Tag Archives: observation

Miscellanea

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Miscellanea from the Lost Quarter and beyond.

Driving

They spent their days driving, countless hours. If you added them up, you would total another lifetime. It was the nature of living in those parts where it was two hours to anywhere and distance was always calculated in time.  

Summers they would head to the nearest movie theatre, an hour and a half away in a town a province over, where they showed the big movies at the same time they opened in the cities. They’d head out after dinner and be home when it was just starting to get dark.  

Winters they’d drive unless the weather got really ugly, though it was hard to tell what you’d find once you got started. How many times did they run in and out of blizzards as they headed north or west? The snow dancing in the headlights, almost blotting out the darkness behind. A blanket of undisturbed snow covering the road and the surrounding fields so completely it was hard to tell where the road ended and the ditch began. They felt like explorers, breaking new ground and setting the trail for those that would follow. 

Autumn and spring meant the deer and antelope were moving and dawn and dusk were dangerous. They had to be on alert, scanning the fields and ditches. Gophers, porcupines, skunk and badger all found their way under the wheels.   

They had different vehicles, fit for the purpose. There was the car, and later the jeep, for trips to town or the city. The old half ton fitted with a slip tank was the farm truck they used to take them to the fields or to check the cows. Then there was the one tonne they used for pulling trailers and longer trips where they’d be spending time on backroads.  

They never thought about all the time they spent in vehicles. It wasn’t as though there was any choice. They did what they had to do. Long drives they’d pack a lunch and stop somewhere scenic. A campground in a river valley. Somewhere with an outhouse. At every opportunity they’d take the unfamiliar road, just to see if it was a nicer drive. Something new to see, if nothing else. They saw more of the country than most. 

There was nothing like coming home as darkness settled. The twists and turns of the road so familiar the truck could probably drive itself. Kilometres and kilometres of darkness relieved only by the sparks of light from farmyards, providing their assurance that there were people out there in this vast place. The intersection would come into view, familiar enough they didn’t need a sign to tell them, and they would turn north and wait until they came to a rise where the lights of town filled up the horizon. They’d know then they were close to home and would continue into the darkness that lay beyond. 

Field Notes

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Being a record of certain phenomena found in the environs of the Lost Quarter.

Scenes from a Saturday Night at the Grocers

Outside it’s cold, the snow in the parking lot packed down so hard it’s now ice. People step lightly on it, like curlers following a rock poised for the call to sweep, shuffling inside and stamping their feet in the entrance to discard any snow from their boots. The mats are swamped, heavy with melted snow and bits of gravel and refuse that were brought in with it. There are small pools of muddy water trailing beyond it into the store, the automatic doors opening and closing over it.  

The store gleams, the white floors and ceiling shining. The cacophony hits like a wave cresting as they step within. Music and chatter and announcements blending together, impossible to ignore and hard to distinguish anything. Immediately in front of the entrance are the fruit and vegetable stands and to the left of that the grocery aisles, beyond which they can glimpse the meat counter. A few people are browsing, pushing carts and checking items off their lists. To the right are the prepared food counters, crowded with people ordering barbecue skewers, grilled squid, kaldereta, adobo, sinigang, fried fish and pork belly.  

A bandstand is set up behind the diners eating at the rows of tables. A man and a woman are on it alternating karaoke songs – the ones everyone knows. The speakers are turned up loud so that the singers can be heard over the chatter at the tables. The diners are seemingly oblivious of the singing, keeping on with their conversations. At the food counters customers and servers call out to be heard over the din. A crackly microphone interjects when orders are ready. 

It creates an odd symphony. I will love you forever. An endless love. My heart is broken. Value meal number 1 is ready. Value meal 1 is ready. A woman dances by the pomelos, swinging her newborn around while her husband looks on bemused leaning against the cart. 

They stand in line. The woman taking orders is called up to the bandstand to sing. Ms. Josephine. She yells back that she is still on shift, but no one can hear. The family before them keep adding to their order as they move down the line and see more dishes. Ms. Josephine catches their eye and asks for their order. Two value meals, a pork skewer, rice, bitter gourd atchara and choice of side. Fried scad as a treat. Ms. Josephine overflows a plastic container with mung beans and hands it to them.  

They pass by the bandstand on the way out where they are between songs. We’re here every Saturday. Thank you for your support. Try the value meal. Outside the sun has set and the snow glistens under the streetlights.

Miscellanea

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Miscellanea from the Lost Quarter and beyond.

Afternoon in the Park

She stood in the middle of the sidewalk, gaze cast across the adjacent park. A few people were gathered there, idling in the sunlight, but she didn’t seem to be looking at any of them. The day was beautiful, a few cirrus clouds floating on an achingly blue sky, the autumnal warmth of the sun inviting. Despite the warmth she was wearing a long tan trenchcoat, unbelted, a backpack slung over her shoulders and a purse at her side. She was looking up and off, perhaps at something in one of the trees that ringed the park. Only magpies and pigeons remained there, the other birds having started their migrations. Her phone was raised up as if to take a picture. So intent was her focus that she didn’t step out of the middle of the sidewalk to give room to passersby who glared at her in annoyance. 

Abruptly she sank into a crouch, arms resting on knees, phone still held out before her. She spoke in a strained voice, eyes intent on the screen. After a moment, long enough for a reply, she threw the phone on sidewalk. A sob escaped her and she frantically pressed one hand to her lips as though to contain it. With the other she clutched at the phone, staring down at it, her shoulders rising and falling with each breath.