The Saugeen River Trilogy

The Saugeen River Trilogy Written and Illustrated by Brian Wilson Baetz The Essence of the Saugeen River Trilogy This is a three part work comprised of connected novellas, inspired in part by the Salterton and Deptford trilogies of Robertson Davies. They are centered around the rhythms of a small town in southwestern Ontario, as a backdrop to a coming-of-age story set in the temporal context of the 1970s. The work is fiction, based loosely on some events that actually happened and many other events that did not actually happen. Characters are based on real-world people, but names have been changed to reflect the fictional nature of the writing. The novellas roll out in chronological order, and contain vignettes that capture the life of an adolescent growing up in this small town. This maturation period is steeped in self-doubt, a fixation on members of the opposite sex, immersion in high school sports and occasional bouts of substance abuse. The story line is focused on seeing life from the perspective of this teenage boy, and is largely autobiographical. The inherent strengths and hidden flaws of the boy’s family are uncovered as the story unfolds, with a particular emphasis on the positive relationship between the boy and his Mom. The mother is a beacon of Love and patience, who suffers from a sadness based on numerous losses. One of these losses relates to her closest brother, who was killed in action in World War II. Their story is told in a series of flashbacks throughout the trilogy, italicized and dated for ease of reader comprehension. This trilogy is named for the mighty Saugeen River, which flows past the town with presence and majesty. The river is a consistent backdrop for the evolving story line, and provides a respite and a spiritual presence for the oft-times jangled life of a teenager making sense of his existence. The illustrations at the frontispiece of each chapter were put in to break up the sea of text, to provide some greater sense of a subset of the characters, and because they were simply fun to create. BWB, Dundas, Ontario December, 2016 Macro Table of Contents Navigating Undercurrents Across Time-pages 5 -88 The Assumption of Laminar Flow-pages 89-167 Turbulence at the Edges-pages 168-250 Author Profile – page 251 Navigating Undercurrents Across Time Written and Illustrated by Brian Wilson Baetz Set in Walkerton, Ontario, the county seat of Bruce County and a willing host to the mighty Saugeen River. Date: April 1973 Every Town Needs a Hardware Store School had let out, and the abrupt end of the basketball season meant no more practice obligations after the final buzzer of the day. The farm kids left for their bus ride home, queuing up obediently and stepping up to the yellow cylinders with bad seats that would take them to an evening full of chores and quiet stillness. He was a town kid, but the charms and downsides of rural living were not far back in the family tree nor geographically due to the proximity of working landscapes to this county seat. So through hushed corridors, softly lit for either energy conservation reasons or neglected fluorescent tube replacement, he went to his locker and picked up his jacket and bag. The winter had been a hard one, but it was recently showing signs of its inevitable demise. So he stuffed his scarf and mitts in his bag, useful this past early morning, but less so now in warming temperatures and brighter sunshine. Knots of kids walked back into the town, never questioning why the school been built on the outer extremity of the town. The odd kid had a car that they actually drove to school, but this was rare in those days when most parents still nursed the scars of having grown up in the Depression era. Frugality was a badge of honour, and walking was its highest sacrament. So he walked along, alone but content. Some of the kids kibitzed around, and some roared or ranted at one another. The odd girl would give him a smile as he passed, perhaps even a touch flirtatious if he had been fully aware. But he walked on in his own head, detached from affairs of the heart or urges of the loins. He wasn't really sure what this all meant, but knew things had changed in late public school and that some kids were doing things that were whispered about in the hallways or crudely joked about in the locker room. He contemplated this from time to time in an abstract way, but that was the extent of it. He felt pulses of something when he sat on the bench after picking up a few quick fouls, and he would glimpse the cheerleaders on the far side of the court with their smooth legs and spunky pertness. They would smile at him and cheer when he nailed one of his trademark bank shots, but he never once thought about walking home with one of them after school. So he walked alone with a steady pace and a content air. He had a couple of tasks to do before he headed home. The first one involved stopping in at his church, where he had been an acolyte for a wedding the previous Saturday. This had meant lighting some candles, listening to the sacramental vows being said and observing a number of minute details about the bride and the groom. This was well before the days of slick and overpriced wedding extravaganzas, with armies of attendants and catered meals. These were simple folk, and a little past the standard marrying age of the time. The groom had a big head of hair and a flamboyant mustache. He was sweating profusely, largely from an undersized three-piece suit that may have been borrowed from a more diminutive brother or cousin. He had a ruddy complexion, perhaps from copious outdoor work, and it looked as if he had ingested a few snorts from a flask hidden in his truck’s glove compartment. The bride was pretty enough, and sufficiently plump to underline a propensity for sweets. She too was perspiring fully, and her head veil was slightly askew. The minister was a model of tact and decorum and the ceremony ended uneventfully as they minced their way out of the church to the groom’s pickup truck. The vehicle had been clandestinely hooked up by a mystery guest with a trailing cacophony of salmon tins and dog food containers. And in the midst of all this the couple had forgotten to leave the requisite envelope for the minister, organist and acolyte. The candle-snuffing kid had gone home without his five dollars that early Saturday evening, but the minister had called this morning to let him know it could now be picked up at the church. “Pastor Arnhem, just dropping in at your request.” The minister sat in his study off the sanctuary, glasses on the end of his nose and smiling gently and genuinely. “Jayson, come in and sit down. Money isn't really necessary is it, but when these little packages come in they are not unwelcome, are they?” “My Dad says money is important, and that I need to save money that I earn, so I am really happy that the couple remembered us.” “Absolutely, me as well. I have three daughters and two sons to feed! But I meant more in a spiritual sense. I grew up in the Islands, and saw a lot of poverty as a kid. But people had food, and each other, and they all got along in the end. Some of us were lucky enough to get a university education and a decent job. I never thought I would be a minister, and in such a great place like Canada! So God has a plan, and it unfolds with his grace and bounty, regardless of money.” “Hmm, that's food for thought, Pastor. But I suppose I'll just take my envelope now and head home after I run one errand for my Dad.” His father worked night shifts, and had left him a note in his breakfast bowl to drop by the Home Hardware and pick up a pound of Robertson screws for a garage project planned for that weekend. He loved going downtown, and particularly loved the hardware store. Everything seemed to be in that store, packed tight and high. Pails of linseed oil, paint color swatches, and snowblower displays all tumbled together into some form of coherent chaos. The bespectacled proprietor was leaning up against the hardware dispensing counter, chatting meaningfully with the man who owned a car repair shop and Ford dealership two blocks away. The master mechanic was the father of one of his classmates, a husky boy who had gotten him out of a few scrapes with a mix of brawn and chutzpah. He pretended to read the fine print on paint cans, waiting for the conversation to break up and he could then ask for the bag of screws. But it was a small town, and conversation meandered along like the river two blocks to the north. The mighty Saugeen, still hiding under sheets of ice, its dark beauty camouflaged until Winter finally beat its overdue retreat. But all things eventually come to an end. “So what can I do ya’ for, young fellow?” Eyes twinkled, with glasses pushed up on the nose slowly. An Honourable Profession It was late on a Saturday morning, with no school responsibilities and the house quiet while his Mom shopped for groceries and his Dad slept his eight hours after coming home from a post-midnight punch- out time.

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