Four corners

Maybe it was the slow white light of the dawn that triggered a string of thoughts that kept me awake this morning. I began to thinkin’ that this County of ours, this place we live in, is very much a metaphor for Canada as a whole.

Sure it’s not quite ocean to ocean to ocean. I mean Weller’s Bay is no Arctic sea. Neither is South Bay quite like Point Pelee, way down there on Lake Erie, which shares the same latitude with Rome, Italy.

My thought is more about the fact that as a population, we are definitely separated by distances. There was a theory put forward by the Bauhaus school in Dresden about the need and ideas of closure in our living spaces and landscapes. A golf course designer caught on and began designing golf courses so that you didn’t see the group ahead and felt a sense of private retreat. You know, not being a golfer, I see them huddled around carts with hats appearing like a reconnaissance group in east Africa hoping the next battalion doesn’t creep up on them.

But the sense of enclosed space, the idea of a four corners sense of place is more what existed in this island life prior to amalgamation in 1998.

I mean, that each place on the map from Milford to Bloomfield to Rednersville to Consecon had its own nucleus, a distinctive hub of post office, town hall, gas station where Larry came out to pump gas and check the oil and clean your windshields: Often wearing a uniform, no less: Makes me feel like I’m dating myself, but really that kind of thing was not that long ago. I guess that’s why they changed the name from service station to quick stop with a drive through. Pay and just keep on moving. Thank you sir: Next? How can I help you, madam? Pretty smooth turnaround in public perception from those marketing people. Like white fluffy kittens cum toilet paper imagery transition to remind you where softness really counts. Your local corner was where town hall was, or you had a coffee, did banking, bought groceries where they marked it down on account and you tallied up on payday. Now the only thing you interact with is the Interac machine itself.

Here’s a today for instance: With a town hall no longer around the corner, Consecon folks have to call long distance from their home to reach Shire Hall, which would be Ottawa if the County were Canada—a pack-a-lunch road trip away. And then they get to figure out which other numbers you need to push to ask why these folks in cars marked MPAC keep driving by your house like soaring vultures over Scoharie road when all you’re doing to up your property value is getting firewood in to heat the place. Tax that, why not? Oops. Forgot. They’ve done that already.

So really, someone in Northport needs a satellite navigator to find the Legion in Wellington? Why not just ask a local. They’ll tell you to go to the corner where the liquor store used to be and turn right at the blue house…no…hang on just a minute, lemmee see now, they re-painted back awhile ago and I can’t recall just what colour it is now, but make a hard turn there anyway.

Maybe I should have a navigating gadget since I travel by the sun’s direction and at this moment have to roll the window down to do hand-turn signals of which I’ll have to get the automatics fixed since winter’s coming on and getting snow in the face every time I want to turn makes me just wanna keep truckin’ straight ahead and go the long way.

Besides, a friend of mine has a navigator gadget that periodically slides off the dashboard just as a voice with a distinctive Australian accent instructs the car driver to stop at the next stop sign and make a left onto Kleinsteuber Parks Road—you wanna hear them try and pronounce that one—when you already drove past it 3km back. I mean a voice from the floor of the car from someone down under in Australia telling you anything just doesn’t work for me: Especially since it’s already tomorrow there. You want directions? Try and get into the parking lot at Tim’s in Picton and you’ll get directions alright: From the 10 cars trying to get out: Every one of them will point you to where to go pronto, no worries there.

So back to the white light of dawn. We often perceive that since we share the same community, that everyone experiences identical neighbourhood patterns.

But when I mention corn blasters popping in the grape patches before dawn chasing the birds off the fruit or that a tractor trailer with its runway of golden running lights slowly makes its way past my door on a Sunday night with a carload of professional chicken catchers following right behind and that sure as hell Backhoe Bill will be riding outta here by 7a.m. just as the huge wind fans that chase early frosts away from the vineyards have quieted and by midday I’ll duck as the Honda sans muffler flies by with a canon-launched bag of flyers downloaded into my driveway. I never understood that these are privileged experiences. Why folks in other parts of the County don’t get it. Like someone from Saskatchewan talking big sky country to a friend in Côte-des-Neige in Montreal.

So I’m gonna lie here and think this one through a little more. ‘Cuz more and more it feels like Newfoundland where you’re either a townie livin’ in St. John’s or you’re a bayman from the outports. That adds to further early morning confusion cuz what would that make me living here in Pleasant Valley down by Slab Creek?

But come to think, it is Sunday morning with no pressure to know anything beyond the whereabouts of the coffee maker so maybe that’ll just about do it for any more decision makin’ for one day, thank you very much.