by Anne Wheeler
The math degree has not been used much, except in situations like this. I see that he is impressed.
“Emily Murphy lived on the next block,” I persist. “Do you know who she was?” I ask Joe.
“No. Maybe.”
“She was a suffragette,” says my mom, wanting to end the discussion.
“Right, and a judge,” I add, “a real judge. The first woman judge in the British Commonwealth.”
He shakes his head. “That doesn’t matter. Those houses aren’t worth saving.”
Well, at least he’s straightforward. He’s honest, I’ll give him that, but I don’t like it. I can see that he holds his opinion firmly and so I decide to withdraw. Mom’s mood is wavering, and I want to see her happy.
I dish out the casserole. “This is great, Mom, I love this recipe — Heavenly Hash. Mom’s a great cook, Joe.”
“Oh, I’m sure she is! She raised four kids. Cooked a lot of meals, I bet.”
Mom settles into her chair. “Yes,” she says, “a lot of meals. I have four great kids. Proud of them all.” She and I smile at each other. I can see that this man makes her feel special. I’ll go with that.
I’M UP BEFORE DAWN and waiting at the airport long before the camera package arrives. The flight is late and the paperwork confusing, but by 7:30 I’m on the road.
Saddle Lake is 150 miles north, so I’ll have to drive like spit to get there in time. I pull the manual and the camera out of the case; I’ll have to figure out how to load 100-foot reels before I get there. The man said they snap right in.
The only film equipment I know is the stuff we have accumulated at Filmwest. Besides the cameras, we have some good prime lenses, a couple of light meters, three tripods, and a Lowel lighting kit. The guys tell me we have something called a dildo, which they use when they really need it, but I have never seen it and don’t want to admit that I don’t know what it even looks like. I learn by watching and try not to ask too many stupid questions; things have a way of revealing themselves. All I know is that a dildo must be small and not essential or I would have needed it by now.
Once I get onto the highway, I plant the manual on the steering wheel and find the diagram that makes loading the film look so simple. Trouble is, I can’t get the camera open, which is step one. Traffic is sparse, which is a good thing. I swerve from one side of the road to the other, attempting to pry the camera open with both hands while driving with my knees. After a near-death experience, I pull over and park on the shoulder.
“For heaven’s sake,” I mutter to myself, “you have to know how to open the damn thing!” Frustrated, I examine the contraption and find the magic latch, which, at a standstill, is humiliatingly obvious. But loading the toy is tricky. You have to use a built-in blade to trim the end of the film, then thread it perfectly straight through the impossible-to-see opening. I do this several times, imagining the chief with the big voice watching me as I try to look like a “real pro.”
Now I’m really late. The school buses are on the road, tractors are moving out onto the fields, and commuter traffic is heading into the city. I pull a brush through my hair and push my foot to the floor.
There’s a crowd hanging around the tribal band office by the time I arrive. I find a parking place amongst the herd of trucks and get my gear out and ready. Nobody takes any notice of me. They are all looking up at the bright blue sky, squinting to see a tiny dot circling above them.
Suddenly it drops down, dangerously low, looking for a place to land. The people whoop and cheer as the small airplane lines up its course in the distance. Squealing with delight, students pour out of the school across the road, pointing and cheering as it approaches.
There’s been a lot of rain, so the fields are bright green and wild with new growth. Shallow pools of water stretch off into the distance, reflecting the cloudless blue sky. I won’t be surprised if the big new tractor, waiting on the side of the road, gets stuck. I pull on my big boots.
At the last minute, the pilot decides to land on the road and heads right for the crowd of onlookers. People scatter, some into the ditch full of icy cold water, as the flying machine descends upon them. The wings tilt this way and that, getting pushed around by air currents, on what appears to be a very calm day. Maybe the pilot is inexperienced, I think to myself. The plane lands and bounces multiple times before coming to a sliding stop just short of the tractor. I can’t imagine anyone being so cavalier in an airplane. The guy must be a madman.
A few of the band councillors, looking more like cowboys than Indians, strut toward the plane, as the pilot hops out with a proud grin on his face. They heartily greet each other in a self-congratulatory way, laughing and slapping each other playfully, as they walk over to the new, huge tractor. I grab my loaded camera, shove half a dozen spools of film into my multi-pocketed vest, and hoist the tripod onto my shoulder. Taking large flat-footed steps, I march toward them, ready to work. It’s a man’s world up here, so I enter their circle boldly.
“Excuse me?” I say with the lowest voice possible. They barely look down at me, expecting perhaps that I am looking for the bathroom. “I’m from Filmwest ... I spoke with someone on the phone yesterday? About shooting this important historic occasion?”
They don’t say anything. They are frozen in disbelief.
“I believe Dale called you last night?” I continue, putting down the tripod, which is unbelievably heavy. One guy nods slowly. I guess Dale didn’t say I was a female. “Are you Wheeler?” As he asks this, his voice rises at the end of the sentence.
“Ya. Wheeler. That’s me.”
They look around, as if I’ve come out of nowhere. The big voice from the telephone asks, “You alone?” I nod. At 5'4" I’m a midget amongst them.
“Yes, and you are —?”
He smiles, a handsome man, and sticks out his hand. “Just call me Chief.”
The tractor driver is mounting up, getting ready for the momentous deed of plowing the virgin field.
“Can you tell me what’s going to happen so I can get my camera set up?”
The men realize that it’s me, or there will be no filming. One guy manages to say, “Nice camera.” I dive in with, “Yes, it’s new ... a Canon, takes a great picture. So what are you thinking here? Tell me what you want.”
The chief shrugs, what can he do? “Well, as I was telling Dale, we’re thinking aerials. We got over sixty thousand acres here, all of it wild ... so we’ve cleared about eighty acres this year, and our friend Ron here is going to help us out.”
Ron, the pilot, grins at me. “This should be fun” is written all over his face.
Being terrified of heights, and prone to airsickness, I already feel nauseous. I’m going up in a plane with this goon?
A couple of guys are already taking off the passenger door and figuring out a way to strap me in so I can look straight down and get a good picture, clear of the wheels in the foreground. One guy sits on the edge of the seat, then reaches out and grabs the strut before putting his foot on the wheel joint base. “Once you’re in the air, this is the best way to get clear of the plane. We use this set-up for sky-diving....”
“Well I’m a foot shorter than you and ... I’m not keen on jumping, especially without a parachute ... so do you have a harness or something?”
“Oh ya. Sure.”
They have this figured out, too. I climb up and they place the seat belt through my rear belt loop, but it’s too flimsy. So then they starting taking off their own belts and ingeniously buckling them together to make a harness of sorts, which loops through a couple of handholds and seat mounts that seem pretty secure. I can’t believe I’m going ahead with this plan. Basically, I’m going to hang out the door.
With as much authority as I can muster, I give the pilot some instructions. “It’s important that you keep a steady speed and a constant distance from the ground, so I can frame up.” He nods and says, “Sure thing!” I detect a slight smirk forming in the corners of his mouth. Am I imaginin
g this?
“I need to reload after about five minutes of shooting. Please don’t dip and dive while I’m doing this ... just go smooth ... it’s like threading a needle ... I will have to do it five times.” All the men are strangely quiet as they anticipate my fate. They seem to be in the same state of disbelief as I am, but nobody is going to shut this idea down. I’m going up. No guts, no glory!
An older man, who has been watching from a distance, steps forward and asks with concern in his voice, “Can you fly that plane with someone hanging out like this, Ron?”
“Oh ya, no problem,” says Ron, “Some of those big guys get out on the strut and can’t let go ... I have to fly all over hell’s half acre before they either fall — straight down — or get back in. This girl is small ... I’m ready to roll.”
Oh great. I practice climbing in and out of the seat holding onto the wing strut and finding a stable place for my foot just above the wheel joint until I’m convinced that I’m strapped in safely. I will have to manage the camera with one hand. Thank goodness it’s small. There’s just one last thing. “Let’s tie my camera onto this handle here, so I don’t drop it ... just in case.” They hustle to please me. This is good. “When we’re up there, always bank to the right, it will be easier to get a good shot down.” Ron nods, as do the others, all in unison like a bunch of kids watching a bouncing ball. Are they having me on? I’m not sure.
I need a moment to myself. I’m also not sure how long I’ll be up there, so I hurry off to the bathroom before takeoff. It’s an outhouse and there’s a lineup, mostly women. One older woman, wearing a bright pink nylon scarf, speaks Cree to the others, and they graciously insist I go ahead. “You going up in that plane?” she asks.
“Yes, I guess so.”
“You’re a crazy woman.” She laughs. “Don’t expect us to catch you if you fall out! He’s a terrible pilot.” Now they all laugh.
“Really?” I croak. “He’s had accidents?” Hearing my fear, she holds my arm.
“He’s a good boy, but he likes to show off. You just stop him if you think you are in danger, and make him bring you down.”
Right. Thanks for being so reassuring.
Once I’m strapped in and the camera is hung on a rubber cord, the pilot starts the motor up. “Don’t you find that camera heavy?” he asks me.
“No,” I reply, “it’s a little awkward to hang onto — doesn’t have a real handle. It’s not the one I usually use. But it’s not heavy.”
From the moment we lift off, I feel dizzy with fear and nausea. Thankfully, I haven’t eaten anything today, because nothing is gradual about this ride. The plane rises and falls with every change in topography down below — from lake to forest, field to highway; it shifts up and down with the different temperatures, the different pockets of air. The smell of fuel is thick, wafting all around us. My eyes keep watering from the fumes and the wind is whipping around my head.
I can hardly see the tractor and the crowds in the distance. I shimmy myself closer to the edge of the seat, ready to hang out. He gives me a nod and banks radically to the right. I almost spill out the door, sliding sideways, grabbing onto the wing strut, clutching the camera, and landing on my foot as planned. The harness holds.
The camera is like nothing I have held onto before — it’s difficult to keep the frame steady. I can hardly bring myself to look down — the view from up there really makes me whirly. The first roll of film is shot mostly with my eyes closed. We circle out and around so I can reload. The second spool falls to the ground — watching it disappear gives me vertigo. I crawl back into the plane to reload. My heart is pounding like a bass drum gone bonkers as I manage to get the next spool trimmed and threaded and the camera back on my shoulder. More than once, I drop the camera. Thank goodness it’s secured, but it bounces around and I have to stretch out to grab it.
I swear we are flying hazardously low, right over the tractor as it heads out into the field, but maybe I am not capable of judging. Looking through the lens is discombobulating. Everything seems closer and faster. I keep the lens wide so the focus holds. I just hope I don’t vomit on the spectators.
It was a good idea to shoot it from up here; it gives the event a huge perspective. Hundreds of people are waving and cheering as the plough cuts into the wild green grass, leaving a fresh dark line behind. Flocks of gulls drop in to feed on the critters that have been carelessly exposed in the tractor’s wake. Children run alongside, hopping on and off the huge machine, looking like flecks of confetti from my eye in the sky.
When I stop to look beyond what is directly below me, I am moved by the beauty of the country. The parkland is spotted with sparkling lakes flecked with miniature boats; the railway strings the towns and grain elevators together, like an endless necklace from one horizon to another. Sections of farmland are like quilted squares sewn together, framed by straight roads, and pinned down with dance halls and churches. Funnels of dust follow trucks down gravel roads, and amoebic shadows from the clouds crawl constantly across the land. What an awesome sight! How lucky am I to see this! I am overwhelmed with a sense of belonging. I feel I can see where my grandparents settled, two hundred miles southeast of here, close to the little town of Edgerton. This is the upside of taking this risk ... the downside is that it could be the last movie I ever shoot.
Below me is the distinguished and undisturbed land of these Cree people. This is what it all looked like less than one hundred years ago, when there were no fences, no farms, no ranches, no roads. Now the people of Saddle Lake feel they must cut into this soil and take control of Nature if they are to survive in this new world.
I also can see that the tract of land that is the reserve is dotted with marshes and sloughs, making it too wet for growing grain. It is not prime farmland. It is not even good grazing land. Who has advised them to do this, I wonder?
If the camera’s light readings are correct and the footage is as dramatic as it feels, I will be euphoric. We swoop and dive and buzz around in circles, until I’m limp with fatigue and my brain is completely scrambled. A couple of times I release a squawk, but mostly I am able to contain my fear. I feel so relieved to finally announce that I am out of film.
We land to a clapping ovation.
It takes a few minutes for the men to get me disentangled. I stagger, comically, to cover up how I feel, and retreat to my car where I can finally sit down and breathe. A little boy runs toward me with the roll of film I had dropped from the sky. Miraculously, it is still in its package, unexposed.
Determined to complete the job with no stone unturned, I load up the camera one last time and, with a whirl of enthusiastic children, march out to the field to take every conceivable shot of the tractor and its entourage. One teenage boy is pleased to carry my tripod and helps me set up in different places. He’s interested in everything I am doing, and I encourage him to learn about making movies. I’m sure there will be a place for him on a crew if the bigger project should ever happen.
My task complete, I emphatically announce that I am truly out of film and am heading out. The older woman comes over to me with a plate of food, but I have no appetite. “What’s your name?” I ask her.
“Ruthie!” she replies.
“I’m Anne.”
“Wheeler,” she corrects me with a giggle. “I know the guy who phoned you. We’re related, and we had a bet when you were taking off, eh? I won a carton of cigarettes ... so thank you for not quittin’. I knew you would do the job.” She offers me a cigarette, but it’s the last thing I want right now.
Windows down, music up, I drive my little Fiat back to the airport and put the camera package and film I shot on the last flight to Vancouver. If the shoot is a wipeout, I’ll hear from the lab tomorrow. If it’s exposed correctly, we’ll get the footage sometime next week, but that doesn’t mean it’s in focus or brilliantly composed — it will just mean that there is a picture. If it’s a soft blur, I will retreat, possibly quit in shame, and give up this dream of being a
filmmaker.
THE NEXT DAY, I drag myself over to the university for a meeting with my thesis advisor, Dr. A. Smith. His office is in a beige and boring building. I have tried to be excited about this degree, but I have to admit I would quit if there weren’t a paying job involved. Spending another couple of years of my life researching and writing up an academic document that a dozen people might read feels pointless to me.
Dr. Smith is delighted to see me, taking off his big earphones, and making a space amongst the piles of books and recordings he is assessing. I’ve never seen him play any instruments, but you can’t fault him on his knowledge of music. I know he finds it difficult to categorize my ideas and me.
My thesis is to develop a curriculum for teaching music that does not involve notation. It relies on students using their ears rather than their eyes to learn music. Only after they can play what they hear or compose do they write anything down. The purpose of notation is to keep a record of what has been created, so it can be retrieved when needed.
I am inspired by my mother, who plays fantastically, but doesn’t read music very well at all. She plays much more expressively and uniquely when she is playing by ear.
I believe it’s possible for everyone to make music, not just replay what others have written. What if we were taught art the way we teach music, with everyone doing paint-by-number? Dr. Smith is far from impressed by my approach because he argues, “There is nothing to bring the musicians together.” His experience is entirely based on playing and conducting bands, following notation. He admits to never having played by ear.
He massages his brow. “Your proposal did not satisfy me or the committee as being realistic. It has to be reworked. And I need to decide whether or not I should hold a place for you next year or not.” He is referring to my job as a teaching assistant as well as my academic future. “I can only have two graduate students,” he adds.
I press on with my theory. “You know, I’ve done a bit of travelling, and everywhere I went, I made music with the people, without notation. Usually I sang, but sometimes I played some kind of instrument. Often there would be ten, twenty, thirty people playing together.”
