Pop 89: Last one out, first one home

By Madonna Hamel

There’s a joke about the days when folks were leaving the prairies en masse: “Last one out, turn off the light.” But more and more, people are returning home. Or retreating from the noise, pace, and cost of the metropolitan world. Maybe it’s time to say: “First person home, turn up the heat.”

There’s something natural about migrating to where your ancestors were born. But, above all, there’s something downright sane about this territory. Don’t get me wrong—I loved the great jobs and cool neighbourhoods of every city in which I lived. In Quebec, I was on gossiping terms with the owners of the cafes inside the walls of the old city. In Toronto, my downstairs neighbour shovelled our walkway. A great used bookstore was just down the block from my apartment in Vancouver. I never felt swallowed up by those cities—there were rich cultural gems on every block.

But I missed the stars at night. Here, constellations light-years away fill the sky. While in the city, you feel cheated, like you’re living a half-life, with only the dipper and Venus visible to the naked eye.

Then there’s the noise. You may hear birds and squirrels in the city—but you also get drunks returning home in the wee hours, cursing or hooting or vomiting in the alleyway. One night I stumbled on a young woman who was being administered to by a fellow junkie. When he saw me walking in his direction, he abandoned her, leaving a needle stuck in her arm. Another night I woke to the escalated hollering between the young couple below. The walls shook from all the pushing and shoving. Do I call the cops to report a domestic fight that is anything but “domestic”?

But also I benefited from free concerts, from public skating outside city halls, and walking tours. My CBC Radio producer-boss, Robert Harris, gave me an architectural tour of King Street. The designs of architects I studied in art school came to life in the shape of Mies van der Rohe’s iconic black steel TD Bank and Frank Gehry’s Toronto Art Gallery.

But those strolls spent admiring edifices were often ruined by annoying and disturbing billboards. One was for Hooters, a so-called “family” restaurant—the two ‘o’s separated by a woman’s cleavage you could drive a truck through. Another ran the height of The Eaton’s Centre and consisted of a young woman tossing a flirtatious look over her shoulder while her miniskirt—a piece of fabric attached to the building—lifted in the wind to show us her bum.

There is no getting away, or looking away, from annoying imagery in the city. It assaults you wherever you go. The only thing worse than being inundated by it is to grow inured to it, to absorb it so thoroughly it gets normalized. I felt a sense of defeat. I couldn’t beat the advertisers at their game, but I wasn’t about to join them, despite how many of us women seemed fine with doing that.

Happily, there was another choice: leave. Go somewhere where there are no junkies in the alley, no billboards on the street, no sirens at night. It took a while for me to get to Val Marie, but the minute I crossed into Saskatchewan, my shoulders dropped, my heart slowed down, and my gaze extended on into forever.

I spent my first three months in Val Marie living at The Convent Inn, working on the novel I only just now finished editing last week. I’d wake early in the morning, drive out to The Butte, hike to the top, and marvel at the vast expanse of wild prairie, the buttes and coulees that filled the horizon along with sky. After gawking in awe, I’d head back to The Convent, where I’d share breakfast with the owners—Robert and Mette—then take my coffee to the converted chapel down the hall and write all day. I realize that my ability to work such long stretches, to sit focused for hours, had to do with the fact that I was in the country, where the human energies and unnatural speeds and urges of traffic and businesses were absent. It wasn’t just that my room was still and quiet. It was that stillness and quiet extended far beyond the room, into the world outside, for miles and miles.

Evenings, I would make supper in the kitchen and take it to the dining room and watch the sun set. Once it got dark, I ventured under the stars. Office fluorescents, Coke machine glows, and billboard spotlights cannot compete with the dark prairie night.

One night stands out. A huge storm had blown through the southwest, and all the power was down. Without streetlights and porch lights, the village becomes swallowed in darkness; you have to feel your foot around gingerly in front of you before planting a step. The Convent was full that night, and Mette was concerned for the guests. She headed over with flashlights.

One of the guests happened to be an astronomer. As the storm cleared out and the stars emerged, I asked the astronomer if he’d give us a lesson on the upstairs porch. He pulled his laser pointer from his pocket and laughed: “I’m ready! Let’s do it!” I ran down to the kitchen and made five huge bowls of popcorn—luckily, the Convent kitchen has a gas stove. By the time Mette arrived, we were already ensconced on the back porch, and I’d lit a path from the porch to the rooms and bathrooms with candles. Relieved to see everyone was fine, she headed back home, reminding me to blow out all the candles before bed.

Just last night, as I was leaving the rink after watching the Ladies Bonspiel, I was reminded of that instruction—to turn off the light and blow out the candles—by a note on the rink door: “Last one out, turn off the lights!”