HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Citizen, 2011-03-31, Page 5THE CITIZEN, THURSDAY, MARCH 31, 2011. PAGE 5.
There are strange things done
‘neath the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold…
Indeed there are, Robert Service. I’ve even
done a few of them myself – including
(hugely unsuccessfully) moil for gold. I’ve
also fallen off a dogsled, stuck my head
down a wolf den and crossed the Yukon River
on breaking ice. (These feats were
accomplished in my green and rowdy youth.
Alcohol, not to mention stupidity, was usually
involved).
The Arctic trails have their secret tales that
could make your blood run cold…
…such as the night I tried to sing
“Allouette” in the bar at Diamond Tooth
Gertie’s. Or the time we ran the Chain Saw
Races (don’t ask) on the ice of Lake Laberge.
All of which is not to suggest I am some
hardened, leathery Yukoner who spent years
north of ‘60. Nope, I’m an outsider, a visitor, a
tourist. A sourdough I am definitely not.
But sourtoe? Ah, I can speak to that.
There is this hotel, you see, in downtown
Dawson called the, er, Downtown Hotel. It
looks like most of the hotels and buildings in
Dawson – clapboard siding, wooden floors, no
frills, no neon – but it has one distinguishing
feature.
The Downtown Hotel is the only drinking
establishment in the world where you can
order and drink a Sourtoe Cocktail.
A Sourtoe Cocktail is pretty straightforward.
First the bartender gives you get a glass full of
Yukon Jack, a sweet-tasting whisky. There is
no lime slice, no ice, no perky paper umbrella
sticking out of it, but the Sourtoe Cocktail
does contain one garnish that sets it aside
from all other mixed drinks this side of
the bar in Star Wars. At the bottom of your
glass you will see something lurking that
looks like a mutant peanut or twisted hank of
rope.
Except there’s a nail on the end of it. A
human nail. You have a severed human toe in
your glass.
The origins of the Sourtoe Cocktail are
lost in time. Some claim a Klondiker
accidentally chopped off his toe while
splitting wood one winter and never
got around to throwing it away. Come
spring he limped into town, ordered a beer,
plopped his wizened appendage in the
glass and announced “I’m gonna take a
leak; nobody touch my drink while I’m
gone.”
Nobody did. The tradition of the Sourtoe
Cocktail was born.
It has evolved to this: Back of the bar in the
Downtown Hotel there is a locked wooden
box. Inside the box, embalmed in a jar of salt,
resides the ‘current’ Sourtoe. More about
‘current’ later.
Your assignment, should you choose to
become a member of the elite Sourtoe Club, is
to:
(a) Pay $5 for a membership card
(b) Pay $5 for your Sourtoe Cocktail
(c) Drain your glass
Wait a minute! Surely you don’t have to…
No. But the Toe Captain will tell you:
“Drink it fast or drink it slow; your lips must
touch this gnarly toe.”
Like most initiates I chose to drink mine
fast. Like most initiates I still shudder when I
remember that mummified digit bumping
against my upper lip.
Some first-timers in their haste, drink the
cocktail a little TOO fast. That’s why we have
a ‘current’ category of toes – because
occasionally somebody swallows the toe and it
must be replaced. Where do they find a
replacement? Don’t ask.
Isn’t it illegal to sell drinks with human parts
in them? Of course, but this is Dawson. They
don’t get many government inspector types up
there. Besides, technically, the bar doesn’t
‘sell’ you a Sourtoe Cocktail. They sell you a
glass of whisky. What you choose to put in it
is up to you.
What kind of idiot would choose to join the
Sourtoe Club? About 65,000 of us so far. I’m
not sure why, although once again I suspect
that alcohol and stupidity are contributing
factors. I can’t even prove I belong because I
misplaced my membership card years ago.
And I can’t re-apply because I don’t drink
anymore.
Mind you, I still have plenty of stupid.
Arthur
Black
Other Views A strange toast you’ll never forget
In the last few weeks, I’ve done it twice, but
it’s something that I never would have done
living in Toronto: helping someone on the
side of the road.
It wasn’t because I didn’t feel for the person
and not because I didn’t think it was the right
thing to do. It was because you’re trained to
think that everyone on the side of the road
should be treated like an unfamiliar hitchhiker
(an axe murderer until proven otherwise).
But after the unexpected winter blast earlier
this month, there I was standing atop the side
of a turned over van, pulling a very shaken-up
driver out of her vehicle with the help of a few
other Good Samaritans.
And just last week, in the March 23 blizzard
that came just days after “spring” had sprung, I
pulled over to the side of the road to help some
more folks who found themselves in a ditch.
As I’m sure you’ve all figured out by now, I
wasn’t chopped to death by an axe murderer, I
just came face to face with some drivers who
had made a mistake that we all have made in
the past and who needed a hand.
This came after I helped push a pickup truck
out of a hole it had burrowed itself into around
Christmas. Once the truck caught its tracks and
took off, I almost knocked myself out by losing
my footing and nearly dropping chin first onto
the bumper. It was an embarrassing (and
potentially serious) injury narrowly avoided.
So it’s clear that until now I hadn’t had much
practice at these kinds of acts of kindness.
Like I said, it wasn’t that I didn’t want to
help, I had just always been a student of hard
urban training, urging you to “trust no one”.
After being here for a while, I had
significantly warmed up to the idea, but it was
an incident where I found myself on the other
end of the exchange that made me change my
mind and go back to my old ways.
After conducting an interview near the small
village of Millbank, I found that I had made a
wrong turn. So I commenced a three-point turn
and on the first “point” one of my front tires
collapsed into a ditch that I didn’t know was a
ditch, as it had been plowed over.
It seemed simple enough to just back out. It
didn’t work. Then I borrowed a shovel from
the man whose home I was stuck in front of to
dig my tire out, which only made it worse.
So eventually a truck full of big, strong guys
told me that they could pull me out. They got
under the car, attached a canvas strap and true
to their word, they pulled me out.
I thanked them extensively, but they
eventually left before I could even get their
names. When I began to drive down the road, it
was clear that something was wrong.
These boys had pulled me out by wrapping
the aforementioned strap around a fragile rod
leading to one of my back tires (can you tell I
don’t know much about cars?) which now had
quite a bend in the middle. The tire was
crooked and I had no control over the car.
So a flatbed towing fee and $250 later
(because of the crooked tire, a conventional
tow truck would not have worked and it was
just after 6 p.m. on a Friday night, so no local
mechanic would be open again until Monday)
I wasn’t exactly basking in the glow of the
kindness of strangers I thought I might.
So I made a vow to not help anyone stranded
on the side of the road unless I knew what I
was doing and knew that I could help them.
I’ve since relaxed those ideals and I’m glad I
have, because helping people is awesome, but
if you’re stranded on the side of the road, and
need help under the hood, the only tool I know
how to use is my phone, to call someone who
knows how to help you.
A helping hand
As of the eve of Friday, March 25,
I’m officially a resident of North
Huron.
Some of this is being written prior to the
hours of carrying, unpacking and organizing
that will have happened last weekend prior to
when this column gets read because I can’t
imagine that putting me in a good mood. The
rest will be written after, as the experience
definitely leaves a mark.
It’s been a long journey from the time that
Ashleigh and I decided that we wanted to
move to a house.
At first, we weren’t considering buying, just
hoping to try and rent a house, but the more we
thought about it, the more the idea of building
our own equity appealed to us.
And so the search began.
At first we were looking in Central Huron
and Bluewater (as Ashleigh holds jobs in both
municipalities).
The houses that were in our price range
didn’t seem to be a step up from our apartment
and the houses that were a step up were
drastically outside of our price range.
We looked at move-in-ready houses, fix-er-
up houses and everything in between before I
finally said to Ashleigh that maybe we just
weren’t meant to live in Central Huron or
Huron East.
After that, the hunt kind of went cold until I
said we might be able to increase our budget if
I lived closer to work (you may not realize
how much driving is involved in covering five
public schools, two high schools and two
councils in five different municipalities, but I
do).
Lo and behold we found several places
that were within our (slightly adjusted)
budget and started narrowing down our
search.
Once we had decided on a home, negotiated
a price and figured out when and how we
were going to move, the real fun started:
getting the services we need as soon as
possible.
Having grown up in Huron County, I figured
that it would be simple enough. I knew most of
the providers when it came to services like
phone, internet and cable, so I anticipated just
having to figure out who could provide the
best service in Blyth.
What I didn’t realize, and hadn’t even
considered, was that the companies I knew
seem to have little or no presence once you get
north of Highway 8.
We eventually decided to go with a satellite
system.
It seemed wonderful on the surface,
unfortunately, after hours of moving and
unpacking boxes, I would find that watching
House M.D.and Doctor Who would not be as
easy as I had anticipated.
The installer showed up and was very
helpful and courteous, but eventually had to
shut down my dreams of owning a satellite and
receiver.
Apparently, the tree cover on our lot, which
I had been ecstatic over, since the shade would
definitely keep the air conditioning costs down
in the summer, prevented us from having a
clear satellite signal.
So we’re back to the drawing board on that
one.
Telephone and internet access are on the
way, but in the interim, we’re getting used to
some new experiences.
Everywhere I’ve ever lived has always had
electric cooking implements.
Natural gas heating services are pretty
commonplace for me, but we wanted
to celebrate our new home with a
great homemade dinner (which roughly
translates to a store-bought pizza) in our new
gas oven.
When I walked into the kitchen, I thought to
myself, “Self, this can’t be that complicated”
and set the oven to the cooking temperature
and looked for some indication of
preheating.
After one minute I was concerned, after two
minutes I was starting to really get worried
about this open gas flame in my
kitchen.
At five minutes, I decided to take matters
into my own hands and opened the oven.
It certainly felt hot enough to me (I can’t
say it looked hot enough because my glasses
had completely fogged over due to the blast
of heat that accompanied me opening the
oven).
About 20 minutes later we pulled the pizza
out of the oven and enjoyed its pepperoni
goodness. We had figured out the oven
(with some help from a quick call to my
father).
After some intense painting marathons and
some negotiations in designating cat-friendly
and cat-free zones, the moving weekend had
ended.
As Sunday night came to a close,
Ashleigh and I had once again cooked, this
time lasagna and rosemary bread, and
were feeling thoroughly exhausted, as well as
thoroughly sore from head to toe as we
sat in front of our new fireplace and
wondered just what the future held for our first
home.
Shawn
Loughlin
Shawn’s Sense
My misadventures in moving
Denny
Scott
Denny’s Den
The difference between the right word and
the almost right word is the difference
between lightning and the lightning bug.
– Mark Twain
Final Thought