Catch and Release

Old fossils never die, do they Sonja Wood ? – pt. 7

Catch and Release

What I am doing right now is archiving my wife’s unusual life in a new series of blogs, and thus far, the telling barely scratches it. Her’s is a very complex life, which better lends itself to being told in a more-or-less piecemeal fashion. Even so, while simply explaining these events accurately, they will not always appear to make perfect sense.

Annie's Got The Antidote ~ Sonja Wood ~ Music

PS: Sonja says, 'Crank It'

Sonja Wood, real famous in Nova Scotia, with a 'following' in Newfoundland, can’t really be classified in a quick top-ten list, but, for posterity, I will attempt to build one here: She is (1) a respected singer/songwriter; (2) the philanthropist-owner of the Blue Beach Fossil Museum and Research Centre; (3) the well-known and successful Highway 101 twinning advocate, (4) a winning proponent for the Ben Jackson Interchange at Lockhartville; (5) the long-time chair of the environmental group F.A.R. – Fish of the Avon River Society, (6) a recurrent caregiver and counsel-giver to a few of society’s most challenging cases, (7) a three-time attemptee at running for politics; (8) had once briefly written for a newspaper column; (9) has been an emotionally-tested mother of two; and (10) is now a grandmother !

Somewhere in the middle of all that business, (and over the years) Sonja was recording CDs in Halifax, was organizing practices or bookings, writing new tunes, or producing ‘not enough’ of these cool Maritime-Music videos to run on MTV. Of course, this meant she always seemed to be on the road, touring bars or playing some event; and sometimes just driving around, doing old-style promotions for the band.

Can you imagine how smooth all this must have went ? In my experience, this usually is how Sonja gets herself into big trouble: first, there’s the (high) probability my wife will behave, as usual, like some catalyst for the misadventure to form around; this will be compounded by a little of the good-old rock’n’roll mayhem effect; and then, all this will be further magnified because more than one of her band members are not really user-friendly; are clearly mayhem-friendly, in fact. I promise you, these road trips with Sonja’s band were always larger than life experiences.

Under circumstances much like those, Sonja had traveled to Newfoundland more than once. First they’d take the van over on the Ferry with all their gear, and they’d book themselves to play as many places as they could as they crossed The Rock en-route to Saint John. Along the way, Sonja was giving out her CDs, talking to people; promoting them as she went.

Shortly after they reached Saint John, on their first trip, the Dobro player, Mark LaBerge, meets this Icelandic guy, and this guy buys him a drink. Mark passed a copy of the CD to the bartender, and they were playing it while Mark talked the man up. The man was deeply impressed, and soon desired to meet Sonja in person.

Mark soon returns to the bar with Sonja. The big Icelandic man buys a round of drinks, and with that, toasts their overall excellence. Now to simply call this man ‘big’ isn’t quite enough; he was the first mate of a fishing trawler out of Reykjavik, Iceland; had spent his whole life at sea, and was for all intents and purposes, as massive as any proper bear. Even his fingers were thick; thick as the wet ropes he’d hauled in for years. His blonde beard was a rich, tangled mat and reached the sternum; the eyes burning with a serious, blue-berserker bloodline, further evidence of his ancestry. His first name was something like ‘Erlingur’; don’t even ask Sonja what the last name was.

He had everyone call him ‘Eli’ for short, and here is where the fun begins - Mark had a surprise arranged for Sonja another bar, on George Street, where they could partake of that old Newfoundland tradition - being screeched-in. Eli had been to Newfoundland countless times, and as far as he was concerned, this stuff was way too much fun and asked if he could join them.

Upon early arrival while having their first drink together, Erlingur turns to Sonja and out of blue nowhere says “Canadian woman-in-a-wheelchair… so many years I have been at sea; a first mate, soon to retire… I seen many things and met many beautiful women… but never have I seen such a woman as this… you… I cannot believe it, Canadian-woman-in-a-wheelchair took my heart, I feel so much love for you ! I feel we must be together, always ! I feel we must be buried beside each other when we die, and never part !”

Sonja’s panic lever was jammed full open now. She tried being gentle, and being sympathetic, then she tried being direct. After awhile, with Mark’s help, they explained how Sonja wasn’t ready for settling down, how she had young children at home, and basically that she had a life already. Besides, he had his important fishing career to worry about, his captain and the rest of the crew depended on him; and he had to stay connected to all that. After another drink or two, he seemed to accept this, and they all parted ways, heading for their respective motels.

In Sonja’s room, the neighbor’s kid, Zack’, was sleeping on the cot, and Sonja had the big bed. Zack had a big surprise when Sonja was leaving Blue Beach; she pulled into his yard and asked, on about 5-minutes notice, if he would like to come to Newfoundland. The next big surprise was their mutual one, at about 1 am in the morning, when the desk manager came to their room and started knocking.

“I’m so sorry to bother you Ma’am. This man says he’s your friend, and he is insisting he needs to see you. He says can’t come back tomorrow, he has to see you now. We didn’t know what else to do. He said he won’t leave until he sees you.” The huge bulk of Eli standing behind the entrance was evident. Zack, not knowing who this was, crept further under his blankets. Sonja wished she could too. Instead she asks them to give her a moment, she’ll get up.

Eli had jumped ship. Apparently he’d requested leave from the captain to come woo his bride, but the captain denied it. He rightfully believed the ship’s second mate was out of his bloody mind. They argued. Eli did the unthinkable - he walked down the gang-plank and off that ship with nothing but the clothes on his back, a wallet, and thankfully, his credit card, so Sonja could take him shopping for clothes; he had been too love-struck and full of screech to pack.

Again, all hands came on deck. The band members worked hard to once again convince Eli that Sonja simply COULD NOT marry him, and he finally snapped out of it. They managed to convince him he belonged at sea, just one last problem existed: Erlingur had left his passport and almost all his ID on the boat, which had since sailed off without him. “All the calls to Reykjavik I had to make just to get that man back to his country, he had no passport or ID, only a Gold American Express card”, Sonja tells us, “…it took several more days.” Sadly, she cannot erase the image of this big Icelandic man, standing there watching them as they were pulling away; the big tears rolling down his face, leaving him there in the parking lot.

Erlingur returns every year, and habitually insists on renting Sonja’s old room. We can only hope this is not a sign of his big re-kindled heart. Sonja, meanwhile, had returned on another tour of Newfoundland the following year, but she never encountered Eli again. This doesn’t mean she’s stayed out of trouble that second time, but I can say she didn’t touch the screech again. On that note we’ll see you next time, for some more archival attention to my wife’s little collection of Newfoundland follies. Like I always say, for lots of fun, “just add Sonja and stir”.

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Thanks for reading; hope you enjoyed the fun!

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Serving up a curveball

My wife and I have been brought together over vast distances, and against all reasonable odds of coincidence, to the fossil-crusted cliffs of Blue Beach for, it appears, a much larger purpose. But could it really be because we have made this contract with fate, and isn’t FATE just a word ?

Fate or no, this is some of the story of Sonja’s moving to Wolfville, still a fateful choice. Afterwards, neither she nor the Valley would ever be the same…

While she had still been walking around the Province, people started hearing about what she was doing; some would meet her along the route, some would join her to walk for a ways. One woman who did this unknowingly served her up life’s first curveball, altering the future I think, by becoming her friend.

The woman soon introduced Sonja to her eighty-six year old grandfather, Fred Salzman. He had been reading about it all along in the papers. When Sonja mentioned she had applied to the local university, and may soon need an apartment, Fred was delighted and said he would help find her one. Once she found out, she had to talk to him before she started looking around. One estimate suggests Fred owned over twenty apartments in town, so the offer was certainly very encouraging. So when Sonja received the letter from the Acadia School of Music Studies, she promptly hiked back up the hill to Fred’s place.

At first it turned out there were no apartments available, however, Fred’s grand-daughter was moving out of hers in a few weeks’ time. “Look””, he said, “why don’t you just stay here for now ? I have this place all set up, and you’d have your own little room, you won’t have to go anywhere ‘till your other apartment’s ready.” Sonja envisioned her sheepdog Sampson in this neat and very antique house; all the bone china he’d collected. She politely tried to object because of the dog, but Fred brushed it off and practically insisted.

By the time the new apartment became available, Fred’s family wanted Sonja to stay on as their father’s caregiver. They were astonished how Sonja wasn’t going out of her mind with dad, and that he absolutely adored her, something rare. They had tried to find professional help more than once, and desperately wanted her to say yes.

By the time Sonja began her music studies, she was not only coping with the unimaginable Fred, she was beginning to interface with McCluskey Two (the previous blog). Sonja has always seemed to be attached to one cause or another; some of those causes are people.

Fred wore a hearing-aid which needed to be turned up full blast before he got any inkling what it was you were saying. He had the biggest console-TV money could buy at the time, all carved wood with enormous speakers inside. The volume was always turned all the way up to watch his favorite show of all: Bob Barker and The Price is Right. Fred thought Bob was terrific, this was how life should be, always giving people stuff - everybody so happy ! However, he wouldn’t turn down the hearing-aid, and it would be feeding back from the TV and squealing like an angry tea kettle until Sonja turned it off for him.

With the severe deafness that comes with old age, Fred spoke embarrassingly loud in public. They went to a bonspiel where they were giving out the awards for all the curling teams. Fred just loved curling too, and was so proud of his new live-in, Sonja, he got them a pair of tickets. There were lots of speeches, and Fred wasn’t able to hear. “What the hell is that feller going on about ?”, causing many heads to swivel. Sonja did her best to get through it.

The first time Sonja lived with Fred for about three months, and she attended Acadia. Soon she started looking for a rock band to join. She auditioned at a gig in Berwick one night, got the job, and on the way home they were in the accident. Sonja returned from the hospital four months later, and Fred had fixed-up the apartment underneath him so she could stay. She also joined the band that who hired her, but were denied just as she was by the fateful accident. Sonja Wood would live below Fred for almost three years, right up until she built her new home and was ready to move to Blue Beach.

There were lots of day-to-day emergencies with Fred of course. He needed his daily ride to town. He never kept groceries in a fridge; bought everything fresh daily. His son was supposed to do the driving but was always late in Fred’s opinion (it wasn’t a happy arrangement for either). One day when his son was late, Fred started cursing and headed out the door. Sonja figured he was just stepping out to wait, until she heard the car starting.

The car started immediately, but Fred of course couldn’t hear anything and kept holding the key on. The starter was complaining so loudly, Sonja could hear it getting ready to meltdown all the way back to her bedroom. It took less than a minute to get into the wheelchair, push herself down the hall, to reach the kitchen window where she could look out. She got there just in time to see Fred going for the gearshift.

Putting it into drive, the car shot forward and hit the rose garden; coming to rest once it could go no further. Fred cursed some more and put it in reverse, backwards down the driveway at a reckless speed. Fred always had to have big cars, like Cadillac’s or Monte Carlo’s, built like a tank. Considering the holes in Fred’s driveway, which the car lurched and bounced through with ease, he probably needed the extra suspension. He just kept backing up and nearly hit the white house where his son-in-law lived, then turned downhill, crossing the yards. When he saw the hedges coming, Fred at last veered over, back into the street.

He survived the two block drive down the street to safely arrive at his son’s house. Half the neighborhood was out of their houses by this time. Everyone knew Fred’s driving was horrific, had always been so.

Sugar Rush

Old fossils never die, do they Sonja Wood ? – pt. 5

Everybody who knew McCluskey Number Two agreed: this was a man of towering intellect, but the great mind had been evicted from the premises long before Sonja showed up. The reality was not a laughing matter – he was a former academic man, retired to Wolfville, and given to excessive drink. He was also artistic in many ways; as a gift for Sonja, he did this painting of a pheasant, a watercolor. It’s hangs on our pantry door, and I can’t resist sharing a quick photo (below). But as time went on, he drank himself insane. Twenty-three years-old, Sonja Wood was not fully aware of the mess she was getting into, and quite naturally took him under her wing.

Sometimes I tell my wife she is crazy. But this is just a word we throw around; a word that can have anywhere upwards of ten meanings.

Crazy isn’t the kind of thing one kids one’s self about. Mr. McCluskey thought he was the real live Wyatt Earp. He loved Wyatt Earp and he literally would don this leather cowboy hat and proclaim he was Wyatt; and of course, he loved his guns, his favorite sugar rush.

But he also loved Tina Turner. He had this giant poster of her fixed on the ceiling above his bed so that he could see her every morning, first thing, as soon as he opened his eyes. Then third great love of his life was golden retrievers. For decades, he had always owned one. Because of the dog, lately he worried about his health, which was not going well. If anything happened to him, who will take care of Gunnar?

After all the alcohol abuse, he suffered extreme schizophrenia, often hallucinating elaborately, so all too often he’d start shooting up the house. The cops kept confiscating the guns, and courts would call for their psychiatric evaluations, but the state of mind had been diagnosed and known for years, so they could never find him criminally liable for his actions. Sure enough, he’d head right back home, and get his hands on more guns.

McCluskey was methodical. He really hated it when the cops kept took his guns, and he started hiding them. In a bookshelf, in certain chosen books, he carved-out the pages in the shape of the pistol, which could then fit snugly inside. Sonja says he carved the books out with such incredible skill, it really spoke to the quality of the man. She would ask him though; “Why do you need to keep a gun anyway ? Who do you think would be trying to get you ? You do know how ridiculous that sounds, don’t you ?”

But waves of drink and more drink had been coming ashore for too long. These nonexistent tormentors persisted, (or so his mind insisted), and could pop if you ever dropped your guard; gunfire on the Wolfville Ridge became just another little piece of the rural ambience. 

At one point, McCluskey Two calls the RCMP himself. He warns the desk sergeant they’d “…better get down here and move all these kids out of my house ! I’ve got a shotgun ! If they don’t start leaving, I’m going to start shooting !” He stayed on the phone for quite awhile and finely argued the point. It kept coming back to the fact there were a bunch of school kids that just wouldn’t leave his house no matter what, and he doesn’t know why they continued to ignore him ? Finally, the caller grew tired of having to ‘just calm down and explain it again’, and decided to put away the shotgun. Of course the police realized it was McCluskey; he was alone in the house, and thankfully, just coming down off that sour Mountain-moonshine again. Not one of his better friends, but what he’d turn to when the pension money started running out. As became the practice, unless they heard shots, cars no longer were dispatched to his address.

The functions that lend to mental illness are not so well-understood. Raised in a sizeable city, I don’t want to ask how these wheels of the clock go ‘round. Mere curiosity would never be enough to justify me hanging out with somebody else’s sixty year-old demented cowboy father. McCluskey Two was Sonja’s new friend’s sixty year-old father, so of course, Sonja approached all of this very differently, becoming: (1) his unofficial caregiver, (2) his ad hoc legal advisor, (3) his deputy-assistant power-of-attorney, and (4) his first in-spirit-only faith-healer (he’d never met one before). I can’t imagine how she thought she was supposed to keep him on the rails, but the Sonja I Know is always in adoption mode, the same way as Jesus always loved the fallen sheep.

Within a few years he died. It was a Thursday afternoon, but because he lived alone (of course) he wasn’t discovered the same day. None of Wolfville’s seasoned veterans had ever seen anything like it, and they called Sonja, for they badly wanted to hear an explanation.

All over the walls and doors of his house, her name and phone number were scrawled in black jiffy marker: “CALL SONJA…” and “IN CASE OF EMERGENCY”, “SONJA Ph. # …”; it was over the inside of the door-jamb when you entered the house; it was written in foot-high block letters on the wall over the phone; in all, it was written in many different places throughout the house.

They probably never managed to stop that ink from bleeding through their paint, even to this day. We still use the same phone number. Is this not an omen? Is there always a beginning and end to everything?

Sonja drove over to McCluskey’s house right away, for the final time, and she collected up his big old dog. In no time at all, he then became ‘a Blue Beach dog’, with lots of new people to love him. He lived out his remaining days by the Bay, and did what happy dogs should always do. This is why it was so important, when McCluskey finally went to his Happy Hunting Grounds, why everybody had to call Sonja. Gunnar was all that really mattered now.