CAREFUL
OF THE
BONES
Margot Fedoruk
the Prairies, a place where winter temperatures are often colder than Siberia. I was afraid of everything as a child: getting frostbitten toes, swimming in the deep end of the pool, cats in heat. I didn’t learn how to ride a bike until I was 10. I was fearful of choking on the pale sharp bones in fish. “Careful of the bones!” my mother warned me. Fear always held me back. Yet, somehow, I found the courage to apply for a job as a tree planter in northern bc.
I
was born and raised on
An ad on a bulletin board at the University of Winnipeg read: tree planters wanted in northern bc. I furtively ripped off the tab with the number on it and stuffed it into my pocket. Later that night, I sat on my Russian grandmother’s (Baba) plush red velvet couch and dialed the number. The owner of Mudslide answered, and then spent 45 minutes drilling me while I did my best to convince her I was the perfect person for the job. I fidgeted with the gold tassels on Baba’s lamp, the base in the shape of a Spanish flamenco dancer. She tried to warn me of the hardships: “It’s physically demanding. You need to be on your feet 10 hours a day.” I told her it sounded wonderful. I got the job. I started tree planting in the middle of April, days after graduating with a degree in Environmental Studies. In school I had learned about morality and theory and I picked up the phrase “victim of the sensual pleasures.” I would pull this out at parties to impress my friends while we were hot-knifing hash over someone’s electric stove.
( I would put the back of my hand to my forehead and say, “Oh, I can’t help myself. I am a victim of the sensual pleasures.” ) When our mother had died of ovarian cancer, my 16-yearold sister, Kristin, and I had moved in with Baba. We couldn’t bear to live in the same house with our stepfather. Our biological father lived in Edmonton, too enmeshed in his own addictions to be of much help. Baba moved down Peaceful Civilization Kirsten Reedel
the hall into the guest room so Kristin and I could share her larger bedroom. Every night we would fall asleep on her waterbed to the voice of Daniel Lavoie singing soulful French songs on a cassette. We had to hang onto the wooden sides of the bed to keep our bodies from rolling into each other. To cheer ourselves up, we fantasized about getting an apartment and a kitten; I would support her with my waitressing tips while she finished high school. I worked a lucrative job at a popular bar called The Marble Club. I served Sex on the Beach and Slippery Nipples in a smoky room until 2:00 am. I made enough in one month to pay for my whole year’s tuition. It was 1989. I went out dancing to the same kinds of clubs on my nights off, wearing pink-fringed cowboy boots. When drunk enough, I would admit out loud that what I really wanted was to live on a farm and make my own soap. My friends would look at me, incredulous, and laugh it off, but deep down I craved a rugged life. I said goodbye to Kristin on a cool day in April, promising to return with tons of money. After a three-day bone-rattling bus trip across the country, I arrived at the parking lot in Prince George, my huge backpack at my feet as I nervously looked around at the odd assortment of men and women sporting work boots with red striped wool socks folded over the top. We piled into trucks called Crummies and were driven to a logging camp about 50 km away. We were assigned small rooms in long trailers with army-style cots. Camp cost $18 a day and included three huge meals. Tree planters are a different breed of people. There were a lot of French-Canadians: swarthy men in red bandanas with strong jawlines, mirrors of the Zig-Zag icon of roll-your-own tobacco. They played hacky sack with tiny colourful bean bags, lit cigarettes dangling precariously from their lips. I was drawn to their wild freedom.
Non-Fiction
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