From Tabusintac to Tokyo | Page 2

as reckless behaviour. In
any case, as he rounded the corner at the top of the hill, the road was
apparently free of snow and ice and there was no reason to slowdown.
Until the moose stepped out onto the road just ahead of them…
My father and mother disagree on what would have been the best
course of action at this point. My mother feels that my father should
just have kept on going straight through the moose. My father sensibly
points out that this would have resulted in the moose sharing the front
seat with them. In any case, the fact is that my father swerved to try and
avoid the moose. It wasn't until my father tried evasive action that he
discovered that the road was covered in black ice.
Let's freeze this tableau for a moment. Remember that no one wore
seatbelts in those days. In case of an accident, you were left to carom
around inside the car as freely as a politician's brains rattle around in a
gnat's ass. Also recall that, this being the '50s, cars were built to be
more like traveling living rooms and were really only good at going in
straight lines. Braking and handling were definitely considered to be
minor considerations. And forget all the modern innovations like
dynamic vehicle control, force-limiting seatbelts, airbags and anti-lock
brakes. Nope, once you exceeded the safe envelope of the straight and
narrow, you were pretty much on your own, safety-wise.

Returning to my parents: Completely out of control, the car's nose
swung to the left. The right rear clouted the moose. The rear bumper
(bumpers weren't integrated into the body, air resistance being a tertiary
design consideration) somehow snagged one of the moose's legs.
Bouncing off the snow bank on the left side of the road, the car and all
its passengers proceeded down the hill backwards, gathering speed.
When they arrived at the bend at the bottom, the car went straight,
leaving the road for the forest and snow and, underneath the snow, the
frozen river. What really saved the day was the moose, acting as
another bumper as the car ploughed through small saplings and
snowdrifts for some 100 feet.
Once all the hoo-ha settled down and my parents realized they were
still alive, my father leaned forward and turned off the ignition. They
exited the car and were greeted by the smell of moose poop and freshly
cut trees. The moose was exceptionally deceased, whether from blunt
force injury or fright was never ascertained. They made their way
through deep snow to the road and proceeded to wait for about an hour
for someone else to come along and rescue them.
On the way into Bathurst, my mother went into labour so instead of
going to a garage, the first stop was at the hospital. Husbands weren't
encouraged to stick around for births in those days, so my father went
off to see about getting the car hauled out of the bush.
I popped out about twelve hours later, four weeks early and pissed off
as hell. I've been that way ever since. My folks didn't finish their trip.
There was very little damage to the car, so they turned around and took
their bundle of joy home.
And had roast rump of moose for Christmas dinner; they recall it was
very tender.

Dirty Snowballs for Breakfast
Once, while grating potatoes to make potato pancakes, I had a

Proustian moment. I can't lay claim to much in the way of literary
knowledge, but I do know that Proust's "Remembrance of Things Past"
was prompted by his biting into a pastry and feeling a sense of
overwhelming pleasure with no recognizable cause. In my case, I was
instantly transported back to the grandmother's kitchen as she and my
mother grated potatoes in order to make "poutine râpée", also
known as "poutines".
People will immediately flash to the Quebecker ethnic food known by
the same name. However, in spite of all the Franco-culinary posturing,
this is really only French Fries with gravy and, oh yeah, can I have
some cheese curds on that? One etymological source indicates that
"poutine" really means "mess".
If you come from my part of the country, the Quebecker poutine is just
another entry in the long list of dishes that will cause you to keel over
from a myocardial infarction while shoveling a foot of snow out of the
driveway shortly after you've retired…sometimes before.
Nope, poutines as I know them are a different creature entirely. They
seem to be more of an Acadian thing and none of my friends had even
heard of them, much less eaten a single one. Because of the work
involved, my mother only made poutines for special times: Christmas,
say or