Empty Spaces and Fireplaces

Since before we moved in, the corner of our basement's family room, the largest room in our bungalow, has been dominated by an enormous wood-burning stove that doubled as a fireplace.

I'm not going to lie, when I first laid eyes on it, it was the element of the empty house that most made me want to live there, and factored heavily into our purchase of the home back in 2006. 

The company that made it, Selkirk Metalbestos (wow, what a name) through a lot of design at this and made something very cool out of nothing but cast iron and brick. We didn't use it a lot, but there is nothing like a wood-burning fire in your basement when the Alberta winter hits -30 degrees Celsius outside without the wind chill to really redefine "cozy."

So I was gutted when two years later we had a chimney cleaner in who also inspected it and told us we could no longer use it safely. It was too close to the walls and there were some other issues as well, so the fireplace has sat dormant ever since. We expected it would be an expensive fix, so never really explored how feasible it might be to get it safely working again.

There is a tiny bit more slack in the budget nowadays, with money being saved on fuel and outings, so we thought it might be a good time to take another look. Besides, the last fellow just gave us a small piece of paper with his hand-written notes on it, maybe he got it wrong? Or perhaps technology or materials have changed in our favour in the ensuing 12 years?

Not so much, it turns out.

A technician came out and did a thorough inspection back in October. Long story short, in order to keep the fireplace, we would need to extend the non-combustible area in the corner by another 18 inches. At that point it would occupy almost a quarter of the room, nevermind the expense (which would not be insignificant). I was bitterly disappointed, and told the very sympathetic technician how the first time I saw the stove, it seemed to tell me "you're home." He understood completely.

And so, sadly, we began looking at getting the beloved wood stove out of our basement.

I took some photos of the stove and its accessories and put together a Kijiji ad, netting 13 responses within five days of posting it. Some of these were undoubtedly tire-kickers, one of whom offered me half of the $500 I was asking for it, but most of whom seemed sincerely interested.

The first people who came over were two nuns who were hoping to use it for heating and cooking in an older building with no electricity. Unfortunately, the cooking area is very limited and the Voyageur is also pretty low for that sort of use, so they had to say no. They were very sweet, Polish-speaking ladies and did offer us their blessings on the way out. 

The second visitor, a lady named Arlene, was very interested but was finding it difficult to arrange a time to visit. When she did so later in the week, she loved the stove immediately and produced $500 in cash on the spot. 

Her intent was to have it moved to an off-the-grid solar-powered house being built in Saskatchewan where she hopes to hold workshops and healing lodges for indigenous youth. She appreciated both the practicality and styling of the Voyageur, and said buying something comparable now would cost easily over $2000. It was gratifying to know the stove would be going someplace where it would get utilized and appreciated so much!

The next step: how to get an ungainly 450-pound chunk of cast iron out of the basement and up a narrow set of stairs.

Being a lazy person with little upper-body strength and a bad back, I had made removal part of the conditions of sale for the stove, but assured Arlene I would do what I could to facilitate things. Even removing the stovepipe once it had been sold changed the look of the corner in a significant and frankly offputting way.

Arlene's primary concern was safety for both people and property, and she was hoping to figure out some way to get a winch or come-along bar into play, and perhaps pull the stove out up an improvised ramp. The idea of having the stove being attached to something solid should someone slip or lose their grip had a lot of appeal to me - I didn't see any way such an accident could not end up involving a horrific injury or fatality. 450 lbs of cast iron tumbling down a stairway that you are lying at the bottom of is undiluted 100% high-octane nightmare fuel as far as I am concerned.

After a number of false starts, Arlene was able to get the combination of experience, strong backs and equipment in place, including her son with his trailer as well as a quad with a winch. Unfortunately, it would be the day when Audrey and I were coming back from Hudson Bay, SK with Glory, but I let them know Fenya would be on hand to let them in. Her boyfriend Bobby agreed to be on hand that day as well, which was a comfort to me with that many strangers in the house with my firstborn.

Fenya let us know they arrived a little before noon as we were approaching the Alberta border. It turns out the winch was unnecessary, as once her burly lads looked at it, said it made more sense to simply carry it out.

Now, I wasn't here and Fenya was studying most of the time, so I don't know if they removed the doors or removed the brick refractory from inside, which would have decreased the weight significantly (I bet the doors alone are 25 pounds apiece), but still - the Voyageur remains an ungainly and unforgiving mass of cast iron.

Arlene's one son, however, was undaunted, saying "Man, I have been working out for like, six months - I have been preparing for this!"

His wife shrugged and said, "Who needs a quad and a winch when you have this much testosterone on hand, I guess?"

Sure enough, they had it up and out the stairs with no incidents or accidents whatsoever - Arlene and her moving crew were in the house for less than 90 minutes. By the time Audrey and I got home, it was like the stove had never been there at all - except for the decade-and-a-half worth of dust bunnies now exposed in the corner.

We took the vacuum to it the next day, discovering a rust monster miniature for D&D, two petrified marshmallows and a Yaqua blowgun dart as well as a sheet of the colour comics from an April 1981 issue of the Montreal gazette featuring Tarzan, Buck Rogers and Asterix et Obelix. Fenya and Bobby, bless their hearts, dealt with the desiccated bird that was left behind immediately following the stove's removal.

I won't lie - I don't like that corner being empty, and we aren't sure what will eventually go there, although we have some ideas. One of the girls suggested setting up the mic stand and a couple of the guitars from our Rock Band set, and it could be a good place for someone to YouTube a simulated appearance on Evening at the Improv provided you keep the focus tight enough.

Luckily enough, it is Christmas, and the corner is an opportune place to set up the downstairs tree. The upstairs is almost fully deployed, Xmas-wise, and Glory and Audrey decorated the tree Wednesday night.

Tonight Audrey finished setting it up and added the Nativity set and magnetic Advent calendar, as well as some appropriate tchotchkes from her comprehensive collection of Christmas gear. 

It's not the same kind of cozy that a crackling wood fire provided, but it is beautiful nonetheless.

Another Hard Drive

You might wonder, hey, how exactly do you retrieve your youngest daughter from her summer job on the shore of Hudson's Bay in a community with no outbound roads during a global pandemic?

It turns out the answer is not complex, but it is long, and it involves a fair amount of driving.

With air travel out of Churchill being almost exclusively charter and thus prohibitively expensive, using rail is the best way to get "down south." Thanks to a tip from my Uncle Wendell, we knew that the Churchill to Winnipeg train (Via 692) strays across the Manitoba-Saskatchewan border to a town called Hudson Bay, which is about five hours closer to Edmonton by car than Winnipeg is. Heck, at that point we might as well just drive to Thompson, but heading that far north in the wintertime makes me more than a little apprehensive.

Hudson Bay is still about nine hours' drive once you factor in meals (taken on the road) and rest stops (not taken on the road) so it still requires a day off and a 10:30 departure time.

With lunch in Lloydminster (Popeye's) and supper in Melfort (A&W), we got to the Treeline Motel in Hudson Bay around 8:30 local time. An older, rusticated place that seems to cater almost exclusively to hunters and snowmobilers, the room was small and spartan (tiny bathroom, no phone and not even a token painting on the wall) but clean. 

We needed to open the window in order to cool the room enough for sleeping, but managed to doze off before 11:00, only to be awakened by my phone's alarm at 4:45. Glory's train was scheduled to arrive at 0527, but their live update webpage showed her arriving closer to 0540.

Hudson Bay is a pretty small community, but the Treeline Motel is ideally situated for accessing the rail pick-up area and is only three minutes away. Unlike The Pas, which has an actual factual train station with doors and a platform and all the accoutrements one normally associates with rail travel, passengers here disembark at an unlit level crossing where the only local structure is a nearby shelter just large enough to hold a picnic table.

The train arrived late, but it did arrive, coming to a stop with the open passenger precisely between the two RR Crossing signs. Glory clambered down a little stiff after being on the train for 30 hours, and helpful staff passed her luggage down to her since the outer door to the baggage car had actually frozen shut on the ride down.

We got our first hugs with our youngest since July and then quickly jumped into the Flex to escape the chill. I blew on my hands and mentioned that it was -18 Celsius, prompting a snort from Glory. "Ooh, minus eighteen - big whoop." (Later on she told us how a co-worker told her on a morning in November it was -37 with the wind chill...and it doesn't really get cold there until January.)

The roads were clear, and traffic minimal right up until approaching Lloydminster. We grabbed breakfast at McDonald's in Melfort (Glory's first pancakes in almost half a year!) and lunch at KFC in Lloydminster (another G choice).

We all chatted and caught up and speculated and talked music, Glory alternating between the front seat and back while drove, and Audrey taking the wheel after Lloyd. We took turns for quick naps, but spent most of the time just being grateful to be back in one another's presence again.

18 hours in the car for us was nothing compared to the 9 + 30 train hours for Glory, but we still managed to make a good time of it. 

But I have been to Hudson Bay SK twice now, and still have no idea whatsoever of what it looks like in the daylight...

Tanks for Date Night - T-34, Reviewed

 Audrey laughed when I suggested the Russian tank movie T-34 (2018) for a stay-at-home date night film, but it made a perverse kind of sense. I love tanks, she loves Russian history and we both love history and adventure movies. It turns out that this film, called by some "'The Fast and the Furious,' only with tanks," was just the thing for mid-week viewing together.

("Together" in this case meaning in the same room, socially distanced, with separate popcorn bowls, as Audrey is on self-isolation due to an outbreak at her school - she has subsequently tested negative for COVID.)

The film, produced in Russia, by Russians, and with sponsorship by the Russian government (which loves callbacks to the Great Patriotic War) has been accused by some of jingoism, but if T-34 is guilty of anything, it is just melodrama.

In T-34's opening, a lone Russian tank (with some infantry support) commanded by freshly-minted junior lieutenant Nikolay Ivushkin helps blunt an armoured assault just outside Moscow. By the end of the battle, a standoff between the heroic crew and SS Commander Klaus Jager leaves everyone presumed dead, but lo and behold: Ivushkin, bearded and refusing to give his name or rank, appears in a P.O.W. labour camp. Jager discovers him there and offers the Russian the 'opportunity' to repair and crew a salvaged T-34 tank as a moving target against his class of cadets. Can he and his demoralized crew escape from under the very noses of their Nazi captors?

Well, at the very least, it should be fun finding out, and we certainly thought it was.

Here's the thing - if the bad guys in your movie are literal Nazis, then as far as I am concerned, your heroes don't need a ton of motivation, and they don't even need to be that heroic. Ivushkin and his crew are, though, and also very good at their jobs, pushing some of the fight scenes into the territory of 'competence porn,' but again - Nazis. So I don't care. 

What is important to me in a film like this is that if your heroes are going to be paragons, then your villains can't be stupid, and they aren't. With exception of the camp commander, even the cruelty and sadism are kept on a low boil for the majority of the film. Sure, torture and execution are applied willy-nilly in case the viewer forgets that, you know, Nazis are evil, but the bad guys aren't portrayed as baby-eating zealots devoted to National Socialism either.

Likewise, Ivushkin and his crew aren't waving the flag all the time either - they just want to live and return to their homeland. It is about as simple a story as you can have, really. 

In a film like this, it would also be easy for the vehicles to start to supercede the characters riding in them, and while the Nazi crews are largely ciphers, Ivushkin and his crew are given at least a few chances to appeal to us as humans as well.

But make no mistake, it is the tanks that are the stars of the action sequences.

Despite being largely digital, the T-34 and its panzer opponents are astonishingly realistic, bringing a real sense of weight, noise and threat to the scenes they are in. The extensive use of CG allows the battles to be depicted clearly and dramatically, interspersed with interior shots of crews loading heavy shells into the breech of their main guns, or furiously spinning cranks in order to manually traverse the turret. 

Slow-motion sequences depict red-hot anti-armour rounds glancing off the sloped sides of the titular tank, or opposing shells crossing within inches of each other (or even closer). Instead of simply slugging it out with each other, or remaining in place so some Sgt. Rock equivalent can run up and drop grenades down conveniently open hatches, the viewer learns very quickly how mobility can be superior to firepower in most instances. Does some impossible stuff happen? You bet it does, but again, this is a story, not a reenactment.

(And as a quick sidenote for the two other readers who care about this sort of thing: it is good to be reminded that the T-34 itself is considered by many to have been one of the best and probably the most influential tank design of the Second World War. Blitzkrieg originator Heinz Guderian even pronounced it as being superior to the German panzers of the early war. And did some of the early scenes remind me of my old Warhammer 40K Valhallan army? You know it did!)

There are not a lot of surprises to be had in the story, but there are moments of poignancy, insight and even a handful of laughs. We were never sure just how bittersweet this escape story might end up being, or how many Russians might survive until the end credits. 

In the end, Audrey and I both had a great time, and although T-34 is far more of an adventure movie set within a war than a war movie itself, fans of both genres could do worse than to check it out on Amazon Prime.

Fear and Voting: U.S. Election 2020

Honestly, the last thing I want to do right now is blog about politics, but the situation in the U.S. weighs on my mind.

As I write this, it has been five days since the U.S. election, three days since Joe Biden edged out a lead over Donald Trump, and one day since Associated Press and most of the networks called the election in Biden's favour. Pressure has been mounting on Trump to concede, which he is not obligated to do, and that's good, since he shows absolutely no signs of doing so.

Instead, Trump continues to proclaim himself victorious despite losing both the electoral colleges and popular vote. Worse than this, he continually beats the drum about mailed ballots being illegal or ineligible to be counted if they arrive after election day, even though 20 states have specific legislation permitting this. 

I understand why Trump is doing this - he is desperate to avoid being a loser.

And not just a loser, but one of only four sitting presidents to lose an incumbency in the last hundred years or so. And not only that, but he faces a very real risk of prosecution in both criminal and civil court once he loses the immunity of his office.

No, given what we know of Trump's mindset, and his binary worldview of winners and losers, his actions are tragically consistent.  

There are two things I don't understand, though. The first is why so many people are enabling Trump, and willing to baldly lie in vain hopes of somehow hanging on to the presidency. Surely their attachment to this rancid gravy train cannot be so compelling as to make them think that courts will listen to their baseless conspiracy theories or tales of a stolen election without a single shred of meaning full evidence?

The second thing I don't understand is this: what happens next?

There is already talk of Republican legislatures not being bound to the results of a "suspect" election, so that their faithless electors (that is the actual term) should be allowed to nominate whichever candidate they like.

Thanks to Trump's lies, many Americans are losing faith in their own brand of democracy, and his most loyal supporters are saying they will never accept Biden as their president.

To say nothing of the tragedy that nearly half the population is all right with their leader being a proven liar as well as a corrupt, racist, sex offender, or that his popularity with his base remains high enough that he will probably pepper the remainder of his lame-duck presidency with so-called "Recount Rallies."

To be honest, the whole situation reminds me a little of the story of The Judgement of Solomon. This is the one where he stops two women arguing which of them is a baby's mother, and suggests cutting it in two so they can each have half. One woman quickly relents, unwilling to see the baby slain, allowing Solomon to declare that she is clearly the baby's mother, in a magnificent display of the type of wisdom associated with him.

Being a fan of such parables, I have always appreciated the tale, but did not know there was another, more political, layer to it until reading Larry Gonick's brilliant "Cartoon History of the Universe." He explains it thusly:

It's not just me, right? The parallels here are not solely my imagination? Trump, like Solomon, cares not a whit for restoring any sense of unity to his country. He and his enablers are happy to see truck convoys of rabid MAGA cultists interfering with the campaign busses of his opponent, and actively encourage his followers to "carefully watch" the polls and to surround ballot counting centres with protestors.

I'm not necessarily saying he could spark off a new civil war - oh, hell, I suppose I am at that, and there are a lot of people itching to make it happen too (like the Boogaloo Bois). But even if it doesn't get to that extreme, with so many people encouraged to reject the results of the election, President-elect Joe Biden faces an even more divided (and threatened) country than Roosevelt did when he took office in '33. 

It has been a long wait for this election, now a long wait for final results, then probably a long wait to for the outcomes of umpteen court challenges. Even if the election itself isn't somehow completely undermined, this will undoubtedly be followed by a long wait to see what Trump actually does to either aid or inhibit an orderly and peaceful transfer of power.

And if he leaves, will it finally be over?

Not on your life, chum.

Trump's 88 million Twitter followers will still follow his guidance, and their monolithic presence will continue to influence the Republican party for years to come. No doubt they will continue to attend his rallies and stoke his ego even though he is not in office.

And there is no reason to believe he won't run again in 2024.

Normally my curiosity compels me to stay connected and see what happens next. With this election, I am fast reaching the point where I just want to hit the snooze alarm until inauguration day.

"Virgin" No More

Sorry for the potentially click-baity title, but this post is just about watching The Rocky Horror Picture Show for the first time ever this weekend.

I know, I know - I should have seen it much, much earlier, and in a theatre. Audrey and I had plans to see it at The Princess shortly before moving to Toronto in the mid-1990s but that never came to be for some reason, and neither of us can recall why.

Even after the advent of home video, there was a long while (ar at least it felt long at the time) where you could only see Rocky Horror on a big-screen, and there were many advocates who believed this was the only way to see it - at a midnight showing full of over-engaged fans in full costume, interacting with the film's outrageously hokey dialogue and throwing toast and rice at the screen. Watching it in the comfort of my own home, bereft of participatory guidance and with no one pointing at us and shouting "Virgin! Virgin!" as first-timers felt a little bit like cheating, honestly.

But I feel like the ship has sailed for a plump, middle-aged suburbanite joining in on what the film's star Tim Curry calls "a rite of passage for teenagers," and besides, there is a global pandemic on. Thus a Friday night immediately before Hallowe'en seemed like a good opportunity for Audrey, Fenya, Bobby and I to watch one of cult cinema's most infamous movies.

Overall, we quite liked it. Audrey's sole descriptor of the piece was "Weird!" but even she had to admit how catchy the show's tunes are. Tim Curry is absolutely astonishing, bold and captivating as the corsetted and androgynous Dr., Frank N. Furter, while Susan Sarandon and Barry Bostwick are compelling and earnest as two midwestern "straights" drawn into a crazed world of mad-science and free love.

The film is largely the brainchild of Richard O'Brien who, in addition to playing skulleted handyman Riff Raff, also wrote the script and the music for the original stage play to keep himself one busy while looking for work as an actor. His love for 1950s sci-fi and B-movies is homaged throughout the lyrics, dialogue and even props of the film. 

But beyond the tribute and nostalgia and farce, there is a deeper message about being open-minded to new experiences and true to one's self, to give"yourself over to absolute pleasure." Beyond mere hedonism, it is no surprise that the mantra "don't dream it, be it" (lifted by O'Brien from a magazine's bodybuilding ad) resonated so powerfully with so many people in what would become an early community for LBGTQ+ people.

Despite a general slackening of uptightedness in many quarters over the 45 years since the film was released, there are still some surprisingly louche moments, such as when Frank separately seduces both the heroine and hero in turn. Beyond the opportunity for great dialogue i.e. Janet: "What have you done to Brad?" Frank: "Nothing. Why, do you think I should?", the mind positively reels at the idea of mainstream audiences watching this in the mid-1970s. June Thomas, in her article "How The Rocky Horror Picture Show Smashed Open America's Closets," asserts that this movie "may have helped more people come out of the closet than any other work of art." A bold statement for a bold movie!

But as interesting as RHPS may be in terms of its role in loosening sexual mores, it can stand on its own merits as well as any cult classic can. From the decidedly lo-fi sets and effects, through the director's willingness to reject a larger budget in favour of hiring more performers from the stage show (as opposed to Mick Jagger, Marianne Faithful and other rock stars of the day), this film leans into its campiness with an earnestness that is strangely charming and charmingly strange.