I was still
snoring it off, this morning, when a loud bang on the front door, demanded
immediate response. What would anyone want at five am, I wondered, as I ran
over the stairs in housecoat and slippers? Though the aggressive knocking
offered a hint that, just perhaps, my old friend had gotten confused as to what
day it was, he being a ‘fixture’ at our house on Christmas Day, I was soon to
discover that the confusion was all mine.
Uncle Gnarley exclaimed, as I ushered him inside, the chill air swirling, as it
sought to freeze my underparts. “Nav,
why aren’t you dressed and ready”, demanded Uncle Gnarley? “You were the one who proposed to hike Cape
Spear, this morning. You know how I hate
it when you are not on time!” Suddenly, the light bulb went on. I had indeed
challenged the old man to hike the trail from the most easterly point in North
America to Petty Harbour, for the umpteenth time. I had forgotten to alarm my clock. No, not
forgotten. I suddenly remembered I had
drifted off to sleep watching the ‘filibuster’, on my laptop, as it played
itself out in the House of Assembly.
Quietly, not
wanting to awaken sleeping beauty, I explained to Gnarley what had given rise
to my indiscretion. A smirk appeared, suggesting,
perhaps forgiveness, as he muttered that I was doing “god’s work” keeping an
eye on “that lot”, referring to the Government, adding, “we shall
catch up on the goings on in the House of Assembly”.
I nodded and proposed that, while I was
completing my ablutions, he might cook a breakfast suited to two inveterate
outdoorsmen. A couple of eggs and a
slice of homemade bread should put some spring in our step, I allowed. Then, with a grin that underlined its significance, I
offered, as the French would say, the pièce de résistance, “the blood pudding is on
the lower shelf of the refrigerator”.
satisfaction could not have been seen on a six year old on Christmas
morning.
Gnarley had a soft spot for
good Scotch and lively conversation, as long as it had to do with politics or
economics. Otherwise, he bored
easily. But, the offer of homemade blood pudding, encouraged forgiveness for the most egregious short coming.
Gnarley raised his hand and I understood he would now take care of matters.
Emerging
twenty minutes later, in attire more suited to the trail and less to the ‘hangashore’,
I ran down the stairs to see Gnarley looking more Chef than Chef de
Mission, his characteristic bow-tie absent on days such as this. I was quickly greeted with the unmistakable
aroma of suet and other aspects of animal sacrifice, cinnamon, nutmeg, pepper
and other spices, too, which combined with an array of garden vegetables,
again ensured an odor of such character that it lingered, at least in one’s mind,
from one Christmas season to the next.
“Take a seat”,
thundered Gnarley clearly ravenous and anxious now to judge this year’s creation. For Gnarley, and secretly for me, too, the process
of evaluation required a ceremony akin to sampling a new elixir. A triumphant discovery of an untried single
malt always descended into animated discussion of the secret formulation of
barley, smoky peat, cask origins and aging, which together, conspired to
sanction surprise. Oh my, that word ‘sanction’!
For a moment, I felt a sharp pain, though its origins were far
different than the matter at hand.
I waited now
with silent patience as the bearded man moved his jaw vigorously, then engaged
in his own private ceremony of eye movement and grunt, an exercise of studied
simplicity when compared with Kathy Dunderdale’s Muskrat Falls sanction
announcement, a showcase of bad form exhibited by the presence of the Queen’s
representative and a Cabinet Order, in large scale, that required his signature,
but for show received that of the Premier.
Even its substance, already diminished by a lack of scrutiny, inconsistency
and secrecy, needed gilding with over the top hyperbole. The signing was, of course, a sideshow; presided over by no less a personage than the Cabinet Secretary, the charade serving to confirm how deep the rot had gone.
of Uncle Gnarley’s culinary skills, not having escaped notice, was that he had
fried each perfectly proportioned slice of pudding until it received an amply
thick crust. As
Gnarley chewed, I thought of my dearly departed Mother, whose benediction he
must have invoked, such was her habit of frying the tasty treat. The perfection of each slice, on offer, might
have caused her to give up her just reward of eternal rest and demand equal
shares. But, my increasing sense of terror
subsided, as I heard the almost reluctant admission, that the highest
standards had, again, been achieved.
“You did
well, Nav”, stated Gnarley’s succinctly.
But, the curl of the old man’s lip had given me advance warning that I
had not lost the technique. “Now”, he
bellowed, “if only you had gotten your carcass out of bed we could have started
the day before it was half over”.
He was never
one indulgent in praise even if it was well earned. Again, I had to admonish
him about waking sleeping beauty. We
both laughed. I suggested that if only
Premier Dunderdale had used such an economy of words with which to sanction
Muskrat Falls, the cost of the Speech, together with the effusive language it
contained, could have been saved and applied to cost overruns.
Uncle Gnarley slapped his thigh and signalled that it was a well-deserved barb.
Then, an overcast of silence descended upon the little celebration.
Gnarley spoke first. “Nav, I can’t thank
you enough”, he began quietly but with earnest, “for bringing me into the 21st
century”. I knew, of course, what he
meant. I had sent him a computer with
the none too subtle suggestion that he get rid of his old Underwood
typewriter. “That was just too much, Nav,
and that nephew of yours, who set up the whole contraption and gave me several
lessons in how to use it, well, he’s not just a genius, he is a gem”. Don’t
mention it I responded, in an attempt to wave off further discussion of the
matter and proceeded to defeat my own intent.
“It isn’t
possible to be up on current events these days without the internet”, I
suggested. “Besides”, I jostled him, “now you will be able
to email Jos Arnell rather than track, by foot, all the way to Petty Harbour, as
I promise we are about to do the minute I finish this last morsel. You two can have the most wonderful
correspondence”, I added.
in Petty Harbour, and whom Gnarley had given pension advice, was not gifted with a Chanel aspect. Her reward for 70 years of toil was a rather
large wart prominently displayed upon an extra ordinarily large beak; she had taken a
shine to Uncle Gnarley, though her aggressive and intimidating manner did
cause some puzzlement. It was a fact to
which he needed no reminding.
As a result, the last remark brought a none too subtle kick in the shins,
underneath the table, and my intimation of a love interest ended there.
“I was
thinking”, I continued without further digression, “that you might want to catch
up on some of the latest reports in the Montreal Gazette in which the venerable
SNC Lavalin has attracted a lot of attention, lately. Apparently, its former senior executives have
grown a fondness for the penitentiary both in Sweden and at home”. Gnarley
looked saddened by the comment, noting only a La Presse news story which contended
that a kickback of $21.5 million allowed SNC Lavalin to capture the
construction contract for Montreal’s $1.3 billion McGill Hospital. Said Gnarley, “Muskrat Falls is at least six
or seven times the size of that contract.
Let’s hope that no shenanigans have gone on there”. Gnarley
became introverted again; I paused and changed the subject.
more blood pudding”, I suggested, to which offer, a crest fallen Uncle Gnarley
perked up. “Don’t mind if I do”, he replied,
already half way across the kitchen to wrestle the remnants from the
frying pan.
“You said
you watched the filibuster late into the night, Nav”, Gnarley added, returning
to the conversation without skipping a beat.
“Couldn’t resist the intellectual ‘bon mots’ of Labrador MHA Keith Russell
could you”, enquired he, sarcastically. “Seems Keith has made certain no Mummers will be allowed in, this Christmas Season”, he added wryly. Gnarley bit hard on
the final crust of home-made bread as a drip of Crosby’s molasses ran down his
thumb and index finger.
about this Bill 60, Nav. Isn’t that
what gave rise to the Opposition’s filibuster?” Not waiting for an answer,
Gnarley continued: “how does this Government expect to export power by creating
the monopoly this Bill secures for Nalcor?
Isn’t that the silliest? For godsake man, doesn’t an ‘open grid’ mean that
power should go not just one, but both ways, as the market dictates? It is
about as silly as permitting Keith Russell to be in polite company”, Gnarley barked
in disgust. “But, then, he does receive little inspiration, continued Gnarley. His boss, Ms. Dunderdale, signed that
ridiculous and unfinished Federal Loan Guarantee and just to prove that she
could outdo herself agreed with Emera, to pay any price, as long as that
company would sanction Muskrat Falls, right now. The whole affair is uncivilized.
The poor
Newfoundland taxpayer had better enjoy their turkey this year”, an irritated
Uncle Gnarley chuckled. “I fear she is
about to make turkeys out of us all. And,
Ed Martin needs no instruction on how to be the chief turkey baster”, he added, for
good measure!
Nav, let’s head for the coast. We have more pleasant thoughts to share, families to talk about, especially those wonderful grandkids”. Yes, and two impending arrivals will enlarge the extended family next year, I boasted.
Said Uncle Gnarley, “we are truly the lucky ones. Families and the company of great friends will sustain us”, he added optimistically.
As we made progress beyong the Cape Spear Lighthouse, the echoes and the infantile call of the Guillemots could be heard as they skipped back and forth
to their nesting place off Witless Bay. The waves ran up on the rugged coastline and kept us entertained. The rocky landscape, colder now with the oncoming winter, delivered an uncompromising verdict: this is a place of determined resilience.
Yes, Uncle Gnarley, you are quite right. We are lucky to be here.
Merry Christmas Nav. I look forward to your posts with great anticipation. Your choice of Christmas morning breakfast with Uncle Gnarly was most appropriate. There is none better than blood pudding and homemade bread. I am sure the Premier and her staff will have indigestion in years to come from eating their words. Merry Christmas & Happy New Year!
Merry Christmas. Much enjoy your writing. When first I came across Uncle Gnarley, I thought it was by Ray Guy. Good to have a sense of humour amid such uncivilized actions in the peoples House. Maybe 'Idle No More' will move east to tackle the Muakrat Issue. Winston Adams.
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I really enjoy the trip uncle Narley takes us on around the shore and across the bay to make a point. The point is always offers us a clear view of the issue. The Islanders are going to need this humour to sustain them, after what this Project, and draconian legislation will do to their economy. History is about to repeat itself, well both parts, the upper Churchill deal and now Quebec Hydro will have to buy the remenants of Muskrat Falls when it goes bust. QH will mothball it of course until they are ready for it. Or if the Island Government can finish it, QH will simply roll it into their own system and send it South to market instead of out into the North Atlatic. The other part of repeat history will be the Government going bankrupt again. All of tgis so the Williams bust can han hang on a comncrete wall. Not without consequences I fear.