The sun blinds from the east horizon as Mac seats himself in the cab. It’s a simple thing to turn the ignition key. Lee said it won’t turn over unless the gearshift’s in park. So many things to remember. He reads over Lee’s printed instructions.
The throttle lever’s a red knob at the front of the right armrest. There are four black knobs for the hydraulics. The paper says that number one lifts and drops the wings on the cultivator. Number two raises and lowers the entire unit. Number three controls depths on the air seeder. Number four lays out the field marker to show the width of the sprayer. He doesn’t have to bother with three and four. There are more gimmicks than he can shake a stick at. Behind his right shoulder there’s a monitor with a touch screen; something to do with hydraulic oil temperature and rate of flow through the hoses. Laptop computer hooked up to the Internet at his left armrest. TV monitor above the front window to show what the tractor’s pulling behind.
He reads through the instructions a second time. A diagnostic computer on the corner post display? Shows miles per hour. Engine revolutions per minute. Lateral hitch positioning…that prevents an implement from getting too close to a potato plant, if somebody happened to be growing potatoes. Programs that show where the field needs fertilizer, where the weeds are and how much chemical is needed from the sprayer nozzles to kill them. A GPS that can tell you how many miles to Timbuctu, and give you the directions to get there.
Lee has the steering wheel set too low for Mac’s liking. He meant to tell him last night, but there was so much else to think about just getting the outfit here. He steps on a floor lever and the steering wheel drops smack on his arthritic knees. What does the paper say? There’s a side lever to drop it one notch at a time?
The tractor’s running at low throttle. Mac pulls the first knob and the wings of the cultivator spread out and down. He pulls knob number two, setting the shovels into the soil. He steps on the clutch and puts the tractor in drive, shifts up the red throttle knob, and the outfit’s moving. He turns a knob, the field cruise control, and sets the driving speed for the full-mile length of the field. He reminds himself that when he gets to the end he has to step on a silver button on the floor, a knob that looks like a dimmer switch on an old Pontiac car.
Normally on a morning like this Mac would have noticed everything; the lay of the land, the identity of every species of weed to be tilled, any new ones he’s not seen before, a hawk soaring overhead; but this morning his attention is narrowed to the tractor’s operating instructions.
Earlier this spring Mac wanted to try out the air seeder.
“I don’t think so,” Lee said. “You’ve done your time. Enjoy the time you’ve got left to realize that there’s more to life than just farming.”
Yeah? Doing what? He had always been around to help put the crop in, but Lee figured the 9420 might be just a little too technologically challenging for a man Mac’s age. Especially pulling an air seeder.
This is no big deal, Mac thinks. Just a few blinking lights and buzzers he might not have had on his old D, but he doubts this machine will last nearly as long. Mac’s generation pioneered mechanized agriculture. This 9420 wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for the work done before to pave the way.
He heads in a beeline the full mile, not completely relaxed in case some buzzer might go off. There’s always something blinking on the control panels…numbers flashing on and off. He notices a problem only after he gets to the end of the field and steps on the dimmer-switch button to take the tractor off cruise. While he’s doing this he figures he’s got everything licked. He cuts back the throttle, shifts into park, and it seems that all tension eases. But then all hell breaks loose.
He looks behind to see the job he’s done on the field. He’s blackened the ground a full mile, but it’s not a nice and even strip. Yet it’s not the bad job that captures his attention. The cultivator captures his attention. The right wing of the cultivator is all askew and in the air. Clinging to its shovels is the mangled tin and plastic of Mac’s half-ton truck. The cultivator has dragged his truck all this distance like so much trash. He turns back around in his bucket seat and stares at the TV above the big front window. There it is again, the wreck as ugly as a dead lobster up there on the screen.
Black knob number one? He pushes it forward and back, forward and back. Bounce the wings up and down. He watches the TV monitor. Forward and back, forward and back. Can’t he shake the damn thing off? Mac scans the horizon, afraid that somebody might see this. And isn’t it just his luck! God, it’s just his luck! Anybody but those assholes! It can’t be! Pete Scarf’s Dodge Caravan!
Pete, Nick, Jeepers and Sid all climb out. Mac won’t get out of the cab. He won’t climb down. They walk in a circle around the outfit. Nick scratches his head, his fingers buried in his thick and curly hair. Jeepers simply stares, and then his cheeks wobble as he delivers his standard exclamations, “Jeepers, jeepers, jeepers.” Pete yanks down on the truck, as if he could pull it off the shovels. Sid throws his head back, laughing, almost falling backwards.
“We were looking for Abner’s moose,” Nick yells up to Mac. “Have you seen them around this morning?”
“Good Lord,” Sid yells. “How the hell did you do this? I should have my camera.”
“Camera?” Mac yells back. “I’ll camera you if you don’t shut up. I don’t need a camera. I need my twenty-two rifle.”
He wouldn’t shoot them, but it wouldn’t take much more for him to shoot himself.
• 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 o
ur 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 wor
k 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.
• Chapter 8 •
In the back yard Roseanna exercises with her walker, and notices Chorniak’s truck with the chicken wire in his back yard. Last night Glen came for Angela’s dog. She told him it would scare the owl, and that a dog shouldn’t be tied up anyway. She’s had to keep it tied up just because of Mrs. Rawling’s Pekinese. Roseanna wants nothing to do with an owl in a cage in her back yard. Last night she told Angela, “The owl’s gone.”
Bone Coulee Page 7
