by André Alexis
number of writers I’ve slept with who couldn’t tell a clitoris from
a bottle of mouthwash. I’m talking about something else: the
place words come from is the same place death comes from.
Professor Bruno was impressed.
– It takes one poet to understand another, he said.
But Mr. Flynn rose from his chair and shook his head.
52
– No, he said, this is exactly the kind of crap that drives men
to drink. Young John Skennen was what my parents called a
scamp or a scallywag. And scamps give people something to talk
about. Also, the man had children with dozens of women. That
and the fact nobody knows how he died or even if he died. That’s
why people around here talk about him.
To me, he said
– Don’t pay any attention to these two, young man.
– Daddy, said Ms. Flynn, you are so simple-minded! It’s a
good thing you’re lovable.
As Mr. Flynn shuffled a short distance away, his kimono moved
like a billowing piece of night, its painted birds chuffed and slimmed
as if they were preening before sleep. From a glass-fronted credenza
he took a bottle of greenish liquor. To me, he said
– It’s asparagus wine. My own invention. Something to drink
when academics come by.
– Don’t drink it, said Ms. Flynn. It’s foul.
– Foul but bracing, said her father.
It was both of those things. It tasted as if asparagus had been
recovered from a septic tank and soaked in grape juice. It was
potent, too. After I’d politely drunk a second offering, I didn’t
quite feel the nausea I’d felt on first tasting it. And, to be fair to
Mr. Flynn – who was pleased I’d agreed to a second draught – it
did help the time pass. I remember very little about the discussions
that followed. Ms. Flynn and Professor Bruno went on talking
about John Skennen, with Ms. Flynn agreeing that the professor’s
portrait of Skennen – the one in his manuscript – was almost
certainly accurate. Naturally, this made the professor happy.
– What are you going to call the book? Ms. Flynn asked.
– I was thinking Persephone’s Beau, or, John Skennen in His Own
Work. Do you like it?
They then went on about the difficulty of titles. But the next
thing I really remember is being woken by Professor Bruno, who
was anxious that I hear the conversation about Pioneer Days.
53
Though Ms. Flynn described the festival as “typically Cana-
dian,’ judging by her account, it sounded unique. From what I
got, the town of Nobleton decided sometime in the 1950s to
celebrate the “pioneering spirit,’ the current that had passed
through the men and women – Europeans, mostly – who’d
founded the town in the 1800s, carving it out of the scrub, shrub,
and rock. The people of Nobleton decided that, during the third
week of August, every summer, the citizens of Nobleton would
hold a competition to see which group could build a house fastest,
using only the means available to the earliest pioneers.
The town was divided in two. Those to the east of King Street
competed against those to the west. The winner received bragging
rights and the Nobleton Cup, a trophy that was kept in Bill’s
Barber Shop (if won by the east) or Mona’s Hair Salon (if won by
the west). That said, the biggest reward was the considerable
amount – around $25,000 – won by whoever had bet on the
winning team while coming closest to the actual time it had taken
to build the house. And, of course, every year before the compe-
tition began, the previous year’s houses were burned to the ground
in a spectacular bonfire.
A change to the competition came in the late 1960s, when it
was deemed wasteful to burn the houses down. There were, after
all, any number of poor families in Bolton County who could benefit
from free housing for a year. And so, in an inspired moment, a
raffle was created, the winners of which would occupy the houses
built during Pioneer Days. At the end of a year, the houses were set
afire as usual and other tenants were chosen for the following year.
An ethical wrinkle in the proceedings formed in the late
1980s, when it occurred to the organizers of Pioneer Days that
the down-on-their-luck families who’d won occupancy of the
houses might come to feel attachment to their abodes. This was
especially the case with families who had young children – chil-
dren being inclined to treasure their homes. So, in another
moment of inspiration, the committee decided to allow families
54
to save their raffle-won homes from burning, if they were able,
using whatever means they could.
At a stroke, this decision resolved tensions and increased
the house burnings’ popularity. To begin with, the buildings and
burnings were moved to a dale just outside Nobleton in which
two wells were dug. The wells, generous and deep, gave the fami-
lies a fighting chance to douse the flames. And then: those who
felt it was wrong to give unfortunate people homes they hadn’t
earned (Conservatives, mostly) were appeased when they saw
that few of the poor families had the wherewithal to actually save
their houses. This failure created the kind of amused pity (in
those who believed in self-reliance) that tempers resentment. As
well: the sight of log houses burning while families tried to save
them was a close approximation of true pioneering distress. So,
the spectacle provided onlookers with a living lesson in history,
the past and present intimately touching. Finally: when, in the
1990s, families began to take up the challenge and practised
dousing big fires during the year – some of them becoming expert
– the people of Nobleton began to wager on the time it took to
build the houses as well as whether or not a family might or
might not save their home.
The house burning was now the centrepiece of Pioneer Days.
Aside from the spectacle of unfortunate families trying to save
their homes, there was the increasingly more generous prize
money for the individual who guessed, first, how quickly the
houses would be built (if they had to be built), then if the house
(or houses) would survive, and, finally, how long it would take to
save the house(s) or, alternatively, how long it would take the
house(s) to burn down.
– Has anyone been hurt? I asked.
– Quite a few, said Mr. Flynn. It’s barbaric, but everyone’s
got such good intentions that no one minds.
– That’s not true, his daughter answered. Four or five deaths
in all these years. And the ones who died weren’t poor. They
55
were drunk and trying to influence the outcome. The whole
thing’s part of life’s rich pageant. And at least it’s not as stupid as
Coulson’s Hill’s Indigenous Parade!
– It’s barbaric, Mr. Flynn repeated. It’s a Hell created by town
council. Good intentions gone nuclear.
– Oh, Daddy, you’re just being fashion
ably pessimistic, said
Ms. Flynn. Good intentions are at the heart of love, too, you know.
– Yes, said Mr. Flynn, but love done by town council is not
anything I’d want to experience.
– He’s got you there, Bridge, said Professor Bruno.
Despite Brigid Flynn’s enthusiasm, the idea of watching houses
burn was unappealing to me. And although I don’t like to disappoint
the people around me, I would have preferred to remain in the
Flynns’ guest room, transcribing Professor Bruno’s conversation
with Ms. Flynn. But Professor Bruno himself asked me to come.
– Do you know, he said, I haven’t been to Pioneer Days since
I was a teenager. My family loved going to them. I admit I used to
hate house burnings, but I suppose this’ll be the last one I see, and
I’d prefer to see it through the eyes of someone who’s never been.
On hearing this, I agreed to go with him, my respect for the
professor bringing an obligation, despite my feeling that our jour-
ney was being waylaid.
It was five o’clock when we set out. The sun was bright but
the world had already committed to evening: lengthening shadows,
a hint of orange to the light, a satisfying coolness to the breeze.
From somewhere, we caught the smell of lamb cooking on a
barbecue. We drove through Nobleton – Ms. Flynn driving with
the windows down – past pedestrians who were all heading in
the same direction we were. There were so many people that
Professor Bruno wondered if we’d find a good place to sit. I only
understood his anxiety when we got to Kiiskinen’s Dale, a gentle
expanse about a half-mile across, surrounded by grassy hills, as
if it were the bottom of an almost perfectly formed bowl. It wasn’t
so much that there were bad vantages from which to watch the
56
houses burn. With binoculars, one could see clearly from any of
the hillsides. It was rather that, depending on wind direction,
this or that declivity could be hospitable or unaccommodating
or momentarily either. It was best to be where you could quickly
move away from wind-blown smoke. With wind direction in
mind, people made for this or that hillside.
Wind direction was naturally a concern for the participants
– the poor families – as well. Though the dale was protected
from major winds by the hills around it, currents of air sometimes
swept through, fanning a fire and driving the bucket-carrying
hopeful away from their burning homes. The only ones unper-
turbed by the winds were those who bet on the event. Wind
currents added a further element of chance, making the outcome
even more difficult to predict, making it more difficult to cheat,
and making things tricky for the firemen who kept the spectators
at bay while themselves being prepared to intervene, should there
be any danger to human life.
This year’s house burning had a heightened local angle to
it. A Nobleton family – the McGregors – had managed to save
their burning home for three years straight. No other family
had ever gone beyond two. Their home had suffered great
damage, of course. A quarter of it was not much more than
ashen pillars that would not fall. The whole of it had been black-
ened and charred. But the McGregors, struggling tenaciously
and with a modesty that made them crowd favourites, lived in
a single room, bereft of most of their possessions. This unprece-
dented display of heroism and dignity had already brought
about a change in the house burning’s rules. It was decided
that, should the McGregors save their home a fourth time, they
would have a new house built for them so that, in the year to
come, they would not have to live among the ashes, should
they choose to remain in Kiiskinen’s Dale.
You could see the crowd had real affection for the McGregors.
A microphone was set up and, before the burning began, there
57
was an interview with the family members – mother, father, three
sons, two daughters. The spectators cheered their every response,
especially those of the father – Malcolm McGregor, an unem-
ployed cook – who spoke, humourously, in a bad Scottish accent.
– Och! he said, we’re after doing what we done these past
few years. Ye can’t keep a Scotsman down!
His words done and the cheering stopped, the two families –
McGregors and Ainsleys (the novices) – were taken a distance
from the homes they’d lived in for a year while flammable things
were put at strategic points inside and outside their houses and
then set alight.
This, as far as I could tell, was the end of reason. There was a
prolonged, almost soundless moment as the McGregors (seven
of them, from ages twelve to fifty) and the Ainsleys (eight of
them, from ages six to thirty-five) were held back until their
homes caught proper fire. Nor did it take long before the fire was
frightening. It was so frightening that I felt a late-blooming admi-
ration for the McGregors. It seemed incredible that they should
have willingly endured this terror for four years running. All to
save their home and the meagre belongings they’d gathered in its
blackened room.
Although I felt that reason had gone, there was still order.
The McGregors, the more experienced, ran to their home. Father
and sons began by shovelling sand on the outside of their house,
suffocating the flames with help from the buckets of water brought
by the mother and daughters. They were impressively efficient,
breaking their windows to let the smoke out before entering their
burning home to put out the flames. After only fifteen minutes,
it seemed certain the McGregors would have their new home.
But then, a bit of bad luck changed their fortune.
The Ainsleys, inexperienced as they were, did not really know
how to go about it. They went to their well as individuals, rather
than forming a chain to carry the buckets. They depended solely
on water to douse the flames. Also, though there were eight
58
Ainsleys in total, their three youngest – aged nine, seven, and
six – were too young to participate. That left them with five: two
willowy girls (eleven and twelve), a thin young man (fifteen), and
their malnourished, exhausted parents. After fifteen minutes, it
was clear that they would lose their house and whatever belong-
ings had been left inside. This must have been clear to their six-
year-old girl, too. Breaking away from the crowd, unseen by the
firemen – who were naturally absorbed by the conflagration –
she ran to what had been her house and disappeared inside.
Now there was real alarm, the plight of children being of
some concern to most Canadians. A number of people streamed
forward along with the firemen. All had only the safety of the
Ainsleys’ six-year-old in mind, though, from where I stood, it
seemed impossible that she should survive.
(Here, I passed one of the most unpleasant moments in my
life. I rose to
my feet, ready to intervene. But then it was as if I
couldn’t move. I felt bound by circumstances. I was part of a
ritual I did not understand, so, naturally, neither did I understand
my place. Was it up to me to save the child or were there others
there to save her? Would I get in their way if I acted? I was help-
less, and this helplessness brought me back to my early childhood,
to myself and my mother watching my father speak before a
congregation that rose and fell at his words, as if my father
controlled the tides, while I could do nothing but struggle with
the desire to be elsewhere, to escape my own passivity.)
What saved the girl – and the doll she had gone to rescue –
was the McGregor family. The sons of Malcolm McGregor,
seeing the girl run into the burning house, ran in after her. The
rest of the McGregors and the Ainsleys, seeing the young men
run into the house, devoted all their attention to the Ainsleys’
home. They shovelled dirt on it. They brought buckets of water.
For the minutes – it seemed like hours – the girl was inside, the
minutes – it seemed to take forever – before the firemen came
rushing from the hills, the McGregors’ home was allowed to
59
burn away. More: by the time the sons of Malcolm McGregor
carried the Ainsleys’ youngest from her burning home – the
girl’s Barbie doll smoking like a censer – there was little of their
own house left to salvage. The last portion of the McGregors’
home burned brightly on its square of ground.
From this point, the spectators collectively exhaling as girl and
doll were rescued, everything passed as if time were elastic, some
actions happening as if in slow motion, others too fleeting to catch.
The McGregors, seeing their home lost, now helped to save the
Ainsleys’. The crowd cheered the final collapse of the McGregors’
home, as if a matador had delivered a coup de grâce. Or were they
cheering the rescue of the Ainsleys’ home? Either way, at the end
of the proceedings, the general mood changed. Once it was certain
the Ainsleys were safe, a chorus of boos came from all around.
– What’s happened? I asked Professor Bruno.
– The McGregors lost their home, Ms. Flynn answered.
Everybody’s disappointed.
She said this as if she were stating the obvious, but it wasn’t
any more obvious to me than it had been to Professor Bruno. I’d
