by Anne Wheeler
Kenny has wired the room for sound, and the loud music begins. The sound of Santana makes an impressive introduction and covers the grinding sound of the metal reels as we begin to spin them backwards.
We have added a new Academy Leader to the head of the reels and the countdown blasts off, with great expectations.
The first shots are very ragged, wobbling out of focus, searching for an image. Then everyone in the room is taken on a virtual roller-coaster ride with the music underscoring the sense of excitement and danger. I feel sick watching it, remembering my panic and inability to look through the lens. At first, I had just pointed the camera and hoped for the best.
Within a couple of minutes, the footage settles, and our guests are thrilled with the view. Everyone in the room is on the same plane, riding out the thrill of it all. I hear them oohing and ahhing together as we bank almost upside down, then soar up toward the sun, cutting through the clouds. There are places where my camera was pointing all over the place and I’m glad there is no sync sound as I remember that I was screaming, trying to communicate with the pilot who was truly testing my resolve and enjoying it.
Mark and I can’t keep up spinning the reels; eventually the film starts spilling on the floor, thankfully out of sight. We manage the reel change with some finesse, while Dale breaks open a case of beer.
The final shots, taken from the ground, are boring in comparison to the aerials, and we turn down the music. Our guests begin to confer. The chief begins. “Well, that was something, wasn’t it?” He turns in his seat, looking for me, “Where is that girl?”
I step out of the shadows.
“The pilot told us you threw up once or twice.”
I nod sheepishly. “Ya. He did his best.”
The chief chuckles. “He’s a bad boy, that one, but you hung in there. Surprised him.” He turns to Dale. “Good thing you didn’t tell me she was a girl. I might have put up a fuss.”
He puts on his hat and stands up. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to speak to my men a moment ... we’ll go outside.”
Dale shows them out, and the rest of us collapse where we are, sharing a mutual sigh of relief. “Other than it being upside down,” I venture, “what did you think?”
“I’m surprised that your last night’s supper wasn’t in the shots,” says Alan. “I had to close my eyes.”
“Me too,” says Reevan, “but every once in a while I took a gander and it was decent.”
“Decent?” I ask.
“Way decent,” interjects Rico, “and I’m glad it was you and not me.” He smiles, we start to laugh. “Was that your foot that kept popping into the bottom of the frame?” he asks.
I nod, big-eyed. And they all crack up. “I was hanging from a makeshift harness made of belts. Holding onto the wing strut so tight, I could hardly let go when we landed. My hand was completely cramped up.”
“Jesus, Wheeler ... what were you thinking?”
“I was thinking that it was maybe the last day of my life! But possibly the best. It was incredible up there.”
They actually seem impressed with what I did ... I think I’ve earned a few brownie points here.
Dale comes back in, looking hopeful. “If they go for this, maybe we’ll buy a flat-bed editing machine.”
We all cheer, “Ya!”
“Wouldn’t that make syncing rushes a slice!” I say, imagining that I will be back hand-cranking the reels soon enough.
We wait, not wanting to jinx ourselves with assurances.
“Guess I won’t have to sell my car then, eh?” I venture.
“Nobody would buy it,” says Kenny. “It’s not a car, it’s a key chain.”
The door opens and it’s the chief. He holds the moment, as we all stand up. “We’re in,” he says, stone-faced, then breaks into a smile. “We’re going to make some movies!”
We all laugh and mutter words of joy. His men follow him in, and we all shake hands, sharing the mutual excitement.
“We’ll be in touch. The funding is almost sewn up ... so we should know within a week. And we got a lawyer ... we’ll get him together with Dale here, make it all legal like ...”
“Great,” says Dale, “any time you’re ready.”
“Oh! And we’re having some elders come in and tell all the old legends to the whole school in a couple of weeks ... some of them are getting kinda old, you know, so we thought, before they forget, we’d like to get them on film, before these stories are lost. What do you think of that?”
We all agree enthusiastically, truthfully. “It’s a great idea!” “We can do that!” “We’ll be there.” “Let us know as soon as you can!”
Just as he’s going out the door, he turns, “And oh, one last thing ...”
We all nod. He points at me, “We want her to shoot it!” He laughs at his own mischief. “She deserves it, don’t you think?”
A FEW DAYS LATER I went to Dr. Smith and formally withdrew from my master’s program. I had the privilege to do what my mother couldn’t. I was single and free to choose my path, make mistakes, and risk being a failure.
Filmwest signed the deal with the Saddle Lake Reserve, and I shot their first educational film, named after one of their traditional stories, Little Startlers. This was the beginning of what has now become one of the most respected and forward-thinking First Nations educational systems in North America.
THE WOMAN WHO DIDN’T EXIST
Edmonton, 1973
CFRN RADIO INTERVIEW
ME: We never imagined that so many women would turn up! The article in the Journal simply said that we were going to make a film about what it would be like to be a woman who leaves a marriage without getting a divorce. We wanted to talk to anyone who had just walked out of her marriage and started all over.
INTERVIEWER: I see. So you advertised a time and place ...
ME: Yes, and when we arrived to open the doors, there was a lineup a block long. Young. Old. Rich. Poor. Fat. Thin. We should have had a camera rolling that day because they all had stories to tell.
INTERVIEWER: But. Ah.... Aren’t you are a member of something called Filmwest? I know some of those guys.
ME: Yes, but they were not so interested in this project so I invited three women to join me and we applied for a grant. As you may know, 1975 will be International Women’s Year!
INTERVIEWER: I didn’t know that...
ME: ... and there is money available — for women like me, artists, choreographers.... Anyway — the goal was to train women to make films. I was like the expert, which was ludicrous because I have never made a film, but we did not know of a woman within a thousand miles who had. I’d worked on half a dozen short films, as an editor and a cameraman, I mean camerawoman (that’s a mouthful, eh?), so I did know more than anyone, but that wasn’t much. Only one other woman, Lorna, had even held a movie camera before —
INTERVIEWER: But you still got a grant? To make a film?
ME: Yes. I guess it was such a novel idea — women making movies about women — that we got the money!
INTERVIEWER: So, who is in your movie?
ME: Ha! One of the women who showed up that Saturday became our star. She was a natural. She just had to be herself. Beyond that, we called on our friends and relatives to take the other roles. Nobody got paid. There were no movie stars. No script, in fact. We took the stories we were told, boiled them down into one story (so many were similar), then broke the story into scenes, and blundered through shooting them, improvising as we went.
INTERVIEWER: That sounds tricky.
ME: Not really. Basically, we discovered that any woman who leaves a marriage has no rights. She can’t open a bank account, or legitimately rent a place, get a loan, buy a car, get insurance, even go back to school — unless, of course, her father steps in and co-signs.
INTERVIEWER: Really. [chuckling] I’ll make sure my wife knows that. [pause] But who did the camerawork and so on...?
ME: We did. That was the point.
; INTERVIEWER: You did? Well! So the film is going to be shown on national television?
ME: Yes. A week from today. It’s called One Woman. It will be on CBC at 4 p.m.
INTERVIEWER: Are you going to make another film?
ME: I hope so. I’m very interested in history from a female prospective. There is virtually nothing in the archives, or taught in our schools about women and what they have done. Lorna is going to continue working with me. We’ve found some fantastic material on the suffragettes.
INTERVIEWER: The what?
ME: The incredible women who fought to get the vote. In 1916. Women on the prairies were the first in Canada to be enfranchised, even though the Prairie provinces were the last to be settled.
INTERVIEWER: And why was that, do you suppose?
ME: That’s what I want to find out! We are going to talk to and document the women who are still alive and remember those days — we are on a mission.
INTERVIEWER: Well best of luck with that. It’s always a treat to have a young woman on the show with new ideas!
THOUGH LIFE IS FULL and I am busy, I can barely make the rent on my sixty dollars a month one-bedroom apartment. The Parkview is an old three-storey brick building, the lone survivor of a neighbourhood sacrificed for the new James MacDonald Bridge, which boasts six lanes. I have a wild assortment of furniture, most of it junk, some of it here when I moved in. Only my piano will leave with me when and if I ever move. The ceilings are high and the bathtub is painted pink and looks funky. The place is dusty, the walls are cracked, but I like it. My hours are out of whack; living alone suits me.
I barely hear the phone ring above the roar of morning traffic. Naked, I scramble to the kitchen and grab the phone off the wall. It must be early — there is just a faint glow of light in the winter morning sky.
“Hello!”
“Is this the young lady who was on the radio yesterday?” The raspy old voice is sweetened with an Irish lilt.
I clear my morning throat. “Yes, it is. Who is this, please?” I see that it is 6 a.m.
“My name is Mrs. Doris Ward and I listened to you. Would like you to come down and see me in Brooks?” The telephone reception is breaking up — she must be on a pay phone.
“Brooks? Where is that exactly?”
“About 103 miles southeast of Calgary.”
“Oh! Well. Thank you for the invitation, Mrs. Ward, but that’s a four- or five-hour drive away in this weather!” I respond politely. “What did you want to talk to me about?”
“You were wondering why women on the prairies were the first to get the vote. I was born in 1884, you see — I came to this country when I was 19. I saw it all.”
“I am sure you have some stories to tell. But I’m just starting on this project — I haven’t done the research or raised any money yet. Perhaps in the spring —”
“I am almost ninety years old, Miss Wheeler. You’ll not be wanting to put me off ’til spring. I could be pushing up daisies by then. I want you to come down now while I still have my wits about me.”
“Were you involved in the suffrage movement?”
“Yes and no. I was there ... of course. And I can tell you why we got the vote first. Will you come?”
“Yes, but the thing is,” I reply, “I would like the interview to be on camera —”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t want my picture taken! If you want research, I’m it. If you want history ... I am history. Most of us originals are dead now — only a few of us left. You get on down here.”
She has a point. Most women her age have forgotten a lot, or are too shy to say much. This woman sounds forthright and spunky. “Alright, Mrs. Ward. I’m coming down to see you.”
“When?”
“I’ll need to borrow a car. Maybe Wednesday.”
“What time?”
“I should be there around two o’clock.”
“Thank you very much.” Her voice is softened by emotion. “I live in the seniors’ lodge, right on the highway as you come into town. Low building with a big parking lot. It’s not much to look at. Flat roof. Easily missed.”
“I’ll find it,” I assure her.
“We’ll have tea,” she adds.
IT’S A BAD DAY to be driving across the flatlands, with harsh winter winds blowing in from the northwest. Unfortunately, I couldn’t talk anyone out of a car, so I’m being tossed around in my tiny Fiat. Even with new tires, it’s barely hanging onto the icy road as 18-wheelers thunder past me in both directions, sucking me sideways, kicking up icy slush that plasters my windshield and renders me momentarily blind. It’s almost three when I finally see the grain elevators of Brooks, silhouetted against the distant horizon.
Thankfully, the parking lot has power outlets, which means I can plug in my block heater so my little car will start when I’m ready to leave. The bitter sting of the wind cuts into my skin and my throat stings as I slog through the salted, mushy snow toward the front door.
Inside, the air is hot and stale. The green linoleum floor in the hallway is worn down in the middle, revealing a previous layer of speckled beige. A sign on the windowless wall directs me to the office where a woman, who has clearly been expecting me, tells me that Mrs. Ward is waiting for me in the dining hall.
The tiny woman is in a wheelchair, sitting next to a table by a window. A china teapot and matching cups and saucers stand ready. She must have watched for me to arrive. Holding out her hand, she welcomes me, “Miss Wheeler? I thought you might have changed your mind, with the weather getting worse.”
I take both her hands in mine. “No, no, I’m from good prairie stock, Mrs. Ward. Bad weather just makes for good conversation.”
“Well, we have lots to talk about! Were the roads bad?”
“Yes, I had to go more slowly. But it’s good to meet you.” Her fingers are bony and cold, but her grip still has conviction.
“My! Your hands are so warm! Mine are never warm.”
“Cold hands, warm heart,” I offer.
“Not true,” she jokes. “My heart can be as cold as a witch’s tit.”
I chuckle, surprised by her choice of words. She lacks the formality I would expect from an older woman. I pull up a chair as she pours two cups of tea.
“This might be a little bitter and not so hot. Help yourself to the stale cookies.” She smiles. “I asked them not to disturb us. There are a lot of nosy ninnies sniffing about in this place. They’ll be wondering who you are. Ha! I thought this would be the best place, while everyone is having their nap.”
“It’s perfect,” I reassure her.
She is wearing a sweet home-sewn blue dress, with matching barrettes in her hair that give her a girlish look. Her eyes are still fired up and her grey hair holds a hint of natural red.
“The receptionist at the radio station was reluctant to give me your phone number, but I insisted. I would have written to you, but I’m not much of a writer anymore. My handwriting is such a scrawl now — I can’t read it myself!” She shrugs. “I used to be proud of my writing!”
Her tea pouring is a little shaky so I take over. “Well, I’m anxious to hear your story, Mrs. Ward.” I get out my notepad and select a cookie from the paper plate. I should’ve brought something for tea. Where are my manners? “Just talk to me like I’m your granddaughter, wanting to know what it was like for you.”
“Oh, well, I hope you are more interested than they are!” I can see she can be a bit of a grump.
I ignore her complaint as I, too, have not shown much interest in my own grandmother’s past until recently. Unfortunately, she died when I was still a brat. “Tell me where you’re from and how you got to Canada. I’m here to listen,” I say, with a bit too much enthusiasm.
“Well, I was the youngest of eleven. My father died when I was six, my mom when I was twelve. We lived in the tenements, in Dublin. So I was just a kid when I went to work in the factories. That’s the way it was then — most people didn’t live past fifty. I never expected to liv
e this long! It’s not for everyone, I can tell you that!” She makes a funny old face and laughs at my reaction.
“But here you are! However did you get here?” I don’t need to encourage her — she’s obviously itching to tell her story. She even has her old diary at hand, in case she wants to look up a detail or two.
“Well, that’s a short question ... with a long answer. So here I go!
“I WAS EIGHTEEN, yes, and I should have been married, I could have been married, but I didn’t want my life to begin and end up in the same stinking place. What would be the point of that? I wanted to see the world.
“There was a lot of talk at the time about the New World, with posters showing how you could start a new life in Canada by homesteading — assuming you were a man, of course. Luckily, I could read and write. The first girl in my extended family to do so. My brother taught me, and, glory be, one day I was at the church and I saw — on the pin board — an advertisement from a man in Alberta who wanted a wife! I confess I tore the note down before anyone else could see it. Ha! It said that he owned an enormous piece of land that included a lake and a solid house. He had cattle and pigs and a barn and a well — it sounded just wonderful. He wanted a woman who could read and write, but wasn’t afraid of hard work.
“I thought to myself, well, here is an educated gentleman — with high expectations. I’ll be lucky to land him. So I replied with a formal letter of inquiry, trying to sound above my station and not too eager. Six weeks later, I got a response! Oh my, I was so encouraged. His name was Matthew Ward. His letter was impressive, his handwriting neat, and his language refined. Back and forth we wrote for more than a year, it taking a full two months for a letter to be sent and delivered. He asked if I could cook, and sew, and garden, if I was good with animals — and of course, ‘did I want a large family?’ Well, in those days, there was no choice of whether you had children or not. And I certainly wanted a family of my own.
“Then he asked for a photograph, which was a huge expense for me. The picture was good though — I was surprised when I saw it. I have it here to show you.”
