awake and fully attentive. He grabs a banana.

  “Where’s the boat?” Sid asks softly.

  “Over at the boat launch,” Franco says. “We just dumped it off the trailer. How’s our timing?”

  Sid nods at the clock on the wall. Just after five. Daylight brightens the room, the summer solstice a few days past.

  Ryan comes out smirking, Andrew stumbling after. They guzzle glasses of milk, toast some bread, eat some raw, all with jam, and head out the door for the expedition of the day.

  “Got your fishing license?” Franco checks with Andy as they group-mosey through the wet grass.

  Andy nods, bleary eyed.

  “Hey, he’s our cousin,” says Ryan. “He doesn’t need a license.”

  “Shut up, you.” Franco pushes his brother along in the direction of his truck. Ryan speaks back in sign, a language he’s been working on since childhood; his hand-is-a-snarling-wolf glares at his brother.

  They retrace Lakefront Road towards the village centre. The lake sits dead calm, not a wave, covered with patches of night-air fog. The waters peek out through a narrow strip of bush, trapping travelers between gazes, as happy summer cottages smile back. A local passes in his four-wheeler; they return his wave. The sky glows orange in the east.

  Past the old campground, now picnics only, they cross the tiny creek and pull the truck over on the grass beside the dock. Franco’s boat, an eighteen-foot fibreglass, shows off its 110 horsepower Evinrude. Franco’s smile holds more than an extra glint. They push off from the dock and Ryan and Sid fumble with paddles. Franco watches them from the corner of his eye, lowers the engine partly with a switch, fires it up, and drives easily out. Then with a wild grin, he shoves the throttle all the way, slamming each of them back, as they almost lose the paddles. He wears the face of a jetfighter pilot as the boat’s nose comes back down, and they find themselves careering across the lake’s sheet glass surface, like an arrow shot high.

  ###