Small Things Forgotten

And sometimes amidst the zorgleflutzes, church bulletins from 1962, styrofoam meat trays, and endless jars of preserved crabapples, you find magical things. My grandmother saved some seemingly random things, but she also saved reams of family pictures and letters. This is the story of something she saved carefully for years and the story that it, in turn, tells.

By the time I knew her, my grandmother was already an old woman. She had come from Ontario at the age of 10 to a province that wouldn’t even officially be a province for a few more months. She grew up near Wynyard among people who had come from all over the world to the promise of a new land and new beginnings. The work was hard, sometimes backbreaking, but there were opportunities for fun and socializing too. My grandmother learned to dance from her brother-in-law, who had learned as part of his officer cadet training at a German military academy. Groups of young people from the area would get together at community events to dance and socialize; my grandmother loved to dance and was part of this group of friends.

Hector Hibberd

Hector Hibberd was one of her friends. From St. Mary Bourne, Hampshire, he had come to Canada in around 1911, one of the innumerable young British men who chose to try their luck in Canada. Maybe Hector had kept in contact with Gifford Longman, another St. Mary Bourne-ite, who had gone to Wynyard with an older brother as a 15 year old. In any case, he came to the Canadian West, learned to farm, and danced with the local girls.

When what we now call World War I started, a huge number of those young British men joined the Canadian Expeditionary Force, partly out of patriotic fervour and duty, and partly for the chance of a trip back home. And the war would be over in a few months anyway. By March of 1916, Hector and Giff likely understood what they were getting themselves into when they volunteered for the 214th (Saskatchewan) Overseas Battalion of the C.E.F.

Most of the regiments and battalions produced Christmas cards for their members to send to friends and family. During his first Christmas as a C.E.F. member, Hector sent cards to at least one member of his Wynyard group of friends - my grandmother.

Hector's Christmas card - now housed at the Saskatchewan Archives

By September 1918, he was serving with the 3rd Battalion of the Canadian Machine Gun Corps in France. The circumstances of death report says that he was making some adjustments to his gun when an enemy shell made a direct hit on the shelter he was in. The war would be over less than two months later.

His friend Giff survived. Perhaps he’d made the (re)acquaintance of Hector’s sister during the war, or maybe they’d met when Giff undoubtedly paid a condolence call on Hector’s parents. The two young people married after the war’s end and made their way to Saskatchewan.

From my grandmother’s circle of friends, at least two young men (one Hector; one her fiancé) left for the other side of the world and never came back. This pattern was repeated in countless circles, families, villages, and towns all over the country and world. The people remaining were left to mourn, pick up their lives, and, if they could, dance again.

Curation, Fetishization, and Packrattery

I come from a family of packrats. The message of “Don’t throw that out; it might come in handy some day!” is so ingrained in me that I have to consciously stop and think about whether, realistically, I will ever need that particular thing, and under what circumstances that need might possibly arise. Growing up, I could come home and announce, “ I need a zorgleflutz for school on Thursday”, and my dad would disappear into the basement. After some rummaging and occasional crashing noises, he would emerge, vintage model zorgleflutz in hand. I thought this was normal. 

This is not my parents' basement, but it is remarkably similar

My parents were not hoarders – they just had a lot of stuff. They had subscriptions to a number of magazines, and of course you wouldn’t throw those out (especially in the days before recycling). My mom taught for a number of years, and had novels and supplies which had been in her classroom. My dad, an inveterate builder and tinkerer, had every hand tool, nail, screw, and fastener that he might need for any job, from minor household repairs to the manufacture of a space-worthy vehicle. (Okay, the last thing was an exaggeration. But there was an asphalt temperature gauge which had been recalibrated to measure normal outside temperatures. And Ken did find a package of 40 year old road flares in a basement cupboard. Ignition was always an option.).

I had/have older parents than most people my age; both of them had lived through the Depression, which I think had the effect of taking a normally practical and frugal nature and pushing into the next level of waste-not. My dad, as a city-dweller, may not have been as affected. My mom, although a young child during that period, lived on a farm on the prairies. So, yes, you kept that whatever it was, because you really might not be able to get or afford another. Even if you never needed it again, your neighbour might. And you could just shove it into one of the outbuildings if you didn’t want it in the house. Substitute ‘basement’ for ‘outbuildings’ and you pretty much have the house I grew up in.

And then there were the family heirlooms and mementos. These are mainly from my mom’s side of the family, and almost solely from her mother’s family. Everyone else (her father, my dad’s parents) immigrated to Canada and had to deal with the associated luggage capacity limits. I find what people choose to keep and pass on to others as heirlooms really fascinating. And this isn’t a new thing. There are loads of archaeological examples of anachronistic items, often pottery, some obviously having been repaired multiple times, being found at sites. In these cases, the traditional call of the archaeologist (“It’s ritual!”) is sometimes heard. However, these deliberately curated items (yes, same term as used for museum collections) tend to be found in household, rather than in formal ritual settings. The general conclusion is that these things were the ancient equivalent of the good china or the ancestral portraits.

As to what was designated for curation and why….the short answer is that no one knows. Not all heirlooms are valuable or expensive. Value tends to be in the eye of the beholder and not necessarily obvious to anyone else. It may not even be consciously obvious to the beholder. I realized this recently as I repaired, for about the 10^th time, a small vase depicting a Chinese zodiac animal (not my zodiac animal, either) that I probably paid about $5 for 15 years ago at Folkfest. I like the pattern of the glaze, the tiger painted on it is cute, and it’s the perfect size to hold my peacock feather….is it really worth all the repair jobs? Apparently.

Fetishized?

Some researchers refer to an object’s designation as something worth keeping and passing down, and its subsequent elevation in status as ‘fetishization’ (archaeologists do love ritual references). A thing that might have been a common object, used every day, becomes almost an object of worship or veneration. Some people who study this sort of thing suggest that it is because that thing represents a past event or individual whose memory people are trying to hold onto. Others believe that the object is seen as somehow imbued with the essence of the person who originally selected or owned the object. Passing the object on to others is often a matter of deciding who would be best able to appreciate the object’s significance, and therefore the best curator.

I saw this played out in my own family many times. “When I’m gone, make sure Toots doesn’t get the (insert object here)!” This was from my maternal grandmother, the last remaining of nine children, with only one child of her own, but many nieces and nephews. I didn’t know much about Toots (a niece), except that apparently she was not at all trustworthy in terms of properly looking after great-grandmother’s bone-handled knives.

Ironically, my grandmother outlived anyone who might possibly have claimed any family heirlooms. So, everything went to live at my parents’ house. In the basement, of course.

Falling in Holes

So…umm…hi! How have you been doing these last few months? Good? Glad to hear it.

Life-wise, I’ve been doing well; blog-wise, I seem to have fallen into a hole and disappeared. Falling into a hole usually means that something (or several somethings) is taking up my time, energy, and thoughts about interesting writing. In this case, it was actually a few holes in a row.

The first hole was, ironically enough, all about how to dig a hole – or field school, as it’s properly known. This is either a compulsory or highly recommended class (depending on which degree is being sought) for an archaeology major, and is held at Wanuskewin Heritage Park. Today, Wanuskewin is a National Historic Site and major tourist attraction, but the park’s environs have been a special place for Aboriginal people for at least 6000 years.

The site is often referred to as a ‘terrestrial island’ - a unique landscape that is different from everything surrounding it. You can understand this a bit when you enter the park – you’ve been driving through Saskatoon, then through a bit of typical central Saskatchewan prairie landscape. After you park at the visitors’ centre and continue the journey on foot, you descend into a valley with a curving stream running through it. Grasslands and forest intersect in the valley, with vegetation common to each environment existing side by side. Even today, there is great diversity in the types and numbers of birds and small mammals found in the park; archaeological evidence suggests that there were even more species in the past. 

Opimihow Creek - our dig site is just beyond the bridge.

Basically, the valley had everything that people needed. Food, water, shelter from the unending wind – and they came back, year after year, for thousands of years. In the particular site we were excavating, tools dating to around 4500 years ago have been found; in other places, there are even older artifacts. There are at least 19 individual sites in the park, dating to before European contact, and at least two buffalo jumps. One of which, the Queen of England almost slipped off. But that’s my professor’s story, and one for another time.

In Old World archaeology, the terms sacred or ritual landscapes are often used to refer to sites which appear to have had continued spiritual significance to the people living nearby, perhaps lasting thousands of years through cultural and religious changes. In the UK, one can see examples of this in the sites of Avebury/Stonehenge, Maes Howe, Newgrange, and the circles and barrows of Bodmin Moor. Those are the big, obvious ones, but there are also loads of examples of the Norman or medieval cathedral being built close to or on top of a Saxon church, which was built on an earlier Christian chapel, which was built on a Roman shrine, which had been placed near an Iron Age sacred spring……

In Canada, the best examples of this type of thing seem to be in the cairns and Medicine Wheels built by the ancestors of the Aboriginal people. There is at least one of the latter features at Wanuskewin, leading some to argue that the area may have had lasting spiritual significance, in addition to its many advantages as a campsite.

The specific site we were at was a habitation site. People lived there, built fires, knapped and repaired tools, processed meat, and created a bit of jewelry. We found evidence of all of these activities during our 6 week dig. As for my unit (1m x 1m square)…. how did I phrase it in my report? The artifacts and fragments found in the unit provided further evidence for activities that were known to have been taking place elsewhere in the site. Something like that, anyway. What I really wanted to say was that when the people living at the site decided to sweep the tents, my unit seemed to be where they dumped out their dustpans.

They would have used the big dustpan for this.

My Book Sherpa

So, I read quickly. I always have. People have accused me of skimming, pretending to read, etc. and quizzed me on the contents of my reading. They usually never bothered me again after I was able to answer any questions they asked me. I've never taken a speed reading course; I've just always been able to read that fast. 

 

As you might imagine, being able to read quickly has a number of advantages. I've rarely had to renew library books, readings for classes or workshops don't take very long, and I can actually re-read entire textbooks when I'm studying for exams. I can also get through exams faster - in a multiple choice exam, I may take as long as anyone else to figure out the right answer, but I've been able to read the question and options more quickly.

The disadvantages of reading quickly are more bothersome when travelling. I can carry about 2-3 books in my travel backpack. Although I can read in a car (yay for no motion sickness!), I usually don't, since I prefer to look at the scenery and I'm often navigating or reading on behalf of the driver. The problem arises when I travel by plane. I can't usually sleep on a plane, so I read. My 2-3 books are usually done by the time we've reached our destination - then what? Ditch a book or two and buy more? Not possible - I tend to only buy books that I've read previously and have liked enough to own.

A few years ago, we went to Barbados right before Christmas. Actually, our travel plans were thus: fly to Toronto, go to the Terracotta Warriors exhibit at the ROM; fly to Barbados the next day, spend a week there; fly back to Toronto, spend a couple of days with friends just north of the city; take a train to Kingston; spend Christmas with Ken's sister and her family and Ken's parents; fly back to Saskatoon. Loads of time to read in transit. Ken and I exchanged Christmas presents before we left home (I was so not dragging or shipping a Black and Decker workbench to Kingston). When he gave me his gift, Ken said, "let me know if it's not something you want, because I can return it." Well. It was an e-reader (a KOBO, if you're interested). It came loaded with I don't know how many books (the older, out of copyright ones) and the capacity to carry 1000 books. 1000 BOOKS, Y'ALL! I was never going to run out of things to read again. And all in something that weighed as much as the average paperback, and was only about 1-2 cm thick.

As an added bonus, I could borrow e-books from the Saskatoon Public Library. Just download the e-books onto a computer, then transfer them to the e-reader. From anywhere. I "went to the library" in Kingston and in B.C.; if the internet connections hadn't been so dreadfully slow, I would have borrowed books while in Viet Nam. Just imagine - "What are you doing?" "I'm at the library. Shhh. " "But... you're sitting on the couch, drinking scotch, and cackling..." "Yes. SHHHH."

Now, make no mistake. I love physical books. I love the way they feel, smell, and look. It's much easier and quicker to flip back or forward in a "real" book. You can throw an annoying book (The Murder of King Tut, dear God) out the window without worrying about damaging any other books or technologies. I love old books, and the crafts of bookbinding and typesetting. But for sheer carrying convenience, I'm grateful for the invention of e-books.

Now, confession time. I was an...unusual child. ("Really??", chorused everyone who actually knows me.) I've always loved to read, and can't remember I time when I couldn't. When I was in grade 1, I used to schlep a big flipping black garbage bag full of books with me to school and back every day. These were books from our classroom which I really liked, and wanted to have with me at all times, in case I wanted to read them. (I'd like to take this opportunity to thank Mrs. Russell, my grade 1 teacher, for her patience and apparent sense of humour). Anyway, every time I take my e-reader somewhere, I feel that six year old grinning. And massaging her biceps.

Osteology and You

One of the classes I took last term was human osteology - lots of work (you have to be able to identify bones and their features in fragment form), but an excellent class.  I thought that I'd share some of my knowledge and insights from the class:

1. If you pass out during an exam, campus security has to come. Your backpack will get a ride to the Student Health Centre; you will walk over, accompanied by a security officer. (Ok, so that actually has nothing to do with osteology. But it's something I learned!)

2. There are three general types of joints in the human body (synovial, cartilaginous, and fibrous) and your vertebral column contains all three.

3. My favourite bone group is the vertebrae, partially because of the fun fact noted above, and partially because so many diseases, biomechanical markers, etc. are evidenced there.

4. My favourite individual bone is the sphenoid. It's complex, and sometimes difficult to identify in fragment, but very pretty. It reminds me of a butterfly, or this flower.

5. In trying to figure out which side is up for tarsals, metatarsals, and pedal phalanges (ankle bones, foot bones, and toes), the sides that are bulgy, rough, have grooves for nerves and ligaments, and generally look uncomfortable, are invariably the sides that you're walking on. Plantar fasciae are your friends.

6. There is incredible variation in number of bones per individual, bone robusticity, skull shape, etc., all within normal parameters. The average person may or may not have exactly 206 bones. Children have more. 

7. Most of the bone names are in Latin, with a few in Greek. They translate to some really....interesting things:

• Coracoid process (part of your scapula)= crow (shaped like a crow's beak)
• Malleolus (exterior ankle bones)= little hammer. 

Some of the really fascinating meanings got me wondering about who thought up the bone names in the first place and the circumstances under which the naming occurred. Here's one possible scenario:

Act 1, Scene 1: Somewhere in Europe, several hundred (or more) years ago. 

" Ok, y'all. We've got 15 articulated skeletons, 327 individual bones, vellum, ink, quills, and 47 bottles of Antonio's papa's home-made wine. LET'S DO THIS THING!!!"

Act 2, Scene 1: Several hours, and 34 bottles of Antonio's papa's home-made wine later.

"BOOBS! Heh heh heh.....skull has boobs. Mastoid process!! Skullboobs...heh heh heh....boobs."

"Duuuude...you could totally drink out of this thing. It's like a little wine goblet... for, like, squirrels."

"Yo, Bartholomeus! Wake up! You gettin' this %$^# down, bro?"

8. It's somehow satisfying to be able to identify and use the correct term for the exact bone that you've injured, stubbed, whatever. For example:

Slipping on ice before taking osteology: " Aggggrrrrrhhh! Owowowow! Goatbothering%^&^%&$#!!"
Slipping on ice after taking osteolgy: "I have landed on my sacrum! Aaaahhhhh! %$%$#*&@onastick!!

Much better.

Long Haired Freaky People Need Not Apply

Although, I've never actually seen one that says that in so many words.

Some people collect snow globes from different places they've visited; some collect miniature spoons (there's a fine collection in my mom's basement, if anyone's interested....). Lots of people like to take pictures of particular things in different places - architecture styles, street lights, statuary, their teenage children looking bored in front of any of the previous items, etc.

I've realized over the years that I tend to collect pictures of signs from various places, usually those yellow 'caution'-type ones. Sometimes, it's because I've never seen one like it before (in Saskatchewan, we don't have many signs warning against the possibility of high water or rock falls), but mostly because I think they're funny.

For example, I present you with the first sign photo I ever took:

This was from Pacific Rim National Park. Up to that point, the 'Slippery When Wet' signs I'd seen had mostly shown the stick person seemingly sitting on the ground, dejected, having already slipped and fallen. This one actually depicted the person in the act of slipping, quite spectacularly.

Some of the sign pictures I've taken are unintentionally hilarious:

I don't know if you can read this; most of the rules are pretty standard. Except for #7, which states "Bicycles, motorbike, pets, fire-arms, explosives, inflammable, stinking things and even prostitutes aren't allowed in the hotel."

Well, dammit. I was planning on bringing a ripe durian, an open bottle of fish sauce, a hand grenade, my bike, and my new best friend into my room. What am I supposed to do tonight instead?

This was from a hotel in Hoi An the first time we visited Viet Nam. We stayed at the same hotel this time, and we were both pleased to note that the rules hadn't changed.


 As I mentioned earlier, some of the signs warn of dangers that you don't typically face in Saskatchewan:

 

There's also the series that I like to call "Bad Things That Can Happen Near Cliffs": 

And my own personal favourite: "God Will Smite You"

 

Of course, these signs are here for our protection, so no matter how hilarious they may be, it's important to remember: 

Never step on anyone's head, and of course: 

Always watch where you walk.

A Vignette from Another Place

Today had been one of those odd ones, to say the least.

Buster had always been proud of being born and raised in a barn. He felt that, along with a wholesome upbringing and an appreciation for hearty outdoor activity, the experience had given him the flexibility and resilience to cope with unusual situations and unexpected change. Like the time he fell asleep on the back of his favourite sheep and woke up, still on Prunella, but in the middle of a nausea-inducing trailer ride to a new farm.

Or the time he woke up from a nap and found that the humans had brought home another cat. In kittenhood, Buster had learned to at least understand, if not speak 7 different animal languages (the low tonals of Bovish are almost impossible for a cat to replicate), but had never really learned the swear words in any of them. (It's a little known fact that domestic poultry curse almost constantly, but their language's grammar and syntax are difficult even for native speakers.). Over the next couple of days, Buster learned 27 new words, none typically used in polite company, from the new cat.

Anyway, today had started out normally with a bit of breakfast (he hadn't felt much like eating in the past few days), followed by two (!!) saucers of milk from the female human. He figured that he must have taken a nap at some point, because now he was......here.

And here was wonderful. Sunny and warm, with a mild breeze. He began to run through the field of grass he found himself in, pausing to leap at the occasional butterfly or listen to bird chatter. He stopped and rested for a bit, enjoying the sun's warmth on his fur; he hadn't felt strong enough to run in a long time, and wasn't quite back in shape yet.

Buster couldn't explain how or why, but somehow he knew that he eventually needed to reach a particular cottage and garden. He rose, stretched thoroughly and continued on his way, occasionally veering off-course to track a flicker of motion through the grass. Soon, he reached what he knew was his destination - there was the cottage, with its rose garden in full bloom. If he squinted, he could just make out the human, building something in the vegetable patch.

Then he saw her. The plump little tortoiseshell, basking in a sunny spot just outside of the shade of a peach tree. "I wonder if she still dreams about creme brulee?", Buster giggled to himself. He knew what he had to do next. Crouching low in the grass, he approached as stealthily as he could. When he reached the dozing cat, he leaned in, stuck his nose firmly in the nape of her neck, and sniffed as hard has he could.

As expected, the other cat immediately leaped to her feet, shrieking, "Eeeeeewwwww!" at the top of her lungs. She spun to face Buster, left paw cocked back. When she saw him, her round eyes got even rounder. "YOU!! I thought I was done dealing with you! I'll get you, you $#%@&!"

Buster turned and sprinted for the cottage, shouting, "I missed you too, Paris!" over his shoulder. He continued to run and look back, making sure that he was ahead of Paris (for a small cat, she had a powerful punch), but not so far ahead that she would give up the chase.
__________________________________________

2013 has been a good year in many ways; unfortunately, it's also the year in which we started out with two cats and ended up with none.

Buster and Paris were 17.5 and 16, respectively, when they passed on (that's 86 and 80 in cat years). They had long, adventure-filled lives, and in turn, filled our lives with adventure. They were both, in their own ways, unique personalities; I don't think there will ever be others like them.

They were loved beyond measure and are sorely missed.