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Authors: Anthony Bidulka
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carpentry—or wanting to fill my mind with anything but the fact that I would soon have to start planning my own wedding. Ugh.
Crikey, I felt like throwing up.
First things first. I headed straight to the car wash to rinse off last night’s Caesar salad debauchery. Then it was on to Colourful Mary’s for a nice big cup of coffee. My friends Mary Quail and Marushka Yabadochka own the restaurant/bookstore. Its reputation for fabulous food, much of it influenced by the Aboriginal and Ukrainian (respectively) heritage of the couple, far outdistances that of its being the only gay-owned restaurant in Saskatoon.
When I stepped inside, I spotted both Mary and Marushka already hard at work: Marushka in the kitchen, Mary on the floor.
Although I was happy to see them, I’d wished they’d at least take a Sunday morning off. As far as I could tell, they worked too many hours, and played too few. With the recent explosive development of the city’s south downtown, Colourful Mary’s—right in the middle of it all—had become more popular than ever.
Mary suggested and I accepted a sunny table on the outdoor patio. This was really nothing more than the empty parking lot adjacent to the restaurant, but you’d never know it. The space was decorated for the summer months to look like a clearing in a tropical jungle. The floor was littered with flats of plants that looked like undergrowth and piles of rocks on which you could believe a lizard might be sunning himself or a leopard might be hiding behind for protection from the hot midday sun. Tarzan-worthy vines, papier mâché monkeys, colourful plastic parrots, and lethal-looking rubber snakes hung from the gnarled limbs of overhead foliage. Outdoor speakers completed the illusion by playing tracks from The Sounds of the Amazon. It was a magical atmosphere, and I could swear the humidity was higher here than anywhere else in the city.
DD6AA2AB8
54
41
-B193
-AD32
-4CDB
-3503D88E1
Anthony Bidulka
While Mary went to get me a Kenyan coffee and low fat tamarind muffin, I got comfortable in my seat and glanced around.
I noticed a few people I knew, including my friend Louis Volz. He was entertaining a large table of family and friends, one of which fit nicely into the theme of the place with her zebra print sarong and rather unique, hyena-like laugh. Louis and I exchanged friendly nods, and then I got down to business. I pulled out the map I’d found in my carry-on.
As I’d noticed when I first saw it on the plane, Walter Angel’s treasure map didn’t much look like one. The background drawing of Saskatoon was crude at best, meant more, I guessed, as the first hint to the reader of what city they were to look in to find the treasure. The real clues were in the text. Here’s where things got interesting. Although there was nary an “Aye, Matey!” or “Beware the Black Spot!” warning in the whole thing, the passages were certainly obtuse and challenging enough. While I waited for my caf-feine, I read it over:
Begin where it ended,
For the first of Saskatoon,
Next to baby Minnie,
Margaret tells you what to do.
There it is,
What it is,
Where it is,
But where is what it is where it wasn’t?
Morning, noon, night,
Behind a door too high,
Years and weather ingrain,
Now to fame’s portrait in a frame.
Beneath the lonely trio
Where consumption did reside,
Nicknamesake toiled to foil
Then died.
DD6AA2AB8
55
41
-B193
-AD32
-4CDB
-3503D88E1
Aloha, Candy Hearts
Finally it hides,
Below sparkling skies,
Within a golden urn,
Treasure you will find.
It wasn’t Yeats or even Keats, that was for sure. But who was I to pass judgment? I could barely manage a dirty limerick.
What did it all mean? Each stanza seemed to refer to a specific place. Reaching one, I hoped, would lead to the next. For a few minutes I studied the last verse. If only I could figure that one out, I’d be set. I wouldn’t have to bother with the rest. Sparkling skies?
A
Crikey, I felt like throwing up.
First things first. I headed straight to the car wash to rinse off last night’s Caesar salad debauchery. Then it was on to Colourful Mary’s for a nice big cup of coffee. My friends Mary Quail and Marushka Yabadochka own the restaurant/bookstore. Its reputation for fabulous food, much of it influenced by the Aboriginal and Ukrainian (respectively) heritage of the couple, far outdistances that of its being the only gay-owned restaurant in Saskatoon.
When I stepped inside, I spotted both Mary and Marushka already hard at work: Marushka in the kitchen, Mary on the floor.
Although I was happy to see them, I’d wished they’d at least take a Sunday morning off. As far as I could tell, they worked too many hours, and played too few. With the recent explosive development of the city’s south downtown, Colourful Mary’s—right in the middle of it all—had become more popular than ever.
Mary suggested and I accepted a sunny table on the outdoor patio. This was really nothing more than the empty parking lot adjacent to the restaurant, but you’d never know it. The space was decorated for the summer months to look like a clearing in a tropical jungle. The floor was littered with flats of plants that looked like undergrowth and piles of rocks on which you could believe a lizard might be sunning himself or a leopard might be hiding behind for protection from the hot midday sun. Tarzan-worthy vines, papier mâché monkeys, colourful plastic parrots, and lethal-looking rubber snakes hung from the gnarled limbs of overhead foliage. Outdoor speakers completed the illusion by playing tracks from The Sounds of the Amazon. It was a magical atmosphere, and I could swear the humidity was higher here than anywhere else in the city.
DD6AA2AB8
54
41
-B193
-AD32
-4CDB
-3503D88E1
Anthony Bidulka
While Mary went to get me a Kenyan coffee and low fat tamarind muffin, I got comfortable in my seat and glanced around.
I noticed a few people I knew, including my friend Louis Volz. He was entertaining a large table of family and friends, one of which fit nicely into the theme of the place with her zebra print sarong and rather unique, hyena-like laugh. Louis and I exchanged friendly nods, and then I got down to business. I pulled out the map I’d found in my carry-on.
As I’d noticed when I first saw it on the plane, Walter Angel’s treasure map didn’t much look like one. The background drawing of Saskatoon was crude at best, meant more, I guessed, as the first hint to the reader of what city they were to look in to find the treasure. The real clues were in the text. Here’s where things got interesting. Although there was nary an “Aye, Matey!” or “Beware the Black Spot!” warning in the whole thing, the passages were certainly obtuse and challenging enough. While I waited for my caf-feine, I read it over:
Begin where it ended,
For the first of Saskatoon,
Next to baby Minnie,
Margaret tells you what to do.
There it is,
What it is,
Where it is,
But where is what it is where it wasn’t?
Morning, noon, night,
Behind a door too high,
Years and weather ingrain,
Now to fame’s portrait in a frame.
Beneath the lonely trio
Where consumption did reside,
Nicknamesake toiled to foil
Then died.
DD6AA2AB8
55
41
-B193
-AD32
-4CDB
-3503D88E1
Aloha, Candy Hearts
Finally it hides,
Below sparkling skies,
Within a golden urn,
Treasure you will find.
It wasn’t Yeats or even Keats, that was for sure. But who was I to pass judgment? I could barely manage a dirty limerick.
What did it all mean? Each stanza seemed to refer to a specific place. Reaching one, I hoped, would lead to the next. For a few minutes I studied the last verse. If only I could figure that one out, I’d be set. I wouldn’t have to bother with the rest. Sparkling skies?
A
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