I left the Handsome Daughter with two signed copies of A.W. Glen’s new book, Bukowski’s Broken Family Band; one, naturally, for myself, because I blurb about it on the book’s jacket, and the other for Pere Schmolaris, my grandfather, otherwise known as Ernest, who must be, at least, nearing around 200 years old by now. Oh the stories he can, and does, tell. Wild stories about his accounting days gone past. Crazy stories about the provincial treasury and health spending. Out-of-this-world stories about golf and curling.
Ghost stories, too. Like the time he took the train to Portage la Prairie, which took four hours, on account of the train being so slow. He was much younger then than he is now, and so, with nothing much else to do – there were none of those cellular phones you kids can’t stop looking at, he’d say – he flirted with the girl who sat in front of him, who was, or so says Pere Schmolaris, more beautiful than the night, because all she did was glow, and so he could see nothing else. He told her many jokes, none of which he could remember, but they had been enough because she had invited him over to sit beside her.
Her name was Maria, and she was coming from out east, had just gone through Rat Portage not too long ago, before stopping in Winnipeg for a day or two, although she couldn’t quite remember. Pere remembered saying that she looked alright for someone who’d just been on a bender, and the two of them drank from Pere’s flask, passing it back and forth as the train inched its way forward.
Why’s the train going so slow anyways? asked Pere, who told me that before an hour was up the two of them were drunker than skunkers.
Could be someone jumped on the tracks, said Maria. People do it all the time, they lie down on the rail lines, usually lie with their heads pointing toward the train, and then the train schmucks them.
That’s awful.
‘Course it’s awful, they turn into ghosts.
Ghosts?
What, don’t tell me you don’t believe in ghosts.
No, says Pere, I don’t, that’s just a silly superstition. Parlor tricks, shaking tables, the lot of it – it’s preying on people is what it is.
You’ve never met a ghost?
I can honestly say that I haven’t.
That’s a lie and you know it.
What do you mean, a lie? I haven’t.
Well, what do you think I am?
You? You’re not a ghost.
Well why not? Why can’t I be a ghost?
For one, I can’t see through you.
And who said ghosts need to be see-through? I’m telling you I’m a ghost.
You’re not a ghost, you’ve three – maybe four – sheets to the wind.
I’m a sailor.
To read the rest of this review — and more by Steve Schmolaris — visit his website Bad Gardening Advice.
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Steve Schmolaris is the founder of the Schmolaris Prize, “the most prestigious prize in all of Manitoba,” which he first awarded in 1977. Each year, he awards the prize to the best album of the year. He does not have a profession but, having come from money (his father, “the Millionaire of East Schmelkirk,” left him his fortune when he died in 1977), Steve is a patron of the arts. Inspired by the exquisite detail of a holotype, the collective intelligence of slime mold, the natural world and the suffering inherent within it — and also music (fuck, he loves music!) — Steve has long been writing reviews of Winnipeg artists’ songs and albums at his website Bad Gardening Advice, leading to the publication of a book of the same name.
