 
The Sandbox Theory

by Les W Kuzyk

Published by Les W Kuzyk at Smashwords. All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the author – or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a license from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency – is an infringement of copyright law.

Copyright 2014 Les W Kuzyk

Another Novel

The shela directive

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

About Les W Kuzyk

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Chapter 1

He slows, keeping his eyes on the long-haired man standing, thumb extended, in the grassy ditch beside the green highway sign. The fellow looks peaceful enough and Sid trusts his intuitive voice, one voice now on a new playing field.

He looks across the front seat of the Fairmont, as the big fellow swings the passenger door opened and squats to look in, face unshaven.

"I'm heading in to Saskatoon, then north," he tells the guy. "Gotta pick up my cousin at the airport. Where you going?"

Stained teeth show broken as the man grins. "Well, Rosetown anyway." He squeezes in, his torn-jean knees bumping the dash, setting his gym bag between them.

Sid slides the seat back a click, another, no, he still has to reach the gas pedal. He checks his rear-view and pulls back onto the shimmering black highway. A couple days lead on July long weekend keeps traffic light for this tranquil prairie-crossing morning. The sun's heat has been gathering strength, bringing forth a distinctive gleam from the grain fields, as Sid weaves his way along the secondaries.

"There's lots of trees up here." He squints at poplar scrub along a fence line.

The big guy glances over, his jaw cocking sideways, looking blank.

"Not so many grasshoppers," he says. "Different from down south."

The fellow nods slowly.

"My cousin's flying in from LA, and I'm giving him a ride up to Sahiya Lake. He changes planes in Calgary, probably not long after I left there this morning. Bizarre, isn't it? You'd think I'd be picking him up at Calgary airport," he sighs. "Family communication, you know."

"Right."

"I actually never met this cousin before."

"Right. Hope you find him." The fellow stares straight, scratching his cheek.

"Well, my auntie says he's tall and dirty blonde, and he dresses well, like in a classy sports jacket."

"Looks don't run in the family much."

"Yah, hmm." He makes as if to adjust the rear-view, quickly glancing, checking if he shaved. There's a nick, yes, he remembers the morning mirror now, his own blue eyes looking out from under his dark thinning hair, his rough complexion and his weekend T-shirt.

He fidgets, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. His passenger raises his elbow onto the gym bag, as if to protect it. The odd grasshopper crunches under the tires. A line of semi-trailers park, waiting, at Barney's Border Gas, then, the wooden carved sign welcomes the world to Saskatchewan.

"I'm goin' to my uncle's," says the big guy.

"Hey, I'm going to see a bunch of uncles too. We're having a reunion. The whole nine yards. My uncles' and aunts' idea. My Grandma and Grandpa had six kids."

"Right," the big guy blinks.

"So those six have fourteen of their own, I think it's fourteen anyway – me and my cousins.

"My Grandpa came over from Eastern Europe. His Polish boss made him sleep in the barn with the horses. So when he had the chance to come homestead over here, he jumped on it. He came to grow grain." Sid waves his hand around at the wheat fields, lying like sheets of freshly minted greenbacks.

"My uncle's a mechanic," says the big guy.

"Right on. Yah, I can see why Grandpa left. Now his kid, my Aunt Lola, supposedly lives in a mansion, well, rumour has it a big house anyways. The thing is, she doesn't talk to anyone in the family, not for years.

"The story goes she just left the farm one summer, still in her teens. She moved to the city, got a job in some classy restaurant, and she only came home for Christmas." He takes a breath. "My one cousin says she ran away for love, but my other cousin says she just ran away. She got married pretty quick, anyways, to this guy no one ever met – Uncle John. And she moved to California. They say the only one she talks to is her one brother, my Uncle Nick ... and not too often either."

"So she's a rich one." The big guy's jaw hangs.

"Well I suppose. I mean Grandpa sure did better here in Canada than back on the Polish farm. And now my uncles and aunts are even better off than him, so his kids are way richer than he was back in the Old Country. Depends how you look at it." Sid shifts into a faraway look. "'Cause I dunno who's rich, really. Like are you?"

"Oh yah," the fellow smiles mysteriously, patting his gym bag. "I'm rich. I got everything I'm looking for ... even a little extra."

Sid catches his breath, glances over quick, then down at the bag. First time anyone ever answered that way. Most people want a lot more than a gym bag – most want houses, cars, pay checks ... a little voice has been hounding Sid lately. Any other kind of wealth was never discussed in university. And while the politics of Eastern Europe were adjusting, Grandpa lived on cabbage soup, but now Sid mostly just walks by the cabbage section when he's shopping.

"So what's in the bag?"

"Oh, it's my hoard, all on paper ... and a lot of good memories," says the fellow, grinning. "Couple changes of underwear."

Sid looks at him, eyebrows knit.

"Well, my Grandpa escaped a lousy life when he came over here. Who wants to sleep in a barn? He got a lot richer than his brothers back in the Ukraine." Sid becomes thoughtful. "You know, my one professor said education has the biggest influence on people getting richer, you know, more school, more wealth."

"Oh ... never went to college myself ..."

"No? Well, take doctors and lawyers. But my sister has two degrees, and now she's an artist. You know, the poor artist thing ... well it's true. Then there's my cousin Franco. He never even finished high school, but he's really good at business. He's got his own big house."

"Right. He's a rich one for sure."

Sid bobs his head side to side, shrugging, "I'm not so sure about that ..."

A green sign announces Rosetown.

They slow down to the intersection at the main set of lights. "I started school in this town – first grade." Sid looks around at the buildings. "We lived here for a year, then moved."

"Oh yah." The hitchhiker grabs the handles of the gym bag.

"So which way you going?"

"That way." He points left. "Thanks for the ride."

"Take care." Sid lifts his hand in salute.

The fellow turns and waves, as Sid waits on the red.

Shit. He talks too much. He should ask more questions, listen more, then he'd find out what he really wants to know. He creases his eyebrows hard, watching the gym bag bob across the street.

###

He pulls over at the Red Rooster, and comes out with a hoggie. He searches for that first year of school, driving the streets, seeking out the house. The pink one, with a huge side fence where King Plum was the game, loses itself somewhere; under a blanket of memory lost or a fresh coat of colour. Three blocks from school, he remembers that much ... he picks a likely home and parks. He sits, chewing his sandwich, drinking his soda.

The streets, lined with tall trees, form the corridor of those weekday walks. The long blocks march by on a journey to a far off red brick building, story books, a kind teacher and other kids... he hears the school-ground laughter; laughter squeezed thin by a serious voice. For Old Country wisdom speaks across ocean and decades; school is serious, study hard, escape from the barn. The school-room still had its childish joy too.

But later, along the path of life, he wondered if there wasn't more than just chalkboard and lecture hall instruction, maybe something a person learns by just plain living. Life seems to offer its own lessons. Maybe some important ones. True Grandpa, through sacrifice of Great-Grandma, finished four years of school. He could read and write – he could fill out the immigration forms.

But formal education only goes so far. Grandpa learned English from the boys on the farm, painfully scribbling with blistered rock-picking hands. And what he learned about grain farming, and how to hack a homestead out of the poplar forest, hadn't come from any university class.

Damn. Should have asked the hitchhiker more. The guy must have been joking around. There was nothing in the bag ... or was it full of cash? The thing is, most people know of someone else richer than they are, usually far richer, so they never say they are rich themselves. Always aspiration for more, for what the richer have. Why can't Sid be just like them? Recently, anyways, the thought of a full bank account leaves him feeling empty, a big hollow, a blank cheque that can't be signed. That damn little hounding voice, a voice gaining strength on the internal committee.

He opens the car door for a three block leg-stretch, coming to the highway across from the school. Cars and trucks whiz by, as they did for the little boy, on a spring day when a huge mud puddle invites him to explore. He feels a tingle of excitement, interest, like he felt for the alphabet on the chalk board that day. He steps in, watching the boot sink into the water, into the mud. He is thrilled, he steps back, but the rubber boot sticks behind. "Wahhh..." and a dirty sock. "You wait. I'll get it for you," a big third grader helps. He has his boot back, good, but it feels squishy inside. Then, after the journey home ..."How did you get so dirty?" His mother's tone still wakes him up in a sweat.

The after school experience was at least as educational as the alphabet, one to be filed for future reference. The lesson was clear. When considering new ventures, don't expect support from the old school of thought.

Sid turns back. He accompanies the child's sloppy walk home that day, then, after the scolding, images his heart's hand on the tiny long-ago-shoulder, as a sign of solidarity, of inner support, and as continued commitment to his most recent agenda. The spiritual.

Hopping in the Fairmont again, he finds his way through town and pulls out onto the secondary to Saskatoon. Andrew will be in his late twenties, a decade younger than Sid – and just maybe he won't be alone.

The heat peaks at the potash mines. Like a giant gopher colony digging holes in the prairie soil, people excavate fertilizer. Industrialization helps supplement, and even replace, the more natural forms – Grandpa's cattle manure. Industrialization, a professor said, is a primary factor in the recent historical creation of wealth. Right. He relapses into highway hypnosis.

###

The elevated hum of urban intensity brings him back. He works his way through the municipal street patterns to the airport terminal, pulls into a parking lot and leaves the car, with its grasshopper coating, to await their return.

The Meeting Place is not so busy, this airport yet to become a major hub. Sid spots a tall young man glancing around. He smiles when he sees Sid walking directly over. A bright shirt and tailored sports jacket background the glitter of gold from his wrist, his neck and his left ear.

"Andrew?" he raises an eyebrow.

"Sidney." The smile widens.

"Cousin. Finally we meet. Welcome to the cold north." He holds out his hand, searching the face for any sign of common ancestry.

"Kind of you to pick me up."

"No problem. It's a nice day out there on the road. You came alone, I guess, I wasn't sure ...?"

Andrew's smile dims. "Oh yes, Mother wasn't feeling all that well. Robert had business ... he's my brother."

"Well three more hours in a car," says Sid. "Got any baggage?"

"Just this carry-on," he lifts a slim leather bag.

They walk out of the cool into the mid-afternoon heat. Andrew's polished leather shoes scuffle across the small stones in the parking lot. He eyes Sid's old car with curiosity as they walk up to it, his smile holding. Sid unlocks the Fairmont. "Throw your bag in the back seat with my suitcase."

"Fairly flat around here," Andrew mentions casually.

"Ah, cum'on, there's some hills," Sid's voice cracks. "You live in the mountains or something?"

"Uhh ... yes, well, Redondo Beach." He eyes Sid carefully. "We have the ocean on the one side, and the mountains are behind us. Hey, I've never been to Canada before OK ... well, Toronto once."

"Yah ... well that's way out east," says Sid. "Maybe it's flat out there."

"Lola ... Mother ... told me there are lots of lakes in Saskatchewan," Andrew broaches another subject.

"Well, Auntie Lola remembers right. There's plenty of lakes up north," Sid relaxes. "Hey, any chance you fish?"

"Yes, I love fishing." Andrew sniffs. He tells Sid of the Trent family sail boat; one you can sleep in overnight; and fishing in the Pacific. Big ocean fish. Some familiar, sword fish and marlin, some not, hake and bocaccio.

"You gotta meet Ryan."

###

They are on the highway. Green crops of wheat, blue-tinged flax and yellow flowered canola now print a multi-coloured mosaic, like fresh Canadian cash. Thermals rise, over dark, summer-fallow fields, to form cloud mushrooms, potential thunderstorms on a hot afternoon. Sid's spine tingles.

"I like your car."

"Thanks." Sid laughs lightly. "What do you drive?"

"Oh, it's a Porsche ... a 911."

"No shit. I read about those ... what's it got for an engine?"

"Oh, it's just a six cylinder." Andrew rubs his nose.

"Yah, right. I have a six cylinder in this bucket of bolts. Like how many horsepower?"

"Oh maybe 450, I think."

"Wow, Porsches." Sid's mind jumps a memory track. "Like a McPherson strut suspension ... maybe one of those EEMS's, what's that, electronic engine management systems."

Andrew nods.

"Hah, you know, my engine management system is me and the rusty box of wrenches in the trunk."

"Whatever works," Andrew shrugs.

Maybe no appreciation for provincial topography, still, Sid is starting to feel a warm glow around this fresh-met cousin.

It turns out they have both been to Montana. For different reasons, though. Sid checking out another university, Andrew with his brother in Robert's Carrera GT with a V10, to drive the no-speed-limit Interstates.

"You hungry?" asks Sid.

"I could eat."

They pull in to Blaine Lake Truck Stop. Sid jams the Fairmont's stick shift into reverse – a sports car driver for a fleeting moment – then he leads his cousin in, leaving the car floating on the gravel. Andrew sniffs as they walk – a summer cold or travel fatigue, Sid decides. They find a table. Mid-afternoon farmers sit scattered, coffee mugs in hand, words on weather and crops floating about like poplar tree fluff.

"So I hear they sent your mom an invite," says Sid.

"Yes. She didn't want to read it, though, so she gave it to me. I called Auntie Teresa to say I would come. She called me back; she said you were coming to meet me." Andrew shrugs.

Sid nods.

"I hear your mom talks to Uncle Nick."

"I don't know, I think she gets letters. Her and Nick were tight as children. Then they hung around with Harry and Ksandra when they were all teenagers. I think Harry is a couple years older."

"Ksandra? Who's that?"

"Oh, I thought you would know, she was their cousin ... she was Mother's best friend. Her and Mother were almost exactly the same age."

"Really? I know Uncle Harry. He won't be at the reunion, that's for sure. He drinks a lot, you know what I mean. But how 'bout Ksandra?"

"Ksandra," Andrew looks over, his voice softer. "Ohh ... no, she died long ago."

"How'd that happen?"

"I'm not sure ..."

"Oh, I see..."

They finish their burgers and fries.

###

Along main street Andrew points curiously at some tiny houses.

"Do people actually live in those?"

"Yah ... why wouldn't they?"

"It's almost like East LA or Cardboard Alley. Some people live in board shacks, some in cardboard boxes ... at least when it doesn't rain."

"Wow."

"But most don't. Most homeless in California don't have any roof at all, not even cardboard." Andy looks over at Sid. "And there's a lot of people sleeping in the park in Southern California."

Sid's mind reruns clips of his Hollywood version of California – the place you otta be. The poverty stricken appear in human drama, but the movie screen never struck him as entirely real. A one-bedroom house in Blaine Lake or a park bench in sunny California, which would a guy choose?

"You know Grandma lived in a sod shack before she met Grandpa. Maybe bigger than those houses, but then there were sometimes eight people living in it. I saw pictures."

"No kidding."

"Yah. You know, Grandpa Pawlo was a real story teller," says Sid. "Maybe you heard some of them. He kept telling us how he busted his butt on the homestead cutting down trees with an axe, pulling stumps with a team of horses and there was always a new crop of rocks sprouting up each spring. Sounds like fun, eh?"

"Fun, yes, lots of fun. I did hear he was from Eastern Europe."

"Man, he could really paint some vivid images of that little village in the Carpathian Mountains. They had a few acres of Austro-Hungarian Empire land when he was born. Then the Russians came through, when he was ten or so – soldiers beat up Great-Grandma and killed their only cow ... that's the children's version of the story too. He talked a lot about being refugees on the road and living in Russia for four years. Cabbage soup and bread."

What an education, Sid can't help thinking. The lessons Grandpa had available in his semesters as a war refugee. Sort of an endurance training program, staying alive depended on tabulating food supplies. _Practical Accounting101 – Survival Focus._ Maximized threat gives to peak learning performance ... well for some. Grandpa's little sister couldn't stay alive any longer one day on refugee road. Not everyone passes every class, but why couldn't one chose to sign up for a session that offers an intense survival experience ... and still have the option to drop out?

"The Russian front?" Andrew interrupts his thoughts.

"That was World War I and then there was the Bolshevik Revolution. When they came back to their village, it was now part of Poland. So Grandpa went to work for a Polish farmer. Three months work to buy a pair of shoes."

"That's harsh," says Andrew. "Couldn't he do something else?"

"Yah, like what? At least he was basically literate, but his real advantage was he knew how to farm. That was the way to get ahead, and to get out, when Canada was advertising for agricultural immigrants. So he came here to grow grain. Grain in the fields, back then, was gold in the bank.

"He must have really believed life would be better here than there, 'cause he came to Canada with the clothes on his back and a debt for his passage. Looking for a better life in the land of plenty. What a quest, eh?"

"And he met Grandma somehow," says Andrew.

"Yah. She lived in that shack, on another homestead. She was real excited to move to a place of her own. Her own home – her own pigs, her own chickens and they had six children to raise. They did really well, 'cause they built a wood-framed house later. She was happy ... at least at first."

Not far out of Blaine Lake, not a grasshopper in sight, the undisturbed bush grows across rolling hills, _yes hills_ , stretching as far as the eye can see. Sid heaves a self-righteous sigh at the evidence. He glances furtively at Andrew, wondering how to ensure awareness, then decides to keep his peace. On this lonely stretch of highway, they pass one farm truck.

On the horizon ahead mushroom clouds have escalated into thunderheads. Sid quivers as he watches the tall dark columns form.

###

They come to Shellbrook, then north from there at the rodeo grounds. Just a half hour to go. Not far out of this town, a large building stands, alone, but clearly visible above the trees.

"What's that?" says Andrew.

"Oh, actually, that's a house," Sid explains. "Can you believe it? It looks more like a town hall."

"Bigger than some in Blaine Lake." Andrew looks out sideways.

"Yep. The story has it someone from the States came up and built it a few years ago. Why here, is really the question."

"Well, why not here?" Andrew's tone changes. "People can move from the States to Canada, can't they?"

"Yah, it's just that it's really close to Witchekan Lake." Water comes into sight as they round a curve. "And you know what Witchekan means? It's Cree, it means 'Stinking'. It's a really shallow lake; it used to dry up in the summer. Can you imagine a field of dead fish on the wind? So it's weird to build here, 'cause there's lots of nicer lakes around."

Andrew laughs now. "Like John's house in more ways than one. Stone balcony off the third floor, lots of polished glass. But the air in Redondo can be real bad too. With an offshore wind, we get all the inland pollution. We could call it Witchekan Beach, California." Andrew's voice saddens. "I'll have to tell Lola. Maybe she'll laugh."

Sid's grin fades and he asks, "John, that's your dad?"

Andrew nods.

"So you and Robert still live at home?"

"Yes. There's lots of space, and it can be nice on the oceanfront. Robert has a place in Malibu, but he works with John ... Dad ... with business. And our sister, she's only twenty-three, still going to UCLA. Me, well, I left the house once or twice – lived in Europe for a year – but I haven't really grown up yet." Andrew looks sheepish.

"Maybe you'll move to Saskatchewan." Sid lifts his eyebrow a couple times.

"Not likely. It's way too flat," says Andrew, grinning.

###

The Debden elevator marks the last town, as they slow by graveyard corner. Towering thunderclouds rumble loud, looming so much closer now. Neither cousin speaks.

Speeding from the graveyard, they race up on a green sign; sixteen miles to Sahiya and, Sid knows, seven to Grandpa's farm. Dwindling farmland passes, giving way to tall leafy poplars, and now the pine and spruce of sandy lake country.

The first few raindrops spatter hard on the windshield. A tranquility envelopes Sid, a feeling of return, to an ancestral homeland, speaks to his roots. But the peace is disturbed by a shiver rising from those roots, trembling up the trunk, up his spine, quivering higher. That familiar shiver, he sighs.

He wonders about his family tradition. His ancestors, the immigrants, brought their farming economy and their eagerness for a better lifestyle. He learned their frugality – a penny saved is a penny earned. The drive to attain a higher standard is ingrained. But that shiver always triggers the question; how much higher? He imagines himself in Grandpa's shoes, scraping to get by in a world of scarcity. The truth is, in his own shoes now, he lives in a house that's his, and he has had an automobile since age sixteen. And his cousin Andrew drives a European sports car. So just how well does the mindset of a poor peasant struggling to survive fit with this?

The thunderclouds lead Sid into an altered state, kind of like a late night bottle of whiskey once did. Now it's more mystical, not so inebriating. It still fills him with the philosophical beliefs that there's got to be a singsong road to heaven somewhere.

In the mystical, the emigrant tracks of his grandfather beckon him to run a parallel, and now he listens more than ever. They summon him to hack out his own version of a rich grain field. He listens as one voice speaks of something better, somewhere over the metaphoric ocean. What? Think like Grandpa, it says. So far, with an idealist's outlook, and a critical eye, Sid believes Grandpa really did escape from poverty, in fact, quite successfully. True, but what does that mean?

The rain comes down in torrents for the last few miles through the grain-free forest, thunder reverberating overhead. He glances enthusiastically around. Being in the storm feels like holding hands with a Greater Power. The thunderstorms preach out sermons in his version of church.

"You cold?" He feels goose-bumps on his arms.

"Yes, a bit."

He pushes the heater setting to warm. Silence washes back over them like the cleansing of the pelting rain.

The voices won't let him alone now. Signs of wealth surround him, material wealth that should certainly be a dream-come-true for any serf. Should make a peasant-farmer completely happy. Euphoric, in fact. Or is there something else?

Like an immigrant on a journey to seek his fortune, he feels he now is on his own quest. Driven by forces like Grandpa's, seeking to find another place, or maybe another way, he searches on for freedom from the entrapment of the old. Grandpa's new country is now the Old Country for him, he feels driven to find another New Land. Where things will surely be better ...

There is one thing he can do, he decides, one way he can make a start. That hitchhiker was a lesson; he makes up his mind to be more attentive, to ask more questions, to shut-up and listen to the answers. Starting with family members, why not. To really hear what they have to say, their wisdom if they have any.

They cross the train tracks and pull out onto Lakefront Road, where Sahiya lays barely visible in the driving rain. Lightning flashes, illuminating the water and sky for a brief moment, then multiple thunder-rumbles crackle their greeting. Sid senses the spirits of his ancestors in the maelstrom of the storm.

"Sahiya Lake."

Andrew stirs. He glances over.

"Cool."

Chapter 2

The rain pelts down in sheets, but through it, the cabin windows beam out bright. Huge poplar trees stand tall in front and back of the cottage, and a dimly visible lawn stretches out as a stage, tonight appearing the beat of raindrop dancers. Sid pictures the place as from above; flower garden in front, fire pit at the back, the shrubs along the yard's edge. Only one entrance gap. A washbasin of water back-stages the lawn dance, where the downpour floods up against the alley.

"The door is on the other side, under a roof ... but we have to get there. Maybe take your shoes off Andy – socks too. Here, put them in this." He hands Andrew a plastic bag. His cousin seems captivated by the storm's intensity. "We have to get around to the side door," he repeats.

They look at each other, then out again. Two vehicles form dim outlines, parked in the shallow grassy ditch beside the sand road.

"Someone's here. Looks like Franco's newest truck. Franco and Ryan LaLonde, they're your cousins. Uncle Pete and Auntie Anna must be here too."

Andrew holds his bag of leather shoes tucked in under one arm, and with the other grasps the carrying handle of his light bag. He drums his fingers lightly on the armrest, an amused look on his face.

"Ready?"

"Anytime. You lead."

Sid swings his door opened, pulling his suitcase over the seat out into the rain. He races through the shrub gap, almost slipping in the wet grass as they round the fire pit. Run, but for what – they're half drenched when they bound up under the roof. Sid opens the outside door to the porch. They set their bags down among the shoes and boots. Coats and jackets hang in their places along the wall, like patient dogs tied, waiting for owners return.

"Helloo. We're here. I found Andrew at the airport ..."

"Well, you're just in time for supper. How was your trip?" Sid's mom walks around from the kitchen to greet them. "Hello Andrew, I'm your Aunt Kathleen. C'mon in."

Sid's dad Frank gets up from the couch, while the LaLonde family shuffles around.

"Sure is wet out there," Frank observes.

"Very wet," Sid remarks dryly. "Those Lalondes are gonna need canoes to get out to their trucks."

"Hey Sid." Ryan grasps his hand. "How's it shakin'?"

"Hey Ryan, Franco ... Uncle Pete ... Auntie Anna." Sid glances around the room. "This here is Andrew ... Auntie Lola never made it."

The confusion and chaos of family coming together sets in. Andrew, the long lost cousin. For some he becomes the centre of attention, while others hesitate to approach him. A new addition, or redemption, from a far off place. They mill around, talking more comfortably about the road, about the weather. Then, Kathleen breaks up the milieu, organizing them into their chairs.

###

"Looks like pike," Sid mentions as the fish platter comes around after potatoes and salad. "Andy likes to fish." He slowly forks off a bite-sized piece.

"Fresh today," Frank smiles proudly. "Caught that one this morning."

"So, you like fishing Andrew?" says Uncle Pete.

"Well, we do some shallow fishing ... some deep-sea ..." he glances around. "We troll the San Pedro channel a lot ..."

"Wow." Ryan jumps in. "What kinda fish you catch? Big ones?"

Andrew chats about what he's hooked, the larger rods and reels on the powerboat out deep, and the lighter equipment on the family sail boat. Ryan's eyes sparkle.

"You gotta come out tomorrow," Ryan invites. "Franco got a new boat, right brother?" He turns to Franco.

"Yah, why not? We can have a cousins' cruise, you should come too Sid," Franco gives one of his persuasive smiles. Organizing people is his strength, though he may also want due attention paid to what's shiny and new.

"Andrew doesn't have a fishing license," Sid smiles slyly. "I think he might even need an out-of-province."

"No doubt," Frank chuckles.

"Ahh ... don't worry," says Ryan. "He doesn't need a license. We'll just say he's our cousin, that's good enough for the fish cops."

They laugh. Frank mentions the store will be open until nine o'clock, so they can take Andrew down to get a non-resident's.

"Just look at that storm out there though," warns Uncle Pete.

"Ahh Dad ... it'll be nice by morning," says Ryan confidently.

"Just a thunderstorm, Pete," says Frank. "Good chance it'll be gone overnight ... maybe we'll even see the sunset yet."

###

"So how is your mother?" Auntie Anna asks Andrew sharply. Lola is her little sister, though younger by almost a decade.

"Oh, she's doing quite well all in all," says Andrew carefully. "She has not been feeling overly well this last month. She did wish to come."

"Yes, well, Teresa sent her that letter," Auntie Anna commands attention. "At least you came, Andrew. You need to meet the whole family and you must tell your mother how well we are, and how much we miss her. She can come in her own good time. She's always welcome."

"Yes ma'am," Andrew stiffens. "I look forward to meeting everyone. And I hope mother does come up here ... it is a truly beautiful place, and you people are so kind ..."

An awkward moment of silence settles in, like part of some religious ritual. They all focus to their food between guarded glances.

"Wait 'till you're out on the lake tomorrow ..." Ryan looks at Andy. "You're gonna love it. It's really good for pickerel early in the morning."

"How early?" asks Andrew.

Ryan smiles.

###

Talk picks up, as pie and raspberries disappear. Sid offers to wash dishes; dinnerware showing the mark of his sister. An artist, very intelligent, who pursues her passion, living the poor artist's lifestyle by choice. Images of wild creatures peer out from each dish, special designs, custom made. Her big heart wraps its arms around the person she creates for, as she works clay and brush. He wonders about her version of wealth.

Franco grabs the tea towel to dry.

"So, what are you up to, Franco?"

"Working hard. Business is good. Hey, how about those Trents? What's Andrew told you ... what's it like in California?"

Sid tells Franco of the house in Redondo Beach, the Porsches, the trip to Montana.

"Nice. I wonder what kind of business they run," says Franco.

"I dunno about that. You gotta ask Andrew."

"Excellent idea, Sid. I'll do just that. You let me know anything else you find out," he adds smoothly.

Sid raises an eyebrow. He wasn't exactly thinking of listening for business tips, but Franco is such a slick talker. Dishes stashed in the cupboards, they return to the living room.

"Kaiser anyone?" asks Uncle Pete.

"Get out the cards. You can be my partner, Anna."

"Hey, we can have a little tournament. Eight people, four teams."

Intensity grows over a simple game, entertainment for some, but a serious matter for this family. Andrew learns of the Five of Hearts, second smallest card, yet strong in value, a sweet card. And the Three of Spades, the smallest, yet one that Kings and Queens tiptoe to avoid.

The rain gradually lightens as they focus on their strategies, and as the playoff games come to dramatic endings, the sunshine peaks through across the lake.

"Damn." Uncle Pete throws his last card down. He looks up, shaking his head. Then he remembers. "You know, that store closes in a few minutes."

"Come on, Andrew," says Franco. "We'll give you a ride over there."

"We'll see you tomorrow," Ryan winks at Sid. "Early," he adds softly.

###

"Hey Siid. Hey Aandy ... who catches the biig ones. Time to go fiishing ..." Ryan comes playfully into the early morning cabin, followed by his brother.

"Shhh ... some people here are sleeping," Sid slurs through his mouthful of cereal and milk. "Andy's in the first door on the left," he gulps. "Go throw a glass of water on him or something."

Ryan covers his mouth with one hand, mocking guilt. He slinks into Andy's room to fulfill his childish needs. Franco sits down, wide awake and fully attentive. He grabs a banana.

"Where's the boat?" Sid asks softly.

"Over at the boat launch," Franco says. "We just dumped it off the trailer. How's our timing?"

Sid nods at the clock on the wall. Just after five. Daylight brightens the room, the summer solstice a few days past.

Ryan comes out smirking, Andrew stumbling after. They guzzle glasses of milk, toast some bread, eat some raw, all with jam, and head out the door for the expedition of the day.

"Got your fishing license?" Franco checks with Andy as they group-mosey through the wet grass.

Andy nods, bleary eyed.

"Hey, he's our cousin," says Ryan. "He doesn't need a license."

"Shut up, you." Franco pushes his brother along in the direction of his truck. Ryan speaks back in sign, a language he's been working on since childhood; his hand-is-a-snarling-wolf glares at his brother.

They retrace Lakefront Road towards the village centre. The lake sits dead calm, not a wave, covered with patches of night-air fog. The waters peek out through a narrow strip of bush, trapping travelers between gazes, as happy summer cottages smile back. A local passes in his four-wheeler; they return his wave. The sky glows orange in the east.

Past the old campground, now picnics only, they cross the tiny creek and pull the truck over on the grass beside the dock. Franco's boat, an eighteen-foot fibreglass, shows off its 110 horsepower Evinrude. Franco's smile holds more than an extra glint. They push off from the dock and Ryan and Sid fumble with paddles. Franco watches them from the corner of his eye, lowers the engine partly with a switch, fires it up, and drives easily out. Then with a wild grin, he shoves the throttle all the way, slamming each of them back, as they almost lose the paddles. He wears the face of a jetfighter pilot as the boat's nose comes back down, and they find themselves careering across the lake's sheet glass surface, like an arrow shot high.

###

Arcing smoothly out past Little Island, they cut through tiny fog patches, past Pelican Rocks along glistening white sandy beaches, before Franco cuts back the throttle at the entrance to Rabbit Bay. The fog hangs extra thick in this sheltered spot, one of the best fishing holes in the lake.

"Here, try one of these spinners for pickerel," Ryan tells Andy.

"OK, thank you."

Franco has already cast a couple times as the now quiet boat glides in. The tranquility invites a settled peace after last night's blackened sky. And the stillness opens doors of another denomination of Sid's church. A peaceful place as he feels the moment's repose gradually sink in. More benefits of the natural world. He could compose a brochure on the perks and remuneration package for simply living close with the lake and sky.

Green reeds stand glistening in the water, like fields of summer wheat, covered with the night's dewdrops or the thunderstorm's raindrops – impossible to know which. Reeds mark the border between dry land and deeper water, a place where what you see on the surface tells you what lies further down. Like people ... hey, is there something red floating in the reeds ... he rubs his eyes.

"Aren't you gonna fish?"

Sid looks up at Franco, he's heard it before. His eyes roll. "Whatever." Always enthused to go on any fishing trip, he lost interest in actual fishing long ago. The act of pulling fish into the boat demands attention not his, yet at the same time, the tranquil places people go fishing have always drawn him along.

"So, Andrew, what type of business do you guys run in California?"

"Uhh, it's kind of an import business. Mostly goods from Latin America coming into the U.S. We book shipping, warehousing, points of sales ... you need to talk with Robert, he knows it a lot more than I."

"Excellent idea," Franco's business-eyes sparkle. "I really would like to talk with you guys. You guys might want to consider opening a branch up here."

"Robert's down in South America right now. He's meeting some contacts down there about some deals."

"Cocaine! You guys are dealers," Ryan laughs and winks. "You must make millions."

Andrew joins in the laughter. "Stereo parts, I think that's the deal this time. Electronics in Latin America trying to compete with Asia. But I hardly know any details."

"There should be a market for that up here," Franco's voice flows in. "Here's my card, Andrew. We can sure look into helping each other out."

"I got a bite," Ryan cries out, yanking back. The rod tip bounces around as he reels in a small northern pike, a jackfish. He carefully pulls the hook out and places the fish gently in the water with all the concern of a big brother. Most things in Ryan's life fall through slots like coins in a casino machine, but not fishing. Sid wonders what wealth would be for Ryan. He does know of one investment he makes.

"Did you win a million yet?" asks Sid.

"Gotta wait for the next pay check, so I can buy more tickets," says Ryan, quite serious. He tells of the latest scratch-and-win.

A carefree lifestyle can be interesting, thinks Sid. If a person spends all of their earnings as fast as they come in, they invest in the moment, free of complications. Life itself can be the investment. Why worry, be happy.

Yet, he's heard, others denounce this strategy. Waiting for the next paycheck can be a trap, an entanglement, where a person sits broke, maybe with short-term loans to get by. Overdrafts and lines of credit. Grandpa Pawlo said never to borrow money, if possible, like he had to for his passage. Grandpa told of how hard he worked, with the debt hanging over him. No pay back, and the now Polish family plot back in the Old Country would be lost.

But things are different now than back then. Or are they? Most people Sid knows are consumers in what a Prof called the market economy. And Ryan fits in there, right into the mould, and maybe he doesn't even know it. All those marketplace messages hammer their advert-spikes into a guy. Those billboards, colour newspapers, television ads... The system just lives to sell; it hypnotizes you if you're not careful and it pokes at you from another direction even if you are.

"Got another bite," Ryan gets excited again. He reels in a pickerel this time, a walleye, the fish they are after that morning. He throws it in the tub, and holds up the hook he had caught it on for everyone to see. He passes Andy an identical hook, and they cast their lines back in the water.

Five more pickerel come in over the gunnels of Franco's boat. Two more for Ryan, two for Andy and one for Franco. Ryan and Andy chat of reels and hooks, while Franco's smile shows boat-owner satisfaction and business possibility.

The fog has gradually burned off the lake. A pair of grebes swims back and forth among the reeds, with a brood of half-sized young ones in tow. Sid's eyes follow them, half scanning for that red, but the light has changed. Loons echo alluring calls from out in the lake's middle, and a blue heron carries out its own fishing expedition in the shallows of Rabbit Bay. Then the buzz of a new boat coming in from deeper water shatters the air, and a pair of fishermen drift in close beside.

"Catch any?" one of them queries.

"One little jack," says Ryan. "Threw him back."

Andrew frowns slightly, but doesn't say anything.

"Let's go over to the beach," suggests Sid in a low voice. "We can cook one of those fish we don't have."

Franco hits the ignition, and they motor back to the white sands by Pelican Rocks. The string of smooth stones stands out like an archipelago of little islands, often occupied by their namesakes, but this morning attracting only a couple of gulls to perch. They motor in around the rocks to the beach.

"Whoever catches the most, cleans them all," Franco looks at his brother.

What's a fish anyways, the trick is to get someone else to clean the fish. That's business advantage.

Ryan ignores Franco, but pulling out his fish-cleaning knife, starts to show Andrew how to clean walleye, carefully explaining how to leave the bones out. Sid gathers dry branches for a fire and cuts green ones for cooking.

"You eat yours raw, Ryan. Sushi," Sid mocks.

Ryan opens his teeth around the end of one fillet.

They roast fish like hotdogs, the fillets cooking fast. A tasty morning snack. They scrub their hands in the lake sand.

"So how are you guys gonna get rich? I mean, really?" Sid throws it out.

"Win a million," says Ryan. "I gotta get a new job too, though, just in case. They never pay me enough. I'm always broke by the end of the week. I scratched three numbers last week ... won ten bucks."

"I have a few investments," Franco speaks calmly. "You can borrow or save but you have to invest. You have to keep an eye out for a good deal. Work hard, but be smart about it – you need to leverage what you have. You're such a screw-up Ryan, you piss it all away."

Ryan smiles happily. "What about you, Andy?" he asks. "Maybe you can get me a million. You guys are loaded, right? Then I could buy lots of lotto tickets." Sid struggles to follow Ryan's reasoning.

"Well, I suppose a million dollars sounds good," says Andrew. "But I've never bought a lottery ticket myself. And I don't have access to the family business either. John and Robert take care of everything, so I don't think I could get you that million. Sorry."

"Wow. But they got a million in the business, don't they?" exclaims Ryan.

Franco shows extra interest.

"Yes, but you know, it may not be the best thing, that million," says Andrew slowly. "I think that's why Lola ... Mother ... isn't here, at least partly. You know what I mean? When you have the million, you have to hang with others like you. You don't fit in with your family any more. You people are really cool ... so maybe she loses."

Ryan practices hand-is-a-flying-eagle, while Franco scrutinizes his boat. Sid's eyebrows both rise, amazed at such a thing to hear from his wealthy California cousin. A moment of religious silence sets in.

"Maybe it's worth a million just eating pickerel on a beach," says Sid carefully. "So we're all worth a million right now."

The sun has risen higher, though clock time still reads early. The lake shows signs of a morning breeze, caressing its mirror surface into little wavelet patches. They kick sand over the fire.

Ryan shows Andy how to skip a stone on lake water – seven jumps before it sinks to a new home. "Sahiya Lake is the best," Ryan grins as they push the boat off the sand. "You like it?"

"Oh I do, very much," says Andrew. "It's just awful early. What time is it now?"

"Just after nine," Franco reports from the digital dash clock.

The engine's roar drowns out all conversation, as Franco launches them off again in their rocket, speeding out into the deeper part of the lake and racing across its shimmering surface, back towards the village.

As they hum across the lake, Sid recalls his next task. Back to the airport for Uncle Nick. Uncle Nick – a true man of adventure. He wonders if any cousin will come along for a road trip.

Chapter 3

After lunch, he hands the Fairmont keys to Andy to drive them to the campground a mile past the boat launch. Andy drives OK, but Sid can tell the Porsche interferes with his appreciation for the finer points of a Ford. He points out Franco's truck alongside a thirty-foot camper trailer.

Franco and Ryan are sitting in the shade in lawn chairs, drinking a Pilsner. Sid waves at Franco's wife and children over at the beach playground. Andy hops out, Sid switches to driver's seat and Ryan hops in. Ryan, whose wealth seems to be his passion for fishing, tags along for the trip. And Andy, born into money, yet searching for something else, has had enough of the road. Ryan drinks the last of his beer, handing the empty to Andy, and they head off.

Ryan and Sid look at each other, knowing Uncle Nick will be the next encounter. Neither of them has seen or talked to the guy for years. Sid has the flight number in his head and he can't wait to talk to, no, _listen to_ , this uncle. Nick Mirchuk is a man who knows a few options, a guy who's tried out one radical arrangement or other.

"What the heck is Uncle Nick doing now?" says Ryan. "Mom said he took off to Puerto Rico."

"Yah, actually Costa Rica in Central America," says Sid. "Puerto Rico is in the Caribbean. Both places speak Spanish and they're both poor, so they're easy to mix up."

"Can't be as poor as me, that's for sure though," Ryan speaks with confidence.

"Are you really all that poor, Ryan?" Sid sighs.

"I've got nothing but debt and a lousy job. Thank God for my credit cards. I'm a poor man. I gotta win big – that's the only way."

"You know the chances of winning a lottery aren't that great." Sid remembers telling Ryan this before.

"What else? I mean, what else can I get but lotto tickets? A million bucks would give me everything."

"Have you ever listened to Franco?" Sid poses. "Ever saved up some of your hard earned cash?"

"Ahh, Franco, he's just lucky. I got nothing to save. I tell you I'm in debt up to my ears. Hey, I gotta take a nap, you don't mind?"

"Go for it Ryan."

Ryan rolls his window to the bottom, jumps into the back seat and sprawls out.

###

The highway wind whistles by as they sail past the tamarack and willow scrub among the pine and poplars. Oncoming traffic brings its cargo of beach-seekers getting away to the village on the lake. The day is becoming a scorcher, like down south where people pay to go in the winter. Could Costa Ricans be weather wealthy? Sid drifts off, dreaming of the worldly tales his Uncle Nick will have to tell.

Through hazy memories, Sid recalls Uncle Nick being an engineering student, one who fit in with the don't-fit-in-so-well crowd. They laughed about hoisting the Dean's car up on the university entrance arch. And Nick didn't settle down after graduation either, getting short-term jobs, always drifting from contract to contract. Unlike _responsible_ people, he preferred less secure terms of work. A restless spirit but what other type might discover a better way. A year ago his spirit took him overseas – not to a villa in Europe, but to the little country of Costa Rica.

They whistle past the swaying green grain fields, slowing to a stop at the Debden corner. Turning south, the sign informs of Shellbrook twenty miles ahead. The sky engages in its daily cloud forming routine, and Sid wonders if Mother Nature has thunderstorms on the agenda. Grandpa Pawlo watched the weather dutifully, though in his later years, his more true to heart interests came forth in writing. And photo albums.

Sid remembers vaguely a black and white picture of Uncle Nick in his youth. He, Lola, Harry and that other girl! That must have been Ksandra Andy talked of. They beamed at the camera with their sixties hair, arms over shoulders. Maybe Uncle will talk about the old days on the way back.

He never did get married, though he came close at least once. Sid even met the woman at a cousin's wedding, and if Sid remembers right, she seemed a really nice woman. She must not have been so adventurous.

As they approach Shellbrook, his eyes latch closely onto the big Witchekan house. He measures it this time, holding a picture of it in his mind. Through old growth poplar forest, they come again to Blaine Lake. He views the tiny houses, placing his mind-picture of the big house beside them. Several tiny houses fit inside the big one. He deliberates over the cultural interiors of the houses, the two kinds of people inside, with perhaps two distinctive outlooks. What would happen if they were to switch houses with each other? Would they ever do it because they wanted to? The big-house people would have the choice to move, he decides, not the other way around.

###

Ryan stirs as they cross the North Saskatchewan River.

"Switch places?"

"Yah ... give me a minute to wake up."

He pulls the car over. Leaving the wheel to Ryan, he hops into the back seat for his own nap. Laid out with feet on the door handle, he wonders about trying on the financial shoes of Ryan, or maybe Franco; Andy perhaps or even Uncle Nick's. What would it be like? Sid drifts off, as familiar and unknown voices come tapping at the door of his investment advisor's chambers, all with something to say.

The sound of urban noise teases Sid back, as half-flashes of his dream's story taunt him. He is a sultan in a castle, living in a far off land, surrounded by chests of gold, silver and the masses looking up at him from the courtyard. But the supreme ruler wakes late in the night, as a feeling envelopes him with overwhelming demands. An empty well in his heart sinks its shaft deeper and deeper, crying out a lonely thirst. What can console the solitary call? His wisest advisors have no answer. Disgruntled, he sets off alone on his favourite horse, on a quest to find what will fill the void. Leaving the sultanate behind, he first travels to ... an airport?

"Hey Sid, we're here."

"What time is it?" he pops his head up.

"It's Uncle Nick time," Ryan grins.

###

They saunter into the cool air of the terminal, and his mind flickers back and forth from sultan's journey to yesterday's stop right here. They find seats in two red polyester chairs. As they wait, Sid tries to shift, and groggily becomes aware of the bolts firmly securing the chairs to the floor. Safe and secure, as people wish to be. Uncle Nick appears through the gate, following a thin line of travelers. He looks well-tanned wearing a tightly woven hat and carrying two small bags.

"Uncle Nick." Ryan shouts out.

"Hello Ryan," Nick breaks into a wide grin. "Hello Sid. Hey, how are you guys?"

"Good, good Uncle Nick. Hey are you getting some sun or what?" Sid exclaims. "We're your official welcoming committee ... so welcome to Saskatchewan."

Ryan and Sid each grab one of Uncle Nick's bags. Sid feels a chill run through him as he walks beside his uncle. A medium sized man, he looks fit, with bright blue eyes and light brown hair framing his handsome face. He isn't in the least bit of a hurry, even more laid back that Sid ever remembers.

"You driving or me?" Sid looks at Ryan.

"You are," Ryan decides.

They climb into the Fairmont, Ryan settling in the back with Uncle Nick's luggage. Uncle Nick swings himself through the front door. They pull out of the airport, and Sid steers them off the interchange onto the highway back north.

"So how is life down in Central America?" Sid asks.

"Oh, it is a beautiful part of the world, more thrilling when you first get there of course. But even after you settle in, say after a few months, you still want to be there," Uncle Nick relaxes into the seat.

"Really?" Sid's mind starts working overtime.

"The people are friendly and they live the most peaceful lives – _muuyy tranquilo_ ," says Nick. "That's Spanish for verryy peaceful. _Muy pura vida_ – _pura vida_ is local Costa Rican. Literally, it means pure life, but it has an even deeper meaning. I believe it's a true expression of the cultural happiness of the people."

"You do any fishing?" Ryan wants to know.

"Ahh ... fishing, well yes and no. There's not many lakes down there, so it's not like Saskatchewan. But, there is the Pacific – it's only a couple hour drive from San Jose – so people go fishing out in the ocean. Some cast from shore off the rocks or the beach. Some go out in boats ... I don't." He shudders, then goes on. "But part of my business is tropical fish; we catch them in the shallows. Tiny little fish for the aquariums of North America – not to eat. It's completely sustainable. That's the kind of fishing I do. You guys will have to come down and check the place out."

"Really. Yah ... fishing." Ryan hangs his arms over the back seat, eyes all afire.

"I live in what they call the Central Valley, in a town called Piedades de Santa Anna. It's just outside of San Jose. San Jose is the capital and it's really the one and only city in the country. Most people live in the Central Valley where it's cooler. I go to work at the hot ocean beaches a couple days a week."

"So how's business going?" Sid imagines such exotic commerce.

"Oh, it's good ... the experience is fun, and enjoyment is meaningful to my way of thinking. We gotta get a fun column in the business books," Nick smiles. "We are starting to see some black in those books though. Aquarium fish is new for me, and it takes time to get established. But it's relaxing. So I drive down to Punteranus, where I have a couple young guys working the beach. They know the ocean and the fish quite well. We talk and repair equipment the first day and catch fish the second day. 'Cause I have to get those little live fish to the airport fast for shipment. Then I'm writing some for a lifestyles magazine."

"So you write about Costa Rican lifestyle?" says Sid, beating Ryan to the fishing questions he can see writing themselves on his lips.

"Yes, I do. It is different than here, but the same too... 'cause they are people, just like us," says Nick. "Ticos – that's the local name for Costa Ricans – are laid back and friendly, like I said, so I want to learn their ways. I try to live like they do. I rent a room with a family of fourteen ... an extended family. The parents, the father's uncle, the mother's grandmother's sister, five kids – with a couple spouses and some of their own kids. I practice my Spanish and learn the _pura vida_ lifestyle."

"Wow," says Sid. "That sounds wild."

"Some of the family have jobs, but everyone contributes. Except for Ito – he's the dad's uncle. He's blind – but they say he just pretends. They still feed him anyways and give him a cot to sleep on. Bananas, mangos, guavas and oranges grow in the backyard, and chickens everywhere."

"But why the heck do you live there, Uncle Nick," Ryan chirps up, "when you could be living here in Saskatchewan?"

"I did live here, Ryan. I grew up around here. I went to university in Saskatoon, and then moved to the big city of Calgary, Alberta. You live there now, right Sid?" He sees Sid's nod. "But I notice something while I'm living there. I can tell I'm making lots of money in the big city but the cost of living there is high – especially for housing – mortgage or rental – I try them both. So I make big money but spend big too. With lots of city stress."

"Big money in the big city," Ryan's win-a-lottery eyes show a spark of interest. "Hey, I can move there."

"Well Ryan, it's true, there are higher paying jobs in the bigger cities. But there's an advantage to leaving the big city if you plan it right. Back then, I'm hit by an idea I want to try out. I call it purchasing-power leveraging. I save my dollars working in Calgary with my high income, like financial advisors tell any person to do. After a few years there, I move back to Saskatoon with much cheaper housing. I figure each dollar I earn in Calgary is worth more in the cheaper house market out here. A financial leveraging tool. You know most people spend their lives buying a house. The same house in Calgary was half the price in Saskatoon back then. So I doubled the value of my house."

"But," says Sid. "You lose your big city income."

"Yah, well, I leave my big city stress behind too."

"So let me get this straight, Uncle," Sid double checks. "You make and save money in a rich place, then go and spend the money in a poorer place and get more value. You call it purchasing-power leveraging. So a dollar earned in Calgary goes double when you buy a house in Saskatoon."

"Back then, yeah. But that's basically it," Uncle Nick nods. "It takes some money management skills, some saving discipline. But it works. Then that very same house in Saskatoon is a third the price down in the tropics where I live now. And most would call it paradise down there."

"So, then, if you make money in rich Canada, and go spend it in a country like Costa Rica, it's worth even more in their housing market," Sid jumps on the wagon with Uncle Nick's ideas. "You could be really wealthy if you pick the right place to go. Why you could have a huge house in Central America."

Uncle Nick looks over at him with saddening eyes. "You know, that's what I thought," he continues, "but then I feel this big emptiness. When I look around Saskatoon for a house, I realize if I buy a great big house, it won't be fair for those who never went off to Calgary."

"So what do you do, Uncle?"

"Well, this new idea comes to me; I call it time-power leveraging. It's sort of like this. I realize if I buy an average house instead of a big one in Saskatoon, I'll have it paid for so much faster with Calgary dollars. An average house won't inflate the house market unfairly. And a paid-for house will give me a lot of spare time – time to do things I feel a need to do. Now time is the power I use for leveraging."

"What do you do with all your time, then?"

"Not too much to start. It takes me a while to learn my own plan. I try writing and it works after a while. I write some journals, some poems like Dad, and then get an article published in Alternative Economics, that's a magazine." Uncle Nick's eyes are soft. "And I read a lot – about other places in the world. Costa Rica comes up. I think I can learn about other economics by living in another culture."

"Does that work?"

"More than I think. You can learn by experience. I know I can't go buy a big house there either, that would really be unfair. In fact, I don't even buy a place. The latest idea coming to me I call time-power equity. I have all this extra time and I can spend it making things more equitable. So I hire those two guys at the beach, and I pay them well. It makes me feel good, fills up the big empty, that's the returns for me."

Sid sits in silence for a moment, watching the highway rushing straight in under them. He catches Ryan in the rear-view, dozing.

"But things can't be perfect living in a country like Costa Rica?" He tries to absorb the things he hears his uncle saying, finding it hard to believe it's all good.

"Well, health care can be a concern, and there is culture shock. And like I said, they are people just like us."

"So you don't want to get sick down there," says Sid.

"Well, Sid, that depends on how you look at it. The food down there is fresh and healthy. I'd come to Canada for any major surgery – not that I want any. But to die ... we all have to die one day you know ... I prefer to die the Costa Rican way. Down there, you die at home with lots of love. Up here you're maybe in a hospital with hoses sticking out and some obsessive medical team wanting to try out new procedures. Our neighbour just died a couple months ago. His relatives laid him out on the kitchen table and invited everyone over for coffee, and to pay respects. It's a healthier way to live. Just some medical services are better up here."

"You save your money, Uncle Nick?" The question comes from the back seat, and Sid can't believe his ears. But things settle back to normal. "Do they have lottery tickets down there?"

"Saving money is a good way to have freedom to go fishing all you want, Ryan," Nick replies quietly. "Do you read many books? The popular ones about personal financial management say save ten percent of your income, and pay it to yourself first. Get rid of your debt – credit card debt is the worst and don't buy anything you don't really need. It takes some discipline. Yes, they have lottery tickets in Costa Rica; I suppose it can be a thrill to win. But that's a maybe, a big maybe. A more sure way to have a big bank account is to invest your income in yourself – to save it over the long term."

Ryan stares at Uncle Nick with creased eyebrows for a moment.

"Take fishing for example. Fishing can be a good low cost activity, but like with everything, it's a matter of choice. A guy I met at the beach went out deep-sea fishing, and he told me how much he paid. He showed us the fish, not much different than the ones they catch from shore; maybe a bit bigger. So what? You decide how to do what you really want to, and see if there's a cheaper way. Powerboat fishing costs a lot; fishing from shore doesn't cost anything. The size of the fish? Hey, even the tiny ones my guys catch have more species variety than the ones out deep."

"You guys hungry?" asks Sid as they approach Blaine Lake.

"Yah, let's stop," says Ryan. "I'm famished."

###

Sid pulls off beside a transport truck. They step out and Uncle Nick inhales some deep breaths of home. They walk into the restaurant and tuck themselves in around a table.

"Sid says Puerto Rico is a poor place, Uncle Nick."

"Costa Rica?" says Uncle Nick. "Well, depends what you mean by poor. Life can be quite rich without a lot of money – you know like when you go fishing. Maybe fishing makes you happy, and maybe happiness makes you rich. Or maybe there's something even richer than happiness."

When they finish their meal, Ryan grabs the bill. Nick and Sid insist on paying their part, but Ryan is adamant. He throws some cash on the table, barely glancing at the bill.

"Big tip for a truck stop," says Sid.

"Ahh, I got plastic," Ryan pats his wallet pocket, grinning.

They walk out, get in the car and drive through town.

"If you're careful with your money, Ryan," Uncle Nick looks straight at his nephew, "you can spend a lot more time fishing."

"Yah, OK Uncle," Ryan becomes almost pensive for a moment. "We caught six pickerel this morning. You should have been there, Uncle. We were out in Franco's new boat."

"Great. Sounds like you had a lot of fun. So Franco has a boat ..." Nick closes his eyes for a second.

"Andrew Trent is here from California," says Sid cautiously. "Auntie Lola never made it though, but I picked up Andy at the airport yesterday."

Uncle Nick's eyes brighten for a moment, and then fall. He decides to smile.

"Hey, hey, right on. Little Andy, well I suppose he's a man now. He was maybe eight when I saw him. Loli came to the LAX one time with her kids."

"Wow, you met before," says Sid. "So you've been in touch with Auntie Lola?"

Uncle Nick sits quiet for a moment.

"I visited just before her wedding in Edmonton ... but she flew to California to marry John. He's twenty years older ... and she was so young..." Uncle Nick's eyes darken. "We wrote a few letters, and then, yah, I passed through Los Angeles and she came to the airport. We write once in a while."

"Andy's a good fisherman," Ryan pipes in. "He caught two pickerel this morning. Franco probably has him out water skiing right now."

The heat is subsiding in the late afternoon. Sid ears ring with wonder, not letting go of what his Uncle said about something better than happiness. What could that be?

"Andy says they live in a house like that one in Redondo Beach," Sid mentions, pointing, as they pass Witchekan Lake. "On the ocean front."

"Is that right?" Uncle Nick muses. "So Loli lives right on the ocean."

"We should have the reunion in that house," says Ryan.

They cross Big River, riding in silence. Coming up on Debden corner, Sid looks over at his uncle. "Where did your cousin Ksandra live?" he asks casually. "Ksandra Mirchuk, is it?"

"Ksandra," Uncle Nick stiffens. "You know of Ksandra?"

"Oh, yah Uncle, Andy mentioned her ..." he slows down. "I mean, Auntie Lola talked about her once or twice I guess."

Sid sees moisture forming in his uncle's eyes.

"Well, the farm is just a couple miles past Debden, we'll go by it." says Uncle Nick in a coarsening voice. "She was just seventeen that summer ... sorry Sid, I have to think about this for a while." He rolls his window half the way down, letting the noise of rushing air in, and looks straight out the side.

Sid starts humming, knowing when to give it a rest.

###

They pass the turnoff towards Grandpa's farm in silence. Sid looks out his own side window, and he knows he has to go visit that farm again. He can only imagine living in a Polish barn, but something tells him there's a connection for him down that road where things got so much better. More will be revealed, he half smiles.

With the sombre mood set, he solemnly recalls his own earlier life's struggles, placing them on the table beside Grandpa's. He was living in his own barn for a while too, but his was self-created. He went on Uncle Harry's trip into the wonder world of a liquor bottle. Wonder world to start, yet quite a bit nastier later on. Then the strangest set of circumstances pushed his life sideways, his sister's auto accident, her transfer to a Calgary hospital, the counsellor she – and then he saw, and a hospital experience of his own where the prescription given was AA meetings, an introduction to the spiritual.

Alcoholics Anonymous now let's Sid bypass the bottle – like Grandpa dodged the Polish farm, but for him, the getaway brought a surprising new outlook. His spiritual awakening led him into a relationship with a Higher Power, maybe even a Creative Force – like the God of the religious. Not an easy choice for an atheist at the time. But find God or die, they say in AA. And more will be revealed; that's from the Big Book.

"Hey Sid, you gotta drop me off."

"Oh yah, Ryan, sorry." He pulls a U-turn at the boat launch and they drive Ryan up to the campground to let him out at Franco's trailer.

"Thanks for the company, cousin," Sid shakes his hand over the seat back. "You're an excellent back seat sleeper."

"Nice ride. See you guys tomorrow – Sid, Uncle Nick."

Sid and Nick drive around the lake, past the store, past the boat launch, between the row of cabins facing the western sun and the tree-lined lake, still silent, both of them. Uncle Nick gazes out at the lake waters, intensely, like he's looking for something lost. Sid pulls into the ditch, where the rain puddle of last night is now a wet patch of grass. His brother's truck sits parked in the ditch. They grab Uncle Nick's bags and head around to the side door.

Chapter 4

Jo's daughter bangs on the Fairmont window with all the three-year-old excitement of a partly finished morning. Having already tested out playground swings and having erected a sandcastle on the wild sandbox of home beach, Sami and Jo are now with Sid on their way to the community hall to help set up.

At the store they turn right, then a block from the lake, veer off onto a parking lot. The Fairmont slides to a stop on the gravel beside the wooden sign, a signature engraved – Sahiya Lake Community Centre. A half-ton truck sits backed up to the side door, bright colours hidden deep under farmyard residue. The steel hall door is yellow, latched open across the sidewalk, marking the entrance.

Uncle Francis bustles out for another load, balancing a box of vegetables on one arm and grabbing a coffee urn with the other hand. The truck speaks of the farm life cousins Jamie and Amy knew in their youth. Uncle Francis and Auntie Teresa Romaniuk still live on the land just north of Debden, farming grain and raising beef cattle. Uncle Francis is humming a tune.

"Hey Uncle. What's the song?" asks Sid.

"Ahh, what the heck's that called, that's _My Redeemer Lives_ ," he grins. "One of our Sunday morning songs, you know."

Sami bounces out the car door, demanding playgrounds and playmates. Sid watches in amazement as his sister skilfully manages the demands. Uncle Francis waves them in, not stopping for a moment from his task. Inside, Auntie Teresa rushes about like a small town supervisor on a construction site, consulting intermittently with her sister and two daughters.

"Ohh ... JoAnne, it's so good to see you. And you Sidney ... both of you. How was your trip?" She glances Sid's way, then back at Jo.

"My trip was great ..." Sid gets it in quick before Jo starts into travel details, and then almost in the same breath inquires into Auntie's health. Sid notices Franco over at the hall's far end. He looks more closely, as his cousin is down on hands and knees, pulling a rope from beneath the stage.

Sid glances around. A typical community hall, good for a wedding or a game of bingo. The kitchen, with dishwasher, refrigerators and big ovens sits at one end. Across the kitchen serving bar, the hall opens up into a big floor for tables, chairs, dancing and the bingo caller's podium. The stage jumps out from the wall at the opposite end, and Sid now can see Franco pulling a trolley of folded tables out from behind the short doors below the stage curtains.

The women's conversation shifts to the business of setting up the hall. They organize tasks.

"So we know where to put the posters. And the flowers."

"Yes, Jamie knows where."

"What about Sid?"

"He can help Franco set up the tables."

Sid smiles, yes, thrilled. Hands over his head, all pumped up with an assignment to manual labour, he walks over to the first trolley Franco has pulled out. He begins kicking out the table legs and pushing the tables in a chatter across the hardwood floor to await their evening arrangement.

"Hey Franco," Sid banters at his cousin. "You're working hard."

"Have to contribute to the fund," Franco gives a serious look.

"Yah, I hear you." Whatever Franco means, Sid's mind drifts to funds of the investment type. He glances across the hall.

Jo the artist shines when it comes to the visual. Sid sees his sister's progress composing one wall into a family history replay, creative design skills mixing with motivational influence as Amy and Jamie whistle while they work pinning up ancestor photos. Sister's whole heart seems a part of the expressive display.

While Sid shuffles the tables and chairs into banquet position, he drifts back to a moment in their years of youth, when ambition had him a big oil company income, and Jo was leaving for the Maritimes.

###

"So you're going for another degree?" Sid had been puzzled.

"Yes of course, in Fine Arts, finally! I had to do the Education degree for Mom and Dad," she had explained. "They don't like it much, but I have a scholarship for art school in Halifax."

"Will you make more than a teacher, then?"

"Less ... way less. Artists only become famous after they die, that's when their work is worth a lot more. Anyways, I know what I have to do. How much you make isn't all there is."

"Good thing you have a scholarship though."

"I'm going to India for the summer with that," she had said. "You know, the Taj Mahal, and now the Baha'is are building their Lotus Temple ..."

"Right..."

###

She now moves with a rhythm of her own, like that life choice was a good one. Maybe AA Sid can understand a bit better now, and that sibling rhythm could help him break through his own illusions of wealth. Jo lives a life naturally spiritual, like genetic kindness, just helping people out by default. Not through any quit-drinking spiritual awakening either. Nor any born-again meeting with Jesus. She talked about Buddha for a while after India, but still she claims no religion.

Spiritual or religious, the idea is no different. Religion must have something to say about money, about wealth. The Romaniuks, now they're one family with faith; they just might have something to say. Their strong foundation comes through the one and only church in Debden, one the Pope may one day come to visit. Why not find out about the biggest denomination's version of wealth, why not now?

He slides the last chair in under a table, waves Franco along, and wanders over to Auntie Teresa, questions burning.

"Hey Auntie," he starts "how're we doing?"

She looks at him with her ever-warm smile, creased brow, eyes deeply concerned. "Ohh ... we need to move the roasts into the fridge as soon as Francis brings them in ... and the salad, we need big bowls for the salad, I'll have to talk to Anna, but it's too soon to make salad, we have to keep it fresh ..."

A small person collides with her leg, interrupting.

"Oh hi sweetie ...what have you got there?"

"Sami gave it to me, Gramma."

"Ohh ... let me see," Auntie Teresa bends over. "That's so nice of Sami. Did you say thank you?"

"Nooo," the little girl shakes her head, looking down. "I forgot."

"Well, you go tell her thank you," Teresa sends the child scurrying.

"It's so wonderful when they learn to share." Auntie Teresa rises, glowing. "Children can be such a treasure."

"Treasure," Sid nods. "Maybe like treasure in heaven? You know Auntie, I was reading the Bible just a little, and it talks about that treasure in heaven in a few places. I wonder what kind of treasure that really is."

"Huh!" says Franco. "I can tell you one thing about that kind of treasure; you can't buy a thing with it, not even a chocolate bar in a corner store." He looks at Sid and their aunt. "Well try it." He challenges.

"It's not about money or buying things, Franco." Auntie Teresa's smile dims slightly. "Are you going to mass on Sundays, Franco? Money can actually get between people and the Lord."

"There's one place in the Bible where it says if you're rich," Sid speaks slowly, an eyebrow rising, "well, if you're rich, your chances of heaven are the same as a camel getting through the eye of a needle."

Teresa nods. Franco stares.

"Yah," Sid goes on. "So you know, I'm wondering just what the church says about wealth ... like about being rich, Auntie Teresa. What does that actually mean when they say treasure in heaven?" Sid feels his heart thump an on-the-edge beat.

"You just have to believe, the treasure is faith in the Lord. Father Suarich would know more, you should come to mass this Sunday," her face takes on a soft glow. Then she puts her finger to her lower lip. "You know, Jamie just finished a Bible study ... let's ask her."

###

Jamie is pinning up posters high on the wall, standing on two tables along the hall's near edge. They walk over.

"Jamie, what does it say in the Bible about heaven and being rich? Sidney's reading the Good Book and he wants to know about treasure in heaven. You know, being rich in the Lord, not so much rich in the world."

Jamie looks down at them, arms up holding a poster for Amy to pin. "Oh, hi Sid. Are you thinking about coming to church?" A sly smile creeps across her face. "About heaven? About being rich? You know the parable about the camel, I'm sure. Jesus tells the rich young man to sell all his possessions and give the money to the poor and come and follow Him. But the young man turns away ..." She looks directly down at them. " ... 'cause he's got one big heap of possessions. So Jesus tells his apostles it's easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the gates of heaven."

"What a story." Franco shakes his head. "That's one for Sunday school kids. Everyone knows that's impossible. How can a huge camel go through a tiny hole like that? Anyway, we've got cars now, not camels."

"There was a really narrow gate through the walls of Jerusalem," explains Jamie. "Some scholars say it was called 'The Eye of the Needle', and that's what Jesus meant."

"Yah, now that I think of it, I heard a rational explanation like that," says Sid. "My friend Jack was reading this modern bible where they say they think Jesus meant a rope made of camel hair. A rope would be easier to believe, if you had a big needle, but still ..." He looks at Franco. "Doesn't it just mean that it's really difficult for a rich person to get into heaven?"

"There's a lot written about the Bible that isn't in it." Jamie purses her lips.

"Oh, really." Franco remarks lightly. "I thought everything was in the Bible."

"So just what is heaven?" Sid turns to Jamie. "I never could find a simple description of heaven in the Bible, but maybe there is one somewhere else."

"I can tell you what I believe." Jamie says. "It's really quite simple. God is in heaven, so heaven is like being close to God, and you get there, close to God I mean, by doing what God tells you to do."

"Well what about clouds with angels," Sid asks. "And all those jokes about St. Peter at the gates."

"There you go. Now you've got the reality of it, Sid," says Franco. "Jokes. None of it makes any sense and there is no real treasure. It's all a bunch of stories, just some really off humour. It's for kids in Sunday school, I tell you."

Jamie and Teresa shake their heads.

"Amy, grab the next poster. We're putting them all up here, right Jo?"

"Yes, Grandpa's old passport photo should fit in right next to Uncle Harry," says Jo. "It's looking really great girls."

"I wish I could be rich," Amy pipes in. "Like Jessica."

"Who's Jessica?" Sid inquires.

"She watches a TV show ... a soap," Jamie answers for her sister. "Jessica is a high society girl living in some mansion in California. She's really rich, in the worldly sense. But the Bible says you can't serve both God and worldly riches. You should think about that Amy. Doesn't Jessica have problems just like the rest of us?"

"Oh, no. She's just perfect. She has everything and she's sooo beautiful," Amy rolls her eyes. She glances at her mother. "I mean I know the Bible is right; I know I should listen to Jesus."

"Hey, sounds like Andrew and Auntie Lola ... maybe they're Jessica's neighbours," says Sid. "They live in California in a big house. Andy says their house is just like the one by Witchekan Lake – you guys know it? It's big enough for a ..." he pauses. "But I still don't get this treasure in heaven, what it is its value? I mean really."

"It's kind of obvious, isn't it?" Jo has been listening. "You just have to be a good person. You have to share yourself and everything you have with others so you make good friends. If you don't like the word God, just put another 'o' in it. I mean you won't have much of real friends if all you think about is your money and your stuff."

"Customers and clients are friends," Franco points out. "You have to treat them well too."

"You know," Jamie ignores Franco, "there's another place in the Bible where it says just what Jo said. It's a letter Paul wrote to Timothy. It says to tell the rich people to be rich in good deeds, to be generous and ready to share. The letter says by doing this, rich people will be saving a treasure for the future. Not only that, they will have true life. That would be heavenly treasure, not society riches like Jessica has," she looks directly at her sister.

Jo has always been intuitive, she has some deeper connection. Sid's sure she hasn't found religion since they last talked, so how is it now her views sound so remarkably like religious teachings?

"So could the treasure in heaven be sort of a stock market of good deeds and a person's generosity," Sid speculates, " ... like an account of what you give away rather than any profit you make?"

"More like a trick to keep poor people like me happy with a dream," says Franco. "While the Thomson family gets richer."

"Well I hope you get what that Thomson family has, Franco," Jamie speaks her mind. "I like Sid's idea better. I don't exactly see heaven as a stock market, but I guess you could look at it that way. I mean I suppose we can invest in our souls."

Jo and Auntie Teresa are torn between scowling at Franco and nodding as they listen.

"If it's for the future ... well that almost sounds like an investment, doesn't it?" says Sid. "I mean, you sort of have a portfolio of investments with God's stock market, or however you see the heavenly treasure, and maybe you have some in Thomson stocks too. With the Thomson's you make cash, with the treasure, you get close to God ... as you understand Him." He slips into AA lingo.

"I suppose ..." Jamie looks thoughtfully at Sid. "Maybe."

"Well my financial advisor," Franco looks directly at both of them. "Would laugh that kind of investment through the roof."

"And it sounds like it's not just for Heaven when you die. It's more like heaven right here on earth. You say Paul tells Timothy they get true life. I mean true life, that's gotta be part of this life we're living right now, eh?" Sid looks at Franco. "So it can be a real investment, just like the money markets."

Franco's eyes glaze over.

Sid looks away ... a speaker in an AA meeting once said he used to be a taker, and now, in his old age, he's become a part-time giver. And the lyrics of childhood echo out from the Scout Hall, the pack of green-capped Cubs chanting ... _and to do a good turn to someone every day_. The idea isn't new, just off and on forgotten.

Jamie's voice brings Sid back. "... for what shall it profit a man if he gaineth the whole world, and looseth his own soul?" she's saying. "There's something Jesus says directly about profit."

"A profit margin is something you definitely have to hold if you want any kind of a successful business," Franco comes to life. "No profit, you go bankrupt. It's that simple."

"If you listen close, it's about how much profit and what kind of profit," Jamie shakes her head at Franco. "Would you trade your soul to own the whole world?"

Sid breathes in this new quote, hearing its profit warning. Yet, as Franco says, profit is the basis of the practical market. What else would drive the economy? But losing your soul is a lame thing; at least rock and roll songs say so. Could there be some other kind of profit?

The girls push the final pin and getting down off the tables, stand back to let Jo make appraisal. With some select hurrahs, they turn to the other wall, where bowls of flowers around the family tree await arrangement. Sid looks at Auntie Lola's branch with three smaller branches, then sees Uncle Harry's beside. He glances again, surprised to see Uncle Harry has a tiny branch too.

"Dad's back. Are you guys helping?" Jamie looks towards her father coming through the door, then at Sid and Franco.

Sid winks at Jamie, smiling as he follows Franco over to unload more for the feast.

###

Later, Sid walks by Amy, adjusting her daughter's clothes.

"So how's life in Saskatoon, Amy?"

"Oh, you know, Bryan's still working at the warehouse ... the kids play around the trailer court," her forehead wrinkles. "Sometimes I wish I was back on the farm – things were better there. Or if we could only get a nicer place in the city ..."

"I guess I can see why you like Jessica."

"Oh yes," Amy brightens. "She's just sooo beautiful. Maybe she does have a problem or two, but she just goes for lunch at the Marriot on San Francisco Bay. She watches the planes take off and land through the window and everything is wonderful again."

"Sounds amazing, but it is just a TV show isn't it?" Sid feels a little strange, vouching for reality. "You should talk to cousin Andrew, though, 'cause he lives down in California. Redondo Beach is part of Los Angeles."

"Oh really?" Amy's eyes, having darkened, spring back. "Jessica lives in Los Angeles, on Santa Monica Boulevard. She takes a cab to the airport and heads for the Marriot. Wow, yes, I have to talk to Andrew. But I'm sorry, I just talk about myself. How are you, Sid? "

"Things are pretty good. I'm happy to be here around the family. You know, life is so much better since I had those experiences," Sid raises an eyebrow, "... like when I quit drinking I mean. That's why I'm kind of interested in religion."

"Well I don't know about church, but I'm glad I never drank that much," she shakes her head. "Uncle Harry still drinks his life away, Mom says. He won't even make it to the reunion and that's pretty sad."

"Oh really, your mom talked to Uncle Harry? Hey, does he have a kid?"

"Mom invited him. But he's probably too busy at the bar. It's like he lives there," says Amy disgustedly. "Mom should just give up on him, I think. Yes he has a daughter, didn't you know? Mom says she grew up in a foster home. He's so irresponsible."

"Well miracles – like the church calls them – do happen Amy. One happened to me anyways ... now I have this new way, and I know lots of people in AA with stories just like Uncle Harry's ... so don't give up on him ... maybe we'll meet his daughter some day."

"Yah, sure. Look, I gotta go help Mom. Bryan's gonna be here soon. So come over and say hi." Amy sends her daughter back to play.

###

Sid strolls over to the yellow door, squinting into the shining sky. His mind buzzes. If God really created that pretty blue sky, maybe a lot of other things are true too. Not so long back he thought a lot more like Franco. Yet, what if what Franco says _is_ true? Or Amy's television show could be the way. Why not spend time wrapped up in a good TV show? He decides to take a spin before the crowds arrive.

He hops in the Fairmont and drives out of the lot. Past the store in the village centre, he pulls out of town, onto the tiny piece of secondary that ends two miles north at Rabbit Beach. He pulls over on the paved loop beside the sandy beach sitting calm and empty.

No place he knows of is a more spectacular out of the way place than this beach. If God created that sky, this is for sure an added portrait of wonder to have below it. He looks past the beach, out around the broad surrounding bay. Poplars, sprinkled with a few spruce, circle the water's edge. The brilliant white sand stretches out each way to meet green reeds waving a welcome in the swirling air. How many times did they come here as kids, to wade in the shallows, chasing minnow schools as they darted back and forth from room to room beneath the glimmering roof of their clear water home.

Childhood captures him, drawing him to the playground swings. He sits and hangs forward, looking across at Pelican Rocks where they cooked fish on the fire yesterday. Almost like a different lake from this view, a distinctively altered outlook. Like life. Whatever perspective one chooses depends on which beach one chooses, and the outlook is completely at odds with all others.

The minnow chaser within starts to hum, and then to pump, to dream of flying, of flying up, up and away. Blue sky stretches down to lake's far shore; where together they sandwich a distant green forest. Wonderful, miraculous, he laughs spontaneously. Waves ripple the water's surface out in the lake's middle, triggered by noon hour breezes.

He pumps the swing hard, energized, more and more like a flying angel with each launch into thin air. No longer allowed the effects of mood altering substances – not like Uncle Harry anymore – he has learned, out of necessity, other ways. An airborne experience in this idyllic setting suits him just fine. Childish activity maybe, but wasn't the Jesus guy a pal with the children?

He closes his eyes. Treasure in heaven or treasure in the bank. Treasure is wealth, no doubt. Sooo, why wouldn't an ambitious person pursue the wealth of heaven, with all that potential payoff. Most can't seem even to describe it exactly. Franco just flat out says no, Sid used to say no. Now a choice ... one can chase after profits, or prophets ... maybe both. What did Jamie say about the Bible, shit, you can't do both.

He has relationship with an AA Higher Power now, and no question, that has value. But it's a value that pays off slowly, the benefit comes gradually, and the wonderment is hard to detect at all to start. As any investment, though, some funds pay out long term better than short. Investments focus on the future ... just like Paul wrote Timothy. To live true life for its present day bonus, that's short term investment. Like Sid's last few years – far from perfect, anyone quitting drinking would say, but improved. Like annual interest in equities: some years good, some not so good, some years of loss. If one has ears to hear and eyes to see, why not invest in the treasure of heaven?

Reaching the swing's apex, he begins true free-fall. He opens his eyes in suspended glory, sprawled, looking straight down. Without renting an airplane or parachute. In those part-second moments of pure weightlessness, he senses a different dimension, an ecstatic one, almost like heaven in this life or the next.

Chapter 5

"Your bid Nick." Uncle Francis focuses on his Kaiser hand, having completed the moment's chores.

"So you can't bid any lower than six?" Andrew asks hesitantly, having been corralled into the late afternoon game.

"That's right," says Sid. "Six is the minimum bid, so nothing lower. But Uncle Francis already bid eight, so now it's my bid and you have to beat the last bid or you can pass – so that's nine or pass for me. Sooo..." he deliberates. "I will actually pass. Now it's your bid, Andy. You can bid higher than Uncle Francis – remember he's your partner – or you can pass too."

The royal court emblems strut before Sid's eyes, lost in their black and red procession; how many times has he played this game. He glances over his hand, at the next table, catching the eye of Amy's husband drinking a slow beer with one brother-in-law. He spoke with Bryan briefly, not the most talkative guy, but what he says sure comes from the heart.

"Yes, welll ... I think nine is too much. So I pass," Andy decides.

"I'll take the bid for eight," says Nick, placing the Ace of Hearts on the table. "And Hearts is trump."

"Damn." Francis curses.

"Uncle Nick is dealer, so he doesn't have to beat the eight, he can just take it," Sid explains. "Uncle Francis plays next – and we have to follow suit."

Over in the kitchen, the aunts chat as they chop together salads, in last minute preparations for the evening feast. The improvised playground around the stage expands with a new swell of childish laughter as each family appears through the yellow door with their wound up kids.

"So we got our eight," Nick comments as Andrew cautiously lays down the last card.

"Damn, damn, damn it." Francis howls. "I should've bid nine."

"You guys are quite serious," says Andy, looking at each of them in turn.

Sid raises one eyebrow at Andrew, nodding.

"Three more hands and this game's over," Nick predicts, winking at his partner Sid.

"No damn way." Uncle Francis slaps his knee, squinting hard.

Game drama is cut short, however, as another vehicle skids on parking lot gravel with a double toot of the horn. They glance knowingly at each other, putting their hands face down as the latest family pours through the door. Uncle Francis glances one last time at his cards, then slaps them down, rising to welcome his eldest son. He promises to be back, leaving the others with a half-finished score sheet.

###

"So do you remember coming to LAX at all, Andy?" Nick asks, glancing at his nephew. "You were pretty young."

"Wow, not really, well ... maybe Uncle Nick," says Andrew. "I've been through that airport so many times."

"You, Robert and your sister. You guys were mostly there for the ice cream."

"Pistachio! Yes, I do kind of remember."

"How is your Mom doing?"

"Oh, she's alright, I guess," says Andrew. He looks at his Uncle. "Actually not that great lately. I wish she was here right now. I can't believe she doesn't come up here all the time ... I mean I'm not a psychoanalyst, but I don't think she's been talking to the right people the last couple years."

"I worry about her ..." says Uncle Nick. "Is she at all happy?"

"Acting isn't always in the movies," Andrew draws his lips tight. "So it's hard to tell sometimes. She still puts on that magazine smile for John's big dinner parties at the house. They go out too, it's always business, sometimes overseas, and then you can tell she's glad to get home."

"Really," Nick listens attentively.

"A few years ago she and John had a real spat. Some other woman I think. Things have never been the same since then," Andrew sighs. "Didn't you and Mother hang out quite frequently?"

"Yah, we hung out," Nick speaks softly. "We tore around a lot, back and forth from town to the lake. Harry had that '55 Chevy ... and Ksandra ... well we had a bunch of fun, until the summer of '65."

Sid's ears perk up.

"Those two guys with the speed boat came to Sahiya ... your mom never talks about that?" Uncle Nick asks.

"She's never said much," says Andrew. "Unless that's the summer Ksandra had the accident. When I was a kid she was showing some photos to a friend one time ... she talked about Ksandra and she sounded quite upset."

"Yah, well ..." Uncle Nick's hand tightens. " ... oh, I guess it's just a part of the past. Maybe your mom is smart to keep quiet. Sure hope to see her again some day ... hey you know maybe we could ..."

"Andrew Trent! How the hell are you?" Ralf Romaniuk booms, pushing out a solid rough hand to Andy. His face reddens, as always. "You're my cousin. How come you never call?"

Andrew looks around for help, but extends his hand with a half-smile.

"You wanna beer? What kinda beer you drink?" Ralf gets into it now. "How 'bout you, Sid. You wanna beer?"

"Still quit, Ralf." Sid gets up from his chair.

"Let me tell you guys something ..." Ralf's story overrides all else.

Andrew is caught in the verbal snare, by surprise and good manners, and Sid decides to leave him to gnaw his own way out. A good test of social skills he rationalizes unkindly. He follows Uncle Nick heading over to the kitchen after a moment of Ralf.

"You quit drinking Sid?" says Uncle Nick as they walk over.

"Yah. I'm a bona fide member of AA now. One day at a time," Sid calms with the quieter voice. "How about Uncle Harry? You say he had the car back then. Did he always drink like they say he does now?"

"Well he can be an expressive man on the outside, but he's actually quite a pussy. I think he hides how he feels in the bottle," says Nick. "Yah, he drank a little more than the rest when we were young. But when the rest of us slowed down, he kind of did the opposite ... and '65 had an effect on us all."

"So what happened that summer, Uncle?" says Sid. "You say two guys with a fast boat came to the lake."

"Yah, those guys." Nick hesitates. "We started spending time with them, especially Loli and Ksandra. Having a speed boat back then was a real sign that you were someone ..."

"OK you guys, grab a chair. It's time to eat," Auntie Anna comes by, grabbing Uncle Nick's arm. "Sidney, I'm taking my brother to eat with his brother and sisters."

Uncle Nick shrugs at Sid as he is carried away.

###

Left behind to find his own place in the crowd, Sid spots his own siblings and settles in with Jo, and their two brothers.

Flying forks and knives of feeding time are gradually replaced by less dangerous cups of coffee, tea and bottles of beer. Sid's brothers slip into politics, and Sid finds himself reminiscing with Jo about Grandpa.

"We left them flowers at the graveyard." Jo had stopped in Debden.

"Grandpa sure was a character," says Sid. "He was such an adventurer or maybe I should say a survivor ... so independent, I mean, it's the church's graveyard, but he never had any use for religion ..."

"Well why should he?" Jo demands. "What did the church ever do for him? Back in the Old Country they were priests just so they could eat better. Even around here, Grandma told me stories of what that one priest did with that woman who was separated ..."

"Well they were all poor back in the Old Country, and I guess everyone struggles when it's about survival," says Sid. "So the priests used the church to eat and Grandpa used farming. I'm glad you brought them flowers, Jo. I think Grandma would like them a lot, but Grandpa needs a poem or a story."

"You're right; we should write something for him. Where's a pen? How would it start ... _'from Old Country I did come. To find my place under shining sun_ ... something like that."

"He did find his place in the sun, didn't he?" Sid muses. "He just had trouble making friends. I guess when you grow up struggling to survive, it's all about fighting over scraps. He had to compete with other survivors, and when you compete, you become self-focused and you make enemies. He wasn't much of a giver, but those fields of grain ..."

"Nobody liked him," Jo shakes her head.

"Did we learn anything from him though? I know I learned about working hard to get ahead. But at the same time, I still have this subconscious poverty mentality – there's never enough. I don't know if it fits anymore. You?"

"I don't really want to be like him at all," says Jo, "that's what I learned. He's a negative model, what not to be. He was so self-absorbed."

"Do you think we're rich though?" Sid asks.

"We are rich, brother, there's no question about that. In India is where you can see what it is to be poor."

"That was your student loan trip?"

"Yes it was."

"That's creative spending," says Sid. "Did you ever see those temples?"

"Oh, lots of temples in India, cows walking through the streets everywhere and the people ... so many people dressed in so many colours. You could never find a place to be alone, though," says Jo. Sid wonders how many go visit a country like India.

"Are those Hindu temples?"

"Unbelievable sculptures of gods and goddesses," Jo's enthusiasm blooms. "... of Brahma, of Vishnu, of Shiva ... it is mostly Hindu, but there's some Buddhism, the Lotus Temple is Baha'i. I met some monks there. You know Guatama – he was the first Buddha – but he grew up in a Hindu tradition. He started a completely new religion in Nepal, then he wandered around parts of India teaching. That was the start of Buddhism."

"So wow, a new religion is born. I guess they all start in some manger story or other... what did you think about this morning with Auntie Teresa and Jamie?"

"Well, religions teach some wisdom, but what matters most is how close you listen. You were asking about treasure," Jo looks candidly at her brother. "'Cause Buddha teaches some things about wealth too, you know. He was born into a very wealthy family; he was a prince and he grew up in a palace. Then one day he just walked away from it all. He became enlightened and he came to realize that material wealth is temporary – you only have it for a while – and he also learned it doesn't guarantee happiness. One way to true happiness is through his teachings."

"Yah, I know you talked about Buddha before," says Sid. "Are you getting interested again? And what's this Baha'i?"

"Baha'i is the newest religion, but lots of neighbours back home follow Buddha. Lots of it makes sense. Buddha says true happiness comes from following the eight-fold path, and part of that path is right speech and right action. Just like the bible and true life. You don't have to mediate much to figure out sharing with others is right action."

"So, Buddha walked away from a rich family ... sounds like he was looking for some other form of value ..."

"Buddha teaches all we need to know is inside of us. We have to use meditation to get inside ourselves, and there we find true happiness. Of course we need the basics of life; you know, food, clothing, shelter, but that's mundane, that's basic. What's the point in having a palace and a thousand pair of shoes? We need love, compassion, majesty, radiance ..." Jo's hands are flailing. "Now that's beauty."

"Do you meditate then? Do you look within for true happiness?"

"When I work with clay, the world is most at peace."

"Like a storm or an empty beach for me," says Sid. "Would you say true happiness is a way of being rich?"

"Yes, in fact, I would," Jo pushes her chair out and gets up. "But you know, I gotta check on my kid. Talk to you later, brother."

###

Sid glances around the hall. The relatives are sitting at their tables or bunching around the photos and family tree. Others join in the cleanup. He wonders if Buddha and Jesus would've been good friends if ever they met. The Baha'is must have some prophet too; it could be a circle of three.

He spots Ralf talking away. He smiles to himself, cocks his jaw sideways, and decides to ... why not ... he's on a roll. He walks over and speaks.

"Hey Ralf, are you rich?" he asks loudly. "I heard you were rich."

The red of Ralf's face deepens.

"Rich?" he repeats with mouth gaping. "Sid, let me tell you, I got a job, a mortgage and five kids to feed. I got every penny spent before I even see it. My pockets are empty ... I got nothing in my wallet. That's how rich I am. Come on let's have a beer ... I gotta tell you something ..."

"You know, Ralf ..."

Uncle Francis comes by again, looking set and serious. "Come on Sidney, let's get that Kaiser game going. Go round up Nick and Andrew. We gotta get that game finished."

Sid smiles at Ralf, pointing over at Nick in the distance as he walks away. Nick stands with his two older sisters, listening.

" ... She felt so bad about not coming," says Teresa.

Anna exclaims. "Well tell me just what else she said."

"She was quite sincere, sister, maybe next time, she said. Why don't we talk about a next time, wouldn't that be an idea?"

"Yes, of course, yes, we will have another reunion." Anna decides. "It's about time she talked to us. She knows Andrew is here. We will just call her back."

Auntie Teresa smiles tightly. "Or you know, we could send her something with Andrew. Maybe some cookies, some canned fruit ..."

"She never should have taken up with that John – nothing good has come of it. But that girl was so stubborn. Yes, let's send her a package."

"I'm glad you agree then sister, where is Andrew right now?"

"There he is, Teresa," Anna points out their nephew. They leave Sid and Uncle Nick.

Uncle Francis comes by on another circuit, looking frustrated.

"C'mon you guys." He frowns. "Where's that Andrew? Let's get that game going."

"I think Andy's gonna be busy... " Sid starts.

"Ahh jeez ... well ... let's get your dad then." Francis holds up the deck. "Hey Frank. Cum'on, you gotta play."

"Yah, OK, as long as it's a quick one," says Frank. "We're on stage pretty soon."

They find a table to sit at.

"OK, new partner, new game. First Jack deals," Francis calms down. "You get a moose tag last fall, Frank?"

"Yah, I got drawn for an antlered," says Frank slowly. "Had a whitetail tag too ... got an eight point buck."

Francis flips the Jack of Clubs in front of himself. He smiles.

"Frank, let me tell you, I'm walking the ridge up at Cranberry Lake last fall, it's the middle of the morning and snowing a bit ... so it's real quiet ..." Francis grins. "So you bid eight Nick? I'll take that eight, Spades is trump." He lays down the Three of Spades. "... just a little wind from the north, and I come up on this set of tracks so fresh you can smell'em ..."

Sid looks across the table at his partner, raising an eyebrow slightly. Uncle Nick nods slightly, knowing full well focus on the game is now essential. The story of the hunt will totally fill in all background soundscape.

Chapter 6

"It's so great all you Mirchuks made it here," says Frank from the stage. "We hope it's a good time for all."

The relatives sit kicked back in their chairs.

"I just want to make special mention of those who aren't here. First of all, Harry, as you can see, didn't make it. But I'm happy to announce that Lola just phoned today. And she hopes to make it next time," he pauses. "Although we'll have to have a rest from this time, first." Frank smiles, rubbing his belly. A light chuckle sounds off the walls.

"So we have a few acts for the stage tonight, but before that, Andrew, we want to give you a special welcome – your first time to Sahiya Lake," says Frank. "And Andrew isn't shy; he's agreed to come up to say a few words ..."

Andy hops up on the stage, takes the microphone from Frank and turns to face the Mirchuk family.

"Well I was down at the club just the other day ..." Andy takes a breath. "... That's the Blue Marlin in Hollywood where I hang out – and I'm telling some friends I'm on my way to Sahiya Lake, Saskatchewan. And honestly, my friend Screemer asks if I can repeat that in English. He thinks I'm going somewhere in Asia."

Light laughter ripples around the hall.

"So I tell him I'm going to my Mother's family reunion," he grins. "I want to let you know I feel very welcome – Sahiya Lake is fabulous."

He walks across to the side of the stage, and, turning back, his grin fades as he looks back up at the family. "There's something I just have to say ... it's just that ... well, Lola was a part of this family, and I guess she sort of disappeared, and it's been quite a while now ... things can get tough when it comes to reconnecting or just connecting, I know they are for Mother... they are for me."

He wipes at the corners of his eyes as they fall to his shuffling foot. He paces back to the other end of the stage, then takes another deep breath.

"I just hope we can be one family again. 'Cause I feel like... it's just as if... well ... it's like coming home ... look, I'm sorry." He forces a crumpled smile, hands the microphone back to Frank, jumps down and walks quickly off towards the yellow door.

###

Sid watches closely as his cousin leaves the hall. He thinks back over that afternoon.

Returning from the swings at the beach, Sid had mingled with the most recent arrivals, helping introduce his California cousin. Outside after lunch, early afternoon rolled out as part of a spectacular summer day, it seemed an extended burst of almost magic. While Mother Nature held her breath, frisbees flew about the parking lot, and the outdoor hockey rink behind the hall, free of ice, doubled as a basketball court, while some sat around drinking beer – Andy was into all three sports.

Come mid-afternoon, Uncle Pete revealed his genius with a search-for-a-case-of-beer game. He hid the dozen out in the bush, and handing anyone who wanted to play a paper with coordinates. Each team got a GPS, the only way to search. Franco's team with Andrew on it was most systematic, and they captured the box of beer under a pine branch a mile back just off a logging road.

Sid's memories drift. After the search, Auntie Teresa surprised Sid as they grabbed refreshments back in the hall. She told him another parable.

There had been a widow back in Jesus' time who came to the Temple.

Sid was drinking a cold ginger ale, feeling the afternoon sweat trickle down behind his ears from basketball. The temple, he recalled, was a place for making financial sacrifice to God, spiritual investment.

Jesus had pointed the widow out to his disciples, comparing her to some rich men who were also putting coins in the box. The disciples watched as when she put in two tiny coppers, the rich men openly dropped in several large coins. Jesus told them the widow gave more than the rich men.

"I don't get it, Auntie. She didn't put in more, she put in less."

"Jesus told them she put in more because she gave all she had. They just put in their extra. If you give all you have, or what you really need, not just what's left over, it has much more value in Jesus' eyes. So you see, she actually put in more."

Sid nodded. He thought how this could influence investment in the spiritual. A rule of thumb, perhaps, if you invest what's really important, it gains more value than investing your excess. Franco's advisor would surely laugh.

While he bounced the ball back to Andy on the court, the parable bounced around in Sid's head. What did he have that he depended on, yet was willing to give up? Putting up everything he had, now that was scary, a high risk investment. But high risk, like Andy had just taken on stage, higher return ... what would that be?

###

"Thanks Andrew," says Frank, when he gets back up on the stage. "That took a lot of courage. So maybe we'll get some of our show going now."

The Romaniuks assemble to sing _Happy Over There_. Their costumes place them as deep woods hillbillies from over there, somewhere. The relatives start to lighten up, and end up almost falling out of their chairs, rolling with laughter.

Andrew walks back in through the yellow door and Franco brings him a beer.

In the next act, the Lalondes perform, Uncle Pete with his squeeze box organ, and a couple French songs. Then, some youthful stand-ups vainly attempt to recoup the hillbilly laughter. As the stage performances come to a close, cards appear out of nowhere.

The gentle staccato of children's voices is waning, irrupting more and more in cranky disputes as little ones seek out parents as allies. Time for bed soon. Rumour of serious partying floats on the near horizon for the cousins. Uncles and aunts being wiser, knowing their limits, play one more Kaiser game before driving off for a good night's sleep. Jo tells Sid there's talk of a campfire. Roasting marshmallows or beer drinking.

Whereas once beer drinking filled Sid with excited anticipation, now it brings on lame memory of another dry mouth dawn. But for others, he has learned to detach, letting them do what they must.

The cousins walk in groups over to Ronny's Rental Cabins where Ralf and his family reside for the weekend. The northern lights come dancing along with a magnificent flare of colour, lighting their way as they walk. Bands of shimmering white break into a blue mirage, lined with oscillating pillars of purple and orange. Their flicker weaves bands of brilliance across the star-covered black sky, ceiling over the sandy road they walk on. As the lights tap a cyclic rhythm, a soundless song of the spirit of the night, wrapping themselves around the bright yellow half-moon, Sid feels enraptured for a moment by the silence of another sermon.

The fire pit squashes in beside blue painted swings and slides with chipped green picnic tables. They break out more beer ... gathering to laugh together. The sounds of a couple boats roar in off the late evening lake. The rumbling whine of one boat repeats a rhythm; takeoff roars then quieter moments.

"That's Franco, isn't it?" Sid asks Ryan.

"Where? I don't see no Franco." Ryan's speech comes out slurred.

"No, the boat. Listen. Doesn't that sound like his boat out on the lake?"

"What? Oh, yah." Ryan agrees after cocking one ear. "Yah, that's him. Sounds like he's pissin' around," Ryan grins through glassy eyes.

"I hope he cheers Andy up a bit. He was a little bummed out up on the stage," says Sid. He wonders what spectacle the northern lights would be out there with no village streetlights. But he has a feeling his cousins in the boat might not be noticing.

"Franco knows how to party. He'll get Andy going, don't you worry. You want a beer?" Ryan grins broadly.

Sid ignores the offer. Ralf's voice resonates, though he's keeping it low for the audience of sorts around him. His wife, having checked on their children, steps out of the cabin to rejoin the campfire commotion.

"Sounds like the boat's coming this way," says Sid, mostly to himself.

"Have a beer, Sid," Ralf notices him. "Here, take one of mine."

Sid just walks away, onto the sandy street running by Ronny's Rentals, stepping out from the shine of the streetlights. He looks down past the local bar on the left and the boat dock on the right, then he tilts his head up towards the dancing lights. A phenomenon Grandpa Pawlo must have seen so many times. Could the Carpathian Mountains be far enough north to have one of these performances in the night time sky.

He freezes to what sounds like a dog's howl, only the howl slips into a bit of human tone. Two figures come walking up the road; Sid first thinks a couple of drinkers leaving the bar, only something is different. They don't staggering, like after a few hours serious drinking, but seem rather sparked, with an energy that comes from substances that extend the night.

"Hey Franco. Hey Andy. Is that you?"

The dog howl comes back in reply, mixed in now with farm animal noises, backed with a wild moon-touched laughter that seems to fill every noise hole between the grunts. They now lean on each other as they walk, then nimbly skip apart.

Sid recognizes Franco's features in the closest street light, as he walks directly over, breaking into a military goosestep, grinning from ear to ear, eyeballs opened wide as the sky. He grabs Sid by the head, squashed his nose into Sid's, prying his wild eyes open impossibly further, pupils dilated and he then falls away into a burst of all-consuming giggles. Sid has never seen Franco like this, not ever before.

Andrew marches directly to the campfire, stepping not over, but through it, then he falls into his own burst of hilarity. He reels on the ground, overcome with a world of fabricated amusement. If cheering up was Sid's wish, Andrew certainly frames the diametric opposite of the cousin who walked off the stage. He is now a completely different person, completely free of worries ... for the moment.

Even Ralf quiets, distracted into watching his cousins' antics. He scratches the back of his head, and then concludes.

"You guys are suckin' dope. Come on, have a beer."

Andrew and Franco take the beers, but then begin to talk at an unbelievable pace, one even Ralf can't match, let alone participate in. Though hard to tell what they speak of, the tone is fierce, an in-your-face aggressive feel, not picking on just one person's frailty, but on the whole crowd. Ralf's wisdom has truth, Sid decides, noting the huge pupils in their eyes, when he becomes their target.

"You damn rights it's my boat... and has it got power, but not enough power ... needs a jet engine ... a jet fighter missile. We could cross the lake in two minutes flat, keep going right through the bush on the other side. You wanna come for a rocket ride?" Franco coyly glances at one cousin's wife.

Then as fast as they appeared, Andrew and Franco disappear in the darkness. The level of intoxication around the fire now allows only partial notice of the two. Sid truly does understand the desire to be in an altered state, perhaps he understands too well. But now he stands almost alone on a new beach, one with a different view.

When Franco and Andrew stumble back, they search out even higher peaks of unnatural acts, but the party absorbs them as part of its own frolic, accepting them as a new and exciting wing of induced freedom. Sid feels torn between the desire to socialize with his cousins – his family – and the wisdom of the older generation. Wisdom, or perhaps needing to keep distance from his own past, when meaningless words and superficial philosophy always ended in emptiness, gives him decision, and he slips off into the darkness, finding his way back to the hall where the Fairmont waits.

He feels his eyelids hang heavy as he drives, alone, back along the lakeshore towards the cabin, past Franco's boat driven fully up on the gravely beach by the dock. The slightest tinge of light glimmers across the lake, as the northern lights fade, dancing a finishing jig. He walks carefully, fumbling, through cabin darkness into his bedroom, falling exhausted for the night.

###

The hall greets Sid's arrival next morning, as he, along with Jo and daughter, enter a fairly subdued atmosphere, wafting aromas of breakfast. He spots Ryan wolfing down his pancakes and he wanders over. Ryan's eyes hang swollen with a morning-after-the-party glaze.

"Morning Ryan. Wanna go fishing?"

"Too late for fishing," says Ryan hoarsely between bites. "Have some breakfast. Good sausages."

"How long did the party go?"

"I dunno. Three or four. Weren't you there? Franco and Andy were crazy."

"They seemed pretty messed up. Some kinda dope?"

"Andy had something he called Little Budas or something, that's what Franco said. They sure were crazy ... but I dunno, they were kinda assholes too."

"Little Budas? Never heard of that. Hey, you goin' back to Saskatoon today? You want a ride?"

"Yah, sure. When you leavin'?"

"Uncle Nick flies out today ... and Andy's plane leaves around four, so if we leave at say just after lunch ..."

"Yah, OK."

Sid wanders over to the breakfast table for a plate. Tired bleary-eyed cousins wander around in the sadness of an ending. As Sid piles his plate, he notices Uncle Nick chatting with his siblings. He walks over, greeting everyone as he sits to eat and confirm the travel schedule.

"You flying out today, right Uncle Nick?"

"Yah, this evening. Are you my ride?"

"Well, I'm going back through Saskatoon. What time do you fly out?"

"Nine tonight."

"Ohh, Nick, you really should stay longer," his sister interjects. "Such a long trip for such a short visit."

"You know Teresa, I'd love to. But I have a meeting in Miami tomorrow. There's a tropical fish dealer there ... but thanks. A ride to the city would be great, Sid."

"OK," he hesitates. "It's just that Andy flies out at four."

"Hey, a few hours in Saskatoon is cool ... maybe I'll visit Ryan."

"Sure. Ryan's coming too ... so you two can talk"

Andy wanders in, as a sheep returning to the flock. His hair sticks out, his earring missing and it looks like he might have slept – or not – in his clothes. Amy walks up to him at the food table, so Sid finishes his orange juice before approaching slowly.

"... yes, you should come. Believe it or not, I've never been to San Francisco but I could meet you there ..." Andy sips a cup of coffee.

"Oh, we could never afford it," Amy's voice quivers. "I don't know, I might mention it to Bryan, but it would be a miracle if we came."

"Look, Amy, here's my cell number. Call me anytime." Amy takes the card, heading off towards her children.

"Hey Andy, you look terrible," says Sid. "You still want that ride?"

"For sure," he gazes over his styrofoam cup. "But you know, Franco said he wants me to go with him part way ... he's going to Prince Alfred."

"Oh ... to Prince Alberta. Yah, well we can all meet in Shellbrook then."

"Thanks Sid, appreciate it. You know, I wish I could have a shower."

"Yah, you need one," Sid sniffs, smiling. "Let's head back to the cabin, we can grab our stuff from there too."

Andy's hand trembles as he sips his coffee and they walk towards the yellow door. This cousin seems alive enough this morning, after his ride on the wild side. Exotic substances seem a more careless way of living to now AA Sid, though alcohol is just another drug in his mind, albeit a legal one. The short-term illusions of OKness, followed by the long-term shallow boat launch into the lake of destruction, well, that's how it is for some, like himself, like Uncle Harry, and who knows how many others ...

"Detach." Sid whispers softly to himself.

Chapter 7

Relatives stand around the yellow steel door, embracing through spouting tears that quickly dry in the strong wind gusting in off Sahiya Lake. Young and old mingle, sharing in promises of phone calls and visits.

Franco pulls in with his truck, towing a caravan of camper trailer and boat behind. Ryan sneaks out of the camper to throw his small bag into the Fairmont, while Sid walks up to Franco's window, and peers into his gaunt eyes.

"Meet you at Shellbrook Turbo then?"

"We will," Franco's hoarse voice matches Ryan's.

When Sid sees his passengers around the Fairmont, he winks at Franco, and walks over to the car. Uncle Nick rests his elbow on the car roof while Ryan stands with hands under chin on the open back door.

"You guys ready?" Sid asks.

"Yes ... got my bags in the back ..." Nick turns to his siblings. "OK, you guys, come to the tropics when the snow flies."

Uncle Nick swings into the front seat, his smiling face wrestling with sad eyes. Ryan nestles into the back seat with the luggage. They roll slowly across the gravel, waving behind, as they pull out onto the pavement.

The wind chops the lake surface into rolling whitecaps. Sid sits silent for a moment nursing his own sadness, as the churning waters and wild tree-lined beaches of Sahiya Lake fall behind. Each returning to their own life leaves distance between. As they gain highway speed, poplar trees sway hard with green leaves waving a million rowdy goodbyes on either side of the ditch. A flock of ducks flies low and dogged over the trees, flapping vigorously into the strong afternoon wind. Sid breaks the silence, asking Uncle Nick how the get-together had been for him.

"You know, it was a darn good visit." Uncle Nick's eyes stare out along the road luring them towards its disappearing point. "So nice to see Andy again and hear about Loli. It was good to see you guys and everyone else too."

"Did you hear any more about Uncle Harry?" says Sid. "Too bad he never showed up."

"Harry, yah, Harry. Teresa said he never got back to her. He's living his own way, I guess."

"It's a pretty carefree lifestyle in some ways," Sid raises an eyebrow at his uncle. "I mean he's got some kind of freedom, not really being responsible for much."

"You did some serious drinking," says Uncle Nick. "Was it freedom for you?"

"Well, at the beginning, I would have to say yes, it was absolutely freeing – no worries, no concerns. Most in AA say that, if they could stay irresponsibly intoxicated forever, they would." Sid thinks for a second. "But later, it was sort of like a rescue mission that came for me. So you don't get rescued from freedom, do you?"

The cousins at the party had had their euphoria, but only briefly. Sid has heard few alcoholic stories with happy endings, only happy beginnings. The attraction lies in those illusive moments at the start, when everything is right with the world. If only they would go on forever, but markets nor life are like that – short-term gain and long-term pain.

"I never knew Uncle Harry had a daughter," Sid adds. "That's another cousin I've never met."

"Yes, he had a girlfriend or a drinking partner for a few years," says Nick. "But fortunately for the daughter she was taken away and adopted out when she was two or three."

Sid watches Uncle Nick's gaze drift over to settle on the farmstead Ksandra lived her short seventeen years. He wonders what thoughts pass through his uncle's mind as they drive past, recalling their unfinished conversation from the hall. He glances at his uncle, but Nick is just turning to the back seat.

"Hey Ryan, you should come down to Costa Rica," says Uncle Nick. "There's a fellow just down the street I think you should meet. He walks down to the fishing hole just about whenever he feels like it."

"Really? No kidding? He just walks from home." Ryan brightens. "So there _is_ fishing close to your place."

"I guess I forgot about the rivers. My aquarium fish come from the ocean, but yah, Pepe just goes down to the river with a pole and bait. Everyone calls him Pepe; I don't know his real name. He's one happy guy."

"You know Uncle Nick," Ryan sounds almost determined. "I'm going to give it a try. I have some vacation. When's a good time?"

"Winter's a nice time to leave Canada. January or February. Rainy season peaks in October or November down there. Hey, come for Christmas. They throw paper snow around the streets."

"Yah, I have room on my cards. Or I can get another one." Ryan explodes into a moment of excitement. Then he glances at his uncle, and quietly continues, "OK Uncle, it'll be the last time I use them. I promise."

"You know Ryan, Pepe hasn't got any credit cards. He wouldn't even know what to do with one if he did. In fact he doesn't have much at all, besides a lot of smiles, but maybe you can pick up on a thing or two from him."

"How does he buy anything?" says Ryan.

"He has nothing to spend, so he doesn't need to buy anything," says Uncle Nick quietly. "It's hard to describe, maybe it looks like he has nothing, but he really does have something. Could be what you're looking for, or not. You'll have to meet him and see how he lives."

"Sounds like the guy lives the life of Riley in a way," says Sid. "How do the neighbours look at him though?"

"No problem there. The work ethic just isn't that demanding in Costa Rica so his laid back way of living fits right in."

Sid wonders if a guy could emulate Pepe by choice, having nothing more than a daily smile and a life free of possessions. Now that would be a way to be free of financial worries.

"So if he's just a happy guy who owns nothing ..." says Sid, "well, I suppose there'd be no use running advertising campaigns aimed at him. You admire Pepe, hey Uncle."

"He's really got something," Uncle Nicks nods. "I don't completely know what it is yet, but I do want to know. A deeper kind of satisfaction, some kind of inner joy."

You don't have to go to another country to find joy, Sid thinks. Look at sister Jo. She's a special case of investment in her own type of satisfaction. Very intelligent. Very committed, yet not to consumerism. A natural drive for friendships, happy moments of generosity and peacefulness with the pottery wheel. She has a freedom worth chasing. She hacks out her own version of Grandpa's rich grain field. Could she have a bit of what Uncle Nick seeks, something past happiness?

They slip by the house at Witchekan Lake, the pattern of stonework around the full height windows on the balcony gazing out over the swampy lake.

"Any houses that big in Costa Rica, Uncle?" Sid asks.

"Oh yah. Hard to believe, isn't it? Some quite wealthy people live down there and lots of very poor people as well, you know, by material standards."

Sid nods thoughtfully. All around the world, then, some have big houses and many have small houses, no matter where. The people of Costa Rica have the same big-house small-house layout as right here in Saskatchewan. Two far apart places with the same arrangement. Maybe the hard core of human nature demands things be this way.

They pull in to Shellbrook Turbo. While Sid is filling the tank, and Uncle Nick and Ryan are in the store, Franco pulls his rig in along the side of the highway to let Andy step out. Sid waves at Franco's children peering out the window as they pull away, and Andy makes his way across the grassy ditch.

Sid pops the trunk, throwing all the baggage in to make room for the four of them. They pull out on the highway, glimpsing Franco's unit disappearing over the rises in the distance ahead.

"You guys are still drinking." Ryan squints at Andy. The aroma of a brewery pervades the air in the car.

"Just a couple Sunday morning beer, you know, to get a guy through. I like your Pilsner." Andy gives a haggard grin.

"You guys were so wild last night," says Ryan. "I thought you were gonna sit down right in the fire and poof ... a smoke signal."

"Yes, well ... it was quite a party," Andy looks down. "Hey, Franco says he's coming to meet Robert."

"So my brother's goin' to California."

"He talks like he's coming soon," says Andy.

"Hey Andy, you'll have to give my greetings to Loli and your brother and sister ... and John too," says Uncle Nick. "I'll probably come through L.A. early next year ... tell your mom to call me if she wants."

"I will do that, Uncle Nick."

###

They all sit quiet as they slow to turn south into the hilly bush lands, watching Franco's rig continue on to disappear over the last rise.

"Did any of you guys talk to Amy?" Sid starts. "She has this television hero."

"Yah, women!" says Ryan.

"Well, her hero is this Jessica. She just goes to San Francisco and watches airplanes. All her problems fade away."

"Wish I could do that," says Andy. "Sounds like some Hollywood show. But she did say she'd like to come down to California too."

What are the chances of finding real happiness in a television show Sid wonders. Anyone should be able to live a vicarious life through the euphoria of the screen, imaginary or not. There is a real possibility, but it must be one well tested by a lot of people.

"You know, maybe it's like having a favourite spot, a place where everything can be OK," says Uncle Nick. "Lots of people really want that I think. It gives them a rest. I find it up in a jet airliner sometimes."

"Yah, some people find it in shopping malls," says Sid.

"Women!" says Ryan.

"I dunno. Looks like Franco does some shopping. New truck, new boat. Camper trailer. Your brother is one successful man, hey Ryan," says Sid.

"My brother's a shithead."

"We were talking about how a person can be rich," Sid informs Nick. "When we went out fishing that first day."

"Oh yes, well, maybe Franco wants to have even more, though, maybe he doesn't see himself as successful yet," says Nick. "What do you think, Andrew? How about your brother, does he have any aspirations, any heroes?"

"Oh yes," Andy looks out the window. "And they're all listed in Forbes."

When does business success ever arrive? Grandpa was surely successful, but some people still want more than Grandpa ever came close to. Success then is to endlessly strive for the top, to gaineth the whole world. Sid has joined that struggle intermittently, he could join again. Could it be the answer, if he just focused harder, or is it but a pile of wet sand, collapsing as it dries? For what shall it profit a man ...?

"What if you just get a job, work hard and don't sweat it." Sid speculates. "Ralf seems to do OK." The hard working family man like Ralf has it made in a way. Why worry when all the money is spent? He pays the bills in whatever way he does, and seems just fine.

"Work hard," Ryan grins. "Like me."

"Well, maybe, but I've read that people on their death bed rarely wish they'd worked more," says Uncle Nick. "You do have to be busy at something. But for most contracts I had, the corporations I worked for rarely had the same values and interests I did. And what if you work your butt off, gain wealth and then get hit by a bus?"

"So a life of hard work isn't necessarily a meaningful life," says Sid.

"And I can tell you driving a Porsche doesn't give you much," says Andy.

"So money doesn't make you happy for sure," Sid observes. "And working hard, if it's all to have money to buy a Porsche is no guarantee to make you happy either."

"Franco says having money never hurt anyone," says Ryan. "And what if you win a million?"

Sid recalls his bank account ... the echoes of empty feelings.

"Do you guys think Grandpa was rich?" says Sid. "I mean he moved out of the horse barn onto his own piece of land. He had a house, a car and lots of grain money in the bank."

"Yes, I think Dad did really well," says Uncle Nick. "A lot better than he would have back in the Old Country. He did give a good start to us, his kids."

"So if he was an atheist, how did Auntie Teresa ever get so religious?" says Sid. "Anyways, she was telling me how you can do better, but more like in the eyes of Jesus."

"Ahh, the church is crazy," says Ryan.

"She must really believe," says Andy. "I mean, you would have to."

"Yah, but if you do," says Sid, "it's almost like you have a whole different way of being successful."

A person with faith could invest entirely in the next world by how they live in this one. High risk though, 'cause what if there is no next world? Yet Sid can't deny his own God evidence. A series of investments in being a good person might be the most prudent portfolio to carry.

"That would take a leap of faith," says Uncle Nick.

"She told me bible stories, there's this woman who gave away everything she had when she had almost nothing, and this letter about how true life is giving and sharing, and I'm sure you guys heard about the camel going through the eye of a needle," says Sid. "Rich people have a tough time getting through the gates."

They all settle into their own thoughts. But it always comes back to this for Sid, he hasn't had a drink for years now, and AA tells him that wouldn't be possible without a Higher Power. No question, sober is a better way to live; he knows that – there has to be a God of some kind. So if there is a God, the religious people must know something or other. Sid's future investment portfolio, high risk or not, has to include a little generosity and a kind deed or two. Or maybe more than a little. Maybe more than a few.

###

They pull in to Saskatoon airport and all step out of the car into the wind.

"So you coming over, Uncle Nick?" says Ryan. "We can cook you up some venison burgers."

"Sure." Uncle Nick agrees.

"Give us a ride to my place, Sid?" Ryan questions.

"Yah, no problem." Sid grabs the California cousin by the shoulder. "It was sure good to meet you, Andy, and the visit was great." He opens the trunk to get Andy's bags.

"Hey, it was really cool for me too," Andy lets a deep breath out slowly. "It's like I have two homes now."

They all stand around the parking lot, exchanging last minute comments, until Andy has to catch his flight. He heads over to the terminal entrance, swaying as he turns to wave a final salute before he enters.

They're extra silent then. Ryan gives directions to his apartment. They pull up in front of a bright new building. Ryan hops out to get Nick's bags, calling out he'll just throw them into his own car. Sid's eyes widen when he sees his uncle looking at him intently.

"You know, Sid, you asked what happened back then and I never did have a chance to finish," he says carefully. "I owe it to you and everyone else, I guess I waited too long ... well Ksandra's drowning ... there's more to it, I can tell you that much." He presses his lips tightly together. "But I really have to talk to Loli first ..."

Sid stares, speechless.

"You coming Uncle Nick?" Ryan pokes his head in the car.

"Sorry Sid," Uncle Nick's eyebrows furrow. "Look, we can talk again," he swings himself out of the Fairmont. "Let's go for deer burgers, Ryan."

Sid sits a moment, hand up waving, but there is nothing to do but pull away from the curb. He watches Ryan and Uncle Nick walk up the sidewalk to the apartment. He grabs his city map, focusing on a route out to Rosetown.

###

On the highway, the trees are becoming noticeably smaller.

Sid nudges up the window to adjust his basic air conditioning as he passes the potash mines. He takes a deep breath, recalling his dream of the sultan who owns a kingdom of land, land like these blowing grain fields. He slows as he approaches Rosetown and pulls up to where the lights show a red. As the green comes, he makes out a big fellow ahead with extended thumb.

The broken toothed grin lights up as the fellow squeezes his knees in front of the dash. "Hi."

"Hey, unbelievable to see you again. How far you going now?" says Sid. "I'm on my way back to Calgary."

"Turn off past Barney's; I'll let you know."

Sid glances down at the gym bag again on the seat between them. What was he wondering about that bag, his mind is so full, he can't help talking of the weekend.

"Well, I found cousin Andrew. And the rumour is true; Auntie Lola definitely lives in a big house. But Andy talks like it's his father's house, not his."

"The rich ones hang on to their stuff pretty tight."

"Yah. Well we know _how_ Auntie Lola got rich. She just married Uncle John and his big house," says Sid. "But then she's her own housemaid for years, taking care of the place. And Andy thinks that's why she dropped out of the family, 'cause big house people only hang out with other big house people."

The big fellow stretches his jaw sideways.

"So maybe she's not totally happy with the bargain. Andy doesn't seem all that happy," Sid looks over. "He's made friends with a certain white crystal, and a lot of the bottle, if you know what I mean."

"Oh yah." The hitchhiker scratches his stubbly cheek.

"Then my Uncle Harry wasn't even there. He's still drinking his face off. Hey you ever buy a lottery ticket?"

"Couple times."

"My cousin Ryan lives for them. I mean I suppose if you win it could be great. Doesn't cost much for the ticket, but what if you spend everything on them? Everyone wants that million. 'Cause it would make everything just fine."

"My uncle won a big one. He paid off the mortgage on the house and went to Hawaii once," says the hitchhiker. "Otherwise nothing changed. He kept his job as a mechanic. He gets a lot of respect around town that way."

"Really? I think Ryan would just spend it all, 'cause that's what he does now with his paychecks. On the other hand, he's got a lot of freedom living the way he does. He buys whatever he wants and credit cards cover any problems. You have credit cards?"

"Nah."

"Well, Ryan doesn't worry about money at all 'cause he just never thinks about it. It's like the freedom people want, a wealthy lifestyle without worry. If he dies soon with lots of debt on his cards, the credit companies lose."

"Maybe he won't die soon."

"Yah, then maybe it's a problem." Sid laughs. "Then maybe the bill collectors come to visit more often. That would be a hassle."

"Sounds like stress."

Sid glances at the big guy. He wasn't supposed to talk so much, but ... "Maybe an attitude adjustment would work for him. My Uncle Nick was trying to tell him a few things. My Uncle Nick lives a life that's almost split in two. He's been a hard worker, but he doesn't stick with it, 'cause he keeps coming up with other ideas he has to try out. He lives in a place right now where pure life is the thing. Yah, _pura vida_ he calls it. He tells us about this guy that lives in a shack, but he's one of the happiest people. For Uncle Nick, I don't think money is the way to be rich."

The big fellow turns to look intently, and Sid sees a face of understanding.

"I don't think my Uncle Nick is completely happy, though. Maybe that's a blessing 'cause it keeps him searching, maybe the search gives him satisfaction."

"Here's the corner ... right up ahead. I gotta get out here."

Sid lets off the gas, gradually slowing down to a gravel road turn off.

"What's really in the bag?" Sid remembers. "If you don't mind me asking?"

"Nah. Not much in it, really. Just a lot of memories, kinda like a photo album. Everything I owned fit in this bag when I made my break, you know, when I started paying attention to the more important things in life. So what I did with my life is kind of in here."

Sid frowns, looking at the old beat up bag.

"You know what I mean," says the hitchhiker, looking at Sid closely, then stepping out. "Thanks for the ride."

"Yah," says Sid. "Thank you."

###

Later, the evening sky begins a trade as the sun falls closer to its short summer dip while city lights start their feeble attempt to replace Mother Nature's illumination. Sid turns from the last secondary highway to join the post-long-weekend traffic force on the divided primary surging back towards the city lights.

He needs to get back into the daily routine, now. But how will he ever forget this weekend. Time to get his new investment strategy in order. Time to decide who will be his advisor. The sultan will have to find what fills the void, something in addition to the gold and silver and bankbook.

Chapter 8

The beleaguered heat of early fall shimmers up from the black highway as harvesting combines fly past his window. The reality of summer is now an illusion on its knees, with grasshoppers' listless leaps signing closing year-end contracts. Now comes the time of smiling ants.

Looming up along the asphalt edge, the words _Welcome to Saskatchewan_ leap out from their wood-carved background. A tall pretty woman stands below the sign, a leather suitcase leaning against her leg.

He stretches over to open the passenger door. "Where you going?"

"Saskatoon." She stares in, flipping her long red hair back over her shoulder. "University Campus."

"Hop in, then. I'm going into the city."

She lifts her suitcase over the bucket seat, and steps up into the van. He checks his side mirror, and then speeds back into parallel with the dashed white centreline.

"You getting back to classes or something?"

"Precisely. Third year Business."

"Business. Hmmm, that could be interesting."

"A career decision." The tall one glances back, looking around. "Nice décor, I see you have all the accoutrements of a small accommodation."

"Right, welcome to my home."

She frowns deeply. "You must have a house as well."

"Not at the moment."

The potential he saw in this Econoline when he was shopping for a Fairmont replacement now plays a trump hand in his new trial investment strategy.

"What could possibly motivate you to live in such a manner?"

My spiritual awakening, he thinks, what my family says or doesn't say, my Uncle Nick. Then he starts the rational explanation, one he often tries on himself. "Well, I had this house, but it was too big, so I sold it and moved into an apartment in Okotoks just out of Calgary. You know, small town living. Then this spring I moved from the apartment into the van, you know, living out on the road."

"Did you experience a cutback, or a downsize?"

"Oh, no, I've still got my job. I did all this by choice. My Uncle Nick tries out different ways of living ... he says there's something even better than happiness when you look for it, if you can find the right lifestyle. And chasing after money isn't gonna do it, if you really want to be satisfied."

Seeking to appease the little voice within, as it wouldn't shut up, Sid had finally ceded to a few extra changes. The voice, sneaking up on him at times like when he was sleeping, patiently demanded he know alternate riches, those not including financial assets, through personal experience. An outline of the overall plan, triggered by family reunion insights, had been nailed solidly onto an inner billboard. He tried to ignore it, to paint it over, even to throw rocks at it, until he finally gave in to the persistent message.

The tall one doesn't sound like she's blessed with the same kind of voice.

"You could be suffering some type of delusion," she says. "Would that be plausible? For example, when I finish business school, I plan to buy a large house with a double garage for my new cars. Maybe a husband, maybe not. General consensus calls it _getting ahead_."

Sid looks at her. With a little research, he came up with a target asset mix for his portfolio, something to ground finances around. Simplified, it's a number based on a fairly straightforward question, a question perhaps asked by many – but certainly not all. If the people of the world shared everything, like they were told to in the kindergarten sandbox, what would the world look like? His financial planner never once, even vaguely, suggested shooting for this type of target. But then not everyone went to kindergarten.

"Yah, well I _did_ have a house ... ahhh ... so you're studying business, I mean I guess you could call what I'm doing a business plan, it's just a different kind of investment strategy. I'm living at average global income."

"Strategy? As I was saying, everyone looks for a higher standard of living, not a lower one." She looks at Sid, shaking her head. "What is your target outcome, downward mobility?"

"Yah, I know it might not make a lot of sense right to start, but you know, there have already been some benefits."

"For instance ...?"

"Well, when I sold the house, I had to get rid of a lot of my stuff. Everything from furniture to gardening tools. And it turned out to be unbelievably freeing. Now everything I own fits in this van ... well almost."

"I fail to perceive the advantage."

"Freedom, I'm saying. Freedom from the consumer engine I was geared into. It was just like getting out of prison, or a concentration camp. No bills come in the mail anymore, that's a phenomenal relief. No utilities bill, no cable bill, no gas bill ...."

She stares for a minute. "I would suggest professional counselling. How would one converse with others, for example, in your situation. What of correspondence aside from bills? Have you no personal telecommunications device?"

"A mailbox. That's as close as I have to a fixed address. And I have to admit, I do have one bill in that box. My cell phone is around here somewhere."

"I find this disconcerting. You might just as well be on social assistance. A large part of our economy is based on consumerism. If many did as you do, our economy would stop growing – it would fail completely."

"How much can it grow? On this finite planet of ours."

"It has to keep growing; our whole business model is based on growth."

"Well, I'm looking at another way, psychotic as it may seem. If I share my wealth with the rest of the world, it's a step towards justice. I see an economy where things may not be equal, but at least equitable. I'm trying to figure out how to sell other people on the idea, I mean, there has to be something in it for them."

"You are definitely correct there. People don't do things unless it gives them an advantage. Are you aware of Adam Smith, his 'economic man' theory?"

"Yes, I've heard of the first Smith's theory. Have you heard of the sandbox theory? Remember when you were a kid, building castles in the sand, didn't your parents tell you to share? If adults tell children to share ... it must be for good reasons."

"Yes. It is the children who need to share. The reason this activity is encouraged is to mould them into team players. Corporations need people that work together. As you must well know, corporations are increasingly the basis of the business world."

"But what if everyone had a house the same size, more or less, then everyone would be more satisfied, happier, and more productive. Now some people have huge houses and they produce nothing ... then some people have a tiny house or no house at all, and they're not too happy. Wouldn't sharing as adults allow us all to be part of one big team?"

"What you are describing is basically the Marxist Leninist paradigm. And obviously it doesn't work. We have explicit proof, empirical evidence, from Eastern Europe."

"Sandbox theory suggests people might do it by choice, though, not because of government legislation. Those Eastern governments never truly implemented what Marx or Lenin wrote, they ended up with corruption and autocracy. It has to come from each person's individual choice, and they have to see the benefit in it for themselves."

"Such as a vague sensation of freedom?"

"What if there were other rewards. Take the perennial myth of heaven for the religious ... what if that's at least partially true."

"Religion had its time, before the Enlightenment."

"Oh, but there's been a lot of new evidence the last few decades. Science points more towards a created universe than away from it now. I hear one religion condones science completely, saying religion and science have to be mutually supportive. You heard of the Baha'is? And a lot of people are getting spiritual now ... so that's my take, anyway."

The pretty one looks at Sid for a moment, then away, out her window, off across the fields, perhaps seeing oats where he sees wheat.

He wonders if he is losing it; he needs to review the evidence. Jamie, Amy and Jo at the hall, repeatedly negotiating disputes over toys and snacks. The mothers gave one prime directive to their children. Share. The small voice has mined this idea extensively. Can't an adult listen, and share what he or she has with the human family? To reap the benefits intuitively known to the children's mothers, like making true friends to start. Beyond the world of business-team players, if there is a Creator, there could be a heaven or something like it, and why wouldn't one want to have something with that kind of value.

He thinks back. The decision was a moment in time. Always having been full of grand ideas, talking the big talk, any time it came to doing, that's when he started humming a different tune. So he decided to share. A sandbox child listening to mother; a religious person with ears to hear, an ex-drinker carrying the message or an everyday person with a bit of the spiritual. That spring, like his Uncle Nick, he set off to give the idea a chance.

###

"How did you arrive at – how did you term it – global average income?" The pretty one turns back.

"Oh that. Well, the U.N. publishes a Human Development Report, with each country's income or Gross National Product ... all in U.S. dollars. So if you total all the GNP's for all countries, you get total world income, then divide that by global population, you get average global income – I call it middle income now."

"So what would that figure be?"

"Well, in Canadian dollars and monthly, it's seven hundred and fifty dollars. I call it Gross Global Product, GGP. Anyways, there's this Prof in Illinois who made the same calculation, posted on the web, so I'm not the first. But our numbers confirm each other."

What each person would have, if everyone in the sandbox shared all the marbles, the pails and shovels, the cookies ... this share-everything average, the small voice told him, would be what he would live on for a period of time, just to see if it were possible. A few months, that would be enough of a test, he himself decided.

"Then I assume you would be familiar with the average Canadian income." The pretty one looks at Sid through narrowed questioning eyes.

"As Canadians, we have just under four times middle income."

His hunch about being a wealthy world citizen proved itself true. Just being a Canadian, he has the option to move into a smaller global house, and the van is about a quarter the size of the apartment.

"I detect a problem with your method. In an International Business class, I found one is able to purchase residence in Mexico for approximately 25% or less the Saskatoon price. That would confound your numbers drastically."

"Good point. The Human Development Report deals with that issue using PPP, Purchasing Power Parity."

"And that is?" she frowns.

"PPP is the law of one price. They take a fixed basket of goods and services, like clothes, houses, cars, for each country and compare it to the same basket purchased in all countries ... then they use an adjustment ratio. So even though housing might be more expensive in Canada than in Mexico, or wherever else, the PPP makes up for any discrepancy. You can buy more house in Latin America with a Canadian income, but the effect is evened out ..."

"I'll have to talk to my professors," she looks back out her side window. "Looks like we're approaching the city, how far in will you go?"

"To the airport. I'm flying out to Halifax to visit my sister. Then I come visit a couple cousins right here on the way back."

"You could let me out at Circle Drive."

"Yah, sure."

He weaves his way in through the streets, pulling over.

"Thank you for the interesting conversation." The young woman looks at Sid. "And good luck with your peculiar experiment."

She steps out with her suitcase, brushing her hair back, then quickly losing herself in the jumble of city traffic.

###

Ambling in to the prairie airport, Sid ponders the day ahead, a day of travelling across the vast expanse of Canada. His ticket shows two flights on the way out east, with a stopover in Toronto. He is bothered now. How could he convince someone like the pretty one, and himself, that he is still rational? He needs a complete portfolio review.

He finds a red plastic-covered chair near Departures Gate 14, noticing the bolts holding the seats to the floor. Security controls nervousness, just like courage – you can use either to overcome fear. He pulls out his notebook.

To start with, he had determined who should be affected. The entire human race should be the scope of his investment. One people, one earth – Baha'i religious posters had been popping up around him. Just say the global community could be one big family; a network of relatives that could, if they wanted to, all come together in one huge reunion.

Starting off, to fit the sandbox theory, an adult must play the role of a child who listens. So he decided to share his adult stuff. Assuming God and mothers give direction out of love, not to assert power or control, he made a rational decision to risk an investment in following those directions. Assuming there is a parent-like Creator, the Higher Power who gifts him with no drinking, he decided to invest in the share directive as much as possible – at least for a while. And now, after four months of a six-month project, his eyes have been opened.

He thinks back. What has he learned so far? In his notebook, he sketches the Witchekan Lake house, and then beside it, the dwindled Blaine Lake houses. Big-house people, he knows, have the option to move smaller and to share the equity they have left over so little-house people can move the other way ... bigger. He traces out another diagram on the next page, where houses are more equal in size, scribbling $750 at the top. On a planetary scale, he now knows how big his house is.

A shuffling around him disturbs his concentration; he glances up to see other people rising. Oh yah, he listens, the boarding call. He stuffs the notebook in his backpack and follows.

As he stands in the line-up, he reviews PPP. Purchasing Power Parity rings similar to Uncle Nick's purchasing power leveraging. But parity means evening things out, while leveraging means taking advantage of – these two clearly draw a decision line in the sand between.

He finds his seat on the plane.

There was a big hitch at the beginning. Having sold his house in the city and moved to an Okotoks apartment, he found rent and commuting costs were almost as much as middle income already. He had to adjust something and he hadn't wanted to quit eating. Then driving into the city one morning, in an endless line of commuter traffic, an idea began dancing backstage in his mind.

He works fast to complete his sketches, lists and diagrams, and he writes descriptions of the spiritual market place theory so far, to be prepared for presentation to someone like the pretty one. He has tabulated a list of associated problems, and beside it, a column of benefits. Another column lists character traits – either existing or to be learned – necessary to carry the project to completion.

He settles in, needing a nap, and melds in to the jet engines' roar.

###

The plane comes in at Pearson International, and he gazes down at the urban area below. As tiny houses grow, vehicles start to show form. Bigger ones become motor homes, then camper vans appear, parked in the avenues down there. So the idea's dance became a city streets campground. No rent to pay. And no commuter expenses, if he parked close to work.

The airliner wheels touch down on the runway. Canada's largest city, a mosaic of the peoples of the world. With a glance at the notes, he circles the words Urban Camping and draws an arrow to it, jotting one word beside it. _Solution_. The eager ones stand to de-board.

From the list of problems, _Fear_ sticks in his mind. You can come up with a great idea, one that looks good on paper, but going out and living on the streets made him feel just plain nervous. What would other people think? Living at no fixed address hadn't been mentioned as an alternative in any class, and he sensed neighbours might frown. Especially in southern Alberta. So he played it safe at first, camping while he still had the apartment as a backup. He circles _Courage_ as a prescription for security.

He remembers that day, throwing his sleeping bag onto the bed, some food into the fridge and matches to light the propane stove, before heading off to work. That sunny morning in May. He just never came home that evening. He parked in his usual spot, a quiet one, on a One-Way street the other side of the tracks. After work, he simply walked back to the van, and instead of starting it up to join the chaotic rush hour, he stretched out on the bed.

Sid glances up to see a stewardess looking at him quizzically. He stuffs his notebook again, and throws this bag over his shoulder.

As he walks up the empty aisle, he recalls that moment. The wonder took a while to sink in. Rather than fighting traffic out of the city and down the highway, he just kicked back. Rested, he cooked up dinner on the propane stove. With rush hour dissipating while he dug in to his ribs and potatoes, he sensed a growing glow within. With his newly acquired cell phone, he called a buddy about a movie. A short drive to the theatre, an entertaining drama, and he easily found the same parking spot that evening. The light traffic noise on the One-Way let him sleep quite well that first night. The apartment gave back-of-the-mind security, and morning found him well rested, just a few blocks walk from work.

He finds Departures Gate 63, seats again bolted to the floor. A consistent pattern, something to rely on, that's what allows one to not worry. The pervasive search for security – all people need some form of it in one way or another. He doesn't feel alone.

It had been a challenge to make that first outing, but he kept at it. With a few more nights under the urban streetlights, another feeling gradually replaced the fear, a sense of excitement; almost a thrill. Now a real thrill-seeker, of course, would live out in the streets with no security-blanket camper van – sleep right out on a park bench. The little voice told him that. For him, he decided, maybe some other time.

Security, no doubt, is a primary issue when it comes to lifestyle choice.

###

A cultural mixture parades past his seat; they would have to be all big house people – who else could afford jet travel. He must be an exception. But four months in a van, being consciously frugal, has netted him enough for a plane ticket across a big country, even on middle income. On second thought, maybe there are others here like him. He looks more closely, among the business suits and attaché cases. One group could be a family, brightly dressed, greeting another dressed similar, white smiles flashing against darker faces. A relative, perhaps, coming or going ... you don't really need to be too rich to fly.

Insecurity breeds nervousness, while security overrides it. Fear to live out in the streets, fear of others' frowns, fear was pervasive especially when he first ventured out. But facing it, taking security from inner belief rather than outer circumstance, he gained reward with an unexpected yet wondrous inner tingle. Was it a step up the stairway to heaven, and how could he ever explain that to someone like the pretty one?

Aside from the lack of bills and rent cheques, the coolest thing was the freedom to stop, to just pull over, inspired by any old whim at any old place whenever he felt hungry, to cook up a meal, or sleepy, to have a nap or a full night's sleep. Freedom to park anywhere, well almost, no use banging with traffic authority. All in all, freedom from the system in a big way.

As he gazes across at the next seat, and his eyes rivet in on an article in a Toronto Star. _Declining Happiness_. He snatches the paper up. Happiness, it turns out, peaked in America way back in 1957, even though consumer consumption in that country more than doubled since. Hmmm, there's some excess available to invest.

He gazes around, and a smile rises, like a bubble on its way up from the ocean floor. Happiness is the first label to tag onto that bubble smile, but there's more. Could it be a little of the more-than-happiness Uncle Nick had speculated on? Talk of joy runs common in AA meetings; the idea is if you do the more difficult for a higher purpose, you get joy from a deeper source. Maybe ...

People shuffle, and he is faster this time.

He settles in. Of course there was hygiene. But with a locker room membership at work, a daily shower was his. And having searched out a doughnut shop or two in the city, not only to become a regular patron of their cream pies, he felt covered for any emergency facilities requirement.

The window frames a view of the busy airport. Some rain clouds threaten, zipping him back to thunderstorm church ... the sermon in the Fairmont with Andrew. The mystery of nature breathes into him, so peculiar, that's it's here in such a big city.

###

His seat shakes as a large black man sits next to him.

Sid leans back, closing his eyes. Losing all that consumer weight, well, it almost felt like being dug out of a snow avalanche. He chuckles, freedom, he whispers.

"Freedom?" The large one is distracted. He swivels, lowering his voice, grinning. "You just get let out or somethin'?"

"What? Yah, well, kind of."

The fellow's eyes open wide, and his smile dims.

"You know, it was the prison of the system, keeping up with the Joneses, doing what everyone else does. So I escaped, I just dropped out. I went and lived in my van all this summer ... that's where I found freedom."

"You don't like the way things are?" The large one has a twinkle in his eye. "Just you wait, the end times is comin'."

"Yah, well maybe we can bring them on sooner. I took a chance, but some of it really paid off. One day we went on a hike and then we had a house party after. I walked out of the party, and crashed out right there – I don't drink, that wasn't it, but I never had to drive home."

"I don't drink neither," he winks.

"You sound religious."

"Seventh Day Adventist."

"Well, I'm trying to invest in God stocks. You know, I could put all the rent money in the church basket or something like it."

"Oh, yea, the Lord would smile on that one."

The small voice in Sid's mind rises to comment. The argument goes along the lines that he has purchased some God futures – all people in a middle house. And if the Creator has all power, certainly the dividends are high. God as he understands Him; his version of the camel squeezing a little more of its bulk through the needle. So he risks a run at the gates of heaven by tossing his global share into the common basket.

"It's really quite an adventure too."

The large fellow twists towards him.

"I love a nice view, and the views are great. You know the big houses up on the hill. I could park on almost any street, so I had the same view as the best houses in the city ... and I could have a different one every night if I wanted."

"Nice."

"Like an exotic vacation or camping out in the deep woods, just urban woods."

The average spiritual thrill-seeker, or any adventurer for that matter, might see it as a way to walk on the edge. You don't have to go to the jungles of South America; you can seek thrills much closer to home. An unforeseen dividend from the investment.

"And I felt closer to the people who really live in the streets. Jesus hung around with the down and out, right? So I feel closer to Jesus, 'cause these would be his friends if he were around. And it keeps me from complaining too much."

Sid knew from before, on any old day that wasn't going so well, when the depths of self-pity dragged his spirit through the mud, to see someone destitute, usually snuffed out that self-indulgent thought. He has everything in comparison. And now he feels some level of solidarity, though he still lives in a pretty upscale camper van – never on a park bench – he has some idea what it's like.

He feels a little triumphant.

"So you put all that cash in the church basket?" the large one asks quietly.

He feels his face redden. Downsizing to middle means significant extra assets accumulate in the bank account, especially on a Canadian income.

"That was tough. I kept thinking, why not just keep the money myself, I earned it."

"You said it, I didn't," the large one shrugs.

"I know. Then I think if I give it away, it won't go to the poor anyway. It'll just go to administration, you know, charities are so inefficient. But I knew I had to do it, so I just wrote out the cheque and stuffed it in the mail. You know that woman Jesus talks about, the one who put her two coppers in the box. I dunno, that day, I felt at least a little bit like her."

The large guy nods.

He never actually gave all he had, yet he did give something. Nowhere close to life as rough as a poor woman in ancient Palestine. Food, cooked and refrigerated, protection from the rain and other nasty elements, and a warm place to sleep. Most go camping for fun, but this camping trip was special fun, with serious investment overtones, and payoffs. Over those homeless months, his thoughts couldn't help but grow more positive, just knowing he could be wealthy without big-house dreams.

Sid feels a shudder as the plane starts its descent on the Halifax airport. This plane trip feels like a payoff for the last few months. The investigation has not finished, however, and a quiver of anticipation runs through him as he thinks of his sister.

Jo promised to meet him at the airport, and he knows she's the type who sticks to not just her promises, but to her own chosen values, to what she really believes in.

Chapter 9

The plane touches down in light rain on the landing strip. Runway lights flashing by at a decelerating rate help reorient his mind to current. Flying east across three time zones has stacked on extra hours of fatigue. Jo sits waiting in the terminal with her own tired look, one that dissipates when she sees her brother. She gives him a hug.

"Where's Sami?"

"Sleeping of course. We have a two-hour drive ahead of us. Midnight is way too late for a five-year-old."

"How's Jake?"

"As good as ever. We're working hard. Business could be better. World events, you know, they can really affect tourist spending."

"Right." Sid grabs his bags from the conveyor belt. "You gonna teach this fall, then, get a regular pay check?"

Jo gives him a frosty look, one that might ice over a small pond, reiterating her policy on the chaos of working in the public school system. Regular pay would be nice, of course, and more pay even nicer, sure, but the personal trade-off is prohibitive. High energy teenagers, bent on partying and disruption, just drain the spirit. Happiness comes with being a self-employed artist, and happiness itself is the career benefit, not financial security. One other primary benefit comes with the package, a freedom allowing self-expression, completely uninhibited by institutional regulation.

"Wouldn't be a useful supplement?"

"It's just not worth it. I subbed last year, when we needed to buy a kiln, and to take Sami on a trip. One semester was enough. It's just a backup, when all else fails."

They find Jo's orange Corolla waiting patiently, the Lucky Rabbit logo splashed vividly across the side. He tosses his bag in the back; they hop in the front, and find their way out onto a dark paved highway.

Low mountains surround them, Jo says, and squinting into the drizzling darkness, Sid can make out the twinkle of streetlights winding up into the heights. People living up those slopes must be big-house, ones who seek out a view, like at Witchekan. A mountain view or a swampy lake, ahhh, he could have either and many others, even better ones, just by selectively parking the van. He can have what big-house people go after.

###

They pull into Annapolis Royal; sound asleep, not a person to be seen. A village dot on the map of Nova Scotia had developed for him into an imaginary wonderland, one now to be replaced with the real. He grabs his backpack and follows Jo, through salty swirls of night mist along the silent street, into the house. A sign, a replica of the Lucky Rabbit car logo, hangs above the entrance and a jingly bell sounds lightly as they step into a room full of pottery displays. This, Jo says, is the sales floor. Hard to know it, but the house is on main street where tourists stroll by, a business below, a home above. The last rattle of the blinds on the glass leaves them surrounded in ceramic mystery, and a profound moment of screaming silence. The stairs creak as they climb to the living area.

Stretching out on the bed Jo shows him, Sid fades fast. Tranquility vanishes into the shadowy dance of dream. He is the sultan, riding again, on his long journey. Palace now far behind, the quest seems endless. Village after village, speaking with many – to those who might know, to the elders, still he lacks the full answer. The well echoes emptiness. Then there is rumor of a small girl, innately wise beyond her years, in the next village. Perhaps the wisdom of a child, he is spurred, setting off at a gallop. Maybe she is the one ...

"Uncle Sidneyy ... wake uup."

He opens an eye; his niece is shyly poking him in the shoulder. He grabs her hand, bars his teeth and starts to chew her hand off at the wrist. She shrieks, then squeals herself into a ball of giggles as Sid tickles her sides until she squirms away.

"Sami, you need to let people sleep."

"Uncle Sidney, you need to get up. Mom says its breakfast time." She stays out of reach. "Cum'on. Now!"

"OK, OK, you win. Let me get up. Little wise one."

"I'm not little and I'm not wise. I'm Sami."

"Right Sami, you're sooo big. Now scoot." Sid squints as she turns. I bet you're a wise girl in some way or another though, he adds to himself.

As he gets his act together, he revels on having slept in a house again, something worth waiting for. One room is enough, though, surely sufficient for one person. How many extra rooms do you need and what would they be for? Definitely no need for empty bedrooms, a simple rule in a design plan of the future world.

He walks down the hall to the kitchen. Where's Jake, he asks. Business in Toronto, some pottery stores, I told you last night, she says, he'll be back in a couple of days. Oh yah. Grainy bread, fresh butter and Annapolis Valley fruit lay about the table. A poor artist's lifestyle does not rob one of healthy food.

"When the bell rings, someone's come into the store, so I have to go down." Jo pours milk for Sami. "I'd send you, but you don't know a thing about pottery."

"You're wise, like big Sami." He reaches to tickle his niece. Sami squirms. "Keep me upstairs, then, 'cause I'm here for a holiday, not work."

"So you still living in that van?"

"Four months so far, two more to go. Gotta find an apartment to share soon, 'cause winter's coming."

The sojourn into middle income, revealed for Jo, intrigues her. She nods along, making comments about the people she met in India, and what Soka Gakkai Buddhism would have to say. She names it Sid's journey of enlightenment.

"I don't know if I actually feel all that enlightened ..."

The bell tinkles and Jo rises. He clears off the table, consulting Sami on where things are stored amongst the daily kitchen clutter. Jo comes back up. She points out a window facing out over the orange Corolla roof below.

"See our park? We're building that park right now. I'm on the village committee. We're getting the children's playground equipment set up soon. The village got a grant from the province. Lots of paperwork, but it's well worth it."

"Really? Hey, does that give you an income ... being on the committee?"

She squints at Sid with a sliver of the pond-freezing look, classifying his useless question into the void of no response it deserves.

"Cum'on, I'll show it to you. We can go for a little walk around the park. I can watch the store from there."

They saunter down the stairs through the display room now in full daylight. The brightness subdues the mystery somewhat, but intrigue still peers out from the corners. Like a little thunderstorm looking through the reeds along the lake's edge.

Development of the community park has made some progress so far. Finely trimmed grass opens up like a deep breath, encircled by a newly sprouting hedge. A low cable and pole fence envelopes the perimeter with entrances on each side. A bare patch, covered with crushed shale, scars the smooth lawn. Jagged steel plates lie close on a wooden palette. Jo tells of swings, a slide and monkey bars on their way to the shale patch, when the local welder gets around to it.

"So why'd you join the committee?"

"It's called community building, Sid. What's the use of anything if we don't have good community? And community's got to serve the children ... they have to be first on the list. Obviously, 'cause they are the future."

The house faces them from across the park. Built in 1888, Jo had said. Looks mysterious, must have lots of history, says Sid. Oh yes, it half burnt down once, used to be twice as big sure, the LaRonge family built it, she says, there was a little girl lost in that fire, but her sister grew up here. Flowers crepe off vines on the weathered board fence. The high peaked roof stretches up, a contest with the distant low mountaintops, standing sentinel over street, park and community tradition.

Back across the park, Jo leads their way up the driveway between board fence and the house's sidewall, naming the different plants in the back yard. A brightly colored cone stands at one end. He looks over at it, pointing, glancing at his sister for an explanation.

"It's a mulch cone. This village wants to be friends with the environment. They talk in council of a global village; we want to take care of our end of the earth. There's this other committee I'm on. We got council to vote on a two part waste bill. Everyone pays by weight for what goes to landfill." She smiles grimly. "Well, they're supposed to pay; some dump it in the ditch. People! Anyway, the biodegradable goes in the cones, and you can get one free from the village."

Sami comes running around the house, another little girl frolicking behind.

"This is my friend Sheizi." She grabs the little girl's hand. "And this is Monique, she's visiting." She touches the thin air with her other hand.

"Hi Sheizi ... and hi Monique."

He glances at Jo. She shrugs.

The two visible girls switch to elegant drama, their need for speed replaced by a new game, now a graceful walk. They adjust the patterns of flowers woven into their hair for each other, and for Monique. Jo hears the store doorbell jingle, leaving her brother to sit with the grooming and the birds.

So unlike his hectic urban environment, so maybe like Uncle Nick's _pura vida_. He'll have to ask Ryan. A small community beside rush hour traffic, an easy choice, and you wouldn't need Central America; this place has its own exotic appeal. He knocks on a wooden fence board, yes, grounded and real. The two girls sit cross-legged on the grass, in a circle with room for three.

###

Over lunch, Jo mentions Franco's visit that very same summer. Ice splinters crystallize in her eyes when Sid prods for more. Crossing country with family and a business associate, in typical caravan style, they pulled in to block up the entire main street with motor homes and boats. The plan was to launch their boats in the Atlantic, just to say they did. Jo had showed them the park, but they were more interested in getting a good deal and finding a public boat launch ... as public as possible.

Franco did give Jo a few pointers on how to run a business, how she could expand and make more profit. She shivers, recalling some of his tactics. Her community outlook felt like a warm sea invaded by a North Atlantic iceberg, and through his smooth talk, she easily sensed what his voice was not saying. Peace was restored only gradually, only days after their departure, she sighs with relief, as she likely did then.

Sid is washing the dishes when Jo steps lightly back up the stairs. She has made a small sale, but more importantly, she tells him, she has an order for a custom set of dinnerware. Her specialty. She chats about the new designs she uses. Sea creatures, forest animals, they are more and more popular. People want symbols of nature, like religious icons, at the table during mealtime.

###

The afternoon brings a visitor over from up the street. Another artist who weaves, making special order clothing from local wool. The neighbor has knitted sweaters for Jo's whole family and Sid watches as a business transaction takes place. No currency exchange; they trade straight across – clothing for kitchenware. Like they would have back in the old days.

"How do you know what's worth what?" He asks, frowning.

"We could figure out the hours I suppose, but it's a matter of what's needed. My family needs warm clothes this winter and her family needs a set of dishes and mugs to eat and drink. We're both better off, so there's what it's worth right there." Jo's neighbor nods.

Sid falls silent, picks up his notebook, and starts jotting. Their conversation turns to committees they are both on, shoptalk details that could last all afternoon. Sid excuses himself to wander off for a walk.

Adjusting to the pace, he ambles slowly down a wide street, under the boughs of oak trees. The age of the village shows with heritage sites from long ago. The street's name is St George, and it is lined with mature houses, a brick court house, and then a hill where the French built Fort Anne, the sign says, on a point looking out over the waters, cannons ready. He wanders about, sniffing the ocean, thinking of going to sea, of living on a boat instead of a van.

Back at the house, the girls are taking their afternoon tea in the driveway. An extravagant assembly of plastic teacups sit on a shoebox with arrangements made for three.

"Hey Uncle Sidney.

"Hey Sami."

"We told Monique about our new playground."

"Oh, is she excited, like you?"

"She said it's not new. She played there before."

"Oh really." He listens closely.

"They had a swing." Sheizi says shyly. "Old board with scratchy ropes."

Sami shakes her head in agreement, and then reveals more.

"We told her about muuch cones. For bigradable garbage."

"What did she say?"

"She says pigs."

"Pigs?"

"Pigs eat bigradable. They eat it all up."

"Hmm, really, pigs."

The girls laugh, and Sid smiles, shaking his head slowly, until the head shake becomes a nod. If a family had pigs, there would be no garbage, but that was like the simpler times of the past, maybe back before the happiness peak of 1957. Would a return to the decades past be a return to wealthier ways of living? It should at least make more room for greener pastures and forests, a revival of Sid's church, from those days.

###

They sit around the supper table later.

"You had a long visit with your neighbor."

"She needed to talk and she needed me to listen. That's what friends are for, you know that."

He nods, knowing she's right.

"Buddha teaches right action."

"Oh, is your friend a Buddhist?"

"You know, everyone is a little bit of a Buddhist. We're all enlightened to some extent or other." Jo waves her hand around.

"Even Franco?" He can't help himself.

"Yes, I suppose, even Franco. Like I said, to some extent or other."

She passes a plate of chicken, with local organic vegetables, she says. A health food freak would be happy out in the small town like this.

"Aren't Buddhists vegan?"

"To some extent, brother, remember no one's perfect." Jo keeps her peace.

Rocking back on two legs of an old wooden stool, Sid watches her later in the clay room, putting the finishing touches of paint on a dinner set and laying out blocks of fresh clay for the new order. Jake throws the clay, she told him, and I do most of the painting. A twitch of thunderstorm dances around the room, a silent flash of lightning.

"Was there ever a playground in that park before?"

"Maybe long ago, not since we moved here."

"Maybe back in Grandpa's day. Hey, Grandpa would be happy with you, you know, I think he'd be really happy you're doing what you love to do."

"Oh come on. He never gave a rat's ass about other people. He never knew what happiness was, and especially for someone else."

"To some extent, remember what you said. Grandpa Pawlo had to be a little bit enlightened too. You know, I've been thinking, he was sort of our leader, our flagman, cause he's part of the reason we're where we're at, so we can look for happiness. He gave us the circumstances."

She looks at him, eyes narrowing. Then with a sigh she settles quietly. "Yes, I suppose. He did write some poetry."

"If he didn't survive the tough life and immigrate over here, we wouldn't have what we have." Sid goes on. "So it was a jumping off point for us. He went against the grain of his tradition, his family, and you know yourself how tough that can be."

Jo starts humming, slicing a strip of clay into pieces the same size.

###

Over the next few days, Sid finds himself so relaxed; he fears he'll fade out into a puddle of tranquility all over the floor. Jake returns, and takes him out for a bit of excitement, on a sea kayak paddle around the bay. They follow the tide, first up the river, and then as the tide reverses, they float downstream on a free ride along with the harbor seals.

Perhaps it's the shock of just too much unaccustomed calm, as late one night, Sid half wakes from a dreamless sleep, unable to doze off again, yet neither can he wake up. He stumbles into the kitchen, pouring a cup of tea, still cold from the night air, and then wavers over to look out at the park, misty with moonlit fog. Feeling some vague pull for a breath of freshness, he steps awkwardly down the stairs, hand on the wall, creak creak, and out the front, cup firmly held in hand. Staring into the fog, he watches beams of moonlight sneak through here and there. If only those swings were set up, he would go for a little ride.

Then, against the hum of silence, it's almost like laughter out there, it's way too late, but like a child's silliness, and the swish of swings on their tethers, and ecstatic moments of free-fall. No, there are no swings yet, he tells himself. He turns back; he has to get back to sleep. But tiptoeing through the sales floor, a warm glow reaches out to him from around the shelves, stretching up to hold his hand as he makes his way up the stairs. The colors around take on a hue of gold for an extended moment, like they have only on occasion before. He falls into a deep sleep right away, waking well rested. No recall of sultan this morning, but it feels like the well is a little less empty.

###

Sami comes along this time, for a ride to the airport. They stand waving as he walks towards his boarding gate. He waves back, feeling a wrench inside. He should go to sea, park his boat in the harbor by the fort. Village peace will be soon lost, never to be found again back in the city.

He slides into his seat, looking out at the tarmac. The big thing is: are they rich? Especially, is his sister rich? Had Grandpa Pawlo's emigration efforts proved themselves out, even further than he could ever have imagined back when he slept behind the cow? He thinks so, 'cause though Jo certainly doesn't have the trappings of Franco, she exudes a wealth of contentment he strives to know better.

He drifts off, wondering about the cousins yet to visit. If all turns out well, this trip isn't over yet.

Chapter 10

He loops around another gravel lane in the trailer park. A high pitched yipping starts as he pulls up in front, but he rings the doorbell anyway, to add a human signal of arrival.

"Hey Amy, you're home ... I wasn't sure." He grins. "Haven't seen you since the reunion." The dog sniffs eagerly at his pant leg, wagging itself into a frenzy like a hula hoop dancer.

"Hi Sidney, come in come in." She turns to the canine, pointing. "Clyde! Go lay down!" Her cousin's nerves settle as her voice softens. "It's too bad. Bryan is at work and I just walked Nicky and Annalise to school. But, come on in. We can sit in the front room." Clyde decides to go lay down wherever they're going, and follows them, paws trampling through the jumble of shoes.

"So the kids are OK? Bryan is working? Yah, sorry, I have to get to Calgary yet today. Glad you're home though; rumour has it you fly international."

Amy smiles contentedly. She offers tea or coffee, heading into the kitchen.

"Really, I hear you went to California." He calls after her. "Did you see Andy when you were there?"

"I only went for lunch, just a day, yah ... he said he would meet me there."

"So did he?"

Amy is silent as she comes out with the tea.

"Yah, I saw him at the Marriot ..."

"So you did go to San Francisco, but just for one day you say?"

"That's what Jessica does," she says, "so Bryan wanted me to go for just one day. He wanted me to have a day just like her. She has so much money; she can do just whatever she wants, whenever she wants."

The whole thing had been Bryan's idea. Try it, he persuaded, go see for yourself what's there. Maybe he had tired of hearing her talk about the television show, or maybe he just knew what she needed to do, Sid thinks. An understanding man, and also a practical one in ways. He put in some overtime at the warehouse to pay for the trip, yet he insisted she go for just one day, to be truly frivolous.

###

Tension hung thick that morning. Vying forces tore at her from all directions as she rode the bus to the airport. She pulled her ticket from her purse a couple times, Delta Airlines – Flight 483, that's what it read.

She carried her one small bag, looking straight ahead as she navigated her way through the light crowds, shivering with excitement, yet nervous as scenes of her hero Jessica ran and then reran through her head.

Sitting by the boarding gate, she listened to others chatting of faraway places. An airport worker, in a blue and gold uniform, released the red cloth strap from a metal post, allowing a line-up to form to check in luggage. The clips of Jessica waiting for her flight ran a close overlap with her own reality now.

Still, she felt a little awkward as she pulled a sandwich from a crumpled paper bag. She glanced around as she ate, careful to brush a crumb from her skirt. Maybe her food wasn't the most refined, but she could see grubbiness among others; she certainly dressed better than some, and she sighed with satisfaction at that.

###

"So you feel better because of how you dress?" Sid cuts in.

"Ohh, yes, I felt sooo much better." She shakes her head. "Like Jessica. She has the nicest clothes, and she's always sure of herself." Amy laughs as she recalls. "But I think, maybe I was just insecure." She looks sideways at him. "You know, I've always had a knot in my stomach, kind of an empty spot, you know what I mean?"

Sid nods, listening to the little inner voice whisper aha. Maybe that's what drives her, and him, and most others. The emptiness. Perhaps a good set of inner feelings, a well full of water, would be a worthwhile investment. In place of the clothes on the outside, instead of the booze on the inside. If a person knew those good feelings were possible, they might be motivated like gold rush miners crossing a mountain pass in a blizzard. If they knew how, if they could get their empty well at least half full, what might that be worth?

She goes on, and Sid leans back, sipping his tea.

###

As she ate her lunch, Amy's discomfort grew. She wanted to be somewhere else. But she sat tight. Thoughts of home, husband and children kept coming to her, and she swallowed deep. She was happy, she tried to tell herself. But she couldn't help feel her hand move to her belly, her aching emptiness.

Finishing the sandwich, she stuffed its plastic wrap back into the bag, pulling out a banana and a pop bottle of trailer water. Exotic soda soon. Finished eating, she slid the paper bag and bottle onto the next seat. This was her life so far, she thought, looking at the refuse, and pursing her lips, she rose up and walked away.

"Any luggage?"

"I need my bag with me." Her brow creased.

"Carry on, OK. Passport please."

"I have a birth certificate. They said that was all I need ..." The crease deepened.

"Can I see it? And a driver's license then."

She got her boarding pass, and she knew what that was for.

"Thank you." She brightened, mimicking Jessica's smile she had seen a thousand times. Her smile came with her through customs into the air-conditioned hallway leading to the boarding gate. Nicer décor than her trailer. But such line-ups. She sat anticipating, looking around. A mother alone kept her children close, and Amy's heart thumped. She looked the other way – this was her time – she stood and walked to a far window, humming, then back to board. A scanned pass in hand, she followed the hallway that surprisingly ended. A set of stairs. This wasn't right. She descended, astonished to find herself outside in the breeze.

"I'm looking for a Delta flight." Her voice quivered. The attendant pointed out across the tarmac. Wow, Jessica always had a boarding gate extension.

She climbed the stairs up to the jet; only four seats wide. On well, a jet at least. The stewardess dressed well, as she demonstrated emergency doors to exit. Amy listened attentively, feeling more uneasy. She put her bag under the seat in front of her, as the stewardess instructed. No one sat beside her when the door closed, but the children's voices were close.

The jet pulled beeping out on the runway and as it accelerated, Amy whooshed back to the Carnival ride in town one summer. The bumpiness disappeared abruptly when the wheels lifted. She watched her city diminish, becoming a bunch of toy houses and cars. She strained to see her trailer, wanting to wave for a moment. The city fell behind, replaced by grain fields, bush and sloughs. She spotted an old church at a grid road corner.

Carnival that Saturday, then church that Sunday. She was ten years old. The neighbours pulled up beside her family's car in their new Cadillac. She watched the neighbour girl push the shiny door opened, as the rust fell off her own door. She waved, and Tina waved back, smiling in a strange way. Later that day she first felt the knot. She asked her mother about Tina's shining car, but she never really got an answer. Just a seed of emptiness.

She forgot about that day, but the seed, now planted like a secret weed, lay dormant, waiting, but not long. She saw other cars, and houses, and the ways of people, fertilizer for the feeling over the years, all while she was busy just trying to live. She only wanted to be happy – to live a full life. She knew that. Now she had her own children, but the seed had matured in the background. Could she ever snip it off, or better yet dig it right out?

Well, she settled back, now thanks to her husband, she was on her way to discover the wonders of Jessica at the Marriot. There would be the shear for the nasty weed.

She had to focus; she wished there were no children on the plane. Their freedom pushed as a fresh flower up beside her weed of emptiness, beside herself as she had been, until that day at church. Not a care in the world, just like her own kids.

The stewardess came by with the drinks cart. She couldn't remember; a list of free items had been mentioned. She would refuse, no matter what they offered, just to be sure. Tomorrow, for lunch at the Marriot Hotel, then she would drink whatever caught her fancy.

"A glass of water please."

"Snack mix?"

"How much are they?"

"Complimentary."

"Oh, sure."

She opened the little package, eating it all except for the pretzels – she hated pretzels. Don't waste, her mother told her what she herself was told by Grandma. Eat everything on your plate she told her kids too – and then she slowly drank the bottle of cool water. The deep hum of the engines droned in the background, punctuated with that children's laughter.

She sighed, glancing out the window as the plane passed through a bank of fluffy white mist. Like the clouds of heaven from church, a church that gave so much to her sister and mother, why not her? Where was Peter at the Gates, right here, right now?

She looked down again, at the bare hilly land and scattered trees. Tiny clouds floated below, how strange. A creek meandering along a valley took her to teenage years. The boys at school pulling up in shiny new trucks, others with old junkers. She went for rides with new truck boys and she kind of liked the plush seats. When she met Bryan though, his kindness touched her in spite of his rusty old truck, and his became the one. Plush seats or not, only with her future husband had she gone for a ride down by the creek. No one else.

Excitement began battle with droopy eyelids, until the jet lurched slightly. Salt Lake City announced the pilot. Below, a big lake came into view with low mountains poking out from the surface, forming islands along its shores.

Ahead, the city spread out to the mountains in the distance and the green grass and trees lay softly between industrial warehouses. Bryan must be at work now. Green highway signs became readable and the dry land around the airport melded into pavement as she watched the jet's shadow touch the jet with a jerk. The children resonated their vocal cords in tune with the engines, as the plane slowed down to automobile speed.

Amy grabbed her bag, fitting well as a jet set woman, traveling light. The signs guided her well, like a barbwire fence the cattle follow, to the next departure gate. A couple hours wait here. The sun set gently over the lake.

She watched the planes take off and land, just for practice, but this wasn't the right view, not yet. She just wanted to get on with the trip. Finding a seat close to her departure gate, she tried to relax.

The new plane, this time with a boarding gate, was a real jet, six seats wide and twice as long. From another window seat, she glanced quickly out into the dark Utah night.

One of the stewardesses, her hair up, had cute earrings and a little sapphire kerchief around her neck. Now she dressed like Jessica in a way. The jet was almost empty, except for first class. First class people are late night travelers with loose schedules and exciting lives, just like Jessica.

The big jet backed away from the boarding gate, smoothly. Amy half listened now to the instructions on life-vests and oxygen masks. The lights went out as the jet taxied; this take-off would be in the dark. Her ears grew accustomed to the higher pitched whine of this real airliner. Finally the jets roared, a Carnival moment, a little bump and they were off; she felt like a night bird looking down on city lights. A freeway with tiny headlights flowing past each other. Yes, the jet set life, she thought, looking up the dimly lit aisle at her mysterious fellow travelers. On the way to San Francisco, the California city on the sea. And no children.

Amy diverted her gaze upward, seeing romance in the constellation laden sky, the reflection of a flashing light bouncing along the jet's wing to the white light shining at its tip. The jets roared with a power that brought the smiling face of Jessica to mind. Her dreamy silence was broken.

"Something to drink?" The stewardess flashed a radiant smile.

"Water?"

Another bottle and a bag of pretzels. All pretzels. She left them.

How young, beautiful and popular Jessica was, how she had everything, everything money could buy. Jessica, for sure, was happy. Always. She put her hand on her stomach. Jessica would have no knot for sure. Amy felt a tingle of anticipation. Then, so rested, or exhausted, she dozed off.

Popping ears made her swallow, and groggily she looked out at small town lights. But the lights multiplied as rapidly as her heart beat faster. The city revealed itself, looking so mysterious, with low clouds obscuring patches of streetlights. An ocean front city spread out over hills, like an endless ant colony.

A new smell permeated the jet. Whether from the ocean or the city, she didn't know. As her jet pulled up to dock, she saw jets from Singapore, Thailand and Italy; from all over the world.

Amy disembarked slowly, savouring every moment as she walked out into the cool humid air. Asking an attendant, she found her way to the shuttle bus – now Jessica would have had a chauffeur pick her up or at least a taxi – but Amy hopped the evening bus to Jessica's favourite hotel.

Time stood still as she walked through the front doors, every tassel on the doormen's suits waved her in as they elegantly held the door for her entry. Like walking in on the Cinderella party of her life. Everyone there was dressed to the nines, her long sought world opening arms of welcome. A receptionist found her reservation, and she slowly found her way up to the fifth floor. Enthralled, but exhausted, she threw her bag on the bed, washed her face in the bathroom and crawled under the warmth of the covers, a little clammy in the ocean air, and drifted off into a dream filled sleep.

###

Come morning, she gradually awoke from not just pleasant dreams, but knot-free dreams, filled to the brim with cheerfulness. And with the humidity in the air still there, confirming the reality of wonderland, she played the role of Jessica on an ordinary day when the sun always shone, when a strong thread of wonder consistently wove together the fabric of life.

She had arrived.

She peeked through the curtains for a view of the ocean, and its magical shimmer. San Francisco Bay, she just knew it. But thick foggy clouds blocked out the sun, and missing were the rolling ocean waves, the Bay instead lay totally still ... covered with some kind of seaweed or floating mire. Her smile dimmed, but only slightly, her inner enthusiasm holding. This was the place; she had seen it a thousand times.

She stepped from the morning shower, wrapping a towel around her hair and pulled out her hair dryer. She lay back on the bed, to rest for a moment. She would look for Andrew, he said on the phone he would be there.

Amy smiled through mistiness on the elevator down. With her own eyes, she now saw the Bay, through each and every window, where Jessica gazed with her recovered gleam of delight. At one window, Amy gasped lightly, knowing at the moment she herself was really there, the place where she had seen it happen. She strolled slowly along under a lofty ceiling, through the open-air social space, and then turned through the doors to the walkway along the Bay. She leaned lightly against a modest sea wall, breathing in the sea air, lifting her arms to invite the sky to cut her knot free. Beyond the sea wall, a tidal mud flat stretched out to meet the lapping wavelets.

Walking along the seaside path, she thought of lunch, pestered by Grandma's voice telling her to find a cheaper place – the food would be just as good. She passed a burger salad walk-in. No Grandma, not this time. She strolled back to the Marriot, determined, circling to the front door to replay the arrival, allowing the doormen to once again greet her entry. She almost melted this time.

Again, she walked gracefully, slowly, down the spiral staircase, looking out over the casual seating where Jessica sometimes met a friend. People lounged casually on couches, chatting with their companions about events in their wondrous lives. She focused for a second, glancing at the wall clock. Half way down the stairs she spotted Andrew, slouched back with his feet kicked up on a stool.

Amy waved, calling his name. But the din of the chatter under the vaulted ceiling muffled her voice. Not until she walked right up on him did he push his sunglasses up to greet her.

"Hi Andrew. It's me, Amy, your cousin."

"Amy. I was hoping I would find you." Andrew sprang to his feet, smiling through glassy eyes. He wore a classy suit, like Jessica's friends, but when he rose, the scuffs and wrinkles stood out, Amy noticed. "Where's the restaurant? I'm famished."

###

"So you met Andy." Sid broke in. "How's the guy doing?

"Oh Sid, I'm not really sure," Amy looks guiltily over her tea. "He talked, but I was so nervous, I don't know if I heard what he was saying."

"You said he was dressed in a nice suit. Did he seem happy?"

"I don't know, Sid. I mean, it almost looked like he slept in that suit the night before. I remember I wanted to iron his shirt right there."

###

A sign hung over the entrance to Jessica's restaurant. The American Grill; they must have changed the name for Jessica's show. Amy was delighted when they found a table looking out the window over the Bay. The window's edge blocked out the mud flats, creating a view of life the way it should be.

As the two cousins settled in, Amy looked around, noticing families and a couple of businessmen. They all seemed to be eating the same thing, some kind of buffet. Children scurried about under one table. Amy ignored the buffet, she would have lunch from the bill of fare and she asked for two lunch menus from the Latin waitress. With the noon hour sunshine beaming, she inquired after her cousin.

"A little tired today, but hey, this should revive me." He seemed nervous. "I drove up the coastal freeway last night."

The waitress returned.

"Yes, I'll have an Allie's Shrimp Louis Salad", said Amy.

"Yes Miss. Anything to drink?"

"A Banana Daiquiri, please"

"And you sir?"

"Steak and fries. And a whiskey on the rocks. Canadian whiskey." Andrew calmed noticeably.

Amy relaxed more herself when he asked of Saskatchewan. She listened to his talk of California, but couldn't help catching a few words from the businessmen. The inner workings of the business world Amy supposed. Jessica had some friends that were in business, always high-ended business where deals were exciting and fulfilling; ones that financed their exquisite lifestyles. These ones talked quite softly, in hoarse voices, that in a lull somehow echoed over so Andrew noticed too.

"... he was driving pissed, man. The cops busted him for that, then they found out what he was carrying. He got six years ..." She heard the words clearly now.

Andrew's eyebrows shot up, like he understood more. Must be a casual part of their lives, Amy decided, not their real business. Then a pair of well-dressed women, classy, walked over to the men's table. They chatted about club Monaco. Yes, that's more like what happened for Jessica; she knew a lot of men. A cell phone rang, and one of the men excused himself.

Amy focused back on Andrew, still seeking to feel Jessica's secrets. As she nodded at her cousin, she saw past Andrew swirling ice around in his glass. The mud flats shrank as the tide advanced. Gentle turquoise waves lapped up on a white sand shore. Tiny ripples with a tinge of magic. Jessica's world, right there.

Andrew relaxed more when the businessmen left. But then Amy couldn't help but hear the family, and she realized what Jessica's life never included. Amy's enchanted forest threatened to topple as she wondered how Jessica could be happy without children's laughter.

When she finished her Allie's Louis salad, she felt delightfully content, even full. Could it be the feeling she sought, or just the feeling of a good healthy meal like Grandma made for Grandpa Paulo. The wailing and chatter of the children filled in as background noise with little musical songs, she listened closely – Christmas songs. In August! Andrew chatted on. Then quite abruptly, he pushed his chair out.

"I have to get back to LA today, sorry Amy; it was really nice to see you."

"Remember the next reunion." Amy reminded him. "It would be great to see you at Sahiya again."

Andy's hazy eyes struggled to clear. "Yes, that sure was one cool weekend. You guys were really great to be around." He stood up, putting his third glass to his lips to drain the last of it. "Take care, Amy."

"Goodbye, Andrew. Thanks for meeting me."

Amy turned back to the window, the jet airliners coming into San Francisco International. They flew straight up the long pier, the same pier in Jessica's picturesque background. For a moment Amy felt an inner tingling peace she couldn't describe. It all came together for that one moment. She settled back, watching people strolling along on the walkway in the now bright sun. A beautiful white jet flew in over the pier gracefully seeking its place to land. She saw a flock of seabirds skimming over the surface of the Bay. Then the sunshine faded behind a cloud's shadow. How could the wondrous feeling be so fleeting? She couldn't help thinking of her family now, her refuge. She needed a breath of fresh air.

Wandering outside again, she strolled slowly back down the seaside boardwalk, stopping to sit for a moment, breathing deep. She listened, this time to a couple of young women, well dressed, talking.

"... you want to give as much as you take ..." One said straight into the eyes of the other.

The earlier tingle ran reverse, as she somehow realized those words were part of her Marriot message as well. She sat in the sun, musing, as three jet airliners lined up for take-off. The first jet had come down the runway while the other two waited. The airplane circled completely around and began its take off, headed out from the city. Back towards home.

After the jets took off, one by one, she turned, and came face to face with her reflection in the glass wall. Who was this woman? The Golden Gate Bridge loomed in the distance, the bridge that closed each half hour session with Jessica.

Amy walked slowly back to her room. Glancing out the window, she saw once more the cycle of jets taking off and landing while another jet roared high overhead. Everything was right there, why couldn't she connect? She fell back on the bed, a tear rolling down her cheek, praying for an answer, any answer.

Packing her things in her bag, she took one last look around, feeling the moist air, sniffing the aromas it brought out. She closed the door behind her, walking past the cleanup people, playing the role most familiar to her back in her house trailer. The people behind the scenes, the ones who made the front seat view of Jessi's life possible.

Waiting for the airport bus, the voices around spoke of the everyday things. She sat relishing the California view of ocean, concrete and traffic, pondering over what she had seen. Lunch in San Francisco, all the children, the young women on the boardwalk, Andrew's glassy eyes and the businessmen in Jessica's restaurant.

The bus took her through the concrete maze of on-ramps, off-ramps and freeway pieces suspended high in the ocean air. The San Francisco International sign appeared in all its sunshine glory and she stepped off the bus to catch her flight.

On the plane, she settled in. San Francisco, how bitter sweet. Excitement around her children and husband now began to build, yet confusion on leaving the Jessica world behind. What would she do with the stomach knot now?

Amy looked across the plane through the windows on the far side. Who might be at the Marriott now watching planes taking off, who might be watching her plane as she had watched them earlier? As they taxied, she could see the hotel, red letters writing Marriot on the sandstone collared building, like a glance over the past few hours ... over the past many years.

The trip back passed with a blur of clouds, clear spaces, the great salty lake, more airport gates, walking out to a smaller jet and a drowsy, dreamy time that ended with a final de-boarding. She felt the embrace of the dry prairie air.

Bryan met her at the airport late that night. They didn't talk much as they drove through familiar streets.

"How are the kids?" Amy asked quietly.

"They're sleeping."

"Thanks." She softly touched his arm. "Thanks, Bryan, for everything."

They parked in front of the trailer. Looking at each other, knowing they had done something, not exactly hand in hand, but kind of.

Amy slept well, very well, and she remembered her dream in the morning. A bird, one that flew freely through the air; a bird that became a jet; a jet that became part of a cycle of endless takeoffs and landings; a cycle that then turned into a hamster running in its wheel.

"I told Bryan about the dream," says Amy. "When he was getting ready for work."

"What did he say?"

"He had a hamster when he was a kid. They only live for two years, you know, and he said he watched it in its wheel, for two years, just round and round."

"Right."

"So when the kids came running in, and when I looked around the trailer – the dishes, the vacuum cleaner, the lunches to make, the clothes to wash I just felt different, I never forget that _give at least as much as you take_. But you know, that knot still comes and goes."

"Yah, I know. How do you deal with that now?"

"I don't know, Sid," she says. "All I know is San Francisco is far away, I don't watch that show any more, and here I am, still living in this trailer."

"You look good though, Amy, you look pretty content."

Amy smiles broadly. Sid sips the last of his second cup of tea. He's got to be on the road soon, he's got to get back to Calgary, but there's still one more stop with Ryan.

Chapter 11

As Clyde yips, he backs the van out, waving Amy a final goodbye as he picks up his city map to find Ryan's. He's heard rumours of Ryan travelling too; maybe he flew down for lunch with Uncle Nick, just for the day. And Sid is finding a guy can go on a trip just by listening to people tell their stories, and that fits his middle-income budget. Vicarious travel.

Amy's tale sounded like a true-life gift from her husband. Some need to see the truth for themselves, to just go there. Her trailer life now puts the win-the-lottery look of contentment on her face. Taking action to seek out her fortune, she found it hidden beneath her own pillow.

As he traces the route to the scribbled address, he passes through Ryan's old neighbourhood. Those last words of Uncle Nick's ... Ksandra's drowning; there's more to it ... A few blocks further, he finds the address on an older building.

Broken red plastic tape reads Ryan Mirchuk. He pushes 104.

"Who's that?" A voice breaks up through a crackly speaker.

"It's me Ryan, Sid."

"Hey Sid. Come on in."

The door vibrates with electric charge, letting him know to pull.

He follows the numbers down a half flight of stairs to the basement. Ryan beams as he opens the door, inviting Sid to sit on the leather couch taking up half the front room. Light streams through half of a small window that frames the tires and undersides of cars parked in the back alley, casting a square spotlight on the wall.

"So what the hell?" Ryan plops himself in the matching leather easy chair, levering himself back. A glint fills his eye, like he just reeled in a big one. His voice sounds borrowed, as from some other never met cousin.

"Hey, Ryan." Sid scans his face cautiously. "I just come from Amy's. She was down in San Francisco last summer."

"Yah, I heard about that. A trip can be a good thing." Ryan seems unnaturally relaxed; almost a new level of laid back. "When did you get in?"

"Flew in last night from Jo's." Sid says. "Camped out on a quiet street last night."

"What?" Ryan says. "You should have come over."

"It was really late. But hey, fill me in on your trip."

"Ahh, yah, my trip." Ryan pauses. "Remember, Uncle Nick told me to come that Christmas? I dunno; I had a lot of bills. So I finally got it together last winter. Such a cool place. Uncle Nick is a pretty smart guy, you know."

"So you went to Costa Rica?"

Ryan's leans forward. Sid listens.

###

Ryan flew to Miami through Toronto, and over the Caribbean, to drop down into San Jose, nestled in the Central Valley of Cost Rica. At the airport he knew right away the people were as friendly as in Saskatchewan, though he didn't speak a word of Spanish. Everyone wanted to practise their English, and lots of gesturing, hand signals, right up Ryan's alley. He does a hands-talking-to-each-other for Sid.

At the baggage pick-up, a Canadian voice really jumped out.

"Hey Ryan. _Bienvenidos_."

"Uncle Nick! You gotta talk English."

"Come on, dinner's ready at the house. _Arroz con pollo_. I'm saying welcome to Costa Rica and we're gonna eat traditional, chicken and rice."

They grabbed Ryan's backpack, fishing rod strapped on tightly, and wandered out to hop in a Land Cruiser. Fresh from a crisp white winter, Ryan stared in awe at the bright green flowering landscape. Blooms all year around, Nick said, just different ones depending on the season – rainy or dry. No long days or short days, he added, the sun goes down every day at six, and comes up again at six.

They crossed a creek on a one-way bridge, real bamboo growing among the rocks. Older fishing rods were bamboo, before fibreglass, and here the stuff just grew like ditch grass. The curvy roads meandered up and down the hills of the Valley, leading them to a street lined with houses of cinderblock, with metal corrugated roofs. Third down from a huge tree Uncle Nick pulled in to a garage, and closed the steel bar door behind. Like prison, Ryan remarked. Thieves, Nick let him know.

Ryan connected right away with one son, Carlos, all language barriers forgotten. He disassembled his fishing reel, showing Carlos the parts and how it worked, all in mechanical gestures. His finger pantomimes were suddenly getting much more than just a laugh.

###

Next day, they headed down to the ocean on business. Time for work, said Uncle Nick; we're crossing the Valley; we're going to take the _autopista_. English, Uncle, said Ryan. The freeway down to Punteranus, Uncle Nick said, the fishing crew will meet us there.

"You really call this work, uncle?"

"We all have choices we can make, Ryan."

They drove through a coffee plantation, and then some sugar cane fields, between rows of trees lining the curvy secondary, jungle speckled by big houses rising on volcanic peaks above. They slowed for a village, and people walking along the highway now main street. A row of stone columns peeked around one corner, a house, huge, with men standing on the balcony in sun glasses and slicked back hair. Hey, they look like mafia, Ryan said.

###

"How big is this house?" Sid can't hold it back. "As big as the one at Witchekan?"

"Bigger"

###

They're security guards, said Uncle Nick, there is no mafia in this country. There's very little violent crime, in fact, just lots of thieving. Remember the bars? That's Norberto Verdugo's house and he hires those guys for security.

"He must of won big."

"Business, actually. A rags to riches story. Just a guy with another fruit stand, then he gets an idea, imports some apples from the north, from the U.S. and Canada. Now why would you move fruit to a place where it grows everywhere? But they were a real Christmastime hit. The whole thing is about as likely as a lotto win, but he's a local hero now."

"Hey uncle, what's a _campesino_?" Ryan asked as they passed through a corridor of white and red blooms. "Carlos laughed about them a lot."

Uncle Nick sat silent for a minute. "Well, Ryan, _el campo_ is the countryside, like anywhere out of the city." They crossed a bridge over a deep chasm, peaking down at a river far below. Nick pointed out three men precariously balanced along the top far edge, working. "Those guys could be _campesinos_. That's definitely marginal land, what no one else really wants, and they're trying to grow something there. They're the social outcasts – they get the raw end of the deal. Behind in education, the poorest of the poor, all they know is agriculture – they get the brunt of the jokes around here usually ..."

Ryan turned sideways as they came off the bridge. One of the men had a broken metal spade, while the other two merely had wooden digging sticks. Right on the edge of a row of coffee trees; the property line of a plantation abutting the ravine.

They drove down the _autopista_ , and the day got rapidly hot. Just like in the Rockies, Uncle Nick said, the lower you go the warmer, or hotter, it gets. From the cool heights down to the sweltering lowlands. They slowed at a village road and, highway wind gone; the salt laden humidity engulfed them, pasting their shirts to their skin.

Uncle Nick pulled up beside the chipped blue-faded paint of a cinderblock home. Engine off, the regular beat of the surf pounded through the jungle. The guys came out to greet them with movie length handshakes, inviting them in for coffee.

Ryan was delighted with the carefree attitudes, like a Debden house party. He added some Latin American to his gesture literacy. _Pura vida_. He didn't just learn to speak the words, he experienced them; they wove their magic through him. Excitement overrode all when he recognized fishing equipment, traps he could guess at, but not so easily the fine mesh little nets, lead weights hanging heavy, holding them down on their wall pegs. Throw nets, Uncle Nick explained, you'll see.

They ate lunch, _arroz con pollo_ again. Then a snooze in a hammock.

After siesta, they followed the trail through the jungle to the beach. The guys tossed a throw net a couple times in the shallows, just to show, walking up on the captured tiny fish. For aquariums, Nick said. They left Ryan under a tree, shaded from the tropical sun, on the rocks, casting. More than one species got hooked that day, as Ryan absorbed his lessons on local habits. Tricky to clean, those fish, bone patterns different from northern lake fish. They would have pescado with their arroz that evening.

As the sun went down, Ryan learned to ID aquarium fish from their Halloween costumes; scaly colours, stripes, dots, eye patches, fins and the way they winked at him. Wearing old running shoes to keep his blood off the coral, they told him, he walked slowly in the shallows, tossing a throw net ahead to drop down on unsuspecting schools.

Next morning found them unloading fish traps, picking out the suggested number of each species for market and releasing others to a freer, more dangerous life in the wild surf. They raced other cars up the _autopista_ , shirts drying stained in the highway breeze and mountain coolness, straight to the airport to beat the leaving plane.

The weekend took Ryan into the city of San Jose on his own, leaving Uncle Nick with some magazine writing. He's editing an article about environmentally friendly uses of tropical beaches, on suggested limits of aquarium fish to keep. Nick gave Ryan some directions, but Ryan got lost in the city. He found a nightclub, El Tiburon, and met a guy speaking broken English. The conversation turned to the realities of the drug trade.

###

Sid can't help breaking in again.

"So the guy was a dealer or something?"

"I dunno. He talked about cocaine. It won't even grow in Costa Rica, it all comes from South America. But he has connections, and they ship it through. All the money's up in the U.S."

"So he was selling?"

"Who knows. I remember Franco and Little Buda at the reunion. I just drank my _cerveza_ and listened to the stories."

###

One surprising morning a couple days later, Ryan met Pepe. The old man was out in the street shaking all passing hands, and Ryan, happening by, felt his firm grasp. Armed with _pescado_ in his vocabulary, Ryan turned the conversation immediately to the pole and line slung over Pepe's shoulder. Pescado, grin, quizzical look, point point. And he found himself invited. Rushing to the house to grab his tackle, Ryan followed Pepe off down the winding road.

The paved street, rapidly degrading to a dirt trail, led them along fence lines between fields, to the end of a row of sugar cane. Over an edge, an almost vertical corner, they plunged down a series of switchbacks clinging to the steep side of a ravine through a wild tangle of jungle. Like diving under an earth-ocean wave of vegetation, sunlight fading, hidden deeper and deeper in greenish shadows, they descended into the secret valley. Like a brand new world, cooler, wetter, wind noise replaced by a new orchestra of sound. Tiny lizards rustled through the leaf litter, birds twittered from the branches, flashing reds and yellows against the leafy green. Every bug was out for its life's performance, flying, buzzing and chirping. Silent ant strings tirelessly carried their burdens along their trails down at ground level, to and from projects on either side of the human highway.

On the way, Pepe stopped at one bush, to pick off insects with long reddish tails. For his bare hook, Ryan assumed. He showed him the lures from the north, and Pepe gave the most approval for a silver wet fly with a red curling streamer. Ryan studied the movements of these creatures of the tropical valley, calculating his fisherman's need to make his plastic mimic them for the fish.

The sharp staccato of Spanish came floating up the trail as they approached the bottom of the murky depths. The river, gurgling and churning at human voice octaves muffled the talk. The high-pitched voices were mostly younger and at play. They greeted Pepe respectfully as he led Ryan off in the direction a serious fisherman would go. Ryan felt like a fairy tale as he took his rod from its case.

Pepe squatted, pointing out the fish rising for the flies touching water's surface. Then he showed a larva clinging to the water grasses along the river's edge. He rustled the grass, and some broke loose to tumble downstream. A hatching, another fish's dinner. Minnows of all sizes made habitat of the almost clear water in the shallows, scooting in and out of their version of the depths. Ryan intuitively read the stream, and settled in. Any other version of heaven could wait as he began to cast.

###

"So you must have caught something," Sid says.

Ryan's grin spreads from ear to ear.

"Did we ever. Catch and release mostly. Pepe called them _pistas_ , they were tough little buggers; they fought pretty hard. We caught _padre-pistas_ that day too. And one _tubera_. We kept a couple nice _padres_ and took them back to Pepe's place."

"So you saw Pepe's place that day?" Sid says.

Ryan's smile twists into a puckered lower lip as he nods his head slightly. His eyes take on an exploding twinkle.

###

They climbed back out of the ravine's depths. The sunlight sent stabbing rays down, penetrating past the wind-swaying canopy, marking their targets from above. Ryan followed Pepe's spry steps on the now steep upward trail. The back of his head was pure white hair but Ryan had trouble keeping up.

Ambling along through the sugar cane, fish dangling in a bag, they crossed paths with an unknown snake that slithered under the foliage. Pepe winked, waving a don't worry signal. Ryan, in his state of wonder, hardly noticed. Back on home street, Pepe's hand was again extended, greeting the neighbors, painting expression of his contagious joy onto any world wearied face.

They came to Pepe's house, if you could at all call it that. Half the size of Ryan's apartment, a basic shack of weathered boards nailed on a loose frame. To keep the rain out, most of it anyway. Pepe gave Ryan a wooden crate for a seat, while another crate served as their table. Ryan watched as Pepe cleaned a _padre_ , mimicking the cuts on his. When he finished, he gave his steel blade to the older man, a gift in return. They baked the fish on a charcoal fire in a rusty metal box, heating up coffee in a metal can. Plantain and fresh limes with this river _pescado_ served up as the most decadent end of the day meal ever for Ryan.

Later, Uncle Nick had to give him a super shot of _guaro_ , the local sugar-cane whiskey, to calm him down. He couldn't stop talking about the day and about Pepe. Such a simple, happy, life. Unbelievable unless you see it. Is Pepe a _campesino_ , he asked Uncle Nick. If he is, he's got to be one of the cleverest, was all Nick said.

###

For those who have eyes to see, thinks Sid.

"You remember what Uncle told us at the reunion." Ryan cuts himself off this time, struggling to contain himself. "About credit cards and lottery tickets."

"Remind me."

"You know, they didn't mean a thing to Pepe. He's totally happy without them, like he won a lottery without ever buying a ticket." Ryan does a hand-is-a-happy-camper.

###

A few days later, Ryan ventured back down below the green wave of jungle to the fisherman's sanctuary, to ply his luck with the tropical river fish. He retraced his steps through the tropical landscape, whistling all the way.

Carefully tugging his lure through the eddies, focused, he noticed another hook and line bobbing along, looking just like Pepe's. He twisted to trace his eyes along the line back to its source, to its owner, but he couldn't turn far enough. Frowning, he stepped back, and turned to make a stand, to protect his secret spot as any fisherman should with lies. Then he melted into a puddle as his eyes took in a most stunning sight. Completely unexpected, a pretty young woman stood smiling shyly at him.

Ryan almost dropped his fishing rod when she spoke in English. It turned out she was a tour guide, speaking the language of the north as a basic necessity. And she came from the same town, she knew Uncle Nick to see him, but more amazingly, Pepe turned out to be her great uncle. He had taken her down to the river many times, just like he had taken Ryan.

Ryan found himself caught up in talk of hooks and fins, the sign language of her great uncle replaced, but another body language mixing with the fishing words now. She squatted beside him, close, showing him patiently a new hatching, then catching his eye. She looked away, smiling.

They walked together back to town, past her house, bigger than Pepe's but still average. Yolanda offered to show Ryan around other parts of the Valley. Some turned out to be fishing spots, and some didn't. He learned a short version of Yolanda, Yolita, which she preferred from Ryan after a while.

###

"So you have a long distance girlfriend now?" Sid says.

"Yah. I wanna go back down. We talk on the phone once in a while and I'm actually writing letters. Yolita's really cool. I never met anyone like her."

The sunshine pours through just a sliver of the little window now, marking a bright rectangle further along the wall.

"I gotta go, gotta make it back to the city today."

The cousins shake hands – a long firm grip – and Sid climbs the half flight of stairs to wander out to his van. As he fights to keep a half-focused mind on finding the way to the Rosetown highway, he can't help wondering about this almost new cousin.

He's seen significant changes in people before, in AA meetings, people who find a whole new way of living. Serenity appears in their eyes as life takes on new meaning in the no-longer-drinking talk of these spiritually awakened, like miracles. Sid has come to believe changes like these could happen to anyone at any time, why not, the author of the Big Book speculates something similar. His cousin appears to stand as confirming evidence.

###

"So you stayed in Saskatoon for a day. Tell me about the cousins." Jo says later on the phone.

Sid tells what he's heard of Amy's trip to San Francisco, and her imagined trip to live like Jessica. Jo listens more attentively than she usually would. She seems to be quite interested in their cousin's excavation of the television truth. So Sid lets her know about Ryan's adventures as well.

"So he's got a girlfriend now. That'll be good for him." Women seem to believe strongly in the profitable goodness of romance. Sid has given it a try a few times, a hit and miss investment for him.

"Yah, he seems to be learning a lot from Uncle Nick. And if he hadn't gone to visit Uncle, he never would have met Yolanda."

"So what else did he learn from Uncle Nick, oh seeker of the true meaning of wealth? Maybe love is wealth, could it be so?"

Wondering what to say, Sid speaks carefully while his eyes glaze over. "Well, he says it's the last time he's going to use credit cards. He actually cut them all up. We'll see if he gets new ones I suppose, but he really has moved to a smaller apartment, so he's spending less frivolously on his place." The haze clears a bit to the new idea. "Yah, love, romantic love, that could be a type of wealth. But it would have to be some kind of true love, wouldn't it."

"Oh yes, real love." Jo's voice becomes dreamy. "The kind that everyone knows matters the most."

Chapter 12

The phone call comes out of nowhere, and astonishment rides high when he picks up that day. The long days of June have arrived, marking the third summer since the Sahiya reunion. _Still kinda looking_ ... is the way he describes his search for the meaning of wealth to his friends, if ever they ask. Many little drama distractions have set in. But this call sounds like a voice echoing out from the grave, where it should by all rights be, though it resonates with a vigour claiming life, tinted with even a hint of cheer. He listens, struggling to picture the face, and still he has to ask again.

"Uncle ... Harry?"

"Yah, it's me, Sid."

"So you're here in Calgary?" Bewilderment fades gradually into acceptance.

"I'm in Claresholm ... at the AL treatment centre. I haven't had a drink for ... well, it'll be three weeks Thursday."

"No shit." Sid whispers under his breath. "Hey, that's great Uncle. In Claresholm, right on. How long are you there? I could come down for a meeting." Sid remembers his own treatment centre days a few years back.

"OK, well there is a meeting this Sunday, if you're not too busy. This is my first few days in this damn place. I had to quit for a couple weeks before they'd let me in ..." Harry tells some of his story.

Sid looks out the kitchen window, while his uncle talks. The weather has been a rolling script that day. A hot morning to start, it switched an hour ago as a cold front swirled in and the temperature dropped sharply, and now, raindrops are turning to large drifting snowflakes. High country surprises punctuate the sunshine of this big sky country.

Not going just on Harry being his uncle, Sid has learned to be there for any AA request. Step 12 tells each member clearly their own option to stay sober directly depends on helping others. The 12 steps lead one to, in Sid's terms _invest_ in God's will, and for him it's been a growing proportion of his portfolio. Doing God's will pays off first of all with sobriety and after that, a much better life; how much better being the operative here. Of course anything short of the minimum leaves one back looking up from the filthy gutter. _You can't keep it if you don't give it away_ , the AA posters inform.

"What time's the meeting? I could come down for lunch or something ..."

"OK, well meeting's at seven. So how about eating out before?"

"Sure Uncle Harry. I'll be there at five thirty, how does that?"

"OK, Sidney. See you then."

"One day at a time, Uncle."

He puts the phone slowly down, watching snowflakes settle on blades of green grass. And what would this be about? Wealth, and its possibilities come flooding back in a rush. He senses this serendipitous contact with Uncle Harry is an offer of a new option on the spiritual trading floor. A new source of potential for an astute trader. A spiritual awakening or even a little miracle seems in the making, another AA story coming together. Sid has heard many, a trip to a living hell, a bounce into AA, and a transformation into productive members of society. Big payoffs ... well for some. Some don't bounce at all, they decide to die instead, quick or slow. But for the bouncers, how could one measure the increased value, the profit, the returns?

He rests his elbows on the kitchen counter, staring out the back window. Graphing the downs and then peaks would show the contrast. Human capital, the education and skills people acquire to apply to society through productive lives, he read it somewhere. How much value, how much human capital does a salvage operation capture by rescuing an entire life from the wreckage of self-destruction? Yah, the borderline touchy question of the value of human life.

The snow scatters light as a sunbeam breaks through the clouds. A sparkle pokes him lightly, and he picks up the phone again to dial.

"Hey Jack. How's it goin'?"

"Sid. Sober today. You?"

"Same. Hey, I just got a call from my uncle. He's in Claresholm believe it or not. You got time for a meeting Sunday?"

"Sunday, yah sure. What time?"

"Pick you up at four?"

"Sounds good. See you then, buddy."

The sun battles the cold mountain winds. Maybe Higher Power has decided to pay the family a dividend, an unexpected market valuation. Has someone done something so good in God's eyes that He's passing out dividends? Does God have accountants, and a payback system? There's oodles of AA evidence, where one who bounces out of hell, conditional on having those 12 steps in hand, is almost guaranteed the better. Before and after is like night and day, like a fund during and after a recession. Kind of a payback, a reward for conditional behaviour.

###

Sid picks Jack up that Sunday afternoon, and they banter back and forth on the highway.

"... some say the 12 steps come from the Bible," says Sid.

"Well that could be. The 12 steps are based on the 6 steps of the Oxford Group ... with the same basic principles. Do a moral inventory on yourself, make amends for past wrongs. Clean house and let God in. And the Oxford Group was a Christian movement. Same with the Washingtonians before them and they had a hundred thousand sober. They just didn't have the 12 traditions we have, so they didn't last."

"I gotta tell you Uncle Harry grew up with religion. Catholic. His sisters are believers, always have been," Sid glances over at his friend. "So we better not talk about religion unless he brings it up."

"Yah, I know, we just listen. And I can tell my own story; what it was like, what happened and what it's like now."

"You said you were reading the Bible though, right?"

"Ahh some, and mostly just the New Testament. I go to meetings and read the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous, that's where I find my truth."

Sid has to reiterate what his aunts and cousin Jamie told him about wealth in the Bible. This isn't the first time; of course, his friend has heard all this before.

"Man, Sid, you never gonna stop with that spiritual markets idea."

"I feel like some new evidence is gonna show ..."

"I mean, the idea does make some sense. Let me think, OK for me, I have some retirement funds and I guess you could say I have AA investments too. Like the two guys I sponsor, they're my spiritual mutuals, I suppose. My one guy, let me tell you, is a pretty volatile investment." Jack grins. "He's right on the edge of drinking, so many times, then he just bounces back and his serenity hits the roof. A real equities fund. The other guy is a lot more like a values fund or even bonds. Slow steady growth."

Yes, Sid smiles to himself, he can get this kind of talk going again, start a spiritual market chat-group, a web page, get others to join ...

"So what do you think is more valuable in God's eyes? The returns on your retirement funds or the two sponsees and their spiritual progress?"

"Yah, right, heavy question ... I mean I have to retire some day, so I need to have a future income. I don't wanna be a burden on the world. God as I understand Him wouldn't like that. But I gotta help these guys help themselves too, for my own sake, and it is a better world if we replace active drunks with recovering ones." He thinks for a moment. "These guys improve based on the spiritual and supposedly they start helping others, I dunno. God wants both investments, the way I see it."

Sid can't help talking about the story of true life, again, the truth in life coming from sharing time and resources, but Jack has heard it all before.

"Yah, yah, OK, buddy. We've got the seventh tradition in AA – self-supporting through our own contributions. When I was drinking, I wouldn't give you the time of day. Things changed, last year I even made a donation to 1835 house. And your uncle's getting our time today. I mean, helping him helps us too, we know that, but that's not the only thing that drives us, at least not me. So alcoholics get spiritual, not drinking any more; then I get to know God's will and that makes me a volunteer and maybe a bit of a giver. This sober life is true life in comparison to the way it was – no question in my mind."

"Really, so you'd say you've got the Biblical true life now?"

"The way I see it, Sid, is the life I live now has me sleeping good at night. I feel free of guilt and pretty damn happy most of the time. I'm nowhere close to perfect so I gotta keep close watch, and make amends for my mistakes, but if this is true life, I'll take it any day. I can't explain why, but I'm really looking forward to helping out your uncle."

There's Jo, and here's Jack, each of them following religious teachings, even though they aren't really religious. For those with special ears that somehow hear.

###

They pull into Claresholm and turn off at Merv's Gas. A few blocks from the highway, they park below a line of large black poplars growing around the low one-story buildings. Trees that don't really belong on the southern prairies, like alcoholics don't really belong in any normal crowd when they drink.

As they stroll into the cafeteria, a man waves one hand high, hanging on to a coffee cup with the other. Sid struggles to see family in the face. So many years, and so many stories hammered out on the Uncle Harry anvil, just don't match the bright-eyed man who greets them now.

"Hey Sidney. Over here."

"Uncle Harry?" As dim memories congeal, Sid vaguely picks out a trace or two of Mirchuk. "This is my friend Jack. He's been sober a while."

Uncle Harry pumps their hands, grinning. They walk out, and drive over to where the highway doubles as Main Street. The McNeil Restaurant, downtown Claresholm. Little posters all over the walls advertise the fare.

Over lively discussion they stuff themselves with the daily special. Then they wait for a coffee refill. "So now you know mine and Jack's stories. You can tell us yours if you want, Uncle. What made you quit?"

The far off hurt look in Uncle Harry's eyes mirrors Uncle Nick when he talked of his past. A hint of anger curls its lip and bars its teeth, like a canine recalling a boot. Harry holds silent for a moment as he looks first at Sid, then at Jack.

"OK, OK." He speaks in a low voice. "Well I drive out of town that day just to get away. I have a half jug of Crown Royal in my one hand and my twelve gage pump in the other. And I'm not out duck hunting 'cause it's the middle of spring." Harry's face wrinkles into a smile of malicious sadness. "The damnedest thing, cause I know the whiskey isn't gonna work, whatever I bring that for. So I'm standing there at the ravine wondering what the hell to do."

Sid looks knowingly at Jack. Similarity weaves its common thread through so many drinker stories. For a moment his face flashes with so much anger, it looks like he might smash their table to splinters. But Uncle Harry takes a deep breath.

"So I throw the bottle up in the air and blow the damn thing to pieces. Then I pump the second shell into the chamber. There's only one choice left." He raises an eyebrow, looking at them intently, searching for some kind of understanding.

Jack and Sid listen attentively. The common fibre weaves on; they have their own stories, and know how another alcoholic often thinks; that he or she is absolutely the only one who ever had any such problem.

"I head down the ravine to the river. I want to get away from myself so bad ..." Despair fills his eyes, his voice wavering between child and maniac. "I sit myself down under a tree. I put my thumb on the trigger and the barrel under my chin." Sid looks at his uncle's two-day facial scruff. "Screw everything. I decide right then I'm out of here ... and then, goddamn that Dennis. I'm finally ready to end my crappy life, and _he_ comes to mind. Damn him. I used to drink with the guy and he just up and quit one day. He told me about it too. So there I am, ready to check out, and all of a sudden my head's full of everything he was saying."

Harry stares at them in frustration.

"You're still alive, Harry," Jack observes calmly.

"Damn it. OK, I heave the shotgun off in the bush. I go back to town and call the guy. He meets me that day, and we talk and talk ... and talk." Uncle Harry's voice is normal again. "He's my sponsor now. He sent me here, and here I am."

"Here you are, Uncle Harry."

They finish their coffees. Harry heads off to the Men's, and Sid looks at his friend as they pay the bill.

"He's got potential," says Jack.

"Yah, I hope so." Sid knows it's hard to judge what a fresh member might do. Harry might get right into focused recovery like a steady values fund, or he just might go back to hell like an equity in a slump. Choosing investments isn't easy.

It's a good meeting back at the centre – they all are of course. Wisdom from others' experience. Harry promises to call Sid when he gets out the next week, and to take care of himself. Kind of a thin commitment from one with his history. Or any serious drinker's. But yah, he's got potential, like any listed stock.

###

The phone rings again a couple weeks later, and Sid isn't quite so shocked. Harry's in 1835, the half-way house for alcoholics getting out of treatment and back on their feet. His voice sounds even angrier than at McNeil's but at least he hasn't been drinking. He says OK to meeting Sid at Moon Bucks on 14th for coffee.

"Hey Uncle. How's things?" Sid greets his uncle.

"Ahh, I'm getting by today, one hour at a time. How 'bout you?"

"Today things are OK." Then Sid sums up the wisdom he has heard spoken in meetings. "A lot of it's because I choose for it to be OK."

"Yah, well the truth is things just aren't really that great at all, you know. This damn world is such a screwed up place. It's just not fair." Harry's forced smile fades. "I guess I feel sorry for myself a lot, that's what my counsellor tells me at 1835. We were talking about how I see a higher power.

It's that goddamn church pissing me off today, all their shit. Those stupid priests back home. They had me as an altar boy; well altar boy my ass. I snuck into the church on Friday nights and drank all the wine, 'cause I knew where it was. It's the same stuff you buy at the liquor store; I saw the labels. What a crock of shit."

"That was the Catholic Church, was it, the one in Debden?" Sid asks patiently.

"Yes." His uncle hisses. "Goddamn St Mark's. That's where they had the funeral. Screw them, I just didn't go. And now they talk about God in Claresholm. I just about puke." His breathing runs rapid now. He pauses. "But I know, I know ... it is God as I understand Him. Really, AA is a good thing. I could never get sober with religion, but these other guys and gals ... well some of them have been through this religious wringer too. So I feel like I'm not the only one." His breathing slows some as the rage slowly dissipates from his eyes.

"It's true, life is tough. Not fair either." Sid agrees, sipping his tea. "But if I let it be what it is, I can be OK. If I detach myself from the things I have no control over, my life can be a lot more peaceful."

Uncle Harry's look softens as he peers at his nephew.

"Yah, OK, well that's what they say at the house. Accept the things I cannot change. Look on the bright side. So hey, you were telling me there was a Mirchuk reunion at the lake a few years back."

"Yah, it was a great get together. I picked Uncle Nick up at the airport. He told me how you had that '55 Chevy."

Harry's face contorts into a scrimmage on the battlefield, a happy grin standing off against a roar of anger. The grin wins the first skirmish.

"Yah that car. Man those were the good times," he sighs and his grin spreads, then sours. "Then those damn guys with the speed boat came out that summer. Loli and Ksandra got hooked. They were out in that boat every day. Then they went with those guys to the city, to theatres and fancy restaurants, living the high life.

I can see why, I mean young country girls can get excited when they have what's in the magazines come right to their doorstep. I know, I gotta accept – detach. But shit! It's just not right."

Harry's face is back in the combat zone. Sid watches burning swords of pain lance his disposition, splashing out anger in spurting streams, like blood. He sees it, because he has seen it in the mirror. It takes Sid a while to figure out what Uncle Harry is saying next. After a few choice words under his breath, he sighs.

"We searched for two days. Those speedboat guys were long gone, so we used old man Chichowski's tub. We combed the whole lake. Back and forth. Even with a lantern in the night." The spurting streams of anger turn into torrents of tears running down his cheeks. "We found her in the morning, third day looking, in her red party dress. Me and Nick. She was bloated; face down, washed up in the reeds. Damn. Damn. Damn." Harry pounds his fist on the table, startling Sid and a few other coffee shop patrons. Some look over at their table, disturbed until they see the tears.

"That was Ksandra, Uncle?" Sid asks quietly.

"Yah, that was her. My beautiful teenage cousin. It was all my fault. I was twenty years old that summer. I should have done something. She didn't have to die. And not like that. I don't even know what happened. None of us did."

Ryan's old place, what Uncle Nick said ... something more to it. Maybe Uncle Nick knows more than Uncle Harry. Or maybe their sister Lola knows all.

"Life is tough." Sid nods. "Not easy, but I've learned to not blame myself for things in the past. I mean you weren't there when she went for that swim. And you weren't the only one involved. You just gotta get on with your own life. That's what they tell me in the program. You know?"

Sid's uncle looks at him through drying tears. He blows his nose on a Moon Bucks napkin, wipes his eyes on his sleeve and lifts a shaking hand to drink more coffee. The stuffed down sorrows of youth must have been packed deep. The kind alcoholics drink at, the ones crammed into a misery package of the past. A market influence bottlenecking the growth of spiritual stocks. But all stocks have growth potential.

"There was this woman in my treatment centre ..."

Sid tells a story of his own in quieter tones. Late one evening in her classy urban home, she had slipped out to the garage, and while her family slept upstairs, she started up the car and just sat there, not bothering to open the door or go anywhere. If only Sid had called her ... if only he had talked to her more. He felt so responsible at first. He had met her children, her husband at family week – her life looked so great from the outside – then the next time he saw them again was at the funeral. Why couldn't he do something, yah, if only ...

Uncle Harry, listening, has become more peaceful. Sid talks more about the reunion. All the brothers and sisters, nephews and nieces. He mentions the family tree, all of it but the branch under Uncle Harry's name. Too raw of a moment.

"They were talking about another one. Would you come?"

"You damn rights I'll be there."

Sid hopes so.

Chapter 13

He digs into his wallet to pay Barney for some border gas, then shivering, rolls up the window quickly. Fuel prices are up, but that doesn't bring his spirits down. Other value trade-offs are becoming his mainstay. Jamie's invitation to an Easter bible-study session, specifically on being rich, has the little voice dancing. Uncle Harry has been sober for the better part of a year ... maybe they'll discuss the worth of a soul. Not only that, family rumour has it Uncle Nick talked with his sister Lola, and now he's been talking to the other aunties ... some insider information is circulating.

A strong wind blowing out of the northeast churns the cloudiness of a blustery spring day. The snow layer on the fields has been melting and freezing, cycling flushes of water into the soil. Dry weather gives the grasshoppers an edge; moisture holds them at the gate and gives extra advantage to the grain. Sid taps the heater fan down a notch, as the afternoon sun emerges in a blue spot.

It would nice to find a traveler for debate or story telling on the trip, but nary a hitchhiker looks for a ride today. Understandable this time of year; early spring just lacks the exuberance of a solid-hot summer day. Anyway, peace in solitude comes with the smooth flow of highway speed, even through Rosetown.

He drives past the airport into the city. Sid hopes to squeeze in a chat with Ryan before heading to Jamie's. He'll be over at Franco's if he isn't at home, he said. When Sid drives up the red brick lined alley, the car appears to be missing. He hops out, leaving the van running, rushing around to push 104. No answer. Back in the van to head across town to the businessman's house.

Fine trimmed hedges line the driveway, only partly hiding a twin-hulled boat on a trailer. Sid looks over at the catamaran, recalling the Sahiya fishing trip four years ago; this is definitely a newer bigger boat. Tracks of ice trace down the driveway from second garage door to trailer, and he wonders if it would fit inside. Behind the boat, the motor home Jo mentioned sits parked in driveway number three, bigger than the camper trailer at the reunion. Another upwardly mobile move along the freeway.

He steps between ice patches on the sidewalk, up to ring the bronze doorbell; half imagining a servant might answer. But Franco graciously invites him to enter his home where a small purebred dog steps gingerly up to sniff at his leg.

"What kind of dog Franco?" He ruffles the ears of man's best friend.

"She's a Sealyham. A Terrier." Franco nods as they pass through the thickly carpeted front room. "Susan and the kids took Yoli over to visit my mother-in-law. Ryan and I are just having a little chat about business in the kitchen."

"Yoli? Do I know Yoli?" Sid looks at Franco as he leads them down the hall.

"Ryan's fiancé." Franco replies as they round a corner into a large open kitchen.

"Oh, no kidding? Yolita." Sid raises an eyebrow Ryan's way as he approaches.

Ryan rises from a bar stool at the dining table, grasping Sid's hand. "Hey Sid. Yah, I should have told you on the phone, but I wasn't sure. Yolita flew up here a couple days ago. Man, she doesn't think much of the cold. You gotta come to the wedding."

"Well, I'd be honoured, Ryan. Congratulations." Sid hangs on even when Ryan would have let go, slapping his cousin on the back. Ryan still seems so different from the cousin he was at the reunion, but a troubled glint dims his eye.

Franco offers to barbeque Sid a steak. The two brothers sit with an after lunch Pilsner, their plates scattered on the table covered by T-bone remains. Sid accepts.

While Franco grabs a steak from the fridge, and steps out the back door to relight the barbeque, Ryan tells Sid the latest. He indeed returned to Costa Rica, this time to visit both his girlfriend as well as Uncle Nick.

"He's getting fidgety. I think he's gonna move again. Maybe back to Saskatchewan – where he belongs ... maybe." Ryan says.

"Wild." To be expected of one with an inquisitive spirit, Sid thinks. "How about you? You gonna stay in that same place ... same job?"

"I dunno. Franco tells me to get a new place and a new job. He thinks I should go into business. Then maybe I could buy a house like this one." Ryan's eyes don't seem to match his smile.

Change appears to be sinking its teeth deeper into Ryan's life. Marriage is a big step, especially across cultural boundaries. At least they both have fishing poles. Sid hopes the best for them, raising a silent word to his version of Creator. Maybe they'll come to live like Franco and his family, shifting to the upper middle class.

Franco comes back through the door. "So I was just telling Ryan about some business propositions we have. He's got to get himself organized. At least he's not pissing it all away any more. Right brother?" Franco gives his ever-winning smile.

"Well, maybe I don't piss it away. But I'm dunno about your business either, Franco. You gotta tell me more. Uncle Nick says I can make a living doing something that's fun, something I enjoy, like casting a hook."

"No one's ever gonna pay you to go fishing. That's weekend stuff. You have to think in a family way now. Like I said, I flew to LA and talked with Robert again. He's our cousin, just like Sid here, and they have connections in Latin America. So you fit in perfect for Central America. Yoli speaks Spanish, right? Our plan is to move home entertainment equipment up to Saskatoon from LA. Now that has some real possibilities. Latin America has a transport advantage over Asia and we have good value warehousing here. So with this new initiative happening, now's the time to act. It's always best to get in on the bottom floor."

Ryan has been listening closely. "So what would I do?" He asks seriously.

"OK listen. Robert is willing to send us a container when we have it thirty percent invoiced. I'll talk to dealers and get the orders signed. You have to stay on the phone, get to know everyone, make sure things run smooth. We have to keep customers happy, so all orders have to show up on time. It'll work." Franco flourishes his persuasive smile.

Ryan puffs out a cheek, silently considering.

"So you went to LA, Franco. Was Andrew there?" Sid jumps in on the silence. "Or did you talk to Auntie Lola at all?"

"Yes, Andrew was there. He's a great guy. He introduced me to Robert the first time I went down. That was a few months after the reunion. We've been talking on the phone for a while now. Business problems, but things are smoothing out now. And they invited us in on a new initiative they're setting up. And I did talk to Lola and John too. They're doing really well." Franco speaks smoothly as he tosses salad onto the plate.

"So you were at their place in Redondo Beach." Sid says.

"I swung by to pick up Robert there. Nice place. Real nice. Aunt Lola invited me in for dinner, but unfortunately Robert had already made other arrangements. Really kind woman, our Aunt Lola."

Sid struggles to sift out the truth.

"Did you talk to Andrew?" He digs.

"The business meetings were with Robert, but yes, we had one with Andrew in his hang-out, remember, the Blue Marlin. Classy place, a few Hollywood people are regulars, but we laughed about the party at Sahiya. Great guy."

"Andrew's OK then?" Sid pushes. "I mean really."

"Oh, he is doing quite well. He's showing some interest in the Trent business. I mean, why not? His father started a lucrative enterprise. Our Uncle John gave his family everything. Andy needs to appreciate it, to get involved – you too Ryan," Franco taps the salad scoop in front of his brother. "You can move up, Ryan, into a classy apartment like your last one and something even better later. You just need to discipline yourself to this opportunity right now."

Sid sighs.

"So it's all digital stereo equipment? Like those amps and speakers we unpacked?" Ryan takes a drink of beer, looking out the window as he slowly speaks.

"There's that and more, Ryan. Full home entertainment systems with all the components, plasma screens, seating, top of the line sound ... we unpacked that sample stereo and you had it laid out for install in fifteen minutes. You understand how assembly works, brother, so you'll be able to talk the talk once you learn the lingo. You've been to Latin America now, so you have firsthand contact with the assembly plants. You just have to get to know the customers. Talk about deep-sea fishing, or ask about hockey games and baseball, whatever makes them tick. You're a naturally friendly guy and that's what we want, to be friends with our customers." Franco coaches Ryan. He steps out the back door with an empty plate, quickly returning with a sizzling steak.

Forking the steak over onto the plate, and scooping potatoes from the barbeque tin foil Sid digs into the meal, not having realized how hungry he was. He munches a slice of garlic toast as he listens to Franco.

"We have a warehouse over on Twelfth Avenue. We invoice at rock bottom prices across Western Canada. We sell the first load at cost or below – well depends how sales go of course, just to get our foot in the door. Big box retail will be our challenge, but we operate as a wholesaler, the trick is to stick with good business. Robert's a bright guy, so we put our heads together and stick with what makes good business sense, Uncle John's way of doing things. We should be distributing across the country in a year."

Ryan looks up from the mind-pictures he's been sketching with his finger on the table. He doesn't really smile, but he still has at least a shimmer of the _pura vida_ look.

"You know Franco, I met a business man a couple times in San Jose. He's knows all about cocaine." He counters his brother's proposition. "I can get a hold of the guy. We could import coke and sell it, how about that? We wouldn't need any warehouse, and we could distribute that across the country in less than a year." Ryan mimics his brother, maintaining a cool demeanor, hinting at a level of seriousness.

"Cocaine. Yah right, Ryan, never mind. Let's keep that option on the back burner. You're thinking along the right lines though." Franco's winning smile twitches only slightly. "We want to get some business going, but we have to keep it above board. You get in trouble dealing in the illegal, and that's really high risk." He doesn't seem so disturbed by the why of the illegality as the risk, treating the suggestion as just another possible transaction needing evaluation for merit.

"What about you and Andrew at the reunion?" says Ryan.

"We don't need to mention that, it was only once, and just recreational. Like having a beer. Let's focus on the home entertainment systems, all right brother?"

Sid finishes his meal, chasing it with a can of Diet Sprite, his latest drink of choice. Weaseling in a couple more inquiries into the Trents, trying to find out all he can, he finds himself listening to Franco painting an all too wonderful picture of pretty well everything in their lives. Not what Amy had said, two years ago, in her version of Andy.

The afternoon wears on as Sid listens to Franco's persistent attempts to convince Ryan. Ryan waivers at times, asking about what it would be like, but then looking out the window, he talks of Uncle Nick and what he says about living life to the fullest. If you don't worry about money so much, it's possible to have a job that's fun, and that's just the start. There's a way to do well without so much cash in the bank, or super pay checks or a huge house. Uncle Nick said so, anyway. Franco listens, that ability of his that allows him usually to get someone over to his side eventually.

Sid needs to go. He has to get over to Jamie's for the Saturday evening supper, part of the invitation. Ryan and Franco say a Debden crowd is visiting for the weekend; Sid will be eating well again yet today. He'll have to ask the aunties more about the Trents.

He leaves the two brothers talking, escorted to the door by them and the Sealyham. Outside, darkness is yet to come, as spring stretches days out into extra sunshine hours. Lots of light, but the heat comes so much later on. Summer will return though, he convinces himself longingly, as ice crystals trail his frosty breath out to the van.

Chapter 14

He approaches an old two-story home, crying hard for a fresh coat of paint. Along the curb out front, an Escort holds a spot in front of a banged up half-ton. No triple garage nor catamaran casting long shadows here, just an easygoing arm stretching out to give a visitor a warm embrace.

Auntie Teresa answers the door. She and Uncle Francis would be up for the long weekend. A family celebration of the Christ's return to life all those years back. And of course the eggs, rabbits and chocolate; some vague connection – new life, rapid proliferation? – with that resurrection after a Roman crucifixion.

"Hello Sidney. Come in, come in. We're just taking the chicken out."

"Auntie Teresa. I heard you might be here."

"Come in. Come in." He feels an extra tingle of warmth, not just the blast of furnace air from a heated home, but something more. He closes the door behind. A noisy bustle from the kitchen bursts into Auntie Anna coming out to evaluate.

"Are you working hard, Sidney?" She crinkles her face.

"Sure am." Sid gives the required grin.

"And are you coming to Easter mass?" Her lips tighten.

"You bet, Auntie, that's what I came for."

###

They crowd in around the table. Uncle Francis and Uncle Pete talk chocolate eggs with Jamie's kids, as if the Rabbit will drop some off for them too. The dinner set out will prepare everyone, practice them up, for the grand feast tomorrow, on Easter Sunday – the said morning when Jesus appeared first to crying Mary.

After lifting their heads with the Amen of grace, the uncles don't make a sound. Both wives sitting at one table bespeaks a time for a sister-sister talk. Firstly, the aunts bring Jamie into discussion of Ryan's upcoming wedding, this news having arrived far ahead of Sid. Next, the issue turns to Nick and Lola, and at this, all others chew quietly. Auntie Anna was just on the phone to California.

"So what else did Lola say?" Teresa looks across the expanse of the table.

"Like I was telling you, Nick was there for three days. That's two weeks ago Tuesday when he arrived. He was at a business conference." Anna looks up stiffly as she digs her fork into carefully arranged peas.

"Ohh, is he still in the fish business?" Teresa asks. The uncles' eyes light up, though not a murmur comes from either mouth.

"Lola said he's getting out of that now. What do you expect? They are only aquarium fish." The uncle's eyes dim noticeably. "He'll uproot himself again for some other wild speculation now; that boy just can't settle down." Anna's elbow hangs suspended, holding a fork of peas, all lined up in a row.

"Oh my, I hope he's doing the right thing. We'll just have to keep him in our prayers."

Anna frowns, then slides the row of peas carefully into her mouth.

"Still, it is wonderful they got together." Teresa's voice drops, "You know, I just got a letter from Nick today. I never had time to read it, so I brought it along."

"Sister, you must read it directly and tell me what he says." Anna's peas have disappeared as she slices her chicken into identical cubes.

"Yes, Anna, I will read it ... right away. But first I have to tell you what Lola was telling me when she called me yesterday."

###

"More chicken anyone?"

"For sure," says Francis. "Excellent meal, Jamie." Uncle Pete nods. Jamie gets up, grabbing the platter to top it up in the kitchen.

"I want a wing," calls out Jamie's daughter.

###

"Tell me Teresa, tell me what Lola said."

"Ohh, she was feeling quite down. The truth is, things aren't going so well with John."

"What do you expect? She never should have run off. I don't know what Lola was thinking back then, so young and knowing everything." Auntie Anna lifts her fork high in the air as a lecture wand.

"She was crying. She told me what it was like in that house, John's big house. He's an ambitious man, and that's the most important thing to him. The first year was nice, mind you, he showed her all around, showed her off I suppose ... but then she found out how she fit in ... to the business."

"Well ... she never mentioned this to me."

"You remember how tidy Lola was, how she did so much cleaning around the house. We never had to tell her to. So she moved into a house with fourteen bedrooms, and a galley kitchen. Can you just imagine?"

"Why hire help when you have a wife." Anna lifts her nose, shaking her head. "So she became John's housemaid."

"Yes sister, now she lives in a mansion, but she never has a moment of rest," says Teresa, shaking her head. "Vacuuming, dusting, cooking ... can you imagine ... fourteen bedrooms?"

"A very wealthy house maid."

###

"Watch, it's hot." Jamie comes back out from the kitchen.

"Mommy, where's my wing?"

"Here it is honey. Can you pass this down Uncle Pete?"

###

"So sad, sister ... still, there's even more," says Teresa, looking down at her plate, then up. "I mean it is for every wife, you know, but she says somehow she felt so cold about it. The children, I mean and what they mean to John." Teresa gives her sister a knowing look.

"Shocking," says Anna, eyes showing fire. "He needs an heir no doubt. She's lucky she had Robert first, and not a girl." Anna's eyes narrow, like a judge about to sentence maximum penalty. Uncle Pete holds both hands up in hollow fists, rattling two imaginary prison bars in front of him. Francis shakes his head in warning.

"Andrew seems like such a nice young man," says Teresa. "At least she did have the children around her, no matter what John was thinking. What a load, though, to raise three children, and to look after that house."

"I told her she was dreaming. Like a little princess with her young girl's wish."

"Well, I suppose it really was that way to start," says Teresa. "Silk gowns, everyone gathered around her at those elegant dinners."

"She's just his trophy. Men just look for what they can win. A pretty young wife, on display in the case."

"A castle for a while though ..." Aunt Teresa's voice drifts, her eyes becoming misty.

"Nick was there then." Anna speaks stiffly.

"Ohh ... yes, Nick was there. They talked about it Anna, back when she ran off. Nick did try to stop her, you remember? He had the clearer head, but he just couldn't get through to her."

"He was too young too," says Anna, shaking her head.

"You know, they used to be such good friends ..." Auntie Teresa voice wavers. "But she said Nick is sooo angry now. Still. They must have argued way back then, but she wouldn't say anything more."

"They must have some tiff," says Anna. "Not just her running off, but maybe about Ksandra, sister, you remember before the funeral, when things were so unsettled."

"Yes I remember ... she came running home that day, after Nick and Harry found Ksandra ... but everyone was so upset, that's to be expected."

"I don't know if everyone was upset. Look at Harry, he didn't even come to the funeral," says Anna holding her lips tight. "He could be dead by now for all we know."

Sid almost chokes on his mashed potatoes. If women stay in touch with everything, they missed this one. Don't they know Uncle Harry quit drinking? Typical alcoholic thinking on Harry's part if he didn't tell his sisters. At least Sid is ahead on some family news.

"Well, I do hope Lola and Nick can work things out," says Teresa. "Maybe they'll both come to the lake next summer ... to the next reunion." She stands, gathering up a pile of empty plates.

Auntie Anna carefully places her last chicken cube on a white potato pillow, lifting her fork to its on-hold position.

"They must get over their differences," says Anna, raising her voice as Teresa moves off to the kitchen. "And Lola must do something about that John. She deserves better. Castles are for children." She squeezes the cube pillow mound off her fork with her taut lips.

###

Jamie joins her mother bringing out dessert. Uncle Francis looks at Uncle Pete, holding an imaginary hand of cards in front of him, grunting Sid's way as well. Sid raises a left eyebrow, nodding. Uncle Francis leans back, content. A happy responsible farmer, holding title to his own inner kingdom.

Auntie Teresa's dessert sits untouched as the others top up with raspberry pie and caramel ice cream. Could be brutal tomorrow, thinks Sid, imagining bellies approaching burst point. Teresa comes back down the stairs with paper and envelope in hand. Sid swallows hard, packing one last mouthful down, hoping for the best. Teresa's eye glistens as she sits down beside her dripping ice cream.

Her eyes scan the letter before looking at her sister. "It must be true what we were saying, because he is quite upset. He only went over once, and he didn't stay long. He's sorry now, he always wanted the best for her, but he's really angry too."

"What does he say, Teresa?" A flicker of softness wafts through Anna's voice.

"He wants so bad to tell her, for one thing, that he told her so. But he's so angry too ... it just doesn't sound like Nick at all. He's angry at himself, that's more like him ... because he couldn't stop her. Then he writes about Ksandra ... and there's still something there he isn't saying ... that's where the anger is."

"Well, we all told her so." The softness lingers. "Ksandra was just a foolish young girl full of romantic ideas. Imagine! Going swimming in the night time. And all alone! She got cramped up and just couldn't make it back to shore."

"That is what we all said ... but oohh ... I have this feeling now, maybe there's more. Sister, we have to be careful what we say."

"For how long?" All softness dissipates. "For how long must we be careful, Teresa? I've had enough of this. The truth needs to be told. It will be difficult, but it will set everyone at ease. We must be strong, Teresa. Look at what Lola has gone through. Did she run off to her fantasy world just to avoid the truth?"

"Maybe you're right, Anna." Auntie Teresa glances at her pie with cream that no longer has any ice. She carefully skims the letter again in silence.

###

Sid wants to go curl up in a corner, as one at a time, the family members carefully raise themselves up from the table. Uncle Francis and Uncle Pete bite their lips, and clear off the table, while Jamie's husband takes the kids out the back. The aunties stay at the table as Teresa picks at her softening pie. No corners to be found, Sid slinks into the kitchen to join Jamie on the dishwashing crew.

His cousin turns her head, wiping an eye on her shoulder, sniffing, hands in the sink.

"Happy Easter, Jamie, great dinner." He forces a quiet smile, as he reaches up to stack plates on a high shelf. "Hey, that sermon you mentioned is at church tomorrow is it?"

"Yes, Sid. It's morning mass. And like I said, it's all about being rich." She sniffs. "And there's a discussion in the basement after. There's a pamphlet around here somewhere ... I'll find it for you. You remember what we talked about at the reunion?"

"Yah, the old woman and the coins, the camel through the needle ..."

"Well I've been reading ...and I found another gospel that fits the same lesson plan as the camel through the needle. James teaches believers who are poor to be proud. God actually made the poor people spiritually rich. So poor people are actually God-rich."

"I see ... the same lesson you say ... meaning the ones who get through the eye of the needle are spiritually rich, but materially poor. And the bible tells them to be proud of that ... 'cause rich people have a hard time getting close to God ... or being spiritually rich."

"Yes. Same idea ... don't you think so?" says Jamie.

"Yah, I can see it that way. Poor people without much money have an easier time being close to God because they don't have much clutter in the way. So James, is that Jesus' brother who says to take pride in it?"

"Right. And the wealthy young man who chose not to listen to Jesus, who wouldn't follow him any closer, couldn't, because he had so many possessions. He couldn't become spiritually rich ... but poor people already are."

"People who don't spend much time counting their gold – or buying new cars and houses, by default, make better investments in God type activity," he raises an eyebrow ... she nods.

He grabs the last handful of cutlery. The sounds of cards rat-a-tatting against the table with serious force remind him where he needs to be next. Jamie gives him a knowing glance, then smiles as he tosses the drying towel on the counter.

He settles in to a seat at the table with the uncles, the aunties having retired to the front room. But what Jamie says could be just a way of making poor people feel better, Sid thinks, in spite of their condition. The opiate of the masses. And what about all the gold in the Vatican? The poorest don't have gold ... their thing is basic food. So much easier for a hungry person to hang onto being closer to God. Anyone can believe in God, it doesn't cost a thing.

"Cut for partners," says Uncle Francis.

Sid picks up a part of the deck of cards, flipping them over to expose a Queen.

"You and me." Uncle Pete, with set jaw, gives Sid a solemn nod.

"Cut for deal," says Uncle Francis as they exchanged chairs.

But what if that's just an argument of the rational? There are so many things in the world without rational explanations ... especially among people. So what if the spiritual religious stuff is the underlying truth ... the sober alcoholics, his eternal illustration. Find God or die drinking. There has to be some truth to the God idea, there just has to be ... the Bible isn't the only source. His sister, or Jack, where a personal understanding of God and the spiritual doesn't require any religion. And see where religious people are right, he remembers from the Big Book.

Sid feels like he's on stage, about to start an important speech, all eyes on him. He focuses, looks up, smiles, and casually asks "Whose bid?" as he rapidly rearranges his cards.

###

His eyes won't stay closed no matter how he struggles for a little extra dreamtime. Reality sets in; a sleeping bag on Jamie's living room floor. In the night, the sultan rides further along, to another valley, where the local king has a huge palace, even grander than the sultan's. The people along the road look exhausted, distraught, dressed in rags, yet trudging off from their hovels to work every day, not just to upkeep the king's castle, but there's a new wing, another expansion. The king rides by in an elegant carriage, with a haughty look, his nose held high. His two sons ride along on horses, one drinking from a hidden flask, the other a youthful mimic of his father.

Sid rolls over, hearing rustling noises laughing their way down the stairs. Uncle Francis snores peacefully on the couch. A man who works and plays hard sleeps well. The farmer king who twice led his card forces to victory in last night's Kaiser encounters. Royal conquest at its peak.

He grabs his bag, heading for a shower ahead of the impending lineup. The house springs to life, as the children lead a chaotic charge down the stairs; a screaming advance to awaken any straggling adults considering resistance.

Feeling refreshed, he wanders to the dining room table. Becoming Rich in Christ he reads the pamphlet title. Not so long ago, he would have read no more. But the little voice is there now, driving its little wedge into the crack. A deacon, the pamphlet names him, will preach on riches and address questions later.

Ephesians 2:4-7. A letter from Paul to the Ephesians. Sid skims for what he can paraphrase into his own words. God has a lot of mercy, Paul says, and loves people a lot. Sid struggles with that ... but he can sort of go along. Even people who are spiritually dead can be given grace. The wealth of His favor, Paul says, is shown by His kindness. Sid pauses, scratching the back of his head ... now that's a little much.

The absolute lack of kindness in his life races through his mind, round and round just below where he scratches. Chasing fast after it, the chaotic life of Uncle Harry, the abrupt life of Ksandra, the many who come to AA yet rush back to the bottle ... any on a long, long list. What kindness? Deep sigh. Here in the pamphlet, Paul says, rich grace can be found through Jesus Christ. Well AA says, for relief from serious drinking, beyond the reach of any human power, God could and would if He were sought. The damnedest thing. He can pick the thing apart all he wants, he can cry for himself and the people on the list, but his strongest evidence for God haunts him. Paul must be telling the truth in some way or another. Maybe wealth does avail itself through God's Grace. For what investor will ever totally understand the whole marketplace?

The pamphlet, joining the race below the itchy spot, goes on to tell him he has been gifted immensely with richness in Christ, that he has hidden treasures ready for use. That treasure word slows the whirlwind. The concept of hidden treasures sort of floats around AA, though not in those words. But looking for direction from a Higher Power and making amends for the nasty things an alcoholic has done directly results in the better ... the treasure of relief for someone who's had it crappy.

People have been saved through the price of Jesus' crucifixion. Sid sighs deeply, shaking his head. Cum'on, six thousand were crucified along the Apian Way, sacrificing themselves for the freedom of slavery under Spartacus. As valiant men die in any struggle for justice. But the voice has its way, driving the wedge a little deeper into the crack. OK, he rolls his eyes, but thinks ... portfolios, more than one mutual fund, more than one investment strategy. Jo has stocks in Buddha, Jack has his AA sponsees. The returns are the same, averted from tumultuous lives by the Way for Jo, the Twelfth Step for Jack. Whatever. So Jesus and Christianity can be one investment option, one way of seeking out the same marketplace ... why not. For all mutual funds tout themselves as the best or even the only way to go. So, OK, salvation through Jesus' death could be the returns for those who bought his mutual and this Christian option would be listed, available to anyone. The mind storm abates; he rubs his head, and then rests his chin on his hand on the table.

The kids chase each other around, to the fridge for milk, the cupboard for Choc-O-Puffs. Right into the day, like those kids humming with the jet engine on Amy's plane. Living free in the moment, the freedom of the sandbox. Better sand pail and shovel than a brick of gold. What would a kid do with a gold block in the sandbox but stub a toe?

###

They gather together, with even Uncle Francis dressed in his Sunday best for morning mass. Dividing into car pools, Jamie and her family come in Sid's van. Jamie points the direction of the church and they are off.

"There's another scripture you should hear." Jamie picks up where the rat-a-tat cards interrupted. "Revelations 3:18, I just looked it up last night. A warning to those who think they have all they need because they have become rich. I advise you to buy from me gold made pure in fire so you can be truly rich ... it goes like that. Sounds like advice on the purchase of spiritual gold ... the way you talk."

"Oh really?" Sid tunes in to every word. "And isn't fire often meant to symbolize the spiritual, like the Holy Spirit?" he says. "So the spiritual purifies this kind of gold."

"That's the way I would see it, Sid."

###

The spire of St Mary's reaches high above the houses, the parking lot stretching out beneath bare tree limbs. Bigger crowd for the later mass, says Jamie's husband.

They enter into dimmer lighting, the whiff of candles and varnished pews, to find seats together. Mary looks down on them through blissful statue eyes. Choir tones become words, words set the tone and the word is spoken by the deacon in the homily.

The deacon is quite forthcoming, challenging the congregation as to why they live in abject spiritual poverty. Silence. He goes on, calling each of them a billionaire, stressing the spirit of Christ that indwells their hearts. Many don't know they are rich, his voice rings out, behaving like the spiritually impoverished. Now that, Sid can believe, through simple observation. The deacon reads, and then explains, the Ephesians passage, and how it clearly reveals to them they are unbelievably rich because of God's Grace. He points out the evidence that God is unlimited, and all of His wealth He makes available to them. Unlimited. If a truly limitless investment exists, why are spiritual portfolios so small? The congregation rises to go forward for communion, accompanied by the word of songs. More words, more songs, then choir tones as the mass comes to a close.

In the basement, the deacon revives his sermon, using the visual aid of a poster, listing riches available through God's Grace. Sid, having glanced over the list, can see it wouldn't compete well with the billboards. Nothing is at all tangible, no material equity. Indescribable joy, heartfelt peace, contentment at depth, wisdom, knowledge of truth, spiritual freedom...

The deacon switches to a personal voice. He talks of his earlier life, how he lacked this Grace of God, the source of all riches, because of his lack of faith and, God forbid, his selfishness. Faith may be a hard thing to quantify, Sid thinks, but not selfishness. Selfishness fits into market theory quite well. If a person wants to invest in the spiritual market, they need to squeeze that camel's butt through the needle. Like the young wealthy guy, they have to give it up and get poor for a while. Investments, and selfish or selfless acts, come out in the numbers of any financial statement.

He drives Jamie's family back to the house, not budging out of the van.

"Come on in Sid. Easter dinner."

"Ahh, I gotta get back to the city today."

"Really?"

"Really."

He pulls away, and his stomach heaves a deep sigh of relief, as its nightmare of burst point dissipates.

The bible sure instructs people to take direction from Jesus' stories to get returns on the heavenly treasure. Another investment option a spiritual person might choose. But what do most people base their choices on, Sid has always wondered. By tradition a lot it seems, influenced by human nature, developed over long periods of time. No thinking involved it seems. The church, long in forming its tradition, still teaches the same basic lessons now as long ago; the bible is not a new publication. The tradition of seeking wealth security, then comfort, then slopping over into decadence, for self only, or maybe family, goes back at least to the castle, maybe to the cave. Security within from danger without.

A new tradition of spiritual wealth would have a serious struggle, yet maybe some are leading the way. People change, at least some drunks do, but only when they really need to. AA as a whole has changed over the last few decades, younger and younger people coming, more women coming. Something is happening. Could there be a growing investment group interested by choice in the high-risk ventures of the non-tangible spiritual world? Are more making the choice, not so much with death as the alternative, but because it just looks like a good idea? Or are the younger just more observant?

A Mirchuk reunion looms on next summer's horizon. Now that could be a place to watch and listen again. Sid can look for what investments family members will have made since the last one. And maybe some stories will come out of portfolio reviews, tales revealing lifetime returns. Auntie Lola, Uncle Nick ... Ksandra, whatever really happened to Ksandra?

It's going to be a long drive, so Sid looks for peace in the hum of the highway.

Chapter 15

"Come on you piece of ..." Sid gives the mouse a violent jerk that would have broken the neck of any live rodent. Of course a live one would have sunk its teeth into his finger, but could a flesh wound cause more grief than this? The blinking cursor on the screen smirks, knowing it hides the digital network delays that now stifle access to the web records he seeks.

He cannot get over the discovery of the day. This day of all days.

He finally throws the mouse against the wall in disgust and stomps off to pack more travel bags. OK, he has to focus. Two pairs of jeans, a warm jacket – you never know what the weather will be like up at Sahiya. He'll be outside the hall some of the time at the second reunion, and now it's early September. Indian summer can be just as hot as July. Just as cold as November too.

Why doesn't Jack call back he laments further, cursing his friend. Sid left three messages with his AA compatriot earlier that evening, and now it's getting late. He needs to connect at a spiritual level, just as much as he needs to share the excitement of what he has come upon.

He throws T-shirts and underwear into his duffel bag, then a toothbrush and a razor as an afterthought. He has to be at the airport by early morning; Saskatoon again instead of Calgary, some things never change, but some do, 'cause Andy will be there this time with Auntie Lola.

What a chaotic afternoon! It all started off as a regular day, laid back work on a Friday. A guy can relax some from the urban stress and even do a bit of internet snooping. The afternoon brought a thrilling moment when Sid stumbled upon a new survey. Scientific data addressing almost exactly the same question haunting Sid. What could beat statistics run on real questions asked to real people? Like how much you give away and why you give it away. Now he needs to know the answers and he needs to know faster than his net connection allows.

Sid throws his bags up against the door and walks back to his laptop. The cursor leers at him again, before flashing faster and faster, as if it will explode. Then the download finishes and he finally has the report. So far as he knows, it's a first-of-its-kind survey, something Statistics Canada is running for God knows what reason. Maybe God does have a reason. God's idea or not, it's a blessing for Sid.

Sid sits to read, loosing himself in the results of a study of people, their volunteering and donating habits and motivations causing them to invest in the spiritual market. He's deep into the read when the phone rings. It's Jack. Finally.

"Man, you won't believe what I found." Sid speaks fast.

"Yah?"

"Stats Can ran a survey on giving and volunteering. They asked thousands of people how much money they give away, and then the coolest thing is, they asked them why they do it. All across the country! So they have a representative sample – you know, stats, nineteen times out of twenty it's the truth."

"Oh."

"It gives me so many answers. Not everything, but a lot."

"Like they ask how big is your spiritual bank roll?"

"Yah, right Jack! Actually, yes and no, not in those terms. The trends are there. Not just hearsay, not just what people talk about. There's no question about it, religious people give more than the non-religious. And the more religious they are, the more they give. So they have to be investing in the treasure in heaven. That's gotta be it."

"Giving is an investment in God. Right?"

"Makes sense, doesn't it? I mean when you work hard for your money and there's so many things at Wal-Mart you could buy, like for yourself, OK maybe for your family but you choose to give some of that cash to help other people you don't even know – that's getting your self out of the way and doing God's will."

"Yah." Jack yawns. "How do they know how religious a person is?"

"How often they go to church. Then a double-check question is how religious they feel, like you know, very, somewhat, not very, that questionnaire stuff. Either way, the more religious ones buy more stocks in the generosity market.

There's another amazing pattern besides the religious giving more. There's this little group of people that give the most. They call it the Parreti principle, the eighty-twenty rule. Twenty percent of the people give eighty percent of what's given. There's no explanation for that."

"Really? So most people don't give much. Just a little."

"Very little."

"How little?"

"Well, you know the Christian thing about tithing. That means ten percent; a tithe is ten percent of what you have. No one comes anywhere close to ten percent, not even the religious people. Even the very religious only give three or four percent."

"What about AA? We're not religious, but we're spiritual. How much do we give?"

"They ask the question, you know, if you're in AA or not. But there's nothing on AA as a group and how much they give. Too small a group for stats."

"Too bad. How could a guy find out?"

"Gotta do our own survey, Jack. Ask the same questions only to AA's. Do some original research."

"Your own survey, Sid, not our."

"Yah, well ... yah maybe."

"What about that last thing you were all excited about. That new religion. What's it called, Bah hi?"

"Baha'i? Well, that is quite the thing. Like I told you, they are starting a whole new world religion. They say they're just like Christianity, not just Catholic or Protestant, but Christianity as a whole, not just Shiite or Sunni, but Islam altogether or Buddhism."

"Yah. Quite the idea."

"Not only that, they say the Second Coming already happened. The fifth Buddha and the twelfth Imam. They say they fulfill the prophesies of all religions."

"That's quite a claim."

"You would think a brand new religion would have an impact on peoples' behaviour. Like the first century Christians."

"They shared everything, didn't they. Even while they were being persecuted by the Romans."

"That's what I read. The Baha'is claim there's a spiritual solution to economic problems. They say their religion will spread around the world – which it already has, but spread pretty thin – and it'll eliminate wealth disparity. Like they'll share their possessions in some way or other."

"So, are the Baha'i in the survey?"

"Well they ask what your religion is and there's a blank for Other. But there're so few of them, the sample must be too small, just like AA. I really wonder how inspired they are to give."

"More research for you."

"Yah."

"So you have some new material to think about."

"And the second Mirchuk reunion starts tomorrow. I'm not gonna get much sleep; I gotta leave real early in the morning."

"Your Uncle Harry gonna be there?"

"Last I heard he's still sober. Hope so."

"Yah. Hey Sid, I gotta get some sleep myself."

"Talk to you."

Sid scrolls down to the appendices, searching for any detail to help him understand. Researching the facts, the trends, the possibilities, as a truly serious investor must. Then his eyes refuse to cooperate any further, and he stumbles off to crawl under the covers.

Fatigue guides him swiftly away from the daytime world, and the sultan appears at the swirling dream-entrance. The sultan is riding slowly up a winding trail, through the mountains, seeking out the hovel of the monk. White beard flowing in the breeze, the mystic sits on his perch, looking out over the valleys below, gazing through a view of the ages. The sultan dismounts, presenting a gift cup of gold. The monk hands the cup back, looks deep into the sultan's eyes, waves out at the mountains and starts to speak ...

Chapter 16

Sid's eyes spring open as a large truck whizzes past. He knows this secondary so well he could probably drive it in his sleep – but not really he reminds himself. The revelations and insights of the survey report kept him glued to the screen way too long into the early morning.

He pulls in to Barney's Border Gas just as it opens, hoping for any distraction to stay awake. An older fellow shuffles across the gravel in worn out cowboy boots and a beat up old felt hat.

"Fill 'er up please."

The old guy nods, not saying a word as he unscrews the gas cap.

"Any fishing around here?" Sid needs conversation, any stimulation.

"At the river." The old fellow points across a field, and Sid follows his tranquil eyes. Sid can't help but wonder, thinking of Ryan's trip down south, if this could be Pepe's twin of the north. Sid hands him the cash and he ambles back to the station.

In spite of the northern twin, staying awake isn't going to happen. Sid struggles to make it to the Rosetown schoolyard. A familiar place could be great for a lifesaving nap.

There's no one around the school today. He pulls up beside the steel bicycle rack by the entrance. Leaning the seat of his Subaru wagon all the way back, he turns on his side to curl up. The image swirl takes him back to schoolyard days. He is six years old when a seven-year-old taunts him to touch his tongue to the mid-winter steel. His choice as an individual is blatantly tested. Another lesson of life. To never again be caught like a fish on a hook; tongue frozen to a bike rack. Make your own choices the sore tongue memory reminds him as he drifts off.

The _beep beep_ of his wristwatch alarm brings him back. Deeper in dreamland, the sultan has now finished the long and arduous journey, listening to the wisest of the wise. Reams of wisdom and endless stories now must be filtered through his inner sieve to find what might fill his own empty well. Riding his horse slowly home, the sultan mulls over his choices carefully, designing the new kingdom that will be his.

Sid clicks the lever to pop the seat upright. The nap is revitalizing.

Another hour. He'll recognize Andrew easily this time. It's Andy's mother, Auntie Lola who will be new. Finally, Sid will meet the one who left so many years ago, the one from the far off mansion. Cruising past the potash operation, he watches a loaded train pulling away from the mines to parallel him.

It's been over five years since Sid first came to meet Andy. Things can change with time, but things can stay just as they were. He watches the train catching up with him on the flat. He races with it into the city, triggered to relive more carefree days.

Walking into the airport, Sid sees a clock reading ten minutes to touchdown. The polyester chairs invite him back, still firmly bolted to the ceramic floor. Sid plops himself gratefully into one, feeling secure in the unchanged. He waits.

Andy first appears following the trickle of passengers coming through customs. He looks different somehow, the golden glitter now more subdued. A well-dressed woman walks with him, a mystery of the family's past sauntering through the long-cloaked doors of distance and decades. Sid's eyebrows rise. The two follow the guiding cloth ribbons connecting chromed poles.

"Andy." Sid raises his hand.

"Hello Sid." Andy's eyes look early-morning. "Meet Mother."

Her hair, dark like that of her son, is pulled back, while high cheek bones, full lips and a delicate nose grace her well-proportioned face. She's a stunningly attractive version of a Mirchuk woman, dressed formally in a black and white. An auburn sash graces her collar, highlighting her face in a sophisticated manner. Despite her mature beauty, her eyes look worn, carrying the signature of life's betrayals. She presses a tight smile Sid's way.

"Hello Auntie Lola. I'm your nephew Sidney, Frank's son." He introduces himself with a cautious smile.

"Hello Sidney." Her voice sounds deep and raucous. "Well, Teresa called, so here we are." Her smile fades as she looks down over her nose.

Sid glances at Andy, then back at his aunt.

"The car's outside." He smiles at the formidable and he points a thumb back over his shoulder. "You guys have some bags I see. We're on our way to the lake and it's a fantastic fall day."

They wheel two large suitcases out into the gathering heat. The two bags barely fit into the back of the wagon. Before Sid can say more, Auntie Lola gets into the back seat, her son opening and closing the door for her.

Andy looks at Sid across the roof of the Subaru. "She's quiet sometimes. It's cool." He winks, speaking softly.

Sid raises an eyebrow at his cousin, smiling bravely as he gets in.

"So Andy, how are things?" Sid asks carefully as they pull away. "And how about you, Auntie?" He glances backwards in the rear-view mirror.

Andy stifles a yawn. "Hey, we watched the sunrise from the airliner window this morning. So beautiful. And I've been reminding Mother of the good times on my last trip to Sahiya." He looks hopefully at Sid. "Are we going fishing?"

"Yah, if you want. How about tomorrow morning?" Then Sid turns playfully to Andy. "And just how early?"

Andy rolls his eyes, shaking his head.

They pull out on the highway, starting their northward trek past the fields of grain, mostly cultivated now. The sky shines with a promise of the lake lands ahead.

"You still got that 911?" Sid asks. "Or you upgraded?"

"Actually, I sold the Porsche. Just last year. I have a car kind of like yours now, only it's a Toyota."

"Really?" Sid frowns. He notices Andy glancing into the back seat. In the rear-view Sid's aunt seems lost in a glassy eyed stare out the window.

Andy looks back at the road, listening.

"The truth is we're having some family problems back home, Sid. Something of a shake up."

"Is losing your Porsche is part of it?"

"We're not living at John's house any longer. Mother and I live up in Inglewood now." Andy speaks seriously. "No more life at the beach. We rent an apartment and I sold the Porsche to help pay rent for a few months."

"No shit." Sid wishes he could be silent more often. "I mean I'm sorry to hear that."

"No big thing. Mother and I talked about it on the plane and we have nothing to hide." Sid sees his aunt's reflection looking directly at him.

"So you sold the big house?"

"No, well, John still lives there. He has a younger woman of course but she doesn't live there. That wouldn't be to his advantage in court."

"Uh oh."

"Yes, Mother has an attorney and John has one too. The next court date is in November, right Lola?" He looks back over the seat.

Auntie Lola nods, as her eyes drift across the fields.

"John and Robert are cutting us out of the finances as much as they can. There's Mother's alimony, but that's based on John's personal income. They keep most of the assets in the business. We'll work things out I guess." Andy continues. "And then there's the other court case, when does Robert's court date come up, Mother? In October?"

"Robert's?" Sid frowns.

"That's criminal court. The police found some cocaine derivative in one of the shipping containers, so the company has charges pending. Robert has a criminal attorney. He appeared in front of one judge already."

"That's a lot of court dates." Sid says gently.

The ritual of silence settles in. They float down the highway into the Saskatchewan River valley, crossing the long steel bridge over the constant brown flow of water on its way to Hudson's Bay. They all look away, each with their own view up or down the tree-lined valley.

"Have you been out fishing ..." Sid catches himself, wondering about the family boat, "... on the Pacific?"

"Yes." Andy rubs his nose as he speaks. "Quite a bit recently. My friend Screamer has a boat, so we're dropping the Marlin and getting out on the ocean more. I love it out there."

Sid thinks of the Ronny's Rentals party last reunion. He looks away, out over the fields in their progressive stages of harvest. Swaths of golden grain stitch a pattern together like some kind of fabric. A combine gathers the real returns on another year of investment in fields like Grandpa's.

Sid glances in the rear-view again. The vastness of Auntie Lola's home province seems to reflect back a flicker of softness on her now. This very same highway would be the one she drove down with Uncle Harry in the '55 Chevy. And then with the speed boat guys and her cousin Ksandra on their way to the city. A highway driving her forward from adolescence towards the colliding decisions of later times.

"Blaine Lake is just a couple miles." Sid says. "You guys wanna stop?"

"Yes, Sidney. Please let's stop, just for a minute." Auntie Lola speaks unexpectedly. Sid pulls over into the parking lot, recalling the time when he imagined the Fairmont as a Porsche.

Andy hops around to get the door for his mother. She steps out, her high black leather shoes wobbling on the gravel. She stretches up to her full height, and takes the deepest breath. It kindles a flame within her, one that ripples down her cheeks, raising a tingle of colour. The glow holds for a moment, but a flicker of disillusion starts in one eye to uproot the vitality, scattering it wide. Her head falls and her lips begin to quiver. She walks firmly past the car, forcing her way across the parking lot.

Sid looks over hopefully at Andy. His cousin peers back, with a resigned look. Sid leans his chin on his hands draped over the car door, like a dog patiently waiting for the return of a disgruntled human. His eyes droop and he's almost grateful. Tiredness helps him with patience.

"Will Franco and Ryan be coming?" Andy asks.

"That's what I hear. Ryan's married now."

"Really."

"Yah. He met her when he went to visit Uncle Nick."

"Cool."

Auntie Lola comes strolling slowly back, her sash fluttering. She turns her face, eyes reddened, into the drying breeze. Now the corners of her lips spread into a tiny calm smile. She gazes silently at her son and nephew. They sense there is nothing else but to get back in the car, and carry on.

They cruise into the rolling green bush north of Blaine Lake. The unchanged green nature of this place gives Sid hope, a small peace sermon from the church of his choice.

"Where did all these hills come from?" Andy looks over with a spontaneous twinkle. "They're almost mountains."

"This province is flat as a board." Sid grins.

Andy's burst of wake-up energy continues and he talks of the types of people that would come to live in such a place, something he's learning about at UCLA. Not a surprise to Sid that his cousin, it turns out, is taking social science classes, studying people like Grandpa.

They make the turn at Shellbrook. As the rodeo grounds fade into the dust cloud behind them, they drive by the Witchekan Lake house with its stone balcony view of the swamp. Sid asks Andy if the name ever came up.

Andy thinks back. "We were sitting around the pool one afternoon and the wind shifted to offshore. The yellow air came rolling in over the hills and I told everyone I learned a little native language up in Canada." He looks back at Auntie Lola. "You remember Mother? You laughed."

A new smugness spreads across Auntie Lola's face. "Witchekan Beach. Yes, it did smell bad that day." She speaks through the wrap and trap of fine attire, as a girl from Saskatchewan now. "It's a stinking house anyways and it was time we got out."

"You remember the thunderstorm when we came through last time?" Andy asks. "You should have seen it, Mother, we drove right into it. Serious lightning and a real downpour."

"It cleans up the air when it comes down like that." Sid says. "You can smell it after. Good for the grain in the spring."

"The crops look good this year." Auntie Lola's country days speak. "The ones I know. Wheat used to be the only thing growing here. What are some of these crops?"

"Things can change, hey Auntie." Sid says.

"They sure can, Sidney." Auntie Lola stares around.

Grandpa Pawlo's dreams came true with fields of wheat, but those dreams are now replaced by other grains – new specialty crops mature in old wheat fields. New dreams creep in on the old.

"You wanna pop in at the graveyard?" Sid asks cheerfully.

"I wouldn't mind, Sidney." Auntie Lola answers smoothly.

They almost skid to a halt just short of the Debden corner.

Carefully they walk among the gravestones. Sid spots Grandpa Pawlo's stone peacefully passing its day in the sun beside Grandma's. Sid winks at them and can almost see his grandma's wave as she comes back in from her garden. Oh, to ever remember flowers, Sid chastises himself. Auntie Lola seems to know of another stone, and they follow her. Ksandra Mirchuk is chiselled into the granite marker, the dates showing her short time. Auntie Lola bows down, her eyes washing over the spirit of her long gone cousin and friend. She pulls forget-me-nots growing there, gently holding them in her hand as a young girl would. Sid wonders which spirits mingle now.

"Let's pull in at the farm." Auntie Lola looks at Sid.

"The farm ...?" Sid asks. "Oh, like you mean where Ksandra lived ..."

"Yes, it's just a couple miles." She replies.

"Sure Auntie." Sid starts to feel even more peaceful.

They wander back to the car. Auntie Lola carries the tiny bouquet from the grounds of eternal resting places. She sticks the wild flowers through one of the buttonholes in her blouse just below her sash, her jacket now removed in the afternoon heat.

A large friendly dog chases them along the entrance road. An older fellow is just walking out of the house, maybe on his way back to harvest after lunch, and he stops on the veranda when he notices their approach. They wave, and he turns to call back into the house. A woman appears.

"I'll just be a minute." Auntie Lola gets out, slowly walking over to the steps.

Andy and Sid look at each other as they see recognition replace the questioning furrows in the old couple's faces.

Auntie Lola walks rapidly up the steps to the railing. Two full rolling tears gain momentum down her cheeks. She embraces them both, holding each for a moment. The three of them gaze at each other across the winds of time, almost as if it's enough, or even too much. Then, quite suddenly, Lola comes back down the steps, almost as quickly as she climbed them.

Sid looks at his aunt, understands, and turns the car around, waving apologetically behind. They drive out, back onto the secondary.

"She drowned in the lake Auntie?"

"Yes Sidney, Ksandra drowned in Sahiya." Auntie Lola looks straight into the rear-view.

"Uncle Nick said it was more than just an accident." Sid grasps a bubble of courage. "Uncle Harry said she had all her clothes on ..."

"We'll have to talk, Harry and Nick and I." Auntie Lola continues to meet his reflection squarely. "We'll have to talk." Sid sees a flash in her eyes. Anger?

He turns his attention to the road, leaning into the smooth curve veering right, back onto a true north heading that leaves the last of the grain fields behind. He glances left, knowing Grandpa Pawlo's field of dreams are but a few miles. He vows to make his own stop on the way back to the city. It has to happen this time.

As they come off the curve, the sandy lake country waves a swaying branches greeting. The bush, yet to be conquered by people, envelopes them in an endless chapel of pews the ones at least Sid's eyes see stretching out all around.

They pull in to the dry grass ditch beside the cabin, where the huge puddle of water stood five years back. September is too cool for thunderstorms, a warm dry month, and good for harvesting crops of grain. Auntie Lola steps out to greet the lake air, opening the door herself.

Chapter 17

Sid and his California cousin promise Lola they'll come back, when she finishes her visit with her one brother. They leave Frank and Lola in a whirl of catching up. Walking out the cabin door, they overhear Uncle Harry's name ... over at the hall helping his sisters. The next Mirchuk reunion is coming to town.

They drive the Subaru along Sahiya Lake's September waters, past the boat launch, and pull in to park between two trucks by the community hall sign. Sid swears one of them looks like an Uncle Francis truck, but it's the cleanest farm truck he's ever seen. The yellow door in the side of the hall greets them with its jangling return chain, as they step into the cool interior.

Uncle Harry is in their faces right away, like a politician on a campaign trail, coming over to pump Sid's hand and quickly introducing himself to Andy. He wears an ear-to-ear grin, so wired Sid suspects amphetamines. Teresa and Anna are happy, as it turns out Harry is overflowing with service work energy. He wants to help everybody with everything and the aunties don't mind having someone to assign to details.

Sid looks long at Uncle Harry. This same man who was drinking his life away such a short time ago. The change in the guy is dramatic, surely a net increase in social value ... a red-letter dividend for a long abandoned human stock on the spiritual trading floor.

"You need any help Uncle?" Sid asks.

"Yah, sure ... hey we're trying to get this sound system working. We got the tables and chairs set up but we want excellent communication from the stage. 'Cause we want to really hear the music, man. It's gonna be the greatest family get together ever." He raises peace sign hands up towards the ceiling in a salute of victory. "So we want everything to be juuust perfect." He adds in a loud whisper.

"Right. What can we do?" Sid glances at Andy, raising an eyebrow. Andy looks back, rolling his eyes as he nods. "By the way, we're talking about fishing tomorrow morning Uncle, if you want to come along."

"Yah, sure that could be an idea." A non-committed vague reply. "Now we have to get this sound system working right, and not just that, we need a video image on the TV screen. Marlene's over in the office, starting with what we have." Uncle Harry bounces over towards the kitchen.

"Who's Marlene?" Andy asks after him.

"My daughter." Uncle Harry turns back, face beaming with pride, then slipping into a tinge of shame. "Yah, she is my daughter." He repeats himself in a softer voice. "Come on, you guys have another cousin."

###

Sid and Andy troop along after Harry, through a smaller door beside the kitchen. A hidden away office greets them with couches and what looks like a private card table. A pretty woman, maybe thirty, has several wires disconnected from an amp amidst an array of other sound components on a tall television stand. Uncle Harry puts his arm around her shoulders, turning her to face them.

"Marlene, these are two of your cousins." He holds a hand out towards each of them. "Sidney. Andrew."

"Oh hi, I actually go by Marti. I heard about you Sidney, you met Dad in Calgary when he was there." She smiles sweetly. "And I hear you live down in California, Andrew. In a big house, they say."

"Well hi yourself, Marti." Sid returns.

"No more big house." Andy says. "Small apartment now. That big house was just a nasty rumour. You can call me Andy."

Marti looks at him with amused eyes. She seems to appreciate Andy's dissipated high profile, without judgment. She turns back to the amp and starts to explain her understanding of the wires and how they connect. She's testing the sound system through a small set of speakers bolted to the television stand.

"We really need a set of pliers or a crescent wrench." Marti decides.

Sid cringes, imagining stripped bolt heads. "I'll go ask Uncle Francis if he has any tools." He hopes to be a mechanical parts saviour.

"Hey Sid, I'll follow you. I have to talk to Teresa about music." Uncle Harry guides Sid out the office's outside door, leaving Andy and Marti to puzzle over the wires.

"I just wanted to talk to you before everyone shows up, Sid." Uncle Harry's beam settles down to a half grin.

"You still not drinking, are you?" Sid's eyes search his uncle's face.

"Not since Claresholm." Harry looks straight back at Sid. He stops, leaning his shoulder against the outside wall of the hall in the calm fall sun. He sighs. "But man, did I ever come close."

"Yah?"

Uncle Harry's eyes scan his nephew's face. He takes a deep breath. "Yah, sure ... well ... I go back one day this spring – back to the gully where I tossed the shotgun. But now I have a 26 of Seagram's, uncracked. I just can't take it any more. Same old story." His head drops. Sid lifts his hand to his uncle's shoulder, and Harry looks up. "I mean, I was depressed for two weeks straight – shit – I was pretty down all winter, knowing what I did with my life ... what I could have done." His grin is now a shattered remnant.

"Uncle, you know the promises in the AA Big Book – we will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it."

Harry's eyes dart back and forth, looking at his nephew. "I don't even know why I have the bottle. I just had enough that day." Uncle Harry grunts in frustration. "So then it takes me an hour to find the shotgun ..." His voice softens. "That hour is probably my saving grace. Or maybe it's a Saving Grace that gives me the hour, I dunno. I finally find it, rusted all to hell and full of crap, I'm a lot calmer, but I'm still pretty pissed ... and now I've got the gun."

"Tough place to be. Did you turn it over ... you know, to a Higher Power?" Sid asks. The situation sounds hopeless, salvable maybe by the Divine.

Sid leans his shoulder against the wall, facing his uncle. Harry slides his hand up higher on the wall, grasping, like he's holding the building up with a new strength. Or does God's strength work through him?

"It's like a déjà vu, like a flash back. There I am in the very same place with two options; a bottle and a gun. I don't want to drink, but I don't really want to live either."

Sid listens, not saying a thing for once.

"So I know what to do first; I toss the bottle high in the air to get rid of the drinking option, just like I did before." Harry lowers his arm to animate. "I swing on the bottle and go to fire." He mimics a gun on his shoulder, following the target and squeezes the trigger.

"Whiskey bottle skeet shooting." Sid can't keep it in. "You could be a champion."

"Yah, well two things – the gun doesn't fire, and the bottle smashes on the only rock around." Harry chuckles. "Another saving grace. I mean that gun lay there in the leaves and dirt all through the winter. Like me. So now my second option is gone too. How can I blow my brains out with a seized up gun." His grin brightens back up to half. "I'm devastated – but at the same time, I'm thrilled. 'Cause all through the winter there's something growing in the background, inside me, something hard to describe." Harry's face bounces back to a three quarters campaign beam. "So I take the gun all the way down the gully to the river this time. I grab it by the barrel, and heave it as high and far as I can. Big slash."

"Take a long time to find that gun now."

"I know God is with me that day, 'cause not only do I feel a little better on the way back to town but that feeling keeps growing. In fact, by the time I get home, I'm happy as a lark. It's a miracle, man, a real honest-to-God miracle. Whatever that was growing in the background, just takes right over." The grin spreads wide, back to full election-day glory.

"Yah." Sid pauses for a moment. "God works in weird ways sometimes. Hey, you know Auntie Lola's here? She's back at the cabin."

"That's what Teresa said."

"You were upset about Ksandra, I mean, it wasn't fair the way she died..." Sid hopes the campaign grin will mix in to even out some of Uncle Harry's past.

He sees pain and rage flash for a moment in Harry's eyes, but something else seems to calm things. "Yah, OK so Loli came. Well, I'm working on Step Nine now, so this is my chance with all three sisters."

Step Nine recites itself through the back of Sid's head, proclaiming its directive to make direct amends or restitution with those a recovering alcoholic feels they have harmed in the past.

"There's Uncle Francis. I'll go ask about the tools." Sid sees his other uncle come out the yellow door, heading for the maroon truck looking like he's going to check the crops when he knows they're good.

"I'll go look for Teresa." Uncle Harry drops his arm again, leaving the building to stand on its own.

Sid shakes his head in amazement, as Uncle Harry walks off. A hopeless case, now converted into a useful member of the family, and the human family for that matter. The value of a man revived from the dead, now that must post a bell ringing gain on the spiritual market-board. Surely as much as a newborn child, or one of those born again into religion.

###

Sid walks up on Uncle Francis. "Nice truck, Uncle."

"Yup. Took it through the Shellbrook car wash last week. Gonna sell this one and get a new one."

"Marti needs wrenches. You got any?"

Francis winks. He digs in behind the seat, pulling out a box of tools. Sid smiles at the prospect of a good set of flat wrenches.

"Kaiser tonight?" Sid asks.

"You bet." Uncle Francis beams, scooting off on his next moment's task.

Sid wanders back into the hall with the tools, needing to break in on the deep wire conversation between Marti and Andy. They have a cassette playing and the sound is successfully transmitting through the television speakers.

Uncle Harry bursts back through the door. "Teresa brought some music. There's a whole series of speakers mounted around the stage. We have to find connections to those ones; we have to get sound out in the hall."

Sid smiles a little cautiously now at his uncle's enthusiasm. In AA, they talk of the 'pink cloud' ... a temporary state of euphoria at the beginning ... always temporary.

The four of them file out of the office, leaving the little system playing. The acoustic strings of the seventies follow them out, lyrics about city girls, girls who learn early on how to open doors with only a smile, to get a rich old man into their lives, no more worries, lots of lace and going out in style ... They spread out around the stage, searching for a connection. Marti finds a panel with some jacks on one side. She sends the others back for the stand.

"Hey, you guys want a beer?" Andy asks on the way past the kitchen. Sid and Harry both stare.

Then Sid starts to laugh.

"No thanks Andrew, it's kind of early." Sid looks at his cousin. Uncle Harry just grins and shakes his head.

Andy looks from one of them to the other, churning in the moment.

Sid picks up on it. "You know Andy, I used to drink and the morning was my favourite time." He sighs deeply. "It just didn't work anymore after a while. Oh well."

"Same here, Andy, I just quit drinking last summer." Uncle Harry takes a turn. "If you think Sid had problems, you gotta hear mine. My whole life used to be inside a bottle. I knew the bar room hours like the back of my hand. But now I quit, and it was the best thing I ever did."

Sid reads Step Twelve scrolling itself across the back of his mind. Practicing principles in all affairs, carrying the message to others – if they want it, of course.

Andy listens blankly, caught off guard.

"Drinking made me feel damn good – especially when I first started." Uncle Harry goes on. "Man, it really pissed me off when booze stopped helping me feel better. Damn whiskey used to be my best friend! Anyway I got a new drug now, a new way of living. I'm higher on life now than I ever was on the whiskey." He eyes Andy with understanding. "But I know booze works for some people, I sure do know that." He grins broadly.

Andy recovers. He grabs himself a cold one from the fridge and follows them into the office. The city girl in the song is now staring out the lonely late-night window, things are so far gone, she feels just like a fool. They shut off the cassette and unplug the stereo, wheeling the stand out into the hall.

As they approach the stage, the yellow door chain rattles and Jamie and Amy step in with their kids. Auntie Teresa comes walking out from the kitchen to greet her daughters and grandchildren. Of course, there's nothing that will stop Uncle Harry from jumping into the fray. He's back on the election trail, and his new constituents are the ones to connect with.

"Wow, Uncle Harry. It's really you." Jamie greets him after hugging her mother. "It's so good to meet you finally."

"I thought you were busy in the bar, Uncle." Amy stands off squarely.

Like a shrewd campaign manager, Uncle Harry explains. But as a teetering new alcoholic on the road to the spiritual, he holds closer to truth. "I was busy there, and I know it was for a long time, that's for sure Amy. But no more bars for me, that's the place of the dead. I found God, man. I'm alive now."

"Really Uncle Harry? You found God? You can go to church now."

"Oh no, Amy. My God isn't the God of the church. I have my own version of God. No goddamn church for me. No way."

"You shouldn't swear Uncle." Amy admonishes, looking to her mother and sister. "Jesus doesn't want us to swear."

"Sure, sorry Amy. But Jesus isn't the way I understand God, that's all. You see, I don't drink any more. That's my connection with God. It's got nothing to do with Jesus."

"There can't really be more than one God, can there?" Jamie asks, as a teacher to students.

Sid feels his hand wanting to go up, as he speaks out an answer. "Maybe there can be more than one human understanding of the very same God." He looks at the others; he can't stop himself now. "And if we humans were created by God, surely we can't comprehend out Creator completely, so if each of us only has a partial understanding, those pieces of understanding might not overlap each other exactly. So there can still be only one God, but maybe two incomplete understandings."

"All I know is God as I understand God was the one who kept me alive, when I wanted so much to die." Uncle Harry says. "And there surely was no Jesus around, just a tiny inner peace and some other ex-drunks showing me the way."

"That sounds like the Holy Spirit at work." Auntie Teresa says. Her sister Anna, who has been frowning deeply, nods for the first time.

Uncle Harry's smile drags its heals. A moment of quiet anticipates clash. Or peace.

Andy listens, nursing his cold morning beer.

Sid swallows. "You know, I went with these guys to mass in Saskatoon last year Uncle Harry." His eyes appeal to a fellow alcoholic. "Some of the church words are just like the ones in the Big Book."

"Goddamn Catholic church. Anyways, Jesus drank a lot of wine." A dark spot spreads behind Uncle Harry's politically friendly mask. Then, for some reason, it fades back. "Oh look I'm sorry. Amy. Sid. Yah, OK maybe I can read the Bible some day I guess, but it's gonna be a cold day in July before I step back into a Catholic church."

"You were an altar boy, Harry." Auntie Anna glares at her brother. "You should remember that."

The veins on Harry's forehead swell. Like Sid's uncle is using every bit of his, or God's, wall holding power to restrain himself – not to say a word. Sid understands.

"Spirituality is quite similar to religion." Sid tries again, speaking carefully. "But it's kind of different too."

Harry's forehead veins pulse down slightly.

"OK, yah, Jesus had some good things going." Uncle Harry agrees. "He taught a lot of good lessons about loving your neighbour as yourself; I remember some of that stuff from the altar boy days. You're right, Anna." The edge in his voice is mostly smoothed out. "He just wasn't around when I quit drinking, that's all."

Sid's mouth starts talking before he even realizes it's him. "Religious people go to church and think about going fishing." His gut twists. Was this the best thing to say? But he has to finish when they all look at him. "Spiritual people go fishing and think about God.

"Well, I've never gone fishing in my life." Auntie Anna retorts quickly. "So I certainly never think about it, especially not in church. We go there only to listen to the priest, to hear the scripture, the holy word. That's what we go to church for."

"Sorry Auntie, it doesn't include everyone." Sid backs off quickly. "It's just something I heard, it can't be about you."

"You both need to go to church." Auntie Anna states coldly, staring at Sid and Uncle Harry. Then slightly warmer, a little softer. "Well, at least you don't drink any more, Harry, that's all I can say."

"Yah, that's the thing Anna. Teresa." Uncle Harry's voice mellows. "I am so sorry I followed the path I did." He takes a deep breath. "I know my apology doesn't mean that much, but I do want to talk to each of you. There's something I want to ask of you girls 'cause it'll help me not drink." His humility pacifies, his whole demeanour now demands nothing, only asks.

"What?"

"Just a minute of your time. If I could just talk to each of you ..."

They look at their brother quizzically, now, and Sid watches a people connection form he feels sure fits into some spiritual stock or other. Anna and Teresa look at each other, nod at Harry, and start talking about the kitchen again.

Sid knows the Twelve Step procedure. When he talks with each of his sisters, Uncle Harry will ask for something they may give or may not give at all. Simple forgiveness. Like in Catholic confession, he will admit his wrongs – but directly to the person wronged, not to a priest. Just to help ensure his freedom from his uncontrollable need to drink. Sid has seen the results so many times of this process, experiential evidence for the presence of God. A direct dividend from a direct investment, at least in AA's version of God's will.

Andy has been listening ever more intently. His half-finished beer sits forgotten. Sid wants to start preaching, but he bites his tongue hard now, he knows what AA's say. You can give someone the key, but you can't open the door for them. Attraction without promotion. This bit of attraction, however, brings flashing visions of upward projections on the market boards.

"Should we go get Lola?" Sid calmly asks his cousin.

Andy nods his ascent, and they wander out to the Subaru.

"You wanna drive?" Sid dangles the keys in front of Andy.

"Sure."

They pull out on the sandy road, turning left at the store.

"That sure was a party at the last reunion." Sid mentions as they come down past the boat launch. Several boats are moored at the dock or beached in the sand. Sid spots 210HP written on the side of one.

"Yes, life can be quite a party." Andy sounds serious. They roll on past the old campground with its tall pines.

"You don't drink Sid? Nothing else either ... for fun I mean?"

"Not any more. But I sure used to. It used to be a lot of fun. Like Uncle Harry."

Andy glances at Sid.

"Hey, we could drag Uncle Harry out to another beach later. We could all have a talk, if you want."

"No cocaine?" Andy strains. "There's a lot of drugs in California just like it."

"I tried a few drugs ... you know, whatever came along."

"Can you do me a favour?" Andy glances over at Sid as they cruise between the opposing gazes of cabins and lake.

"Yah, sure."

Andy hands his cousin what looks like a case for sunglasses.

"Throw this in the fire for me, will you?" Andy stares straight ahead. Sid opens it to see some carefully wrapped paper packages.

"Sure thing Andy. No problem." He drops the case into his front shirt pocket.

They turn left away from the lake, up the street and over into the grass ditch.

"We can keep our shoes on this time."

Sid smiles at his cousin. "Or should we take them off, just cause we're in Saskatchewan." He laughs as they open the doors of the Subaru, stepping out onto the soft grass.

Chapter 18

"Harry, is that you?" Auntie Lola walks up beside her brother in the midst of his campaign when they enter the hall.

The campaigner's voice falls silent as he turns slowly around.

"Loli ..." He hesitates.

His bright face sinks gradually towards the floor, his eyes well up and a tear forms on his left cheek, rolling down ahead of a glistening trail.

"Harry. How are you?" She moves a little closer, awkward in her step. "You're looking good."

Sid and Andy found Auntie Lola still engrossed in conversation with Frank back at the cabin. She broke away to come along though, sitting silent as a fish under water for the ride to the hall. Sid's glance in the rear-view revealed her solitary focus on the passing scene – now Sahiya Lake, where her cousin Ksandra took her final swim.

At the hall, she finds herself again talking with a brother from that distant time in the past. Harry moves closer to his sister, almost stumbling on his once politically sure feet, opening his arms to embrace her.

"Welcome home, Loli. There's so much I want to tell you." Harry hangs his head for a second, but looks back up with new belief. "I hope we can have a good talk."

"Yes, Harry." Auntie Lola nods. "Let's have a cup of tea."

They find a place at one of the tables. Auntie Teresa puts tea bags in two cups of hot water, and Andy carries them over. Jamie brings out a plate of cookies.

Harry looks across at his sister, through tearstained eyes, almost like he's twenty years old again. He puts his tea bag in the cup before him.

"I'm so glad to see you, Loli. How are you, really I mean?"

"I'm OK, Harry, I'm OK." Auntie Lola repeats herself slowly. She stirs a spoon of sugar into her tea.

"I was thinking about you ..." Harry shakes his head, smiling. "You remember that time we took the Chevy to the city for a cherry soda? That new soda shop opened on 15th street."

"We never got our cherry sodas." Lola sips her tea. She gives a pout. "We never even made it to the city."

"We did get a piece of strawberry pie at the Grahams'." Harry counters. "And Joey Graham sure took a shine to you and Ksandra. He gave the four of us a ride all the way to Shellbrook to get a new tire, then all the way back to the Chevy."

"He was just a farm boy." Lola shakes her head, looking down at her spoon. "Dressed in greasy coveralls."

Harry looks a little more closely at his sister's fine clothes and auburn sash. He doesn't say any more. Silence swirls with the mixture of time-dimmed recollection.

"We stopped at the farm on the way. I said hi." Auntie Lola looks up at her brother. Harry looks back, swallowing hard but still listening. "You didn't even come to the funeral, Harry. What came over you?"

"I just couldn't take it any more. You saw Ksandra when we took her out of the boat. She looked so ..." Harry's voice breaks. He takes a couple deep breaths, picking up his teacup to sip.

Auntie Lola drinks from her own cup. She reaches for a cookie, looks at it and places it on her saucer.

"I am sorry I didn't come to the funeral, Lola ... real sorry." Uncle Harry measures the value of each word. "I don't drink any more, you know, it's been over a year now. I am trying hard ... and things are getting better, Loli, so much better." Harry gathers strength. "I was wrong not to come, to hide in the bottle. I know what I did didn't help anyone. Including you. Can you forgive me?"

Auntie Lola looks long at her brother, and then stretches her hand past the teacups to touch his arm. Tears follow each other from his eyes but he holds the posture of his face, strong and firm in his determination.

The emotional flow around the brother-sister table begs distraction, and the sound of a new vehicle pulling up can't be mistaken.

Sid wanders over to the yellow door to see who it is. He doesn't recognize the car at first glance, but Jo and Sami sit in the front seat next to Uncle Nick. Maybe a rental. He walks over to hug his sister and niece, and to shake hands with his worldly uncle.

"Hey Sami, you're tall. How old are you?" Sid asks.

"Eight."

He looks at Jo and Nick. "Uncle Harry and Auntie Lola are just having a little chat."

"Really? They're both here?" Jo squats with her daughter. "Sami, there's a new uncle and aunt for me to meet here. I never met either of them before, ever."

"That's weird, Mom."

The usually calm look on Uncle Nick's face is disturbed. Almost a replica of Harry's face in the Calgary coffee shop when he talked of Ksandra, but with a Nick twist. Nick walks slowly back to the trunk of the car, but rather than opening it, he crosses his arms and looks down towards the lake. Sid wonders what he's thinking. Uncle Harry comes out the hall door, adjusting himself into a party member with best face forward.

"Hey Nick. How the hell are you?" He walks around the car to his brother, arms extended. "Man, it is good to see you Nick." His eyes shine with the aura of pink-cloud.

"Well, hello Harry." Uncle Nick turns from the lake to take him in. His face softens. "You sure are looking good brother." They embrace.

They square off, arms on shoulders, looking each other over.

"That's a beautiful lake out there Nick. You gotta come fishing tomorrow with me and the nephews. Remember all the times we spent out there casting for pike?" Harry circles his brother now like a puppy bounces about a litter mate.

"I don't go out in boats any more Harry. The last time was with you. Remember?" Nick's face falls. "We spent two days out there in Chichowski's old tub."

"Yah, OK I know Nick. But look at how things have changed. Look at me. Miracles can happen. You can change too. Let go of the past. I know we should have looked out for her better, but I've been thinking about it for a year now. We made a mistake – everyone makes them. I was blaming myself for years, but now I forgive myself. It was all an accident."

Uncle Nick looks at his brother, still tormented. "It was not an accident, Harry. That much I know." He speaks each word with force. "You took off to the bar so fast, you never stuck around to hear the rest of the story. You never read the police report."

"Police report?"

"They came out from Shellbrook. Didn't you ever wonder why she had her dress on? She never went for a casual swim, not all dressed up like that."

Harry's breath shallows. "Maybe she just fell out of a boat."

"There's only one person who knows. Loli! But she keeps it inside like a secret locked up in a vault." Nick looks at Harry in a moment of desperation. Then his face clouds over, and the veins rise on his forehead. "All because those guys had their fancy boat and shiny car. She was hypnotized. But you know, Ksandra wasn't under the same spell. She wasn't so shallow as Loli."

"Yah, OK it was strange she was in a dress." Harry is listening at least partially, adding his voice of scepticism to Nick's aura of anger.

"She didn't just go for a swim, that's for sure." Nick's energy rises with his brother's agreement.

"Well did those guys throw her out of their boat or something?" Harry asks, his brows furrowed and his lips pursed.

"I don't think so, Harry. The report said there were no signs of a struggle. The police talked to both those guys but they already left the lake earlier that same day. So she wasn't in the water until after those guys were gone. Something else happened. Only Loli knows. She's so stubborn."

"We can ask her, Nick." Harry says. "Come on, she's right inside. I was just talking to her."

"Harry, I've been asking her for years. There's no point, she won't tell. They must have made a young girls' pact, she must have sworn secrecy with Ksandra or something. It's no use."

"Well, come on inside. We can have a tea with Loli and talk about good old times anyway." Harry puts his arm around his brother, guiding him over to the hall.

Sid follows them in. This Ksandra thing might never come to the light.

Auntie Lola stands over in the kitchen talking with her two older sisters and Sid watches as Uncle Nick resolutely heads over.

###

"Hey Sid." Jamie waves Sid over.

"What about love." Her eyes flash. "Jo said she told you to check out relationships, you know, for your treasure hunt. You should have a girlfriend."

"I've had one or two, Jamie. Short term investment for me."

"Love is the most important thing." Amy says with a knowing look. "Especially in your own family. Keep looking."

"We hear Ksandra was in love." Jamie says.

"She died for true love," Amy giggles. "That's probably what happened."

"So love isn't all that great." Sid points out. "I mean if she died for it."

"What if her soul burst into heaven absolutely in love?" Jamie argues. "The pure kind of true love that ends every fairy tale."

"So it would be happily ever after." Amy adds. "Forever."

"Maybe she found nirvana by making the ultimate sacrifice in a state of pure love." Jo puts it in her words.

"Are you guys in love with your husbands?" Sid challenges. "Like true love?"

"That's not the same thing." Jamie speaks with Jo nodding in agreement. "Ksandra never had a chance to know her guy as a husband, so her love was still pure."

"Right, OK. You guys make a good point." Sid looks at each of them, wondering if there could be a spiritual market value for love. Why not a mutual fund with a large market share in love, pure romantic or otherwise.

###

Ryan and Franco come sauntering in the door. Sid greets his cousins last seen around the Easter time barbeque. Ryan seems almost in a state of pure life frolic, while lines of concern on Franco's face are drawn tighter than Sid has ever seen. Partying, or something else he wonders.

"Hey I never heard you guys drive up." Sid says.

"We went for a spin in Franco's boat." Ryan fills him in. "We walked up from the boat launch."

"Hey, you guys wanna go fishing tomorrow?"

"Yah, let's go snag a pickerel _mañana_." Ryan, laughing, does a hand-is-a-happy-fisherman.

After some chitchat, Sid leaves Ryan and Franco with agreement to pick them up in the morning. He needs a break from the hubbub. But remembering his promise, he tracks down Andy. Finding his cousin talking with Uncle Harry, inviting them both comes easy.

They hop in the Subaru, Harry in the back and Sid drives up the little paved highway, past the main campground to Rabbit Beach. Looking from the parking lot, Sid recaptures the view of life from the beach of five years past, free falling on a simple child's swing.

"See over there Andy?" He points across the lake. "That's where we went fishing last reunion. We cooked walleye on the beach by Pelican Rocks, Uncle."

"And there's Big Island." Uncle Harry points more to the right.

"Let's get even closer." Sid can feel a tingle. "Let's go to a new beach. You guys in?"

"Why not?" They agree.

The sandy logging road leads them along the lake. The Subaru takes them across the old wooden bridge over the sluggish river connecting Little Rabbit Lake with the larger Sahiya. Sid stops, opening his door to look down through the cracks between the planks into the clear blue, watching minnows scoot over the sandy bottom.

"The fish come up here in the spring." Sid repeats what he's been told. "Jackfish come out of the big lake to lay eggs in the little lake. Like the salmon from the ocean swim upriver to spawn. Hundreds of miles for the salmon, not so far for these slough sharks. Like people I think. Some go a little ways and some go a long ways."

They drive further along the road into the poplars and spruce, now with a scattering of the bright white bark of birch trees. The hum of insects in the air permeates the calm sunny day. Sid uses the all-wheel drive to get up a little hill.

They cross the first peninsula, then the second and come to a fork in the road. To the left lies the lake. They turn and the branches grow in heavy across the trail, pushing in against the little car. Through an old wooden gate they see a dilapidated building sitting secluded in a stand of trees. A large open sandy area slopes down to a white sand beach.

"The reform camp." Uncle Harry points at the old building.

"What?" Sid's brow wrinkles.

"Back in the 50's this was a camp for delinquent boys. They came to spend the summer out here. Away from everything to keep them out of trouble."

They get out, walking through the sand to look from their new vantage point. A distinct beach for sure, with a different outlook. Sid walks down to the water's edge, watching the waves build. A beach with history of reformed outlooks; he turns back.

"... if you want to quit, then you can be a member. As long as you have the desire. There's no fees or membership forms ..." Uncle Harry describes AA policy.

Andy listens to his uncle, nodding, while Sid catches it in the background, a story he has heard so many times, one of experience, strength and hope, being told one to another.

He pulls a blade of grass, sticks it between his teeth and half listening, gazes across the still waters to the Big Island looming high. Sid shivers as he feels an understanding that has evaded him for so long. If God made that piece of grass and the beauty of the island across the shining water, then God can surely do anything at all. God makes all kinds of growth potential available, Sid only needs to get his portfolio aligned.

"We can go fishing over by Big Island tomorrow." Uncle Harry looks at them. "I know a good spot."

"Yah, sounds good." Sid squints over at his uncle.

Andy nods peacefully.

Chapter 19

Piing! The pinecone bounces off the picnic table.

"Shit. I missed." Sid whispers.

Phweph! Direct hit. Andy's cone hits the side of the tent, causing immediate stirrings inside.

"Fishing Ryan ... fishing Yoli." Andy yodels out, wide awake this morning. Though he didn't sleep much last night, this time Andy's racing mind disturbed his sleep unaltered.

The two of them turn to walk down a couple campsites to the tiny trailer Uncle Harry has borrowed. Their uncle stands around the fire pit, holding his finger to his lips as he sees them approach, protecting his daughter's morning sleep-in from their boyish onslaught. Pinecone tossing, Sid thinks, helps keep the good feelings of barefoot childishness. To taper Andy off the good feelings of substances. Uncle Harry sips coffee as they approach with their hands behind their backs.

""Morning Uncle. How'd you sleep?" Sid asks in hushed tones.

"Yahhh!" Uncle Harry gives a Rah Rah thumbs up. "We go forth to catch the big one." He whispers, winking at his nephews.

"Any movement in Franco's camp?" Sid asks.

"We already gave Ryan and Yoli an early invite." Andy grins.

"Yah, there were some lights on at Franco's. You guys want a coffee?"

Franco's motor home looms in the shadows of some dark pines on the other side of the road. Sid glances at Andy. They know, without words, it's best to leave the huge camper free of pinecone bombs.

"Cinnamon bun?" Uncle Harry passes a box.

As they munch, the door swings opened on the side of the motor home and Franco quietly exits, carrying a coffee cup and lifting a hand half way.

"Let's move." Uncle Harry says. He waves Franco along.

As they all walk back to Ryan and Yoli's tent, a zipping sound reveals a sleepy eyed Ryan, followed by his wife. Yolita must have learned tolerance for early fishing. Two months past solstice, though, the sunrise does help out with more sleeping time.

"Everyone got a fishing licence?" Sid asks.

"You don't." Ryan looks at him.

"Anyone else?" Sid asks.

"We'll all fit in the boat, eh." Uncle Harry starts to organize.

Franco nods affirmative with a tight smile, then focuses on an insect in his coffee.

"OK, Sid you can drive." Uncle Harry goes on. "And I'll drive too. Who's coming with me?"

Sid follows the '75 Chevy through the dew-covered coolness of the campground poplars. An early morning mist lies out on the lake as they drive down to the boat launch to park in the wet grass. Everyone wears a light jacket, and Yoli wraps herself in an extra wool sweater.

"We going to Big Island, eh?" Ryan says.

"Yah, there's a spot I gotta show you guys." Uncle Harry winks. "It's a place old man Chichowski took us long ago. There's a rock bar out there and lots of fish. Big fish." He stretches his arms wide.

Franco starts the Johnson inboard, an engine barely audible and they all find places in the plush seats. The steering wheel sits in the middle, and a collapsible cover like the top on a convertible protects the front compartment. The six of them easily fit in the boat.

Franco hits the throttle, shooting the boat up to a smooth skim over the surface, leaving everyone sunken back in their lush seats. The takeoff startles Yoli, but Franco doesn't notice. Ryan frowns. They glide straight up the lake, past Rabbit Beach, past the reform camp, arcing into the long bay that goes on past Big Island. Close to where the island hugs the far shore they slow down.

"OK, just a little further. I want to see those two points line up over there." Uncle Harry keeps his eye on the shore. "OK, cut it now."

Ryan and Yoli have their gear ready, casting almost in unison as the boat drifts in. The hollow call of the loon echoes out from the long bay, while the island's hill emerges above them. Sid watches trails of fog hovering over the water, swirling gently with sluggish air currents. Long narrow fields of green reeds line the shores over in the channel between island and shore. The water in the channel reflects a relaxing light green, quite shallow. Almost a place to go on pilgrimage.

"No bites." Andy disrupts the silent sermon. "What's going on Uncle Harry? Are we in the right place?"

"Yah, this is the spot. Try a Len Thompson. Best lure for any fish."

"I had a couple nibbles." Ryan pacifies.

"So how's the lottery, Ryan?" Sid revives the last fishing trip talk.

"Fantastic. I won big." Ryan's enthusiasm washes over Sid like an ocean wave. "She's sitting right here beside me." Ryan winks.

The euphoria of new love, the thrill of the first year of marriage. Romantic love creates spikes on the investment board, like Jo was saying, at least in the short term. A long term follow-up, even though it comes with a variable return rate, still invites investment, Jamie and Amy seemed to add.

"Hey, I won two other lotteries. The Uncle Nick lottery and the Pepe lottery." Ryan does a hand-is-a-flashing-lights-winner. "Uncle Nick was right. You can win a lottery without a ticket. You can have what the ads try to sell you on."

"Really?" Sid asks. "Consumer advertising you mean?"

"The billboards you see. Look at them close. They always show you chilled out at the beach." Ryan says. "They never show you stressed out at work."

"So you don't buy lotto tickets anymore?"

"Uncle Nick showed me how they aren't real at all." Ryan speaks in a voice so hard to recognize from five years back. "Ever since I cut up my credit cards, I haven't bought another lotto ticket. No way."

"So what's the Uncle Nick lottery?" Sid asks, intrigued. "What did you win?"

"The life on the billboards I tell you. Like they show you living if you win a million. Relaxed. Laid back. Tell him, Yoli."

"We buy a house." Yoli smiles broadly. "We bought a house." She corrects herself. "A very nice house."

"A life like on the billboard." Sid muses. "How can that be?"

"We have a house right at the beach. Victoire is right on a little lake. You gotta come see it."

"Victoire is that little place by Debden." Sid says. "How did you buy it?"

"Small town houses are real cheap. Everyone's moving to the city. Big lot too. We have a big garden growing; we have chickens, just like Grandpa did. We hardly ever go to the grocery store." Ryan's face oozes happy camper satisfaction. "And I got a moose last fall, and a couple deer too, so the freezer's full. Made a lot of sausage last fall."

"Wow, sounds cool." Sid says. "You must be working for Franco now."

"No, Franco's got his own kind of business. My business is me. I'm look at myself as a contractor. My time for what they pay each hour. Every hour I work, I want to spend the pay on something worthwhile for me and Yoli." This sounds distinctly like a newly rehearsed Ryan.

Franco stands at the wheel, looking off into the distance. If he's listening, he's ignoring it all.

"I got seasonal contract work in Prince Albert. I drive in and out, but hey, the roads are good in the summer. Four days a week. Yoli does the garden when I'm working in town. She loves gardening. We go fishing together every Monday, right out the front door." Ryan gives Sid a pursed lips affirmative look. "'Cause no one should work on a Monday I figure."

"How long of a drive to work?" Sid challenges. There has to be something wrong with this picture.

"Oh, an hour each way. It's like being a part time delivery driver, but I deliver myself to work. I love the feel of the highway, and it's summer driving only."

"Really. You know, there're people in Calgary who spend at least that much time getting to work." Sid says. "Cursing their way extra on the winter ice."

"Two hours for some in LA." Andy puts in.

"Wow, sounds good Ryan. Like you really did win the lottery. What about the winters, though, if you only do seasonal work?" Sid still doesn't believe it can be all good.

"Hey, that's the Pepe lottery. We go to Costa Rica." Ryan's level of contented excitement ratchets up a couple notches. "I can trade any old Canadian winter day of ice fishing for a day at the river with Pepe."

Sid looks at Yoli. "Winter is cold." She shivers.

"We're gonna go right after Christmas this year, then come back in April to get the garden ready. We rent a part of Yoli's uncle's place down there. We know Uncle Nick's aquarium business guys if we want to go to the ocean." Ryan goes on.

"Wow. Hey, how is that aquarium business?"

"Uncle Nick's out of it. He turned it over to those guys. He just wanted to get things going for them. Some investment he was making, in time something or other ... equity ... or whatever. He's a smart guy."

"So you guys can live that way?" Sid asks. "Like work seasonal in Canada, grow your own food, go hunting and fishing, have a cheap house in a small town on a lake and fly south every winter. Can you do that?"

"Why not?" Ryan looks straight at Sid. "Uncle Nick says there's lots of ways to live. You know Pepe lives his own way, and he's such a happy guy."

"It must cost a fortune for the plane tickets." Sid knows he's running low on arguments.

"Yah, well I work all summer. That covers the tickets easy." Ryan yanks back on his rod, setting the hook in a fish that pulls hard. "Hey, finally."

Ryan hasn't lost interest in fish at all, yet he seems to have rewrapped his life and his favourite activity with new packaging. Still a carefree life, just without credit card debts or lottery ticket dreams. Following Grandpa Pawlo's principle of not being a borrower, yet somehow working his way around the consumer advertisements, and still capturing the life they idealize. His wealth comes from a completely different source now, his lottery dream fulfilled by more or less following the path of a little old man in a shack who goes fishing when he wants to and an uncle who's explored the options.

Ryan pulls the fish in close, a walleye of several pounds. Andy picks it out of the water for him, holding it up for everyone to see.

"Told you this was the spot. We used to catch those all the time from old man Chichowski's tub." Uncle Harry boasts.

If Uncle Harry did it from an old tub, a boat like Franco's doesn't add to fishing luck at all. A softer seat, what one could easily have with a foam cushion. And a faster ride to the spot, but the billboards show tranquility to be the ideal, a calm, slow boat ride.

"How come you don't catch a fish?" Yoli challenges Uncle Harry.

"Len Thompson. It's the only hook to use." Uncle Harry's gives a hollow answer.

"We talked about getting rich last time we went fishing, Uncle Harry. How about you, you getting rich at all?" Sid prods on.

"Yah, OK I was listening. My biggest winning is just being alive. Then it's the way I live differently now, that's a win too." He looks at Sid with squinted eyes. "You know that." He looks around at everyone. "You guys know the stories about me; I used to be a drunk. Now I'm not. Now I go fishing with my nephews, and help out at reunions and hang out with my daughter. I have a job too. Those are my riches. My chances were poor but the winnings keep rolling my way."

"So you feel rich?"

"Today, I feel like a million dollars ... even more."

"Hey, we talked about that million last time. How about you Franco?" Sid looks at his business cousin. Franco looks back with empty eyes.

"Sometimes business is good and sometimes it's slow. You just have to stick it out, stick to your goals."

The fog dissipates as the morning wears on. The wind comes to life, bringing its daily influence to bear on forest and lake alike. They float alone, untroubled by the worries of the world except for those they each carry in their own minds.

"How 'bout you, Andy. Any thoughts on the million?"

"Hey, I'm happy for you guys." Andy turns first to Ryan and Yoli. "You guys have it made. I knew there was something missing for me, so I think my own new riches are just like yours." He turns to Sid. "For me, I win by losing the million." He grins, almost realizing the truth in what he now voices. "I'm starting to feel a real freedom to start a new life, a better life." His voice raises a couple octaves. "Because of you guys. When you don't have a million dollars, you feel like you fit in with everyone else again. And that's what I wanted all along."

"Wow, so losing a million can actually make you feel rich, you're saying." Sid exclaims. He shakes his head ... what an epiphany.

"Losing it all can set you free." Andy affirms. "That's my lottery win."

Bigger wavelets start to lap up against the boat. The day gives birth to a new tranquility, a turning point in the cycle of seasons after the hubbub of summer. A gust comes churning though the trees on shore, picking up a handful of yellowing leaves, carrying them high, and dropping them in a flurry around the boat.

"We have time to eat that lunker?" Uncle Harry asks Ryan.

"Yah, for sure. How 'bout on that beach over there?" Ryan looks at Franco, pointing to a beach across from the island. Franco shrugs indifferently, and starts the engine.

They beach the boat, getting the fire going while Ryan slices the walleye into steaks. He and Yoli are completely prepared. Lemons, basil, and tin foil to wrap the fish appear out of nowhere. Yoli pulls out some paper plates, plastic forks, paper towels and a loaf of fresh bread.

Franco stays in the boat, while the rest of them wander around the fire chatting enthusiastically about fish and family.

Sid asks Ryan about Uncle Nick.

"We kinda copied him. He's got a small house in Turtleford with a big garden. He doesn't even have a car." Ryan describes their uncle's latest lifestyle, as he moves the foil wrapped fish around in the orange coals.

"What's with the no car?" Sid asks. "Why not?"

"He's gone green. He writes articles for these environmental magazines. He has a girlfriend from the city, so she drives out to visit. He just rents a car for trips." Ryan tells Sid.

"Wow, I gotta talk to the guy again." Sid muses.

They pass the food from one to the other, eating huge chunks of the seasoned fresh-from-the-lake walleye chased with glasses of ice cold kool-aid from Yoli's pack. Stirring Franco from his daze when they push the boat from the beach, they request a ride home. Franco complies, bringing the boat slowly up to full speed this time as they cruise back across the shimmering waters of Sahiya.

###

Back at the hall, the noise level escalates as members of the family come awake for the day, coming to life for the second reunion. Yet a thin eerie slice of tension seems to hover over the hall, rift with secrets hidden in past closets troubling the air.

A Kaiser game reaches a critical point at a table, where four uncles slap their knees in frustration and intensity with the chaos and ecstasy of the game. Lola sits at another table with her two older sisters, each of them sipping a cup of late morning tea. The children raise a racket along the stage with an endless day of play before them.

The fishermen wander in to find a place for themselves among the relatives. Harry zeros in on his sisters, looking for a reunion status report. But not for long, as Uncle Francis dashes over seeking new challengers for the next card game.

"Come on, Sid. You get a chance to play with Harry." Uncle Francis grabs Sid's arm as he walks briskly by. "Come on, Harry. Kaiser game."

Frank and Uncle Pete get up from the table, leaving cards displaying their decisive final count. Sid wanders over to Uncle Nick, who still sits.

"Hi Uncle Nick. You should have come fishing." Sid sits beside him.

"Sid. I needed some extra sleep this morning. Been writing too much I guess. Yah, out on the lake early in the morning, that would be a nice place to be." Uncle Nick shivers. "How's the inquiry into the meaning of wealth?"

"The search continues ... I was gonna ask you for an update. Have you found your way to the place past happiness? You know, the one you were talking of ..."

"Well that makes me think. The best answer I can give says I haven't really found a complete answer ... but maybe a piece of one."

"OK ... is it something to do with helping other people? Your time equity idea? Just help others and you'll feel more than happy."

"You know Sid, that really is part of it, but not the whole thing. Not for me. I tried that myself you know, giving other people a hand directly. That probably works for some people as I believe that's what some people were meant to do. But for me, it was just a stepping stone, getting me further along my own path."

"So what's your path then? Where do you get extra happiness now?"

"I kind of have an idea." Uncle Nick looks a Sid with deep eyes. "I think each of us has a different path to be on, and it's sort of a gut feeling, a guiding dream that gets us really going. When we're on the path we know we should be on, happiness doesn't really matter that much anymore. Even if we're not happy, you know, in the traditional sense, we know there's a purpose to what we do, how we live, and the level of satisfaction coming from knowing that supersedes any need for frivolous happiness."

His smile reflects the inner thoughts. A smile that might just fall down the shaft of an empty well to its very bottom and start the flow necessary to one day fill it bottom up, to the very top, maybe to overflow.

The opposing team shuffles into their chairs. What a site, to see Harry and Nick sitting together. Sid's two uncles, each who has followed a path so far that a nephew or any relative could learn from. Part of the Akashic records, yet to be keyed in.

"Cut for deal." Uncle Francis grins playfully.

Sid wonders at that happy farmer grin, the peaceful faces of long term members of AA, the extra tranquility he himself found living in the campervan, the happy lifestyle of his artist sister and of Pepe who owns not a thing but touches the hearts of the people around him. What if ...

"What's your bid, Sid?"

He focuses on his cards.

Chapter 20

"Yah, sure. OK, then, I just want to thank you all for being here ..." Uncle Harry's high octane burners put him on stage as MC this time. "... and especially for allowing me be here." His voice drops with his eyes. "I know most of you were at the first reunion, but some of you weren't." He looks up shyly, grinning gently. "Including me.

"So tonight, we've decided to forego the stage show, and instead spend a little extra time just getting to know each other. There's a few of you who have decided to come up and tell a bit about yourselves to the rest of us. So if you want to join in, or if you want to just listen, that's fine too ..."

Uncle Harry paces, swinging the microphone cord like a dance partner, and all falls silent but for the buzz running through the P.A. speakers, mixed with the rustle of relatives fidgeting in their chairs. He looks up, up high, up the wall for support, then back at his family.

"Ahh, what the hell. How 'bout if I go first." The rustling stops. "If you guys don't mind." Uncle Harry looks out at each of them. His political charade tones down, now more like a child caught in the act. "So I wasn't at the first reunion and I want to try to explain. I've been a bad guy, a nasty fellow, so I'm sorry about that ..." He takes a deep breath. "... but I know saying sorry really isn't enough. So I want to make amends in a way that isn't just talk, I have to change...

"I am the prodigal son," He looks at Anna and Teresa. "And now I've come home."

He looks back at everyone. "I've been Harry the drunk. But now Harry the drunk is down for the count, well I hope so – but I truly want to keep him down. And for that to happen, he has to be replaced by a new me. So whatever change you guys might notice in me, whatever you can see in me as a _new guy_ , that is my apology to you. If I say something and don't do it, that's bullshit, doesn't count at all."

A grandiose way to do a Step 9, AA old timers would say, up on stage in front of a crowd, but others might add, it's better than not doing one at all.

"One of the best things in my new life is you guys – my family. And one of my favourites is my daughter ... Marlene do you want to come up?" Uncle Harry's face shines, like a father attending the birth of a child, as he passes the mike to Marti.

Marti shows all the potential of a natural stage character. She steps lightly up the stairs, a mirrored reflection of her father's passion.

"Hi guys, thanks Dad." She beams. "So glad to be meeting you all – yes, the other part of my family."

She tells her story, of her first and then second adopted mothers, the second one who became her 'real' mother, and she mentions the family she hopes to have with her soon to be husband, one who wasn't able to come. Marti leaves the stage with a flourish, slipping the mike elegantly back to her father.

"OK, thanks Marti." Harry's eyes glisten with wetness. "Now let's pass it on to Andy." Harry motions to where his nephew sits with Lola. "Andy came all the way from California, again ..."

Andy hops up the stairs. "Well, yes, this is my second trip to the northern land of the free ... at least my friends now know Saskatchewan isn't somewhere in Asia. I just want to tell you guys my life is changing a bit. I'm planning a new career ... my first one, actually." He pauses for a moment. "And you guys are having an influence ... a good one." He hesitates. "So I had a really good time today. And you know ... I want to apologize for some of my nasty behaviour at the last reunion." He lets it hang. "Anyways, I hope to follow Uncle Harry to a new way of having a good time." Andy's word repertoire runs empty. "So a big yahoo to reunion number two."

Andy calmly passes the mike back to Harry, and they grip each other's shoulder on passing. Uncle Harry looks briefly up the wall again, then back at the little crowd. He looks from Lola sitting with stiff back to where Uncle Nick slouches, his head lolling sideways in silent vigilance.

This once drunk uncle is now ballistic, on a mission of glasnost. Openness, in a purer sense, seems pervasive in catching family spirit. Uncle Harry's face reeks of satisfaction, maybe a little overboard, as an AA expression puts it; When you think you've got it, you've had it.

"My brother Nick now has some tales to tell about his most interesting life ..." Harry walks to the stairs as Uncle Nick pulls himself up from his chair. Missing his typical aura of peace, this uncle of many optional lifestyles looks now bent on some kind of surprise mission of his own ...

"Harry, I am so happy to see you here and to see you so alive ..." Uncle Nick hesitates now. "And everyone else here."

"You know, I did want to go with you guys fishing this morning ... but I still can't get myself out in a boat. There's still something holding me back ... "He looks around. "Just to let you all know, the last time I was in a boat was long ago, well, it was me and Harry out there on Sahiya looking for our cousin Ksandra. We found her on the second day, well, it was her body we found ..."

Nick starts his own moment of pacing, then stops.

"Anyway we seem to be telling the truth this evening. So I hope the truth will come out of all of us tonight ... I really want to know what happened to Ksandra." Nick looks directly at Lola. "Maybe then I could get back in a boat ... have some peace, you know?"

Nick passes the mike back to his brother, walking off the stage back to his side of the floor, leaving his challenge hanging in public air.

Uncle Harry walks slowly, wondering now what. With an open can of worms, how can a show go on? Maybe a distraction, he calls on cousin Ralf to come up. And most do relax into Ralf's rough edged smile. One of his stories gets some laughs, yet even with all the attention, he needs to leave the stage quickly. Uncle Harry, having considered more, now calls an intermission.

Sid rises, glancing around the hall, senses almost a different buzz in the air, a hum among the cousins, uncles and aunts, brothers and sisters as they speak in hushed tones. He walks across to the yellow entrance, and out for a breath of fresh air. Uncle Harry's back-from-the-dead honesty is creating a stir, no question.

Down the street, out over the lake, Sid stares as the sun dips below the horizon, bringing a world of changing colour to trees and building edges. The waters reflect the deeper blue of a darkening sky. He sits down on the concrete step, kicking little rocks back into their places out on the gravel lot. Tranquility reigns, the world sits at peace for a moment. Ryan and Yoli step out, and he smiles at their billboard image.

###

That afternoon, after the Kaiser game, repeats itself in Sid's mind. Uncle Nick's latest update on what wealth could be, he told Sid, comes from following gut feelings, whether or not they bring happiness. He warned that, when wealth constitutes a measure of good human connection, it's hard earned, and there will likely be a time of unnerving tension. Sid asked about time power equity, when you give up your time to make things more fair, more equitable. But this new investment, Nick said, involves standing firm for what you believe in, even if you risk being hard on people close to you – possibly losing it all. Whatever your gut rings in as your stock, that is what you must stand for, no matter what the cost. The cost soars high if you don't stand firm, the reward feeling is great if you do. It's a strange thing, to invest in discomfort.

Sid senses a disturbance, a grumble in the background. Is it from over at the bar?

Uncle Nick certainly is acting out of character today, challenging Loli, but maybe he's making an investment. He let Sid know how his definition of love is evolving. Love now means doing things that are difficult, for the benefit and growth they may cause in another. Like a risk investment in future returns. He said romantic love is one thing, and family compassion is another, but this is a deeper, perhaps truer version. Maybe something the Creator has in mind, Sid wonders.

A distinct human sound now echoes, not from down the street, but through the wall behind them. Ryan and Yoli stop chatting, looking at each other, as voices rise to a peak through the cinder blocks. What you wouldn't normally hear. Sid glances at Ryan, then at Yoli, as they pull the door open to walk back in.

Sister cousins Jamie and Amy stand in a tight circle with Jo, chatting rapidly, as they walk up. Their gestures and nods point towards the kitchen where Uncle Harry, Uncle Nick and Auntie Lola standing limply.

"What's happening?" Sid asks Jo.

She looks his way, serious, but points to Jamie.

"... so Uncle Nick tells her again he can't go out in boats." Jamie is saying. "Whatever _that_ means ..."

"Well it's 'cause he was in the boat when they found Ksandra."

"But there's something else ... why was she wearing a party dress when they found her."

"Uncle Nick just starts yelling at Auntie Lola. He says she's not telling the whole truth. He wants her to tell everything, be like Uncle Harry, he says."

"And Uncle Harry's right there too, but he doesn't know what to say. So first he tries to tell Auntie Lola she's the prodigal daughter – and they both came home now, so everything's just hunky dory."

Sid listens, wondering what his aunt would say, after her long sojourn away from the family and her long silent ride up to the lake. "So what did she say?" He asks. They glance at him for a millisecond, and then back at each other.

"Well, she starts to tell more. She tells Harry and Nick that Ksandra was her best friend, so they had secrets, and she shouldn't have to tell everything. Then she says she knew they were gonna find her dead ... she just knew it. How did she know, that's what Uncle Nick wants to know."

"She still won't say. So Uncle Nick says it's her fault Ksandra died."

"So Auntie Lola starts tearing a strip off both of them. She says they're just a drunken farm boy and a space cadet. Harry, with his junky old car, and Nick with his head full of dreams."

"So Uncle Harry starts apologizing. He says he's sorry all he had was the old car."

"But Auntie Lola starts with the classy places in the city, where her and Ksandra went with the speedboat guys."

"Yah, her and Ksandra were going out with those two guys. So Nick and Harry got left out."

"Ksandra had a real crush on one guy, _real_ love. And Auntie Lola was going with the other guy." Amy says.

"Uncle Nick says he warned her. He says those guys were just using her and Ksandra. Showing off their speed boat and their new car to a couple pretty girls from a small town." Jamie's voice drops.

"Then Uncle Nick loses it. He starts again, yelling at her. He tells her it's her fault Ksandra died, like she killed her. And it's her fault Uncle Harry started drinking so much. He calls her greedy, tells her she's just plain selfish."

"Then Uncle Nick's face goes beet red. 'Cause Auntie Lola starts yelling back."

"She said she never killed Ksandra ... she says when those guys left, Ksandra wanted to kill herself – and she did. She says Ksandra was too sensitive, just plain stupid."

"So Uncle Nick tells her she should have done something. That's when she slaps him right across the face ... hard."

"But Uncle Nick just gets real calm. He asks her if she got what she wanted ... she knew Ksandra was going to die, she didn't do a thing to stop her ... so he asks her if she got what she wanted."

"Auntie Lola keeps yelling at him. She says Ksandra was really in love with the one guy, Simon. Real love. She even said one time she'd kill herself if Simon didn't love her, but Auntie Lola didn't believe her, couldn't believe her, she told her that was a stupid thing to say."

"But then she did it. She went for her last swim in the lake, completely in love."

"Uncle Harry asked her again, why didn't Auntie Lola stop her?"

"She got quiet, her face went all red, and she broke down sobbing. She said she was sooo angry and she had this thought that if Ksandra killed herself, Sam would feel so bad, he would marry her and make that summer go on forever."

"She didn't really want Ksandra to kill herself, though, did she?"

"She was so angry, and she didn't think she'd really do it. But then, when it happened, when they really found Ksandra's body, it was too late. She felt so guilty. And now she's even more angry ... at Simon and Sam now."

"So what ever happened with those guys?" Sid asks.

"The bastards – that's what she calls them – they left that night. That's when all this started. When her and Ksandra got to the campsite, they were gone, not even a note. Auntie Lola was just furious, so she stomped off in a rage. Ksandra went for a walk down the beach, and she never came back. When they found Ksandra a couple days later, Lola couldn't handle it. She stopped talking to anyone, she started going to Edmonton."

"She just wanted to even things out ... no matter what it took. But she wanted to get what she wanted, too."

"She went looking for those guys." Amy tells the rest of the story. "But she never found them, she just found John. And John took her to the dinner theatres. John had a new car. So she ended up in California with John."

"Harry tries to tell Nick she was just a young girl, that she didn't know any better." Jo says.

"Uncle Nick listened." Jamie points. "Look, they're talking now."

###

Sid watches.

Nick is looking at his brother, sees the new innocence in his face and softens. "Yah, Harry you're right. I've just been looking to blame someone 'cause I felt so helpless." A tear starts its trip down the brothers' cheeks as the look at each other, then turn to Auntie Lola.

The universe stops for a brief moment. Feelings of youthful years splash over them, from way back, when the ideal was so much more real. They all sense a choice to make in that fleeting moment. To invest in the future, with the gift of forgiveness, or reinstate the past with a new round of distress and distance.

The moment is passing, and something happens, hard to explain, but it seems their faces remould themselves into those smiling in the black and white photo, three youngsters with interlacing arms. They hesitate, they resist, but then, as if angels give them a push, they are overwhelmed with a need for each other. Tears stream from all eyes when they finally let go. Auntie Teresa starts it maybe, but the whole family joins in to a round of applause. Sid pounds his hands together, applauding this demonstration of love far beyond any sung lyric or foot tap on the stage, this successful risk investment.

###

The cousins stand around the campfire again, some reminiscing about the party of five years back, while a couple stay a little more in touch with the day. No matter who else might be aware, Sid senses the family is a little more united, a little more together. There has been a growing mutuality, a fund really hard to articulate let alone assign to market value.

The northern lights dance, not quite with the brilliance of July, but still with an awesome presence. The natural church, Sid's church, is one thing he is grateful to keep stable. A solid rock to lean on as he trudges the road of happy destiny. Now he better understands the need for stability at times. Yet some things do change. The same dancing lights are there year after year, but the dances they perform are never identical, steps of endless evolution.

He can't help himself, "Hey Ralf, you rich yet? Are you rich?" He challenges Ralf again.

Ralf sticks his hands down deep in his pockets, grabs them from the inside, and pulls them inside out to emphasize emptiness. He stares at Sid with a beer-hazed grin, in an unnatural moment of silence.

"How's your drink Andy?" Sid winks at his cousin.

"Need another one, fill me up." Andy smiles back as they fill their glasses to the brim with kool-aid, straight up. They touch glasses with Ryan and Yoli as the northern lights jig their way across the Sahiya starlit night.

Chapter 21

The curve sails past the window, as he drives straight out of the bush to the farm where it all began. Pulling in beside a granary, he gets out, walks over to a rock pile and sits himself down on a large stone along the field's edge. He gazes out over the undulating waves of grain, Grandpa's hewed out dream-space. A combine rounds a corner on the far side, swathing a full fall harvest. Wheat, golden wheat, covers the field this year. The combine disappears behind a stand of trees.

The little voice who brought him here jumps to its easel, beginning a rerun portrait of the story and its wisdom.

Out there now, his grandfather, with axe and horse team, chopping trees in the snow, pulling stumps from the spring-thawed earth, picking rocks and ploughing the soil to take the precious seed of investment. Grandpa's future, built on his vision of this field, well, here it is, a prophecy realized. From this stepping-stone, Sid can make his own investments, another portfolio, further along.

True to the world, all does not lie even. In some places, the earth gives more, while in others seedlings struggle to hold root, steep slopes, weeds choking in, rocks and clay squeezing, low spots drowning, places where a seed just falls by the way ... like that other Jesus story. And as Grandpa clears the land, year after year, each of his offspring, and the ones they walk with, find their place.

Sid watches the background fade behind the fore.

Uncle Nick comes leaping from rise to rise, hilltop to hilltop, sniffing out the sweetest earth for his grain, the richest and the thickest, fulfilling his inquisitive nature. And from that sweet spot, he takes on his view. The mystery, the secrets, the hidden sustenance shows its true value clearly to him, as he strives to peer into every nook and cranny.

A barbwire fence flashes sharp blades, paralleling the ditch's edge, segregated from the grain. From the ditch, wild seeds of grasses, thistles and weeds march out to pillage sun and soil from the grain. Uncle John cruises the wire, striking sporadically across into the field, raiding where he can. Ever circling the field, he weaves in and out, seizing rich kernels of gold, dragging them back to the ditch. Where what grows best is subversive weed whisper, plotting to conquer, anything goes.

A faraway friend, Pepe comes traipsing along a crest, on land sloping to the sunny side, where extra light flames the grain of each kernel to bursting. His beaming smile radiates a golden glow, as he shares freely with those he meets along his way, his happiness and his freedom. Troops of kindergarten children join his frolic.

In a year round slough bottom, crossing beneath the barbwire, Franco churns around in his boat, reaching breakneck speeds. But the boat grows ever larger until there is no room left to manoeuvre. His journey ends, his caravan marooned, in the slough bottom slime.

Tearing free from choking thistle, cousin Ryan turns up to tag along, climbing the slope to join the children. He glances over his shoulder, at the neon lights, teasing him, coaxing him with lotto pirouettes, tantalizing plastic flashing an everlasting invite ... come back. But Uncle Nick clears his way, and Ryan's smile brightens with each escaping step from the hypnotizing dazzle.

Uncle Harry slouches frozen in a slough bottom, iced in, and mired in the depths of winter. Now, the spring sun thaws the ground, allowing a toe wiggle. He sees something, what he has never seen before; he is drawn towards it, fights his way out of the muck, finally bursting free. Leaving his boots stuck behind, he climbs barefoot, up onto dry land to the edge of the grain. He makes his way, stepping unsurely, slowly along a straight and narrow path between the rows of grain, one step at a time.

On another rise Jo spins pots on her wheel, lining them up carefully to catch rain, tending the health of her patch of wheat. At harvest, she weaves herself into the fabric of the field's spirit, holding to her vision of wealth waiting all around. Her soul is one with the field, and the grain is one with her soul.

Auntie Lola watches, entranced, first a Franco speedboat, then John's exciting path, eying the grain they leave trailing behind. After a long chase, she falls back exhausted. Called from the edges by others, she steps out of the slough, out of the ditch, climbing slowly through the barbwire, up the bank. She wipes herself clean, looking far ahead, to another trail, behind her son Andrew, who now makes his way up a rise.

Other aunts and uncles are settled on their own small rises, not shifting, working hard and persevering, reaping the benefits of their father the immigrant. But the ground around them cracks with time, drying, and rocks poke up through the soil.

Their compatriot, Ksandra, smiles out from the very depths of the field, from the realm of the spirit, beyond the confines of the physical. From where love sows the best seed, where the Creative Force smiles on all creation, she shows a knowing.

Each, the little voice sketches, connects to the sultans well, those on high poring sweet water in, those on the level just a trickle and those in the low spots draining away. Choose those you want in the end, your well full or empty.

###

The combine reappears from behind the bluff, and Sid slips down off the rock pile, wandering calmly back to the Subaru.

The religious teachings, the spiritual intelligence, the simple knowing each person has at depth shimmered throughout the grain field portrait. The children's futures, dancing along with Pepe's happiness ride on the waves of adult choices as they weave their way into the swaths of Grandpa Pawlo's grain field. What will their treasure be?

He slips into the car, slowly driving south down the gravel road. Somehow, from this, he will put together an investment portfolio. One to please the still small voice, one that will give more than happiness ... the potential returns of heaven aren't such a high risk, with the evidence there is, and the payoff could be extremely high ...

Mathew 16:26 _For what shall it profit a man if he gaineth the whole world_

and looseth his own soul?

The End

Thank you for reading The Sandbox Theory. If you took something away from my book, please take a moment to leave a review at your favourite retailer.

Thanks!

Les W Kuzyk

**About Les W Kuzyk**

This story expresses my concern for the human outlook as a whole. This concern has translated recently into research on global maturity and our impending global crises as opportunities for humanity to learn skills towards global cooperation. My recently published novel, _The shela directive_ , speaks to a near future speculative challenge to the wealthy. Although my writing career began with an academic thesis on Social Justice, I have come to realize I prefer fiction, and have shifted to climate change dramas and the climate justice that must parallel social justice. Thus, the climate reality novel series beginning with the first, Pinatubo II, and the soon to be released Krakatoa II.

**Discover other Writings by Les W Kuzyk**

Other Novels

The shela directive

Pinatubo II

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