• Chapter 7 •

Election Draws Toronto Filmmaker

The Eagle has been informed that nationally renowned journalist, Jane Smythe-Crothers, will document changes in prairie agriculture and the Saskatchewan election.

The production will feature the Village of Duncan, a five-generation family farm, and a gala light show not seen before in this part of the country, an extravaganza said to be modelled after Cirque du Soleil.

Smythe-Crothers also mentioned interest in the evidence of Aboriginal archaeology in the vicinity of the original Chorniak homestead.

The project is a joint venture with Regina’s Minds Eye Productions.

(The Bad Hills Eagle)

For Mac’s sake, the appearance of the television cameras on Duncan’s front street couldn’t have come at a better time; anything to divert coffee row’s attention onto something other than the recent demolition of his truck. The town is more than ready to put itself on display. Sid Rigley, in his capacity as mayor, has had a new sign put up to replace the long-faded “Duncan Laker’s Intermediate C Hockey Champs 71/73” sign at the entrance to town. As early as the first day of the election call, Abner Holt got three of the little blaze-orange NDP election posters put up wherever he saw one of the big green-and-yellow Sask Party signs. Mac took it upon himself to cut the grass on the fairgrounds, and this morning he’s wearing a new pair of jeans and cowboy boots. But as much as he’s caught up in the fanfare, he’s still a bit worried. There’s always a possibility that the media might chance upon the incident...ancient history that should stay buried.

He meets Jane Smythe-Crothers in the café. She’s got the men just ogling, Sid making a fool of himself by telling her at least three times that he’s the mayor and Jeepers peeping over Nick’s shoulder from where they sit at their coffee-row table. Mac can see why. She’s not at all hard to look at, reminding him of Pam Wallin on the television news.

She wears an outfit designed for a younger woman, but it suits her. Her dark-wash jeans sit low on her waist, the material a stretch cotton denim tight on her body. A silky thing of a brown blouse fits down over her waist, and on top of the blouse she wears a lighter brown blazer.

“From Hollywood?” Jeepers asks, tugging at Nick’s sleeve. He whispers in his ear. “What in blazes is she doing coming to Duncan?”

“How should I know? She’s interviewing Mac. Maybe it’s something to do with his buffalo jump.”

“Likely about Indians,” Jeepers says. “Always Indians, and our money.” His good eye stays on the woman, and his head lowers as he peers again from around Nick’s shoulder, whispering again, “Jeepers!”

“Not bad looking,” Pete says.

She has bold cheekbones and a long, sleek neck. She wears her hair down, and it’s a streaked mix of auburn and silver.

“How old is Pamela Wallin?” Nick asks, thinking just like Mac. “Late fifties? Sixties? They look about the same age. She may be old, but looks young.”

Sitting at a separate table, Mac and Jane seem to hit it off right from the start, even if Jane’s a big-city girl from a Toronto that hardly knows there is a Saskatchewan, let alone a village of Duncan.

But Mac’s the kind of man who doesn’t have to say a thing to be noticed…a man of the west even if he doesn’t ride a horse. His looks help, with his attractive hair turned a healthy grey, bushy brows and blue eyes that twinkle.

Jane’s the kind of woman who’s hard to resist. She’s the kind of woman who seems to ooze with that something that makes Mac want to simply reach out and touch her wrist.

“I’m curious to know who got you to interview an old dirt farmer like me,” Mac says.

“University of Regina. Last winter I gave a talk at their school of journalism. It just so happened that I ran into an archaeologist in the faculty lounge. He said that he had been out to this area. Said something about a buffalo jump and to be sure to look you up.”

“He showed me a lot of things I didn’t know about my own place,” Mac says. “You’d like to see the jump?”

“There’s a young Aboriginal artist living here in Duncan, isn’t there? In Regina I stopped in at the First Nations University. When they heard that I was filming out here, they mentioned something about this artist getting a job. I’d like to meet her.”

“She’s my neighbour.”

“But this Bone Coulee sounds intriguing.” She looks Mac straight in the eyes. “I’d like to see it.”

“I can take you in my new truck.”

“Oh….”

She stands up from the table, her hands at her hips, fumbling with the edges of her blazer.

“That is if you’d care to…” Mac says, and he stands facing her.

“I’d never turn down an offer of a ride with an old cowboy in a new truck,” Jane says.

“I can’t take you there today. I’m heading out to my son’s farm. But you can come along there, if you’d like. You’ll see an example of today’s Saskatchewan farm.”

This morning is Mac’s first opportunity to try out his new truck. The dealer from Bad Hills delivered it right to the house. Mac would have walked to the café for the interview, had he not been pressed for time. He had fretted that for sure Sid or Pete would come up with some smart crack about getting his new truck cultivator-proofed. It’s the first time in Mac’s life that he didn’t want to be seen driving a new vehicle.

Mac leads the way to the farm, Jane with him, and the cameraman following with the van. Before they get to the farmyard, they meet Lee coming up the road with his high-clearance sprayer.

“That’s Lee coming now,” Mac says. “Prime example of technological change in agriculture.” They watch as Lee swings off the road, sprayer booms spread wide. The camera aims at the lentil field.

“Is he spraying weeds?” Jane asks.

“Likely, but that’s not what he’s out there for. He’s going to desiccate lentils.”

“Dry them? You mean, kill the plants?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Weather’s the great arbiter. The whole month of August was cool and wet, and the lentils didn’t know what else to do but stay green and keep growing. In order to produce seeds, a lentil plant needs heat stress. We had some heat in July, so they podded some then, but nothing since. Only leaves. The cool and wet weather canopied the plants into perfect shelters for fungus growth. Lee has had to spray them with Bravo three times.”

“Are there other ways for the plants to dry out? Like just their natural life cycle?”

“Sure. Heat. But if they stay wet, only a hard frost will kill them. Lee swathed another field. That was a month ago, and with the swaths getting rained on, he’s had to turn them twice.”

“Is that what he’s going to do now? Swath this field?”

“No, he’s spraying with Reglone. Desiccating. Reglone will kill anything that’s green. And if the weather stays good now, he’ll straight-combine next week.”

Lee rides high in the sprayer’s cab, like a Darth Vadar figure or some such space-age prodigy. The machine appears spread-out, alive, a monster dragonfly mounted on high wheels, spewing sputum from its wobbly wings.

“Get a shot of that!” Jane says. A white curtain of froth shoots down from the wide sweep of nozzles as the sprayer tracks across the field.

“I shouldn’t say it,” Jane says. “I don’t know anything about farming, but I get a feeling of something sinister about this.”

“Something sinister about the John Deere price tag, I’d say. And if you really want sinister,” Mac says with a wink, “here she is now, big as life.”

Darlene jogs up the road. She’s doing her daily three-mile run. Darlene shakes her head and flaps her hands in the air, motioning to the camera to turn its focus away from her.

“Let me get myself together,” she says, bending forward with her hands on her knees, taking deep breaths. She pulls off her headband and wipes perspiration from her neck. “Myself together, just a little. Before any pictures….”

“My daughter-in-law,” Mac says. “Darlene. And this is Jane.”

“You run every day?” Jane asks.

“I like to. But it’s hot and humid for October.”

“Mr. Chorniak says the farmers need some hot weather.”

“I suppose,” Darlene says as she turns her attention to Mac’s new truck. “Wow! That was quick, and brand spanking new…. You’re coming for lunch,” she tells Mac. “And Jane. You have time to join us? And your camera crew.”

“We’d love to,” Jane says.

“I’ve just taken three saskatoon pies hot out of the oven.”

Mac can see that they don’t need him to carry the conversation. He walks off to venture into the field with its smell of Reglone. He stoops to pull a handful of lentil plants. The few pods from the early growth in July are dried to a light brown. He shakes them and the seeds rattle. The plants aren’t slimy, so the three applications of Bravo must have worked. But the later green growth hasn’t podded. Lee won’t get enough out of this crop to pay for his chemical.

“Jane would like to meet Angela Wilkie,” Darlene says.

“So she’s told me,” Mac says.

The camera turns slowly in full circle; east, north, west, south.

“The contrasts are so hidden,” Jane tells Mac and Darlene. “Everything the same; just field after field of farmland. A flat tabletop. The wheat province. The hidden parts are in the valleys? Your Bone Coulee? I can’t wait to see the buffalo jump. It must really have a special meaning for the young artist.”

“When do you want to go out there?” Mac asks.

“The day of the fair, when you unveil the cairn.”

“Let’s go up to the house,” Darlene says. “By the time I get lunch on, Lee should be done this field.”

“You go ahead,” Mac says. “I’d like to just sit out here awhile.”

“We’ll go ahead in the van,” Jane says.

Mac knows each field. He knows where he’s dug out rocks, a few blasted with dynamite. He knows the difference in yield on a hilltop compared to that of a draw. Where Jane, the big-city girl, doesn’t even see the hillsides and draws, let alone what they might yield. All she sees is a tabletop.

He doesn’t sit long; Mac just wanted a few minutes to himself. Not that he minded Jane riding along with him to the farm. He’s come for materials to build a cage for Angela’s owl. Lee tore down an old fence and left the posts in a pile at the edge of the field. A few of those would work for a cage, and there is an old roll of chicken wire stowed in the barn loft.

Mac parks on the ramp by the loft doors. He won’t try to open them, as the twelve-foot doors might break apart, being stiff and dried up, brittle with age. He walks around to the barn entry at the front. The first thing he notices is how clean and shiny everything is; not like a barn, but more like an antique showroom. The oakwood stalls have a glow to them, and they are all empty, except where he keeps his John Deere D. Garth has his ’68 Plymouth Sport Fury convertible parked in the alleyway. He restored it all by himself during his Grade 11 and 12 years when he went to Bad Hills one morning a week for his shop class.

Mac climbs the staircase into the loft. Most barns would just have a wall ladder, but this one’s got an actual staircase. Light shines through the high windows. Pigeons flutter. The fir struts and rafters have a deep red shine to them, the effect of the sun’s rays beaming in at them.

The old hay slings still hang down from the high roof. Some old straw bales, covered with pigeon droppings, are stacked up against the far wall. Along with the bales are two Model T tires still on their rims, burlap potato sacks tied up in a bundle, a sheet of tin, a rolled-up binder canvas that mice have chewed and the roll of chicken wire he’s come to get. Pigeon droppings also cover the rounded lid of Mac’s grandmother’s hope chest, stored up here and forgotten.