The Snows of Yesteryear

By Len Gasparini

Len Gasparini is a master of the dark, hard-edged, densely layered story. In his latest story collection, The Snows of Yesteryear, he charts the climate of the human heart with compassion, humor, nostalgia, and irony. His characters are shaped as much by fate as by the hungry ghosts of their own pasts. A desperate publisher dreams up a clever hoax to save his weekly newspaper from going under. Life and art are crucially juxtaposed when a painter sees his ideal model in a young black stripper. A cynical pensioner finds a new purpose in life when his lady friend adopts an ageing Siamese cat. Other stories are comic and nightmarish by turns. {Guernica Editions}

• Language: English
• Publisher: Guernica
• Release date: Jan 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781550715729

Len Gasparini

Len Gasparini was born in Windsor, Ontario. He is the author of numerous books of poetry and five short-story collections, including A Demon in My View (Guernica 2003), which was translated into French as Nouvelle noirceur, and The Undertaker’s Wife (Guernica, 2007). In 1990, he was awarded the F.G. Bressani Literary Prize for poetry. Having lived in Montreal, Vancouver, New Orleans, and Washington State, he now divides his time between Toronto and his hometown.

Book preview

LEN GASPARINI 

THE SNOWS OF YESTERYEAR

 PROSE SERIES 90

GUERNICA 

Toronto – Buffalo – Lancaster (U.K.)

2011  

Contents

Hook, Line, and Sinker

Weddings and Funerals

Chiaroscuro

Jujubes

This Red Line Reminds Me of Wine

The Firebreather

My Day at Dixie Brewing Company

The Snows of Yesteryear

A Siamese Cat

To my sister, Anita,  and to Dennis Priebe, bibliophile

Mais où sont les neiges d ’antan?

François Villon

The past is never dead. It’s not even past.

William Faulkner

Hook, Line, and Sinker

THE ASIAN CARP CAN WIPE US OUT IN A HURRY.  U.S. TAKES FINAL STAB AT KEEPING RAVENOUS FISH OUT OF GREAT LAKES.

The preceding heading in eye-catching boldface recently appeared in one of Toronto’s dailies, and was followed by a syndicated article about the prospect of an Asian carp invasion. The article was well interspersed with notes of alarm from environmentalists and people whose livelihoods depended on a strong fishing and tourism economy, from charter boat skippers to those who sold bait and tackle. When I finished reading the article, I couldn’t help thinking that their assumptions were all wet. It wasn’t sea lampreys, nor zebra mussels, nor plankton-hungry Asian carp that posed a threat to the continent’s largest bodies of freshwater. The only invasive species I knew was man. And then I chuckled. The carp story brought to mind the name Brian Slater and the clever hoax he once dreamed up. Slater was the publisher of a weekly tabloid-sized newspaper, The Sunday Standard, in my hometown, back in the early 1970s. I knew him well. I was his managing editor. But let me tell you how the hoax began. It was a Friday afternoon in July. Ah, I remember the scene as if it were yesterday . . .

When I walked into Slater’s office he was sprawled in a swivel chair, his feet propped up on his cluttered desk, reading a magazine. He had finished the paste-up ten minutes before. The other staffers had already left.

Not all small fish are minnows, nor are all minnows small fish, he said, glancing at me.

Sounds fishy, I said, and sat down. What are you reading?

He held up a copy of Field and Stream. "The common carp – Cyprinus carpio, he read aloud, was introduced into North America in the late nineteenth century. It belongs to the minnow family, yet is renowned for its large size."

Isn’t it a bottom feeder? I lit a cigarette.

He nodded. Its upper jaw has two short fleshy barbells on each side. And listen to this. Its mouth is toothless; but it has teeth in its throat.

Arrghh! I pharyngealized.

It can survive in polluted water, and can live up to twenty years.

"You have the makings of a carpologist," I said, stressing the first syllable.

He paused, and looked at me. Is that a word?

Of course, it’s a word.

He continued: Carp eat snails, insects, worms, and aquatic plants. Although carp are considered fine food in Europe and Asia, there’s not much demand for them in North America. This, coupled with the fact that they crowd out more popular game fish and sometimes muddy the water with their bottom activities in ponds and slow-flowing rivers, has made them a nuisance. As a result, there have been extensive efforts to eliminate them from waters in which they are numerous.

He tossed the magazine on his desk. 

Ever eat one? I asked.

He shook his head. I know carp’s an ingredient for gefilte fish; and I’ve heard that only Jews, blacks, and Chinese eat carp. What about you?

Yeah, once, years ago, at someone’s cottage on Lake Erie. Some guy I knew caught a fish and gave it to me. It was a foot and a half long. I didn’t ask what kind it was. I’m not fussy. So I cleaned it and cooked it. And when I took a bite, the guy who caught the fish started laughing and said it was a carp. It tasted a bit coarse and oily, but it was OK. Why the sudden interest in carp?

I don’t know. The article got me thinking; gave me an idea, he said, and glanced at the wall clock. Hell, it’s almost six. I promised the wife I’d go shopping with her. He got up from his chair and grabbed his briefcase. Let’s get out of here.

Good luck with the papers, I said. I hope Gizmo doesn’t keep you waiting. (Gizmo was our nickname for the teenage boy who helped Slater distribute The Sunday Standard around the city.)

He’d better not, said Slater. I’ll feed him to the fishes.

See you Monday, I said, and headed to my car.

Your story about that guy in Blenheim was a riot, Slater said. Did you make it up? 

It’s fictionalized truth. I smiled.

Slater phoned me the following day at two in the afternoon. He sounded excited, said that he had something important to discuss with me. There was a note of urgency in his voice. He wanted us to meet somewhere for a coffee. On Saturdays I usually did chores or took my daughter and son to the playground in Jackson Park. I hesitated, pressing him to tell me what was on his mind.

It concerns our newspaper, he said. I’ve got this idea, and I want to run it by you – but not over the phone.

I’d been with the paper almost a year. I was the managing editor. How could I refuse?

We met at a restaurant in my neighborhood. As soon as we sat down in a booth, he announced: "The Sunday Standard is going to sponsor a fishing derby."

I looked at him as if he was joking. What? We don’t know anything about fishing. Are you serious?

Very serious, he said. "The paper’s in the red. Our paid circulation is low. The ads barely keep us afloat. The paper’s becoming a glorified ad-rag. We need an extraordinary fact. Something that’ll give us a banner headline and sell newspapers. Or we’re going to be dead in the water."

He lit a cigarette.

The waitress came. I needed something stronger than black coffee, and ordered a rye and Coke. Although Slater seldom drank, he asked for a beer. 

Oh, by the way, he said, remind me not to ask for your help when I’m doing a crossword puzzle.

Why?

Carpologist? He smiled knowingly. "That’s someone who studies fruits. I think you meant ichthyologist."

Spell it, I said.

I can’t. Anyway, here’s my idea. His eyes darted around the room. A giant carp –

I laughed. Are you still on that carp kick?

Wait. Hear me out. Gizmo tells us he hooked a huge carp in River Canard. The thing almost pulled him in, snapped off his line. I mean, the carp was humongous. Four, five feet long. Probably weighed a hundred pounds. Scares all the ducks. We write it up in the paper. Get our readers, the public, interested. Then we run a big ad for a fishing derby, with a twenty- dollar entry fee, and a prize of five hundred dollars to the lucky angler who catches it . . .

The waitress brought our drinks.

You’ll need a photo of the creature, I said. The Carp from the Black Lagoon.

No sweat, he said. We simply do a blurry blow-up of a carp swimming near some cattails. Pete can handle it. (Pete Bedford was our photo editor.) Hey, if two dozen fishermen sign up, that’s money in the bank. And think of the newspapers it’ll sell.

I was amused by the hoax, but doubtful that it would work. What about Gizmo? Can you trust him? 

Don’t worry. A dime bag will keep him happy, Slater said.

And the others? You know how cautious Jervis is. (H.C. Jervis, aka Artie," was the editor, and a local poet. I got him the job. On The Sunday Standard ’s masthead he had seen to it that his M.A. degree was listed after his name.) Do you think he’ll go along with the idea?" 

After a thoughtful pause, Slater said: Let’s wait and see what happens. I know I can count on Girard. (Bill Girard was our sales manager.) He’s a born huckster. He took a final drag on his cigarette, stubbed it out, and finished the rest of his beer. So. Are you with me?

Do I have any choice? I said, smiling. 

We shook hands.

On Monday, Slater and I drove to River Canard – a hamlet on Highway 18, about twelve miles south of Windsor. Slater wanted to reacquaint himself with the river and adjacent surroundings, which are still a mixture of swamp and farmland, and talk to some of the locals. He was in high spirits, cruising ten miles over the speed limit. The radio was on. Elton John was singing Crocodile Rock.

CKLW plays that song every half hour, I said.

See you later, alligator, he said. Remember that one?

After ’while, crocodile. What we need is a fish song. You ain’t nothin’ but a carp, carpin’ all the time. Well, you never took my bait, and you ain’t no fish of mine. 

Slater laughed heartily and almost went off the road. 

After driving through the town of LaSalle, we noticed a few stores along the highway had signs advertising live bait. We stopped at one and went inside. Slater bought a pack of cigarettes and asked the proprietor what kinds of fishes inhabited River Canard. The proprietor named several: channel catfish, yellow perch, sheepshead, largemouth bass . . . 

Any carp? asked Slater.

The proprietor gave him a funny look. Damn right. Fellow from Detroit caught a thirty-pound carp just the other day.

Slater thanked him, and we left.

We parked the car off the highway near an iron bridge that spans River Canard – a small lowland river that flows through marshland and into the Detroit River.

I can remember when a dozen or more people – mostly Detroit blacks – used to fish off that bridge, I said.

We climbed out of the car and walked down to the muddy shoreline. It was fringed with yellow lotus, stands of reedgrass, clusters of cattails. Two mallards were feeding nearby. From a cattail a red-winged blackbird chirked. On the opposite bank a man and a woman were fishing.

Too bad we don’t have an outboard, Slater said.

Or a fishing rod, I said. When do you plan on launching this gala fishing derby? 

I gave it a lot of thought over the weekend. Today’s the tenth. I want you to write a front-page story for this Sunday’s issue. We’ll run the ad with the entry fee the following Sunday, the twenty-third, and the Sunday after that. Give it time to pick up steam. I think we should have the derby on the first weekend of August. There’ll be no paper that Sunday. What do you think? 

Sounds good. What about the freeloaders who’ll be fishing without having paid the fee?

Who cares? he said. The more the merrier. It’s a five-hundred dollar prize! We’re dealing with a giant carp! It’s a fish story!

I suddenly had the feeling that Slater was trying toconvince himself there really was a giant carp whose submarine shadow lurked in River Canard.

On our way back to the newspaper Slater recounted a true fish story he’d once read in The Detroit Free Press: Two men went ice fishing at a small lake in northern Michigan. One of them brought his dog along. They parked their van on the frozen lake, fortified themselves with black coffee laced with whisky, and then set to work cutting a hole in the ice. The ice was two feet thick. The two men grew impatient and frustrated with the slow, laborious progress they were making. The van’s owner nicked his thumb. Cursing, he strode over to the van and came back with a stick of dynamite. He lit the fuse and flung the stick in the air. It landed a hundred or so feet away. The dog immediately ran after it, and the men were horrified. The dog retrieved the stick and, like a good dog, did what it was trained to do. They shouted NO! NO! NO! at the dog. They told it to drop the stick. They threw lead sinkers at it. Baffled, the dog took cover under the van. He paused.

I shot a questioning look at him: And? What happened?

There was an explosion. The ice shattered, and the van sank into the lake. The dog went to heaven. And the two lamebrains sustained minor injuries and did some jail time.

Outside of work I seldom saw Slater. Both of us were married, with children, but we didn’t socialize at backyard barbecues. The only time we ever got together with our wives was to go bowling. Not that we lacked mutual interests but we led busy lives. Working