The Kindest Gift

DSC00595Yesterday, I found an unexpected package at my front door. I’m not used to receiving packages unless it is a book I’ve ordered over the internet.

The return address said it was from Clayton and Doris Bristow.

My finding the package, picking it up, reading the return address, taking the package into the house and setting it out on the dining room table, opening it, is a scene in a long narrative that began before either Clayton or Doris or I were born.

My great grandmother, Fridrikka Gottskalksdottir, came to Canada in 1876. She was three years old. Her parents had left a desperate situation in Iceland and traveled to the UK, changed ships, traveled to Quebec City, then on to a swampy, forested shoreline on Lake Winnipeg. They were part of what was called The Large Group. Earlier, a small, initial group had arrived on the shores of Willow Point after their barges were cut loose by a steamboat captain because a storm had started.

Shortly after my great grandmother and her parents arrived, smallpox broke out. One hundred and three people died. One of those was Fridrikka’s three month old brother. That they all didn’t die was probably due to the fact that some of them had previously had the cow pox, either from working with dairy cattle in Iceland or because they had been inoculated. .

At sixteen, Fridrikka went to Fort Garry to work. There she met William Bristow, a member of the British Army. The Icelanders had come to Canada hoping, like many other groups, to preserve their language, culture and religion. They named the exclusive reserve the government had given them New Iceland. None of the fantasies of cultural purity had much impact on young people and certainly not on Fridrikka. She married William Bristow.

One would expect that he would have stayed in the army, that Fridrikka would have become English. After all, the English dominated Western Canada politically, financially, and socially. Instead, William Bristow left the army and moved to what was now Gimli. Gimli, a small village on the shore of Lake Winnipeg, survived on commercial fishing. William became a fisherman.

William and Fridrikka had thirteen children.

My grandmother, Blanche Bristow, was a sister to Clayton’s grandfather, George Bristow. George and his wife, Dolly, lived across the big field from us. We were on third and they were directly opposite us on second avenue. Times were hard but at Christmas we always exchanged gifts.

Dolly and George had four children. One of those was Clayton’s father,Rudy.  Rudy and I, in spite of our travels,  have always stayed in touch.

Clayton and Doris live in Winnipeg, a three or four day drive from Victoria. I don’t get to see them very often. Usually, if we bump into each other, it is at Gimli’s annual Islendingadagurinnin. This is the way of the world in 2014. When I was growing up, our families all lived close to each other. Nowadays, we are spread across the world.

This journey that culminated on my front porch began when Fridrikka, and her parents Gottskalk Sigfusson and Holmdridur Jonatansdottir, made the decision to leave Akureyri, Iceland. When William Herbert Bristow, the son of a Church of England minister,came to Canada on his own at fifteen.

When I opened the package that Clayton and Doris had sent me, there was a cheerful cookie tin. When I pried open the tin, there was a Christmas card and a vinarterta, the layered prune tort that symbolizes everything about our North American Icelandic culture. The note was from Doris and it said that like me, Clayton has celiac disease, and they knew how much I must be missing having vinartera at Christmas. They’d baked some vinartera as an experiment and were sending me one of the layered cakes.

It’s been a long journey, from Aukreyri and Oxford to decades in Gimli, Manitoba,, from Gimli to Winnipeg, from Gimli on my crooked path through Iowa and Missouri to Victoria, from 1876 to 2014.

I pick up this package and take it inside and put it on the dining room table where the winter sun shines on it and I cut off the padded envelope, then I take off the brown wrapper and open the tin and find within it that special vinarterta and I stand there and think, thank you Clayton and Doris, Rudy and Sig, Dolly and George, William and Fredrikka, Gottskalk and Holmfridur. Thank you. .

The Best New Years

folkdanceline
When I was a teenager, I didn’t go to New Year’s events. New Years was a time to make money. Babysitting prices doubled. After midnight, they tripled. Most of my New Years’ memories are about a Manitoba winter wind howling around the corners of a house, under the eaves, the house creaking and cracking with the cold, the little kids sleeping, me trying to stay awake.

People left me a soft drink, my favorite was Orange Crush, some candy, a piece of Christmas cake. I brought a book to read, usually the latest Hardy Boys that I’d received as a Christmas gift. I always got books for Christmas. No TV in those days. As for movies, if I were lucky, a Saturday matinee once every two weeks. Books were anticipated, cherished, enjoyed. The Count of Monte Christo. Robin Hood. The Black Arrow.

folkdancer

As an adult, I’d not gone to New Year’s parties much. My parents came to stay with me over Christmas and New Years for twenty-six years. Both celebrations were family affairs bolstered by the addition of friends. However, I joined the Saanich International Folk Dancers. It all began in a city square where a group of people were having a lot of fun dancing to skirling, ethnic music. That led me to the Y and folk dance lessons, to dancing Monday nights to the Balkan Jam at Pagliacci’s Restaurant. And to discover that Victoria’s private face is far different from its public face.

We had folk dance lessons, folk dance parties in Victoria. Folk dance workshops in places like Naniamo. Folk dance parties in country halls. We danced from eight to midnight. The diehards danced from midnight to two in the morning. We danced in people’s yards, in Beacon Hill Park beside the rose garden. People seeing us dance at Pags invited us to come and dance at private parties behind gates, in old mansions.

momdad_NEW

One New Years as circumstances would have it, I joined the dancers at a café. When we were finished there, I invited everyone to my house. I arrived first to warn my parents. The dancers soon appeared. Many were in ethnic dress. We cleared out the living room, set up the sound system, and began to dance. My parents didn’t know what to think. They had always loved dancing, country dancing, polkas, schottieses, waltzes. We drew them in. Many folk dances are village dances, simple repetitive steps, often done in a line or circle.

We danced the night away. The house shook. We sang, we shouted. We set out trays of sweets left from Christmas. We ate. We drank. We held each other close.
When the last dancer left in the early morning, my parents sat on the couch, their faces pink from the heat of the dancing and the dancers. After all the noise, silence settled over us. We had a cup of tea. Before they got up to go to their bedroom, my mother turned to me and said, “That’s the best New Years I’ve ever had.”

Basement Rats

blacksmith

You may not know it but you may be guiding your son or daughter into part time work and poverty. You may be guiding them into irrelevance. There is nothing more discouraging, disheartening than working hard and discovering that all that work has made you irrelevant. Make your kids irrelevant and the result will be that they will still be basement rats when you are being carted away in a hearse.

There is nothing more dangerous or destructive than irrelevance.

When I was a boy, the busiest place in town was the blacksmith shop. I used to go there with my father. The blacksmith and his assistant had the coals white hot, sparks showered from the horseshoe or anchor that he was making. Jobs waiting to be done were piled up. Harrows, discs, wagon wheels, all needing repair. Farmers and fishermen coming and going, dropping off items, picking up others. There was the smell of the coal and the steam as red hot iron was plunged into cold water. The blacksmith was so essential that nearly every town had at least one.

There was lots of warning. Automobiles of various kinds by many different companies were being built during the 1800s. However, they weren’t seen as a threat to horse transportation because of the lack of roads, the difficulty of buying fuel, and the frequent breakdowns. The Model-T appeared but horses and blacksmiths continued to be necessary.The beginning of the end for thousands, tens of thousands, of blacksmiths, those valued members of society, those earners of decent incomes, had begun. Blacksmith shops closed their doors.

What was needed now were mechanics. Today, we only see blacksmiths at country fairs where the craft is practiced as a nostalgic hobby.
Employment comes with having knowledge and skill that other people want and need. At one time that was the ability to shoe a horse. See how many jobs that will get you nowadays.

Life and innovation creep up on you, make you irrelevant, leave you with skills for which no one wants to pay. Writing, for example. When I was twenty, I decided I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to write fiction, journalism, drama. Hemingway, I’d read, was both fiction writer and journalist, and was earning a dollar a word. One or two stories would take him to Europe where he could go to the bullfights and drink wine and have adventures.

No one pointed out that I was following the path of the blacksmiths. No one knew that that path to irrelevance ,TV, already existed. We watched it but it never occurred to me or anyone else I knew that the ads on TV were going to strip magazines of their advertising. The magazines were the lifeblood of freelance writers. Articles and stories for popular and trade magazines paid the bills. Companies quickly realized that they were buying eyes for their ads and the eyes were now locked onto TV screens.

Then computers came along. I was involved in computers when only nerdy professors and military types used them. We learned code. We figured out ways to make margins line up. We went from a main frame and a printer that took up an entire basement in a university building to the PC. Publishing radically changed.

The skills that were being taught to editors and printers became irrelevant, were replaced. One PC was the equivalent to a small publisher. Jobs disappeared. Those laboring in the print offices became the new blacksmiths—irrelevant.

University is not trade school. Universities exist to educate. The link of university education to getting a job is tenuous. It may be non-existent. If you don’t want your son or daughter to follow the blacksmiths to oblivion, you need to help them choose a career for the future. If it is a trade, it needs to be a trade that will be relevant until they retire. If it is an education, you need to look ahead to how it will help them earn a living. Doctor, lawyer, dentist are direct. History in Art, musicology, pottery, modern poetry, not so much. Those don’t even get you started as a blacksmith.

When I taught Creative Writing over a period of thirty six years, I always emphasized that students should take a double major. The creative writing gave them skills and the other major gave them a specialty to write about. When the Co-op program started, I encouraged everyone to take part. There are jobs in communications in both private and public areas.

The future has no certainty to it. Change will occur. The unexpected will happen. Ultimately, your son or daughter will have or not have a good financial life by having knowledge and skills that others need or want. Need is better than want. In hard times, wants disappear.

Tell your kids about the fate of blacksmiths. Have conversations with them about the future. If they want to be a musician, artist, poet, actor, help them see that also developing knowledge and skills that are needed is like having a lifeboat. Professional athletes often hedge their bets with educations that provide employment and income after the no longer can play football, hockey, basketball, etc.

Ask your kids what jobs exist that people need? Ask them which jobs they think will be relevant ten, twenty, thirty years from now? Which of these jobs do they want to do? Then discuss what they need to do to get those jobs. Or, they can be a greeter at Walmart when they are their parents’ or grandparents’ ages. Tell them to look at those greeters, or the older people handing out flyers at Home Depot, or people in their fifties, sixties, seventies, doing minimum wage jobs when other people the same age are comfortably retired or, if still working, are making substantial amounts o money doing a job they want to do.

One doctor I know is still going in to read X-rays two days a week. He’s needed. His skills are wanted, needed and well paid. An editor I know retired and is now making over a hundred dollars an hour doing specialized editing. In one hour, these people make more than those people earning minimum wage in an eight hour day.

The choice is yours.

My Little Red Wagon

creche
We sang “Away in a manger, no crib for a bed, the little Lord Jesus lay down his sweet head.” We were small and our voices were thin and high but enthusiastic. We weren’t Dutch religious theorists or Jesuits. There was Jesus and Joseph and Mary and a donkey and a manger. I don’t think any of us had seen a donkey. There were lots of horses still around Gimli in those days. So many that Gunnar Johnson had a livery stable.

Most of us had been in that livery stable so we knew about mangers and how they smelled of hay and horses. Farmers were still coming in from the country on high-wheeled wagons or sleighs. The sleighs often had a caboose on top, a wooden frame covered with building paper, a window at the front so the driver could control the horses from inside where he was out of the wind along with his passengers, a tin stove with a black pipe that poked through the roof.

We didn’t know any geography but since Mary was riding on a donkey and Joseph was walking, we thought it couldn’t have been cold like Manitoba. The pictures showed them wearing sandals. If they wore sandals in Manitoba, they would have frozen their feet off. We wore a light pair of socks, heavy wool socks, moccasins with felts in the bottom. When it was really cold, we might have worn boot felts inside the moccasins. One time, I skated back home on the icy roads instead of taking off my skates at the outdoor rink and putting on my moccasins. I froze both big toes. The toenails turned white and fell off.

There was the North Star. It was in all the pictures of the holy family. It was guiding them. My parents explained about stars, showed me Orion’s Belt, the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper. My father said you could navigate by them. It didn’t make any sense. One day I went further on my bicycle than I was supposed to and got lost. Gimli was only one mile by one half mile and I’d crossed the big ditch on the south side of town and gone into South Beach. I had to ask a man working in his yard how to get back home. Even if it had been night time, I doubted if following the stars would have helped.

There was an Inn in this story. I knew about in. It was the opposite of out. When I was first told Mary and Joseph went to an Inn, I asked “In what?” I didn’t know about stopping houses. There was a hotel in town but men just went to the beer parlour. I had to have it explained that people could pay money to stay there. Why, I wondered, didn’t they just stay home?

Mary was going to have a baby. I knew people had babies. My mom had my brother. She went to the hospital and came back with him. I wasn’t impressed. I wasn’t into sharing, either. It was all very mysterious. No one explained where babies came from. I would have understood better if he’d come from the post office. Sometimes, my grandmother sent us packages in the mail. So, I got the idea that sometimes unexpected things came from the post office.

Getting the pieces of the story to make any sense was hard. To make matters worse there was three kings on camels. I’d never seen a king or a camel except on a Christmas card. There were gifts but I didn’t understand why they were bringing these gifts.What does a kid want with gold, frankincense or myrrh. I wanted a red wagon.

red wagon

The next summer, when my grandmother took me to Assiniboine Park to the zoo, I saw a camel. I remember thinking, wow. Three kings rode camels like this for days across the desert to bring gifts to the Christ child. I didn’t resent him getting a bunch of gifts because I’d got my red wagon.

I wondered though what Christ did with his gifts. I played with my gift. I ran up and down the front sidewalk pulling my brother in the wagon. Or I kneeled in it and pushed myself along with one foot.

My father went out and chopped down a spruce tree. It smelled great. When he pulled it inside and set it up, it was exciting. My mother had spent her evenings making decorations. They sparkled. There were lights. What I liked best were the brightly colored birds that sat on the branches. What I liked bester were the gifts under the tree.

We went to church on Christmas Eve. It was exciting. We only had to walk through the snow and cold for about half a block. No camel. It would have been fun to ride a camel. I sort of had hoped there’d be a camel at church. Instead there were people dressed up in costumes and they pretended to be Joseph and Mary. The Christ child was a big doll. I liked that. We sang Christmas carols. The best thing is that when we were leaving, we were given a brown bag with an orange and striped candy. In 1945 in Gimli there were few oranges. This was probably the only orange I would get until the fall of 1946. Sugar was rationed so the candy was precious. Oranges and candy were better than frankincense and myrrh.

After church, we walked home over the snow packed sidewalk. There were lights in in the Scribner’s house. They lived on the corner. Then there were vacant lots until we got to our house. Across the street there were no houses, just the big field with the monument to the Icelandic settlers. My grandpa Swanee worked on that. He helped put the big stone on top.
My father carried my brother. My mother held my hand. I had on a fur lined helmet tied under the chin and a warm coat my grandmother had made for me. It was so cold that the snow squeaked. The sky was dark and filled with stars. We stopped to look at them. There was a light in our window and when we got inside my father went downstairs to put wood into the furnace. We had cocoa. Then we went to bed.

I lay in my bed looking out the east window. I could see the stars. I thought about Baby Jesus. I hoped he’d had warm blankets. I thought the kings should have brought him really warm clothes and hot cocoa. I hoped Santa Claus would bring me my little red wagon.

Viking Christmas

Odin
You know Oðin, the one-eyed god in Norse mythology. He’s the big cheese, the head honcho, the CEO of Asgard, the home of the gods. He’s always fighting frost giants, involved in battles, wandering in search of wisdom, preparing for the end of the world, Ragnarok. At least that’s the Oðin, I´ve known. Feasting, fighting, wenching, wandering, drinking.

However, I´ve stumbled on another aspect of Oðin. Some people say Coca Cola invented Santa Claus. Other people say Santa Claus started when the Vikings invaded England and brought with them the idea of Oðin, the wanderer in the blue hooded cloak who carried a bag of bread in one hand and a staff in the other. The Saxons, the guys already in England, had as one of their customs the welcoming of King Frost or King Winter. It wasn´t hard to join together King Winter and Oðin. It wasn´t unusual for pagan beliefs to be joined with Christian beliefs. At my recent visit to the Royal Museum to see the Viking exhibit, there was a Thor´s hammer that was also a cross. It´s not surpring then that even after the battle of Stamford Bridge in 1066 when the Vikings lost their power in England, when people made oaths, they sometimes still used the phrase “To God and Oðin.” The mysteries of the past that come down to us are many layered.

The Vikings didn´t just bring swords and shields. They brought their beliefs; they brought Oðin. Vikings believed that Oðin would come to earth on his eight legged horse, Sleipnir.

The Oðin described in histories of Christmas is a man who joined people sitting around fires, not participating but listening and observing, seeing if the people were all right and, sometimes, if things were not all right, he would take bread from his sack and leave it for those who were poor and hungry.

It is easy to see the image of Santa Claus beginning to form. A man on a steed. The blue hooded cloak, the unobserved man coming to see if all was well, the leaving of gifts for those in need.

When the Normans came they brought St. Nicholas. For a long time, the image of a benevolent person who came at Christmas time was saintly, stern, lecturing and judging. In a number of countries, he asked questions and decided if you had been naughty and nice and if you had been naughty, you got a lump of coal, or some hay or a potato instead of a desired gift.

Oðin wasn´t the only Nordic god drawn into Christmas. One account says that Frigg, Oðin´s wife, would check to make certain that the entrances to each house were clean. Imagine if you were a housewife and you believed that Odin´s wife was going to come by to check on your housekeeping. What better way to make sure that people kept their places organized and tidy? Although the Viking age ended in 1066, nine hundred years later, my mother always worked hard at making sure our house was tidy and clean for Christmas. I always thought that was because we were going to have relatives coming to visit. But it also may have been part of a tradition started many centuries before with the original tradition forgotten but the need to get organized and keep chaos from descending still at work. If I had said to my mother will you be ready when Frigg checks the house, she wouldn´t have known what I was talking about. She would have said, “Your grandparents are coming. I have to have the house spotless for Christmas.”

Before they became Christian, the Germanic people celebrated Yule. When people became Christian they didn´t automatically give up their traditions and beliefs. Yule celebrations became part of Christmas. For people of Icelandic descent, this keeping of old traditions in spite of the new religion is easy to understand. After all, when a political deal was made for Iceland to become Christian, part of the deal was that people could keep practicing the old religion as long as they did it in private.

If you know your Norse mythology, you’ll know about one of these traditions, The Wild Hunt. When the Wild Hunt takes place, there is a ghostly procession of hunters led by Oðin riding across the sky. When I think about this ghostly procession I remember the Northern Lights on cold clear nights in Gimli, Manitoba. When Oðin leads the procession, he is called Jólnir or Jule figure. He is also referred to as Langbarðr which means long beard. So, we have a long bearded figure in a hooded cloak, riding an eight legged horse across the sky. It´s not too hard to see Oðin turn into Santa Claus and Sleipnir with his eight legs turn into eight reindeer. There are even some traditions of Oðin coming down chimneys. Although, that couldn´t have been an Icelandic tradition since turf houses didn´t have chimneys. There were no stoves or fireplaces, just a fire on the stone floor and a hole in the roof. In Reykjavik today, Oðin or Santa Claus would still have a hard time finding chimneys to climb down because most of the heating is from hot water piped from volcanic areas. No chimneys for a fat man in a red suit with a large bag of toys to scurry down. For that trick, he needs the chimneys of large stone fireplaces.

A lot of people got into the act before we moved from Oðin to our present day image of Santa Claus. St. Nicholas and Sinterklass and Father Christmas plus others. The result is that we no longer have the all-knowing Oðin, no longer the stern saints, no longer the demanding Santa Clauses in shopping malls insisting on knowing if you have been good or bad. Instead, we have a jolly old elf. A gift giver who makes no demands, asks no awkward questions, does his best to meet extravagent requests even if it means maxing out a credit card.

I used to be terrified when I heard the song that said, “He knows when you are sleeping, he knows when you´re awake, he knows when you´ve been bad or good so be good for goodness sake.” I prefer the jolly old elf, an elf filled with kindness at the darkest time of the year. Yet, yet, in the winter months, especially around Christmas, if I’m lucky enough to be where there are Northern Lights, I am transfixed by the pulsating colors, red, green, blue, traveling across the sky. Watching them I think I see this figure in his blue cloak, riding his eight legged horse over the arc of the world, leading his wildly riding huntsmen. Although I am in awe of these spectral figures, of the shimmering lights, of the majesty of the sky, I have not yet been given a gift of gold. At the same time, I haven´t mocked these huntsmen and so haven´t been taken away with them never to be seen again.

All of this, along with the multiple layers of tradition over the centuries, have often led me along a snowy path to a quiet church service, some joyful singing of hymns and carols, a crèche scene with Joseph and Mary and Jesus. To Oðin, to Frigg, to all their companions, to Father Christmas, to Saint Nicholas, to the Frost King, to all the Santa Clauses in the malls of the world, to mothers and fathers decorating the sacred Christmas tree, the lovers kissing under the magic Christmas bow, to Joseph and Mary and Jesus, Merry Christmas to all.

Keeping It Cool

dennis and fred

Dennis Anderson with his brother, Fred, writer, painter

Fred Anderson has published a new book, edited by his sister, Marjorie Anderson: Keep It Cold and Other Good Advice. It is a collection of fifty short anecdotes from a widely varied group of people who have responded to a request for “memorable words of advice that have made a significant difference in your life”.

David Arnason, poet, fiction writer, filmmaker, former head of the Icelandic Department at the University of Manitoba has written the forward. He says “They tell of the moments, the words, the flashes of insight that have altered their lives in meaningful ways….Sometimes, it comes from incidental encounters – with a teacher, a workmate, or an older self looking back on childhood reactions….It is a testimonial to the human spirit.”

There was a capacity crowd at the launch of Keep It Cold at McNally Robinson Booksellers in Winnipeg on November 27. Various people who have written pieces for the book read their contributions. Jim Anderson, Fred’s brother, said that Audrey Waytiuk’s reading about her lifelong challenge of living with depression touched everyone in the room. The most important piece of advice she’d ever received was from an uncle who told her that what she needed to do was to “Keep trying to try”.

Fred’s anecdote, “Advice on Ice” is about a interview he and three fellow university students conducted with Otto Zwigg, the owner and CEO of Provincial Cold Storage. Mr. Zwigg provided Fred with the title to this book by replying to every question about his business practices with some variation of the phrase “keep it cold.” He was obviously teasing the students, but, in the end, “keep it cold” is brilliant advice if you are running a cold storage business. And it became a mantra that Fred could apply in other aspects of his life.

Fred is the youngest of the eight children of Asdis Guttormson and Thorsteinn (Stony) Anderson of Poplar Park (now Libau) MB, that isolated marshland behind the south shore of Lake Winnipeg. In his forties, Fred developed Parkinson’s – a terrifying disease that compromises muscular strength and mobility. And, over time, remorselessly attacks both body and mind. The younger someone develops Parkinson’s, the more severe it usually is. His family members, many of whom are writers and editors, joined in helping him achieve the publication of this book.

Fred’s Parkinson’s started with stiffness – frozen is the word. The dopamine level in his brain was not high enough to keep his muscles flexible. The Parkinson’s meds added dopamine, but it was difficult to keep the level balanced, and as the disease progressed, the stiffness could last for up to ten hours. There’s no cure for Parkinson’s, but over the last twenty-five years there have been many attempts to help Fred medically. He has had electrodes implanted into his brain and has undergone many different drug therapies .

Faced with a debilitating disease he began to write. His first published book was White Flashes on Charcoal, a book of poems. When he was young he had started to paint. Defying the effects of his Parkinson’s, osteoporosis and stints in a wheelchair, he’s continued to paint, and now sells his paintings at Lynnwood Capital Care facility in Edmonton where he lives.

Born in 1946 in Poplar Park, Fred did everything right. Academically brilliant, he won the Governor General’s medal and was the valedictorian at his high school graduation from Selkirk Collegiate. He went on to distinguish himself as he earned Bachelor and Master’s degrees in business and worked for the Manitoba Government, Northern Life Insurance Company, Ladco Development Corporation, and then his own property development firm, Jason Properties Limited, located in Edmonton.
In spite of contracting Parkinson’s in his early forties, Fred continued to operate his property development company for another ten years. Only when his mobility was severely compromised did he move into assisted living and then into Edmonton’s Lynnwood Capital Care complex.

Ray Taylor, in the last anecdote in the book, writes about Fred. Ray was blinded in an industrial accident. He knows about Fred from visiting the complex where Fred lives.

I had often felt sorry for myself. Blind, you know…lots of extremity pain…tremors and the usual “why me?” attitude—all the normal aspects of depression one goes through with a disability. But then I’d think of Fred: How many trips to the hospital, how many setbacks, and how many recoveries? Where did his spirit and tenacity come from? And, what the devil did I have to complain about!”

His brother Jim answers by saying that Fred never gives up because, “he remains interested in people and the world.” His brother Dennis claims, “Fred does not have the word ‘despair’ in his vast vocabulary”. Fred is an inspiration to everyone who knows him.

I’m pleased to have had a small part in this book. I provided one of the anecdotes. The brief narratives are heartfelt and inspiring. Time after time, the problems and the advice touched me. I came away from reading the book, thinking, “There are good people in this world.”

Keeping It Cold can be purchased from McNally Robinson Booksellers in Winnipeg (www.mcnallyrobinson.com) or Tergesen H. P. and Sons in Gimli (e-mail: tergesen@mts.net).