Jerry's Bones

Phil Burpee

     I heard the owl off in the half-light - ha-hoo, ha-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo. Probably one less cat at the milk bowl this morning. I'd heard the yowling in the night and figured somebody was right in somebody else's business for sure. But I knew she had young to feed, and so long as it wasn't Scratchy or Long John I didn't really mind. Any time I pulled apart her pellets I saw there was a couple less mice running free, or maybe a gopher or two. I placed that old bird at about twelve years of age. From her viewpoint, she had easily as good a claim on this piece of prairie as I did. Neighbours are neighbours. She'd had plenty of chance to take my eye out on the way to the chicken house, and I still had two of 'em. Pretty soon she'd be calling it a night and heading home to that old, crippled cottonwood down by the creek. And there she'd hunker down to suffer the snot-nose insults and general impertinences of the magpies. No rest for the weary.

     Off to the east I could see the rose and tangerine of a fine dawn colouring up a few streaks of cloud. I buttoned up my coat and stepped out into the cool air. Snapper stuck his head out of his house and yawned. He stepped out and had a good shake, stuck his ass up in the air for a long stretch and groan. Then he trotted over and sat down at the foot of the steps, looking up with his shiny, coal-black peepers.

     

     “Uuph,” he said.

    

      “Same to you. Let's go see how that old horse is doing.”

     We headed over to the barn as the last of the night air started to move over towards the coming sun. It always strikes me as how the world seems to breathe just the same as we do - in with the good air, out with the bad. The morning always seems to draw in the good, cool air of the night and blow out all the problems of yesterday, sending them out to get roasted in the sunshine and scattered amongst the trailing clouds. I try to remember to be thankful for each new day, but occasionally forget while I sort out various aches and concerns. But then I look at that dog, and away he'll be trotting off, tail held high, shaking his head, stopping to piss on the power pole, every thought he has and every thing he does pretty much seeming to be in celebration of the chance to have another day to be a dog. Likely that's about as complicated as life really is. We just stick a bunch of names on it and call it the human condition.

     By the time we got to the other side of the yard the rest of the crew had showed up. There was Long John - still no tail - guess after three years it wasn't coming back. And along came Scratchy, the original ginger tom, ears froze or chewed off, tail bent at about forty degrees, and that cross-eyed look of an unrepentant fornicator. I didn't figure that old owl would've snagged either of these two. They'd been around the block a time or two and pretty much knew all the important protocols. Three or four kittens and half-pints came scurrying out with their tails up and half dancing like they had too much pepper in their brains. I think maybe a little tabby missed roll call, but the feline population was always in a state of ebb and flow, and I hadn't really noticed her around for three or four days anyway. Could be her bones were draped over a fence post in the back pasture.

     I slid back the man-door and stepped into the warm confines of the barn. Esmerelda the Jersey cow let out a low mmmmmm, and as usual didn't bother with the oooooo - too much trouble to open her lips this time of the morning. Jake nickered softly in his stall. I walked over.

     “Lemme see that foot, you old horse.”

He shifted his weight so as to free up his back leg. I pulled the flashlight out of my pocket and picked up the foot. It looked better. I'd pulled that rusty staple out of it a week ago and it looked like the situation was simmering down nicely. At his age, every heal-up was a bonus. Seemed like me and him would get to tour the back section for another season after all. God knows I wasn't in the mood to try out any younger animal these days anyway. Jake and me had a certain understanding. The last time he piled me was 1983, and that's because I'd rode him through a bald-faced hornet's nest. I can still see him rodeoing around trying to make the confusion stop. And those hornets were so busy tormenting that horse that I got the chance to slither away and quit the scene unscathed. I found him back at the corral looking kind of dazed, and his skin still quivering.

     “Well,” I'd said. “I guess we'll steer around that spot tomorrow, partner.”

     I put his foot down and went and got the milk pail. Now a couple of wild barn cats started to squawk up in the rafters. Esmerelda's adopted calf squalled in his pen. She'd lost her's to scours in the Spring while I was too sick in bed with a flu to keep tabs. This one was a twin and his mother hadn't been too keen about having two on the tit anyway, so I'd skinned the dead one and tied the pelt on the twin and brought him to the old cow. I guess she'd figured that was close enough, and let him right away start to suck. Now he was about a hundred and fifty pounds and growing like a weed.

     “Just a quart or two for me and the cats, old girl, then I'll let your calf in.”

     I pulled up the stool and placed the pail. As soon as I squeezed a teat, that big Jersey udder let down a stream of beautiful, yellow cream. No wonder that calf was so rambunctious - pure hi-test. The cats all got underfoot as I came out and poured some of that ambrosia in their pan. A little hissing and swatting was soon replaced with lapping and purring. Snapper gave them that look.

     “Never mind. Mind your business.”

     He grinned.

     I turned the calf in for a suck and we went outside. Snapper spotted a rabbit and took off. He knew he'd never catch one, but that wasn't really the point anyway. It was just his business to chase the buggers. He'd quit after a hundred yards or so and the rabbit would stop and look back at him, twitching his whiskers. But I figured that little cotton-tail wouldn't be feeling quite so cocky when he was dangling under that big hooter's legs with a couple of talons poked through his gizzard, on his way to that bunny farm in the sky. Goes around comes around alright.

     I went and put the milk in the fridge, then came back out to get some eggs and see to the holidayers over in the corral. As I was putting out some oats into the trough I eyed the bunch. The bay mare and her colt were doing real good. The grey gelding was about ready to get rode if I could find somebody to climb on. Seemed like everybody was too busy with quads and computers these days to get around to breaking a horse or two. Even my own boys when they came around couldn't seem to find the time or inclination. Frank had about fifty extra pounds of city on him anyway, and Gordie couldn't seem to get his head out from under the hood of his car.

     “It's a Trans Am, Ma. And Pontiac's toast now. It'll be worth big bucks some day.”

     “Ah, Ma,” they'd say. “Quit buying those damn horses. There's no money in it anyhow.”

     Oh, they were good boys. Times were just different. There were dinosaurs like me all over the country, hanging on to their places, fixing rusty hinges, getting fleeced by the packers, trying to put off the auctioneer for another season. When exactly did the world change, and living a modest life producing food off the land become quaint? Who the hell wants to be an icon anyway? Isn't an icon really just a relic in fancy clothes?

I watched the shitters munch for a while and eyed their feet and their rumps and their withers, tallying up all the points of reference that go to making up a decent horse. These ones were good stock, and in another day they would have caught the interest of any number of folk. The colt's father was a solid quarter horse/appy stud who threw fine foals, with the right mare. These were animals that could work for their living. Too many these days just got stuck in jail, fanciful notions parked like so much furniture on some dime-a-dozen ranchette, while the people rushed around doing 'important' things, like shopping, or RVing in some godforsaken tourist trap. There's many a gnawed fence rail out there these days - cribbed to splinters by half-crazy, neurotic nags. I figure the owners ought to get the pen treatment for a while - see what life looks like from behind bars.

     “Snapper,” I asked, looking down at the Heinz-brand collie. “Think it's a good idea keeping these darn horses around?”

     He cocked his head.

    “Tell me the truth, now.”

     He cocked it the other way.

      “Yeah, me too. What do they know, huh? Let's go get some eggs.”

      We headed over to the chicken-house. Those birds had been a tad edgy for the last couple weeks since that weasel got in and raised a ruckus. The little thief had helped himself to some eggs, and murdered three good pullets just for good measure. Since then I'd done a little re and re on the old coop with aluminum flashing and chicken wire, and that seemed to have solved the problem. Of course there wasn't a self-respecting skunk, coon, weasel, coyote, mink or fox in the country who wouldn't be happy to get up close and personal with a bunch of cluckers, and I couldn't really blame them. But if the chance came I would hold any of them to account and they would find themselves on the receiving end of some .410 retribution.

     This morning there were five nice eggs came out from under the broody, old hens, and I got the flavour of a nice omelet with fresh cream and parsley. Maybe some scones too, with a little saskatoon jelly. As I headed back to the house I got a little whiff of skunk from off somewhere. Snapper caught it too and sneezed three or four times.

      “You remember that last time do you? I coulda told you that would happen. She's got your number I guess. Play with fire you get burnt.”

     I went in and put on the radio, stuck a couple sticks in the firebox of the shiny, old McClary Jewel to knock off the chill. The news came on while I mixed up some batter and there was the Premier telling us that prosperity was just around the corner for all Albertans. It seems all we had to do was tighten our belts a bit more and pull up our socks. Well, around here people had done so much tightening and pulling and yanking and tucking that they pretty much had permanent wedgies, and no amount of brainless assurances from Edmonton was going to make a plug of difference. Our MLA had chaired a yap-fest at the community hall a few weeks back explaining how we had to realize that the big corporations needed room to manoeuvre so's they could 'create wealth' that would benefit us all. 'A rising tide,' he'd said 'would lift us all up.' Of course that little piss-ant didn't know whether to shit, pucker or blow bubbles at the best of times, so I figured he had about as much grip on the real state of things as some 4H-er does on a greased pig at the Summer Fair. Heads they win, tails we lose - that's about where it was at these days. And they still keep expecting us to flip that damn coin.

     I had my breakfast and went back out to turn the horses out to pasture for a while. The grass was real nice this year and it looked like the calves I'd kept over would finish out at a good weight this Fall. There were some folks who were still willing to pay for prime, grass-fed beef from an animal that hadn't spent the last months of its life ankle-deep in muck and shit and stuffed with chemicals and antibiotics. I was happy to oblige them. Somewhere along the line us old ranchers had been turned into factory workers, stuck on the assembly-line between the good grass and clean water of our lands, and the hormone-laced, saran-wrapped mush that shows up on styrofoam trays at the supermarket. It was getting harder to even slaughter within a hundred miles. More and more everything had to get trucked to some giant hell-hole run by the big packers. And our government made good and sure things stayed that way. You had to wonder who was running who.

     I opened the gate and watched as the three of them kicked and farted their way out into the pasture. I always love to watch them picking around in their salad bar - a thistle-head here, a dandelion there, tearing off big mouthfulls of meadow brome and wheatgrass. In the Springtime when they first got out onto new pasture, they'd go straight for their tonics and other medicines, purging out the stale residues of Winter and livening up their blood. Nothing out of a box or bottle can compare with Nature's own bounty, that's for sure. It seems ever time we intervene, things just get worse. Sometimes I think we've really got ourselves believing that water does run uphill after all - you've just got to keep convincing yourself.

     Snapper woofed. Down to the east I could see a vehicle turning into the gate. The sun was up behind it and I couldn't make out who it was. It was about a quarter to eight.

     “Who's this making an early call? Better check it out, Snap.”

     He took off at a run down the drive as the visitor made the third of a mile towards the house. I could see now it was a white pick-up with writing on the side. I walked over as it came in trailing dust, Snapper dancing around and threatening each tire in turn. 'Geodynamics Inc.' is what it said on the door panel - 'Seismic Services.'

     The driver rolled down his window.

     “Good morning. Mrs. Elliott?”

     “Good morning. Yes, that's me. What can I do for you?”

     “Well, Ma'am, my name's Mike deWitt, and I wanted to catch you early before you got off doing this or that. I wonder if I could have a chat with you about some plans my company has for doing some exploratory work around here. I've got some maps I'd like to bring out and show you. Your dog OK?”

      Snapper was eyeing him like he was lunch, with a slight quiver to his left lip, showing just a tip of white tooth.

      “His name's Snapper - you figure it out.”

      The dog wagged his tail about twice.

     “Look son, I'll save you the trouble. I've been keeping tabs on things and there's no way I'd be sitting down with you or anybody else's landman without a half a dozen neighbours and a tape recorder. And I know damn well that if I'd been an old cowboy instead of the suspicious old cowgirl that I am, you'd've sent along a sweet little girl to charm and confuse the old fool. So you can send me a letter or go connive with whatever politician you like, but I can tell you right now - nobody's going to be sticking no dynamite or drilling no holes in the ground where my Jerry's bones are buried. You're outta luck here, young man. This whole place is hallowed ground, and not you nor anybody else is coming on it.”

     “Mrs. Elliott,” he said. “You're assuming the worst here. At least look over our proposal. Many of your neighbours are showing interest in what we have to offer.”

      “You don't say? - well, none that I'm aware of. I guess I'll hear it from them then anyway. I thank you for dropping by, Mr. DeWitt. You can tell your bosses to go play in somebody else's sandbox. Good day.”

     I turned and whistled for the dog, headed back towards the barn. I knew young Mike would be yapping on his cell phone before he even got to the gate - “Plan 'B' for Elliott,” he'd be saying - “The old bird's wise to the game”.

     About a week later I got a call from my neighbour Charlie Coombs.

     “Margaret,” he informed me. “I see there's trucks and machinery over on Hardesty's place. I've seen their maps. They're doing seismic lines from Paterson's Hill right on through to Twelve Mile Creek. It's coal-bed methane they're after, and you're right smack dab in the middle. I've heard they're checkin' around to find out which ones of us are chewin' gristle off the bone and sweetenin' the pot a bit to get folks to sign on. If that don't work, well, we've seen it on other places - pretty soon there's guys with briefcases picking up telephones and then somebody gets a visit from the RCMP telling them to play nice. Them sonsabitches in Edmonton aren't cuttin' us much slack on this, Margaret. And I couldn't afford a lawyer any more than you could - not that it would do much good as far as I can determine. The game is stacked and anytime somebody gets a leg up, they just change the laws again to slap 'em back down. I thought I better keep you posted, though. There's gonna be another get together at the Hall Thursday night - just locals. It'd be good if you'd come. Maybe we can get some leverage.”

     “Charlie, I'm seventy-four years old. My faith in the system of things has about two flat tires on it, and I think the distributor cap's cracked to boot. The only leverage we're gonna get is about enough to pry open our pine boxes, I figure. It's a new day and we've lost our say in things. We can make all the noise we like, but it'll be about as useful as reading a rule book to a cranky bull - he's goin' through the fence anyway. I might see you down there, but I think the situation's probably gone beyond the usual huff and bluster. It might be coming time for some folks to remember what we all were taught when we were about three years old - no means no.”

     Charlie was a good man. Him and Ruth had been the best of neighbours over the years, and they'd helped me and Jerry brand and move cattle and whatever else needed extra hands. And us the same for them. But now there was a new reality in the country, and it wasn't like the things of Nature that we'd battled in the past. Now it seemed like we were getting a taste of what those old time Indians got so many years ago. Now the new colonizers would come to your kitchen table and put down a piece of paper, and talk fine words about fairness and compensation and benefit for all the people. But just like those Indians learned way back when, the one thing about this piece of paper was that there was no blank spot where you could just fill in your 'No'. This was a particular type of so-called 'negotiation' that allowed no room for refusal. The real name for this document is Terms of Surrender. Just raise the white flag and everything'll be just fine.

     Thursday night rolled around and I went down to the Hall. Twenty or thirty pick-ups and a half dozen old sedans and SUVs were parked outside. A few bow-legged old boots were smoking by the door, hats pushed back and looking serious. It was a home crowd and there was no room for strangers. But there was definitely no air of celebration about the place this night. The usual din coming from inside had a certain grimness to it. The breeze came from the east and there was a slight chill to the air. It felt a bit like a funeral, but without the bad suits and slicked-down hair. I sauntered over.

     “You boys the guard of honour?”

      “Hello Margaret,” said Jim Fletcher. “I see you've still got that Chev on the road. They still make parts for that thing?”

     “Well Jim, you know damn well it doesn't need parts - just runs and runs - not a goddamn electronic scrap in the whole machine. It's built like me, except I run on piss and vinegar instead of gas and oil. You can take me to my grave in the back of that old pick-up. Then you can turn it around and run it for another twenty years. And there's no plastic in me yet either.”

     “You got that right Margaret,” chimed in Vern Mahovlich. “All's they want to sell us now is so much crap with googahs and gimcracks up the goddamn yingyang. Ya look sideways at the things and they start flashin' their lights and honkin' their horns, and then you can't make 'em run unless you got a degree in goddamn computer bullshittery. It ain't our world anymore. Nothin' but technicians all over the place out there tryin' to reinvent the wheel. Pile o' crap.”

     “Yes, Vern,” I smiled. “They'd put in a computer chip to make a horse shit better if they could figure how to make a buck out of it. Mind you, as far as I can see, that particular apparatus doesn't seem to need any improvements. And the way things are going it looks like we're gonna keep sending a horse's ass up to Edmonton anyway, so I guess we can't expect much more than the usual horseshit - which I guess is why we're here tonight.”

     They all chuckled and hacked like a bunch of old tomcats with furballs and turned around and spit.

     “Thought you boys were gonna quit smoking? I read somewhere it's bad for your health.”

     “Ah hell, Margaret,” said Vern with a twinkle and a cough. “Them's just rumours.”

     Inside the Hall a goodly crowd was shuffling chairs and getting coffees. Up front the Queen was smiling down at us from above the piano, all decked out in her jewels and finery. Maybe we ought to invite her down here to straighten things out. When they come around to steal stuff out of our ground, they tell us it's all in the name of her and her fancy Crown anyway. You had to wonder if she went to bed at night fully realizing just exactly what all was being perpetrated in her name all around the country. And if you run afoul of the law, then it's her and that damn Crown you go up against when they haul you into that court. Maybe that's why the thieves who run things these days like it like it is. The Crown, which is supposed to see to our benefits, gets the blame, and the robbers, who steal our livelihoods, get the booty. Somehow we'd been squeezed out of the equation. The idea that all of our efforts ought to go to benefit the many had been junked. Now it was the overfed few and their wagtail cronies who shared the wealth amongst themselves. And their little lapdogs, who like to call themselves the Government, just waggle their stubby little tails and wait for their scraps - just like all the bootlickers down through history. There was a day..........

     Tom Baldwin got up front and tapped on the microphone.

     “Is this on, Ernie?” tap tap tap “Can you here me back there?” tap tap tap

     “It's bust, Tom,” said Vern from the back. “Didn't work at Christmas either - remember? Just speak up and we'll hear ya OK.”

     Tom swung the microphone out of the way and cleared his throat.

     “OK folks. Let's get started. If you could all get settled we'll look at what we have to look at tonight.”

     Everybody shuffled around and the old chairs creaked and groaned. The usual coughs and sniffs and snorts indicated that everybody was getting their gullets and sinuses ready for a good listen. Nobody liked meetings at the best of times, and the fact that outside forces were dragging us off our places and into this Hall put a strain on the proceedings right from the start. Mostly what each and every one of us liked to mind was our own business. And now outsiders were coming around to mind it for us - and that was a burr under everybody's saddle.

     “Folks,” Tom began.

     “A little louder, Tom”

     “Folks, thanks for coming out. You know I'm no public speaker, but we've got an issue in our neighbourhood that needs looking at, 'cuz it's starting to drive a wedge between some of us. You've likely all been contacted by now by the outfit that plans to run seismic lines through the area. And you likely already know that what they're looking for is coal-bed methane. Now, if any of you have been up around Drumheller or Rosebud in the last few years, you might have some idea of what we're looking at here. We're talking about a significant level of activity, possibly involving one or more wells per quarter section, pumping stations, explosive and/or chemical fracturing of the sandstone, feeder lines, trunk lines, possible water contamination and possible changes to groundwater flows. But along with that we're also looking at a possible income stream for some folks that could, in some cases, make the difference between solvency and shuttin' 'er down. It'd be good if we could all get this out in the open for once and try to sort out our thoughts. We haven't got a lot of wiggle room on this, and things are going to start happening pretty quick. You've all seen the machinery coming in, and there's already a lot of money being thrown at this. Some of you may have already signed, and that's fine. It's nobody's business but your own. But maybe we could all help each other understand just what all the variables are around all this. This business of them trying to keep everything secret between this outfit and that outfit isn't good for the community. So I'm hoping we can lay down our cards and all get on the same page. Anybody want to start with what's been happening at your place?”

     There was more shuffling and chair-creaking and throat-clearing. Pretty much everybody in that room had made a life-long habit of keeping their cards held close to their chest, and the whole thing about being asked to share their needs and uncertainties caused considerable discomfort, to say the least. Who would want to admit that the few dollars the gas company was willing to throw your way for chewing up your back forty might make the difference between getting your kid into hockey or not, or maybe keeping a respectable-looking pick-up on the road? Of course, for some it was no-brainer, and the money they might get out of it was pure gravy. But for many others, it looked more like a bargain with the Devil - and that wasn't the sort of deal they were morally prepared to enter into lightly.

     Dave Wilkins stood up.

     “I've been told I can say no, but they'll end up making me get a lawyer and going to the ERCB. And then if I get turned down, they'll charge me costs and come right on my place and do what they want to do anyway. They say you can negotiate around some issues like springs and such like, and that you can hold out for better compensation. But then again, if they don't want to play your game they'll just go back to the Board and get what they wanted in the first place, and you're back to square one - or maybe up the creek with a sawed-off paddle. And besides, there's the time commitment to follow all this stuff. We're swathing here pretty quick, and who's got the time to be running all over the country? Maybe if this whole country around here was to stand up and say no, it might be different. But we all know that it's patchwork and some folks have already signed on. And maybe if I say no, it'll bugger up my neighbour's chances at a little extra income and the war'll be on between me and him. It's not good no matter how you look at it.”

     Dave sat down amidst some hat-nodding and general mutterings.

     “Well Dave, I'll tell ya right now I'm one of them who's signed on,” said Jim Fletcher. “The amount of trouble these guys can make for ya - it just ain't worth it. The way I look at it, they come in, they tap their gas, they pump for a few years, and then they're gone. And I've got a little extra cash to try a new bull or fix the roof. Seems like it's a fool's game to get riled up. It's just the way things are these days. These guys up in Calgary get what they want anyway, and half of us burn that gas in our furnaces, or run irrigation pumps with it. Sooner they're in, sooner they're out I say. Why make a stink?”

     “Now hang on, Jim........................”

     “That may be, Stan.........................”

     “Listen to what your sayin' there, Pete.........................”

     “Now look here, Frank......................”

     “That's not what I was meaning, Walt....................”

     And round and round the room it went for the next hour and a half. I have to say that old Tom did a pretty good job of keeping things civil. It was a scene that had been repeated all up and down the province many, many times over, and it always put strains on the community that sometimes resulted in long-term animosities. But mostly folks there in the Hall kept a lid on it and their various arguments, concerns and observations. Although about eight o'clock, Ken Jamieson stood up and put on his coat.

     “Neighbours,” he said thoughtfully. “The warnings are in Scripture. 'And a man's foes shall be they of his own household.' Matthew 10:36.”

     Then he left and closed the door quietly.

     About a quarter to nine I figured I better offer my two cents worth. It was plain to see that we were all just spinning our wheels anyway, and what would come would come, no matter our general intentions to at least make the wheels a little bit squeakier. The outcome here was mostly predetermined in fancy offices far from the action. This or that mucky-muck would sit down with that or this mucky-muck over a nice steak and a glass or two of single malt scotch, and the thing that was about to unfold in our neighbourhood would pretty much get carved in bureaucratic stone. With minor deviations it had been this way for a hundred years, getting worse and worse for the last twenty-odd. But I guess each one of us in turn is some day called upon to scratch his or her line in the sand. And we're really just talking about inconvenience and general annoyance here - well, and a little highway robbery too I suppose. But who could forget that guy in the white shirt with his shopping bag, standing in front of those tanks over in China that time. There was moral outrage carried to its absolute limits. It's a sliding scale, though. And it's all a matter of perspective. The bottom line is no sane person abides being trod upon, unless you're already a slave, or in hock to some humourless money-grubber. Comes a time to call the bluff.

     I stood up.

     “Folks, you all know me. I've walked about as straight a line as there is in the course of my time. I've worked my land, I've raised my kids and I've buried my husband in the ground he loved and sweat over. I've never asked for any handouts nor blamed any of my shortcomings on anybody else. I've watched as our government has sold us bit by bit further and further down the river, and I think we're never gonna make it altogether back upstream again any time soon. Things have changed in deep ways. And you all know I never voted for any of these goddamn Tories in the first place. Ralph Klein pissed on my rug so many times the bleach spots have pretty much run together from one side to the other. And like my Jerry always used to say about old Don Getty - “.....too much damn football without a helmet.” It's been so long since these guys turned an honest dollar that they appear to have altogether forgotten the meaning of the term. And the government only stole our mineral rights from us in the first place so's they could give them to the coal barons and their railroad friends. No, we're a long ways from having our elected representatives do our bidding for us. We scratch our Xs and then they hustle their buns up to Edmonton and report for duty to their real bosses - the money men and the big fixers. It gives me a headache just thinking about it. So I guess it falls to each one of us to settle with our own conscience. I suggest you all do the same. You either sell a little bit more of your soul - or you step off that sidewalk and go get out in front of the heavy traffic. Me, I've got a horse with a bad foot to go check on. I'll bid you all a good night.”

     And so I left and made my way home. I didn't really bear anybody around here any ill-will. I was just tired and fed up listening to all the carping and so-called strategizing. I knew my stubbornness was going to make people mad, but it's been well established that you can't make it through this world by trying to please everybody. So you're left with making the best call you can at any given time, and then moving on down that road. I had a good enough idea of which way the wind was blowing to understand just what I needed to do next. My only real worry was how it was going to sit with my boys.

-----------------------o--------------------------- 

     What followed was hearings and applications and a general flurry of activity that I pretty much ignored. Finally an arbitrated settlement was handed down and I was informed that I could not prevent the rightful owners of this mineral resource from duly exploiting their property. Accordingly, I was directed to allow access to my land so that the company in question could go about their lawful business, and I would be compensated in accordance with accepted norms as determined by the ERCB. I was further advised that Geodynamics Inc. would be anticipating coming onto the place at 10 o'clock in the morning this coming July 17th and I was to show them the location of gates and provide them with free access to the appropriate fields in question. And that was that.

     Well, that was not really that. I'd spent a considerable amount of time cogitating on all this and had worked myself into what you might call a robustly uncooperative frame of mind. I figured I better call the boys down for a little motherly chat. They'd been following the whole proceedings and were more or less of the opinion that I should quit being so obstreperous and just let these guys do whatever it was they had to do.

     “Besides,” they'd said. “A little extra cash wouldn't hurt around the place. It isn't as though those few old cows are making anybody rich.”

     They both came down one Saturday and I told them flat out.

     “They're not comin' on the place.”

     “Ah geez, Ma,” complained Gordie. “What's the point in being so goddamn stubborn? You know they're gonna get what they want anyway. You could cause yourself some real grief here and get nothin' but a lot of headache and misery out of it. What's the worst that could happen? Maybe a little temporary fuss and muss and a couple wellheads out there in the summer pasture. That's just the way things are these days and you just can't fight city hall.”

     “Why should I give a damn about city hall?” I barked. “It's the principle of the thing. If I thought there was actually some process of negotiation in good faith under way here I'd be as reasonable as the next person. But you'd have to be pretty dough-headed to truly believe that this is anything like a normal business dealing. The whole set-up is bogus. And don't say a word about such and such being for the good of all Albertans 'cuz I've heard that about four billion times and it's a crock!”

     “Ma,” said Frank. “You know we'll support you in whatever you want to do, but you gotta realize that you might end up having to deal with the police over this if you push it too far. You might get charged with something and end up in court - and these guys will still come and do their seismic lines. You're just a cowpat along the way as far as they're concerned. And all's they have to do is sit back and wait for the law to straighten you out. Just think for a minute of how this might all turn out. Haven't you got better things to do than pick a fight with the whole oil and gas industry and the government of Alberta to boot? Is a couple of trucks poking around in that pasture over there really worth turning things upside down? They might not even find what they're looking for anyway. It's all just a card game.”

     “It's a stacked card game!” I retorted. “And I don't like being taken for a fool. Your Dad always said that understanding the game was the first responsibility of every farmer and rancher. You can be pretty close to certain that somewhere down the line some outfit is trying to expand its bottom line at the expense of your livelihood and security. It isn't enough for some folks to just have enough in this world - they figure they should have some of what you have too. So they go about getting the right kind of friends to make that happen a bit slicker. And suddenly you're left holding a bag full of nothin'. So don't talk to me about the card game. I've been at the table for a long time.”

     We left it at that. They said they'd come down the night before if I wanted, but I told them this was the type of work best left to an old lady and not to worry - nobody was going to get crazy. If I needed them to come feed animals 'cuz I was in the slammer I'd call.

     “Ah geez, Ma”, was all Gordie said.

--------------------------o-------------------------

     The morning of July 17th dawned fine and clear. It was going to be hot and the sky had that certain look. Cows would be lying down to chew their cuds in amongst the poplars and the hawks would be flying lazy circles, scanning the ground for sunning gophers. The crickets were just getting mature, and they'd be chirping to beat the band. Against the eastern glare I could see dandelion fluffs drifting by like bubbles, and off in the distance I could hear a baler chunking away. I guess it was Charlie Coombs out to catch the dew. On days like this you could feel the great cycle of the seasons rolling on by, and it might make you stop for a minute and consider your place in it all. But always there was the next thing to do, and contemplation was, after all, mostly an idle man's habit. My Dad liked to say that the purpose of any day was in the doing of it. I figured this day here was no exception.

     A little after 9:00 I threw a lawn chair and the old picnic umbrella in the back of the truck. I filled up a jug with lemonade, bagged up a chunk of summer sausage and some cornbread, and headed out the door. I knew that David just needed a slingshot to bean that big lug Goliath, but I figured I could bend the rules a bit and grabbed the .410 on the way by. I was pretty sure me and Snap could hold the frontier for quite a few hours - only thing was I hadn't really made any arrangements for reinforcements. It was looking like High Noon at the OK Corral for me. I walked over to the Chev.

     “Get in the back, Snap. Time to go piss on the fence post.”

     Snapper hopped in and assumed his position with his feet on the side of the box, tail going like an eggbeater. We drove up to the gate and I swung the truck over sideways in front of the cattle guard. I pulled out the chair and tied on the umbrella with a couple lengths of baler twine. Then I placed it by the tailgate where I could put my lemonade down in the shade by the wheel well. I got my straw hat out of the front and plunked it on my head - no point baking my brains any more than necessary. The gun I leaned against the fender, handy to my chair, and then I took a few moments to walk up and down a bit and clear my head. I didn't suppose I was being called to greatness, but I understood enough to know that it was best to have all your wits about you when you set about to stare down a bunch of half-wild long-horns. Snapper took the pissing idea to heart and watered down six or eight suitable fence posts, and a couple of rocks for good measure. He flushed a covey of partridges along the way and made a big show of snapping at their rocketing tailfeathers, but as usual he came up empty and headed back, looking satisfied nonetheless.

     “Guess you showed them who's boss, hey Snap?”

     He woofed and grinned. We walked back to the truck and I eased myself into the chair. Snapper slipped under the tailgate into the shade and plopped down. Then we settled in to greet the day. It was 9:47.

     Pretty soon I could see some dust squirrelling around three or four miles down the road, headed my way. Just for a second or two I felt pretty lonely out under the sky. I thought I might weaken, but the feeling went quick, like one of those dandelions carried off on the wind. I turned my mind to all those generations of people before me who had buckled down instead of knuckled under, and I felt a good, hot surge of bloody-mindedness chase away the last stragglers of doubt and surrender. Why should I not regard my land in the same way I regard my children? I was of it every bit as much as they were of me. The whole parcel of people and dirt was bound up like a living thing, and they were no more going to rip away at the surface of this ground than they were going to scratch gouges in the skin of my boys. Be damned!

     “Jerry,” I said. “I wish you were here. But you're not. I guess you can call me a fool when we team up again, but meanwhile I hope you're smiling down. Remember that song you always liked? - 'Send money, guns and lawyers'. Well, I know you can't manage that from where you are, but if you get the chance, just send me a sign. You know where to find me. I never strayed far.”

     Up the road came the white pick-up. It pulled up in front and Mike deWitt rolled down his window and slid his sunglasses back up on top of his head. Snapper made his way over and did some tire inspection.

     “Good morning, Mrs. Elliott.”

     “Good morning, Mr. DeWitt.”

     “I believe you have received appropriate notification as to our right to access your property today,” he offered somewhat gravely.

     “Indeed I have. But it makes no difference to me. My position is as it was at our last encounter. I'll not have your people on my place. You are not welcome.”

     Mike squinted up the road for a bit and tapped a finger on the steering wheel. He turned back and squinted at me. Then he squinted at the shotgun. Then he dropped his sunglasses back down and rolled up the window. Out came the cell phone, of course. He yammered for a minute or two, then headed off back down the road from where he'd come.

     It wasn't more than about twenty minutes later than another cloud of dust announced another visitor coming from the other direction. Up rolled an RCMP cruiser with none other than Sergeant Ferguson himself at the wheel.

     “Snap,” I said. “Get over here.”

     Snapper hustled back behind me as Sergeant Ferguson climbed out of his car.

     “Good morning, Margaret,” he intoned in his usual courtly way.

     “Good morning, Lyle,” I replied, as matter of fact as I could muster.

     He stretched and leaned back on his door.

     “Gonna be a hot one today.”

     “Yes, it is, Lyle. Yes it is.”

     “Waddya got loaded up in that .410 there, Margaret?”

     “Oh, just some rock salt - been havin' a helluva time with stray dogs.”

     “Uh huh.”

     He sucked on his teeth for a few seconds.

     “I've had a call from Mike deWitt and apparently you're not willing to let him and his people onto the place. You know this has all been decided through proper channels and they have every right to come on.”

     “Well, Lyle, as far as I'm concerned they have no right to come on. They haven't spent the last fifty years getting that grass back there into the condition it's in today. And I wouldn't let anybody go blasting dynamite within five miles of that old spring back there for any amount of money. That thing has watered us these many years and probably watered a good few old time buffalo long before that. I pay attention. All's these guys bring is poison and mayhem when they come around. Wouldn't you do what I'm doing if you'd poured a lifetime's worth of sweat and tears into a place?”

     “What I'd do is respect the law, Margaret. And the law says you're in the wrong. I can charge you with mischief and bring you to the detachment to cool down for a while. Or you can get some sense and get this whole thing done with as least misery as possible. Hell, thousands of folks have been where you are and seen fit to let the law of the land run its course. This is just what these folks do - it's their business and their livelihood. And it might turn out to the good for you too. If they find anything, you'll get your royalties and after they're gone nobody will know they've even been around at all. I have to say you're being very, very unreasonable.”

     “Lyle, after they're gone is just as likely to be after I'm gone - which means dealing with something I hate on the land I love for the rest of my days. Where's the 'unreasonable' in doing what I can to make that not happen? I ask you.”

     He sighed and hitched up his belt. Then he squinted up the road for a bit and tapped his finger on his buckle, and appeared to be having a good solid think.

     “Well, Margaret, I'll tell you how it is. I'm going to have to tell you to move your vehicle and make way for these operators. If you refuse, I'll have to remove you from the scene and charge you with mischief and obstruction. Then the thing that's going to happen will happen anyway and you'll end up with some fines and I'll end up with some paperwork I don't want or need. Either way, we can't sit around here all day. What's it gonna be?”

     Lyle was a decent man, and he was cutting me quite a bit of slack. But I could see that my little show was going to be a fairly short one, barring some unforeseen turn of events. I surveyed my waning options. I had no Plan 'B'. Somehow in my mind I must have thought my campaign would be a little more protracted. It seemed rude for defeat to come so early. Wasn't there supposed to be bagpipes and artillery fire or some such? I hadn't even had my summer sausage yet. I grappled for a clue as to what to do next............and just then a rabbit bolted from the ditch across the road and headed out into the alfalfa on a hell-for-leather zigzag. Snapper got about half way to the fence when all of a sudden a sizzling brown streak fell from the sky and a big, old Swainson's hawk pounded that bunny and the two of them somersaulted over in a ball of feathers and fur, rolling to a stop with the big bird perched on top glaring over our way with its rivet gaze. I whistled Snapper back, and the hawk lifted off with his prize and disappeared over behind a thicket of chokecherries, little Mr. Floppy Ears waggling his not-so-good-luck feet all along the way.

     “Jerry!” I thought.

     Sergeant Ferguson's radio suddenly came to life and he excused himself to hop in and respond to the call. He rolled down his window and stuck his head out.

     “Margaret,” he said. “ I gotta go. I'm giving you till noon to make way for this crew to come on to your place. If you don't comply I'll charge you. And be careful with that shotgun there.”

     “Always am, Lyle.”

      And he was off in a cloud of dust. Snapper came out from under the truck and watched him go.

     “Well, Snap - fancy that. Seems like we scared everybody off. Maybe we'll slip their minds altogether and that'll be the last we hear about the whole thing. Wouldn't that be a fine thing!”

     The heat wasn't too bad yet so I figured I might as well take advantage of the circumstance and have my little picnic. I got up and fished out the sausage and cornbread from the cab of the truck and sat back down in my chair. I'm a long way from superstitious, but I felt I had to keep an open mind about that hawk arriving just when it did. I wasn't so much of a hard-nose as to completely deny any connection between this world here in the light of day and the unseen world that sometimes inhabits our dreams. I'd seen enough in my time to know that just because such and such seemed pretty clear, there was often a ripple of mystery disturbing the surface of our tidy little pond. The trick was figuring out how to distinguish between a puff of wind, and the brush of an unseen hand.

     “Here, Snap - try a bit of this.”

     I tossed him a bit of sausage and leaned back in the chair. Now there was only the crickets and a far off pipit burbling away up in the blue somewhere, sounding like a bunch of tiny, distant bells rolling down a hill. How is it that Nature sets things up to be so damn beautiful sometimes? It's enough to make a person weep for the sheer joy of it. I looked at the boundless sky with its drifting white clouds. Oh, pity the poor fool who forgets to fall back in awe with the wonder of it all. Yes indeed, yes indeed, yes indeed.

     Snapper pricked up his ears. From down the road in the direction Mike deWitt had recently driven off in a huff came yet another vehicle. My normally pokey road was receiving an inordinate amount of traffic this day. I was fairly sure whoever was coming had something to do with the day's unfolding fracas. But I didn't really feel all that flattered with the extra attention. I'd rather have been shovelling shit, and that's a fact.

     Presently a van pulled up with CBC Television written on the side. The driver looked me over through her open window.

     “I'm betting that you're Margaret Elliott. Is that so?”

     “Maybe,” I said. “Sort of depends on why you ask.”

     “Well, I'm Sandy Larocque. I'm a reporter from CBC news. This is Danny Kravitz, my cameraman.”

     She gestured to the young man in the other seat. He smiled and nodded.

     “I've been following a story about problems some people have been experiencing with the oil and gas industry in Alberta - water problems, community divisions, reclamation oversights - that sort of thing. So we got a call from a gentleman named Coombs yesterday indicating that a Margaret Elliott, who lives at this legal description address, might be heading for some kind of showdown with a seismic operator. Might that be you?”

     “OK, you've got me there,” I allowed. “Yes, I'm Margaret Elliott, and you've already missed the first part of the showdown. The curtain is due to rise on Scene 2 at noon today.”

     “We had a flat,” she said. “Would you believe it? Who gets a flat anymore? Otherwise we would've been here an hour ago. But do you mind if we join you here for a while and get filled in on your circumstance and your concerns? We'd like to put you on camera when they read the riot act - it'll make a good story and people should know what it looks like to be at the receiving end of big business and the law.”

     “Sure,” I said. “If I'm gonna step in cowshit I might as well get both feet in there. Make yourselves at home. Don't mind Snapper here - he only bites salesmen and bible-thumpers.”

     They got out and we shook hands and they checked over their camera and such. Then they pulled a couple of folding chairs out of the van and set them up beside me.

     “We always pack some furniture along, and some snacks - sometimes the news takes a while to unfold, Mrs. Elliott,” said the reporter.

     “Margaret,” I allowed.

     “Sandy.”

     Over the next hour or so we chatted about the life I'd led here on this farm, the hopes, dreams and aspirations, I guess you might say, that enliven most country people. They filmed some of that for an interview. And she told me something about the work she'd been doing looking into the whole sorry spectacle of hydrocarbon extraction in this province and the difficulties that many people had been experiencing trying to get fair treatment. It turned out that the particular company involved in this application here had a history of shoddy behaviour, and they were involved in a string of law suits and other legal actions over issues of reclamation and compensation, not to mention a habit of throwing low-level threats around to encourage the locals to sign the appropriate papers. And Geodynamics was a crappy little outfit that picked up marginal contracts at bargain-basement rates. Their bore-hole equipment was hand-me-down and their machines still had steel tracks on them instead of rubber, and they'd left some bad messes behind them around parts of the country.

     “Well,” I said in some consternation. “If I'd known all that I'd've loaded pellets in that thing instead of salt.”

     I jerked a thumb at the old scattergun.

     “Maybe a few hours on the slab getting shot dug out of their asses would encourage these folks to behave a little better. Now you've put me in an awful stubborn state of mind. How is it that people can be treated so badly? I just can't figure it out.”

     “Well, Margaret, it's not all bad. There are plenty of equitable folks out there trying their best to see to it that all the players get treated fairly. You know we all burn this fuel one way or another, so the issue isn't that it shouldn't be extracted. What we've been looking at is how some operators take advantage of the system to get as fast a buck as possible with little or no regard for how much misery they leave behind them in doing so. They rack up liabilities, then collapse their companies, transfer licences, and pop up again somewhere else under a different name. It takes so long to process reclamation claims that they're far and gone before they have to assume any responsibility whatsoever. It's more common that you might suppose.”

     “Oh, you might be surprised at what I might suppose, Sandy. I don't altogether hold the folks who run things around this province in what you might call the highest regard. I've seen too much licenced robbery in my time to believe that we're on anything like a level playing field around here. It's all uphill for lots of folks - and they're not the ones toasting their successes over fine, white linen. There's lots of criminals who never see the inside of a jail.”

     Snapper started to snore under the truck, coming around from time to time to snap at a fly. There wasn't a breath of wind, and if you kicked up a little cloud of dust it was too lazy to do anything but hang around your shoe for a minute, then settle back down. The day seemed to be picking up some weight to it. Around 11:30 Mike deWitt's pick-up came rolling up, but he didn't stop - just looked as he rolled by with his window shut, and I could see him on his phone as he motored off.

      “Looks like the fox is circling the chicken house,” I said.

     A short while later Charlie Coombs rolled up with his elbow hanging out the window and his hat pushed back on his head. He had his pipe stuck in his mouth and a cloud of blue smoke curled up around his face.

     “Done baling for the day, Charlie?” I asked.

     “Yep. Gettin' too dry.”

     He squinted up the road, just like everybody else today who couldn't seem to quite see what it was they were looking for.

“You wouldn't know anything about who called out the TV, would you?” I poked, trying to look annoyed.

     “Well, Margaret, I suppose you know damn well enough. I've always known you could take care of your own business just fine, but this here thing seemed like it might just get away on you, so I figured a little extra butter on the bread wouldn't hurt.”

     “Hi, Mr. Coombs,” piped up Sandy. “I'm Sandy Larocque. We spoke on the phone. We've come down to record Margaret getting hauled away to the salt mines. I thank you for contacting us. Mrs. Elliott is making a newsworthy statement and we think it is important enough to share with our viewers.”

     “Well, if her Jerry was here today, the fur would be flyin' thick and heavy by now. And there'd be no ifs, buts, ands or maybes either. Margaret is a fine person. It's not right the way they're trying to muscle her around. They're missing my place for now so I don't have to make the tough call. But you stick Margaret Elliott between a rock and a hard place and somethin's gonna give pretty goddamn quick. I don't suppose you ever tried to pull a badger out of her den, Miss Larocque - but let me tell you - it's not a good idea.”

     Charlie gave us all a nod, swung around, and headed back towards home. His dust hung like a curtain, and the sound of the crickets followed him down the road.

     “OK, Margaret,” said Sandy. “Let's get our chairs out of the way and we'll get a shot of you there with your truck and your chair and your rifle, and maybe Snapper if he'll come out.”

     “It's a shotgun, honey - not a rifle.”

     “Sorry.”

     They took their shots and got everything set up for the clock to strike twelve. She said I presented a fine picture of what she called, with a smile, a 'magisterial bucolic resistance'.

     “Hmm,” I responded. “If that means push somebody hard enough and they're eventually gonna push back, then I guess you got that about right. If I say no I sure as hell don't mean maybe.”

      Noon came and went with no Sergeant Ferguson - 12:30 - 1:00 o'clock. Now the day was starting to cook and even the flies were getting lazy. My news team had retreated to the shade of their van, and I was beginning to wonder if the powers that be were planning to starve me out, or hope I'd just wilt and give in. Then about twenty after one I heard a cell phone ring in the van. Sandy picked it up.

     “Hello, Sandy Larocque. Yes, good afternoon Sergeant. Mm hm. Mm hm. I see. Do they plan to make a statement to that effect? OK. Yes. I see. Uh huh, sure - yes. Well, thank you for calling, Sergeant. I'll relay that message to Mrs. Elliott.”

     Sandy hopped out with a big smile on her face.

     “You spooked them, Margaret. I think these guys are already walking on thin enough ice that they didn't want to risk having this blow up in their faces. They've indicated to Sergeant Ferguson that they will no longer be requiring access to your section of land at this time, and have made alternate arrangements for the procurement of their required data. They may exercise their right of access at some future date. Sergeant Ferguson asked me to tell you he would be stopping by for a chat sometime soon, and he hoped your stray dog problems would settle down - how did he put it? - 'accordingly'. I think you might call this a stay of execution, Margaret. There's a good chance they or some other outfit will be back. I'm glad we came down, though. If it's OK with you I'll see about getting your interview aired. There's something rather compelling about the image of a solitary mother and grandmother standing firm before the advances of global corporate power. Maybe there's a lesson to be learned for us all.”

     “Well, call it what you will. But I think you and Charlie Coombs saved my old lady's wrinkled butt today. And I thank you for your concern. I didn't have a plan, other than to sit here with my dog and tell them all to go to Hell. I know you were just doing your job too, but I am nonetheless obliged to you, and to your colleague Mr. Kravitz. It's fine with me if you want to stick my face on TV. Tell them I offer this day up to the late and lamented Jerry Elliott, who liked to say in difficult times that all we can do is do what seems right.”

     “Goodbye then, Margaret.” She offered her hand. “We must get going. It's been a pleasure. All the best to you and yours. I hope you have a peaceful year.”

     “Same to you. Thanks for stopping by. Sorry there was no fireworks for you to film. But from my perspective I have to say the day hasn't turned out all that badly. I think I'll get out of the sun for a while.”

     She hopped back in, smiled and waved, and off they drove. I watched them go for a bit, then got up and stretched. I unwrapped the umbrella and packed up the chair and tossed them in the back of the truck. I looked up and down the road, gave it a good squint just for good measure, picked up the .410, then climbed in the cab.

     “Get in the back, Snap.”

     He jumped in and got ready, as dogs tend to do, for either a quarter mile trip down the road or a safari to Timbuktu - whichever was good with him. I turned the old Chev around and headed back to the house. I felt kind of tired all of a sudden and figured maybe on a little nap on the back porch. But first I had something to do. I put my things in the house, then came back outside.

     “C'mon, Snap. Let's go pay our respects.”

     I grabbed my stick and we headed out past the barn and up through the pasture to the old rock and pine tree on top of the hill. Across to the south I could see the dust where the little van was making its way back towards the highway. Down below I saw the bent cottonwood and knew that serious old bird was waiting out her day. To the west I could just make out Charlie Coombs moving his stackwagon across the field, puffing away on that pipe no doubt, and probably feeling a little uneasy about minding my business for me. I'd go over later with some baking and settle his mind. I surveyed my world and looked over at that patch of hallowed ground by the rock with its asters and its sweetgrass. I heard the hawk and felt a slight pang, feeling lost and lonely, ever so briefly, in that way that people do who are left behind.

     “Jerry,” I said. “I wish you hadn't had to go. But I know you took the time to look in on me today. I guess somebody's got to be the old fool around here, and since I'm the only one left, I'll take on the job. I'm tired, darlin', but I feel good. I've been touched by some good people today, and I've tried to walk straight. This is a day where I feel no shame. I don't know what more a person can ask. I'll have a cup of tea for you. And tomorrow is another day.”

     I reached down and picked three asters. I felt a hand on my shoulder, and reached up to brush a tear, looking around at the empty hill. The old dog was sitting by the rock, wagging his tail to beat the band. I couldn't help but smile.

     “Silly old fool.”

     I tucked the flowers in my shirt pocket, drew a deep breath, and turned for home.

     “C'mon, Snap,” I said. “Let's go check those darn horses.”

---------------------------o---------------------------------