CUBISM

 THE SHADOW OF THE BURQA

Oslo

Mar 2008

Your face is your key to unlocking the masks of others. When you start to cover yourself up, you start to veil a path to discovering the world about you, namely the interaction between you and your fellow humans, from which come your insights into the world around you and your contribution to it. Cover this, and soon you are in darkness. 

 THE SQUARE BANANA

Kew 

May 2012

As Manet said, in nature there are no straight lines, only colours. A yellow teapot and some bananas, however, can be packaged into straight lines.

WHAT DOESN'T KILL YOU MAKES YOU STRANGER

Kew

May 2012

A variation on Nietzsche. The apposition of fire and energy. Onward and upward.

HIGHLIGHTS

INTERRUPTION

London

 Apr 2012

The law of unintended consequences struck, as the bomb threat of a lorry driver gone nuts on Tottenham Court Road forced the evacuation of several city blocks, sweeping up this unfortunate girl in the midst of having her highlights done, a portrait of quiet despair and frustration. One can only imagine her reaction several hours later when the crisis abated.

SWATCH NO. 2

Kew

Apr 2012

IN MEMORIAM: R. SHAW PETTIGREW

We are all, says Bill Bryson, an arrangement of atoms. What we pass on to the next generation is what we tell them or what they remember. These atoms arrange themselves as memory, in mementos, photographs, or stories which fade and twist with time.

My father died 24 years ago. He was a private man, and shared only that part of his life that he wished to share with us, his children. Whilst cleaning out old papers, I came once again upon a chapter of his life, which, save some very brief stories he told me once, was never open to us. The war.

Due to the efforts of my sister, we discovered that my Dad, who fought in the European theatre, maybe had more to offer than we thought. He got a Bronze Star, and fought along the same campaign as the 82nd Airborne of Band of Brothers, save for the fact he was in the Quartermaster Corps of the 80th Infantry Division. His number was 01595758 and though he ended the war as a Captain, was a 1st Lieutenant when he was awarded the Bronze Star. The Star was awarded via General Orders(Number 231) on 17th September 1945 By Command of Major General McBride. The inscription only says: For the period 7 August 1944 to 5 May 1945 in FRANCE, LUXEMBOURG, GERMANY AND AUSTRIA. It doesn't say for what, other than it was for "meritorious service in connection with military operations against an enemy of the United States."

Only 3500 (depends on who is counting...hard to get a definitive number) were given out of the 16.1 million active service personnel during the War. That, you would think, would merit a mention from my father. But no. He never said a word about it, though he didn't like Germans, as a general rule.

In his papers, I also found the only words he ever wrote about the war.

It's a pity to see these poor people who have saved and scraped all their lives come back to their homes (or what used to be their home) penniless and hungry without any clothing to sepak (sic) of and without the few animals they at one time so proudly could call their own.  What makes it so bad is that not long ago their sense of security was solik(sic) ; they were happy and carefree after four years of long sorrow, but even after that period of time they still had a home they could call their own--suddenly the whole thing has changed. Instead of a clean respectable house there is a rabble of bricks, instead of the few hogs which were looked upon as the winter subsistence there are empty stalls or no stalls at all and in place of the little clothing that was left on the closet hooks their(sic) is nothing.The last is particularly tragic because the damage was done by thoughtless G.I.'s. If there ever were a group of men that needed common sense pounded into their heads, it's these hard fighting, hard living soldiers. No----they didn't take much of the stuff for souvenirs, they purposefully smashed cabinets, mirrors, pictures and furniture, say nothing of tearing the clothing or taking it out of the house and putting it in the gutters. Many times the nicest rooms left in left in the houses seem to be the village latrine. Still these are the same boys that want the world to thank them for what they did--fight the war on another land so our own homes, our own families wouldn't suffer the same fate as the homes and families of Europe have suffered. It's a strange world!

Maybe he received the Bronze Star for his conscience.

After all these years, his memory has never lived stronger, and I have never been more proud of him than I am reading these words he wrote. He was a giant of a man, and he is and will always be my hero, my father.

----------------

FROM NUNEATON TO ISTANBUL

It was all down to George really.

He suggested it, otherwise no doubt we would have all buried ourselves in iPhone isolation-land waiting for a train back to London. Instead we wandered over to the nearest pub, a sort of lesser of two evils establishment next to another one which was even more downtrodden. Fresh Sunday roasts, £5.95. That kind of place.

On the door was an even better offer, ale for £1.95 provided you signed up for a month's worth. One can only wonder what a month's worth is in these parts.

This is Nuneaton, east of Coventry and Birmingham, where we had just been to see a client en masse. Los Tres Amigos, or more like the Three Stooges really: Mo, Larry and Curly. George, a young and affable Kiwi bachelor; Rafa, a very bright Brazilian young father, and me.

All in suits. The only suits we would see except for the undertaker. But more about that later.

Nuneaton is one of those mostly non-descript places. The highlight of the brief pass-through was the local college, a 60s style architectural lump enlivened by its name: Etone College. Yep, that's right. Etone. At least someone has a sense of humour here. No Bullingdon Club, I bet though.

We sidled up to the bar, where there ensconced were two regulars. Baz, who we never met but whose name was emblazoned across the back of his football shirt..Man City, I believe, or maybe Coventry (I couldn't see the front, but sky blue in any case), and Friendly Guy.

Friendly Guy was sampling the ale offer. George asked for beer and chips (I had a feeling that nothing healthy was going to cross my lips this night). Friendly Guy helpfully offered up that there was no hot food, except for Sunday perhaps. There was, however, a fish and chips shop across the way.

Instead we plumped for beer and nuts.

Brazil's Nuts, as it happens.

No, not Brazil Nuts...peanuts made (or at least endorsed) by Alan Brazil. He, you will no doubt recall, was a Scottish footballer for Ipswich who once his career hit the rocks, ended up playing in Woolongong, Australia, (believe or not I spent 10 days there, sort of a Nuneaton of Australia with beaches) and Baden, before being arrested for DUI and then starting up a nuts business. But it says none of that on the packet. Wikipedia, after the fact.

He was also a broadcaster on Talk Radio before he got sacked, with a flair for the malapropism and inappropriate comment. To wit:
Our talking point this morning is George Best, his liver transplant and the booze culture in football. Don’t forget, the best caller wins a crate of John Smith’s.'^[12]

He also authored two books, one entitled: Both Barrels from Brazil – My War against the Numpties.


In short, a man's man. Never give in, Mr. Brazil.


His nuts are the equal of any bag of peanuts, I am here to tell you.

So, his product was worth a photo with Rafa, who topped up his protein snack with some crisps.

Anyway, what could have been a relative uneventful twenty minutes killing time was altered by George, who is still at the age where he will literally talk to anybody. Anybody. I used to be like that, but now I have been tempered by age and electronics.

But not George. Within a minute he had all but proffered his front door key and bank account details. But Friendly Guy was just that. He just wanted to talk.

Friendly Guy first asked us where we were all from, and somehow from that piece of information launched into a monologue about the Second World War, his father in Argentina (pronouncing Buenos Aires to rhyme with View and Air, as in Biew-Nos Ere-es) and how his father witnessed the sinking of the Graf Spee (though he didn't actually say Graf Spee, just that it was a sea battle on the River Plate where the Germans scuttled a ship  (the River Plate, incidentally, was thought by Magellan to be the passage to the Spice Islands, but I digress,in addition to adding parentheses)). He and George had a lot in common, namely fathers who were pilots in the war and ended up in Canada being trained. He said things like. My father went out to Biew-nos Eres, they were quite well off back then you know, well they would be wouldn't they? boats weren't cheap back then. He also digressed on the Ale offer, which involved having to come in 12 times a month , I believe, and draining the casks. This would not pose too much of a problem for him, I shouldn't think.  Friendly Guy was a ...friendly guy...balding, slight paunch (see ale consumption). George and Rafa and I were taking it all in when all of a sudden an elderly gent in a slightly shabby suit entered. He stopped in front of us, obviously struck by three men in suits.

Are you here for the Scottish Free Masons meeting? he inquired.

Pardon me? I said.

Oh.....Are you Mormons then?

Worse, I replied. We're bankers.

Wankers.

That too.

He laughed and sat down next to us. Unusual, people in suits (though he wore one, of a fashion). He was tall, grey, slightly the worse for the wear and tear, and had a gash in the middle of his forehead which he ignored completely.

You staying here? (this was, I neglected to mention, an inn of some sort).

No, we are waiting for the train back to London.

Friendly Guy interjected that this was an international contingent, with a Kiwi, a Brazilian, and an American. Rafa held up his Brazil's Nuts bag.

I see, said the gent.

What is it you do? I asked him, mindful of another suit.

I am an undertaker.

Well actually I am retired, but I am on call Mondays and Tuesdays. Have to stay off the smoosh (??I believe he said smoosh...can't be sure). Can't be going over to the Joneses smelling with Auntie Mildred up the stairs having to cart her down myself. Wouldn't do at all.

Quite.

I asked him, I hope you don't mind me asking, but have you ever watched the television show Six Feet Under?

He brightened up. Yes, it was a while ago.

Was is.....accurate?

Oh no...no...Wasn't that the one with the gay guy?

That's right. My wife and I are hooked on it now.

As he talked I looked around. Baz ,he of the spiked hair, unkempt beard, grey chipped teeth, and sky blue t-shirt, tried to get involved. Mr Undertaker rambled on about how heavy the bodies were, and how....blah blah blah I can't remember what.... The more I took in the scene, I was reminded of a Spanish friend of mine, who listened to a presentation I made on derivatives, and responded at the end with a quizzical look and the following comment which for me summed up Nuneaton.

Muy curioso.

Time flew, and suddenly we had to leave. We interrupted Mr. Undertaker in full flow, and slid out of the table. He gave us each a hand shake which involved covering up the clasped hands with his other hand.

Mustn't let everyone see the Scottish Free Mason handshake, he winked at me.

And boosh. We were gone.

You couldn't make it up.

And to think, tomorrow I am going to Istanbul. Crusaders. Ataturk. The Aghia Sofia and the Blue Mosque. Topkapi. Just one quick hop and a step away from Nuneaton and Brazil's Nuts on this crazy planet we live on.

DUKE-CAROLINA. THERE AIN'T NOTHING LIKE IT...

In response to my mate Tom Wells' commentary, herewith the response to his email that the Smith Center in Chapel Hill went quiet with Austin River's shocking buzzer bomb to beat the Heels.

Quiet as a church.

Indeed.

My nephew, who got rejected from Duke despite getting 1580 on his boards and with me, my son, my sister, my aunt, and her father all having gone there (not enough money given....indeed precious little after the rapacious fees charged), instead went to Carolina, where he is now manager of the baseball team and a RABID, but RABID anti-Dook fan. Did I say RABID? He has turned my sister as well, which believe me, is UNFORGIVABLE.

The amazing thing is that just watching that took me back 35 years as if it were yesterday. Ah the memories, such as when I got fired from my job as a waiter at Harrison's in Chapel Hill for going to the Final Four in St. Louis when Duke made it (Gene Banks, Jim Spanarkel, Mike Gminski) though I warned them in advance. They didn't bother to tell me, just took me off the rota, and when I turned up for work and said what's the story was told with a shrug of the shoulders, Oh... Will (the small-dicked manager) fired you.  I went and ordered six beers (Heinekens, as it happens, when that meant something), a tuna melt, a cheesecake, worked my way through the whole lot with Will warily watching me from the end of the bar. I then said to the bartender, "I guess that was on the house", walked past Will and said: "Will, what you did was a really bush move, but it doesn't surprise me because you are a real bush league person." No comeback from the weasel.

And I paid not a farthing. 

And that, as they say, is that. I think the fact that a few weeks earlier I, as the only Dookie, went to work with Go to Hell Carolina painted on my cheek might have had something to do with it.

So I have prior, and when every so often God waves his arm and allows the ball to bounce right just this time and tickle the cords as the buzzer sounds, you will forgive me if I get PRETTY F******* WORKED UP by the whole thing.


Sports are life with the volume turned up.

But it is still a friendly rivalry, not like Liverpool-Man U, as evidenced by the birthday limerick written by the erstwhile girlfriend of my roommate in grad school, both Tar Heels.

I can tell you that it is no fluke
One thing about Joel makes me puke
It's bad that he studies
But worse, that he's buddies
With Eric, that Wadhead, from Duke.



Next time, however, it will be Carolina's turn.

And so it goes.

MID-LIFE CANOE CLUB-Table of Contents

THE MID-LIFE CANOE CLUB©
A journey up to the Hudson Bay

Table of Contents
Click next to the canoe at the bottom of each page to return to the Table of Contents




Click on each link to go to each page. 
The Journey
Background
Day 1
Day 2
Day 3
Day 4
Day 5
Day 6
Day 7
Day 8
Day 9
Day 10
Portraits
Preparation
The North Knife Song
Provisioning


©2011 Eric Pettigrew All Rights Reserved
(images are taken by John Moses)

MID-LIFE CANOE CLUB-The Journey

Prologue
Winnipeg Airport
16th August 1999

Men don’t ask directions, but having more than a vague idea of where you are going is always a good idea when heading into the wilderness. Thus the first stop in Winnipeg is to the Manitoba Natural Resources and Mapping Center to buy two 1:250,000 (2cm = 5km) scale maps of the North Knife River, our destination. I found out which maps to buy (where else?) on the internet, having been thwarted by just looking at an atlas, where the North Knife was nowhere to be found. 


Each province on these Department of Energy, Mines and Resources survey maps is divided into quadrants of 2 degrees longitude by 1 degree latitude. And each of these scale quadrants is redivided into sixteen1:50,000 (2cm = 1km) quadrants. The larger size quadrants are assigned a number and letter for reference. Our maps are 64I (entitled Shetenei Lake) and 54L (Churchill). The level of detail at this size is adequate for our purpose, showing contours, spot elevations, and a host of geographical and geological features (some of which, like rapids, I clearly understand and some like eskers, strand lines, moraines, screes, palsa bogs, and pingos are as yet unknown to me). The symbols for all these are helpfully spelt out in both french and english on the back side of each map, most useful in the event we happen upon Pepe Le Pew. 


There are also terms for man-made landmarks on the back, but a quick perusal of Map 1 shows this to be completely unnecessary. There are none. Going through the entire gamut of possibilities in the glossary draws a blank. There are no roads--hard, loose, stabilised surface, or all weather (two lane or four lane), no cart tracks, no railways (single or multiple track), no bridges, tunnels, ferries, towns, villages, settlements, towers, chimneys or similar objects, no campsites, no mines, quarries, levees or dykes. Nothing whatsoever to suggest that anyone has stopped on their way by for any purpose other than to have a look. I can only draw one conclusion from my quick study of this map. There in black and white (and green and brown, to be pedantic) is an inescapable fact. We are heading into the wilderness. Ten days of canoeing down the North Knife River in northern Manitoba in North America, the common denominator being the word north. We are going to head up to the Hudson Bay, finishing our trip near the 59th parallel, a thousand miles north of Winnipeg. To put this north thing into perspective, think north of Scotland (the Orkneys). Think Oslo, Helsinki, St. Petersburg, Magadan (that’s Kamchatka). Think Maine, and add another ten degrees of latitude up thataway. (If you think Alaska, however, you’ve gone too far. The main part of Alaska starts at 60 degrees.)


Still, we are heading into the northern wilderness, and the map just confirms this in numbers and symbols translated from satellite photos taken in 1987. 3600 square miles of wilderness per quadrant, and we will be in two of them.


I wonder what that means.....


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MID-LIFE CANOE CLUB-Background

Paddling the North Knife
A journal of 
The Mid Life Canoe Club
August 1999


Background
Or how we decided to go...and who we are...

The MidLIfe Canoe Club at Lynn Lake  

Assembling the masses


Up until this moment, this trip has been an abstract thing, like watching a headlight off in the distance on a straight road, not really connecting it with the physical reality of a car until it whooshes past. This trip is not my brainchild, nor have I participated in the real physical preparation other than to send a cheque. I have suggested a name for the venture, The Mid Life Canoe Club, but it doesn’t seem to have taken with our group, though of that I cannot really be sure since I have received no comment by email from the members. 


And who are we? We are a group of six, four of us going back 30 years to junior high school, and the other two friends of our organiser and author of the idea, Randy Case. Aside from our leader, we are all in the throes of what is commonly referred to as mid-life. Thus the name.


We are a representative group, though representative of what I don't quite know.

Eric


I am Eric Pettigrew, father of 14 year old son Toby who towers over me at 6’3" and husband of Christina, who saw me off yesterday in Charleston, S.C. and flew back to London, England, where we have lived for the past 12 years. I am at a crossroads in my life, the infamous place to which Dante alluded ("Midway through our life’s journey we found ourselves in a dark wood, having lost the path.") The company I headed until four months ago, a subsidiary of a Japanese bank, is no more. The company which I have begun is still in the petri dish, and will not propagate until after I return from this trip. This confluence of events conveniently happened at the onset of summer, and our northern trek presented itself as a once in a lifetime opportunity to mimic the metaphor. I will be in a dark wood, literally. What I find there, and where I will go afterward, is anybody’s guess.


In this group, I have been designated (or rather have suggested myself) as the scribe.




Randy


Randy Case is the organiser and inspiration behind the trip. He was a camper at Kooch-I-Ching and dreamt of completing a trip to the North Knife for years and years. Randy is a professor at Boston College, husband to Shelley and father of Andrew and Emily. He is my erstwhile doubles partner as a youth, my college roommate (though he eventually transferred from Duke, where both John Moses and I went) and my lifelong friend. If I had to characterise Randy, I would describe him as someone who fears nothing, who is able to pull off brave (and sometimes foolhardy) feats. He is also a Southerner through and through, with a voice that would carry two miles over water and makes him impossible to ignore. He also has a heart the size of a lion.


  

 Dexter


To return to the members of our group. Our leader is Dexter Davison, He is 67 years old, and has been canoeing for 52 years in the north woods. As counsellor and camp organiser of Camp Kooch-I-Ching in Minnesota, he has done more than 100 trips on various rivers, including two two-month expeditions to the Arctic Circle in the Northwest Territories. He is providing most of the expertise and equipment for this venture. Dexter is by profession a math teacher, and taught Randy Case, John Moses, and I about quadratic equations, functions, and series in a galaxy far far away in Spartanburg S.C. during the late sixties. Dexter is a man of few words, I will come to find out, but one whose actions never stop talking. In writing these words after the event, I have come to think of him as a hero in the classic sense of the word. 



 John


John Moses is a doctor (pediatrician), author, photographer, and renaissance man. During college he took time off and hiked the entire Appalachian Trail at 20 years old. He works at the Duke Medical Center, and has published books on teenage pregnancy and has done many photographic exhibitions. His subjects are studies of real people, and are living proof of Mose’ ability to connect with others. I have heard him described by a patient as a true gentleman. He is modest, discreet, sometimes quiet, and a genuinely good person.

Pete


Pete Vanacore is a friend of Randy’s. An animated New Yorker, Pete runs a Christian organisation helping disadvantaged youths ages 8-18 who have been in trouble with the law. He is married to Diane with three children. He has a New Yorker’s garrulous wit, and at around 5’10" is the shortest of any of us, a fact which belies his overall athleticism and determination. Pete is an avid skier, rock climber, and hiker and has a raft of stories and relevant experiences. He also has a good voice and knows the words to practically any song ever written.

Gary
Gary Schofield, another of Randy’s friends, is a big bear of a man who was a former professional hockey player drafted by the Maple Leafs. Gary is retired at the early age of 46, having sold his successful tree cutting business. He now devotes his life to scuba diving, car racing, and other adventurous pastimes. Married with a son, he comes from a large family of twelve, three of whom are professional hockey players. As the oldest son, he has the quiet air of competence about him, and is someone you know immediately will carry a big weight (literally and figuratively) on his massive shoulders.

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MID-LIFE CANOE CLUB-Day 1

Day 1 
Getting there
17th August 1999




We meet at 11PM at Winnipeg airport the day the evening of the 16th. Dexter is already there when I arrive after having spent the day piddling around Winnipeg. In addition to the map purchase, I saw an IMAX film called Island of the Sharks, shot off a reef at the Cocos Island in the Pacific. Watching the sharks and various other predators devour each other in the frenzy of daily life, I am reminded by a quote from Jacques Cousteau: "Dans la mer, il n'y a pas du cruauté, seulement l'angoisse de survivre."- In the sea there is no cruelty, only the terror of survival."). This film, and this quote, strike a chord within me as I wait for the others and contemplate what we are about to do.


Dexter and I talk a little about old times and catch up on what we have been doing since I last saw him over 25 years ago. He looks little different than what I remember, save for grey hair which he admits he dyed until recently. He has the same distinctive gait when he walks, a stride more than a step that sways from side to side. He allows that details on the trip from Randy are a bit vague, but that as far as the arrangements he is responsible for (canoes, food, travel including float planes, trains, and a rental van) everything is ready to go.


The others arrive en masse, though we have to wait for Gary. He arrives with a WWI vintage .3006 rifle, which we have prevailed upon him to bring to ward off polar bears, and is hassled by customs. They obviously disapprove of his cavalier and vague attitude. When asked to provide an itinerary, he replies "We have none." Strictly speaking, this is not true. It is just that none of us (other than Dexter) know what it is. The custom officers think he is some weekend lad off to shoot off a rifle for fun. Eventually they relent, and he joins us all.


We do have an itinerary however, and it begins with a long drive which will last all night until mid-afternoon the next day. The first leg is 765km to Thompson. When asked directions (we will share driving in two hour shifts), Dexter responds to go to the first stop sign and hang a right. He is not kidding of course (Dexter does not kid really). The scale of the truth here in Canada is revealed when we find the aforementioned stop sign 500km later in Pon Ton. We stop for gas there (Rule one in these parts, when you see a gas station you fill up, regardless). In the café, the menu for the day is Denver and Soup. When I ask what this means, the cook says ham and eggs and beef barley, but allows that neither of them are ready as it is 6:00 AM. After seven hours in a well-seasoned van (156,000 on the clock and lacking only the ceiling mirror to make it a veritable pleasure palace on wheels), we still have over 500km to go, including our flight.

The Route: From Lynn Lake to the Hudson Bay

We continue on up through Thompson, where we pick up Jack Crowley, a friend of Dexter's who will drive the van back to Thompson from Lynn Lake, our next destination. He tells us in great detail about river trips (the Seal and the Caribou are his two favorites) and throws in a few bear stories for good measure.


Finally at 3:00PM after lunch, a flat tire, and numerous bumps on the highway due to frost heaves, we arrive in Lynn Lake. The town, suffering the throes of withdrawal of the gold mine which was its raison d'etre, has a dilapidated look. We add to the local economy by buying fish lures at the general store, and I almost buy a mousetrap which has been turned into a cutesy souvenir (Complaints Department, it says. Press this button to make a complaint.)


The local indian youth have taken to wearing LA gang colours. I see only one house with the lawn mowed. It is a depressing sendoff to the wilderness.


We catch our floatplane here from LaRonge Air, a DeHavilland Twin Otter circa 1967 which easily carries three canoes and all our gear inside the plane. After an hour and a half, and low level circling of North Knife Lake to find a suitable beach, we are deposited next to one halfway up the lake, and our journey begins as the Otter takes off in the distance. We immediately pitch camp, getting in practice on the as yet unfamiliar tents.

First Camp: Prepare for Anything

Weather: Unbelievable. 75 degrees and not a cloud. A swim in the lake is refreshing, not nearly as cold as I had been expecting.


Wildlife:  Moose and wolfprints on the beach.No sightings however.


Dinner:  Beef and noodles and green beans.


Topography: Forget the dark woods. Instead imagine aspen and spruce sparsely placed, countless lakes, a flattish terrain stretching on forever, marred only by the scars of forest fires which are allowed to burn unchecked, proof that it is not only man which is destructive, as they have all been started by lightning.


The road we have come on to Lynn Lake, now almost 150 miles away, must have cost tens if not hundreds of millions, yet serves only 15,000 people in this vast wilderness.

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