Read Online Once You Break a Knuckle by W. D. Wilson - Free Book Online
Authors: W. D. Wilson
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didnât say a whole lot.
That was sixteen years ago. Things worked out. I spent a year pouring forms and wrestling concrete and after doing that in the howling Regina winter Iâd had my fill of the workforce. I graduated with honours in mathematics, returned for a teaching certificate, and eventually landed a job here, in Invermere, heart of the Kootenay Valley, far from the maddening prairie flats. But itâs been a learning curve â I was a city boy, unversed in the nuances of rural life, the divide between rednecks and bluecollars, the gestures and conventions everybody takes so seriously but wonât spend a minute to explain. Kids use words likeâratbagâ and âminkstuffing.â Men shrug, unworried, when their sons learn to drift at the gravel pits. Fights break out in the school parking lot, and the more robust among us wade into the throngs to haul the combatants apart. My wife, bless her, has dragged me through it. Sixteen years now Iâve sped along in her wake. Sheâs managed to start her own renovation gig, and together weâve raised our son to be someone into whose care you could entrust a belonging.
I am thirty-eight years old. My wife is thirty-three. Itâs 1994, the International Year of the Family, but, while I rig this heliotrope in the backyard, my wife has left town to see a trade show in Calgary. Sheâs gone to admire Hilti watersaws and the latest in laser levels, to visit a couple cowboy bars and grind across those skid-marked floors in snakeskin boots. Sheâll be wearing her red hair so it dangles to her shoulders, and she has this way of pulling it behind her ears to expose a mole on her collarbone. Itâs all a means for her to let off steam â Iâm not exactly the portrait of an Adonis. Every now and then I put her on edge: sheâll groan at the way I drink my coffee; sheâll lock the bathroom door when she showers; sheâll come home from work smelling of sawdust and exertion, but no coaxing can lure her to bed. Lately, I havenât seen her naked much, and sheâs always exasperated when I do, as if I shouldnât be so excited, as if we were a goddamned teenage couple without all the benefits of being teenagers.
But the heliotrope. The science fair. Like I said, it was my sonâs idea. Most of his classmates have opted for traditionalscience fair gigs: his friend Duncan has concocted a baking soda volcano; another boy, Richard â who has a glass eye â is doing a spinning Cartesian diver; one kid, apparently, plans to build a replica particle accelerator that smashes marbles together like atoms. If my son were here he might have a shot at convincing me to do something more grand, something to be proud of, like a small-scale homopolar railgun. Iâm not too upset that heâs away. I donât like him to see me drink, and Iâve had one or two tonight, Iâve had one or two one or two times. Heâs out of town, with his mom or with his soccer team, it doesnât really matter.
Gauss would have known where his children were, every hour of the day. He had six in total, two-thirds of whom survived to adulthood. For a man of his accomplishment, he sought modest futures for his offspring: marry a good woman, have good children, be a good dad. He abhorred the thought that they follow him into mathematics, but not for selfishness or even underestimation of their intellect; rather, Gauss foresaw the rise of the working class, of people like my neighbours who respect jobs that build things, jobs with a weight you can test against the strength of your arm. Only his eldest, Joseph, took this advice. The others fled to the new world, the frontier, to carve their way among the prodigal sons and daughters who waged war on the Confederacy.
A week ago my son had his first real run-in with the locals. I mean the hicks â the right-wing gun toters who exploit our unemployment system, who pop
That was sixteen years ago. Things worked out. I spent a year pouring forms and wrestling concrete and after doing that in the howling Regina winter Iâd had my fill of the workforce. I graduated with honours in mathematics, returned for a teaching certificate, and eventually landed a job here, in Invermere, heart of the Kootenay Valley, far from the maddening prairie flats. But itâs been a learning curve â I was a city boy, unversed in the nuances of rural life, the divide between rednecks and bluecollars, the gestures and conventions everybody takes so seriously but wonât spend a minute to explain. Kids use words likeâratbagâ and âminkstuffing.â Men shrug, unworried, when their sons learn to drift at the gravel pits. Fights break out in the school parking lot, and the more robust among us wade into the throngs to haul the combatants apart. My wife, bless her, has dragged me through it. Sixteen years now Iâve sped along in her wake. Sheâs managed to start her own renovation gig, and together weâve raised our son to be someone into whose care you could entrust a belonging.
I am thirty-eight years old. My wife is thirty-three. Itâs 1994, the International Year of the Family, but, while I rig this heliotrope in the backyard, my wife has left town to see a trade show in Calgary. Sheâs gone to admire Hilti watersaws and the latest in laser levels, to visit a couple cowboy bars and grind across those skid-marked floors in snakeskin boots. Sheâll be wearing her red hair so it dangles to her shoulders, and she has this way of pulling it behind her ears to expose a mole on her collarbone. Itâs all a means for her to let off steam â Iâm not exactly the portrait of an Adonis. Every now and then I put her on edge: sheâll groan at the way I drink my coffee; sheâll lock the bathroom door when she showers; sheâll come home from work smelling of sawdust and exertion, but no coaxing can lure her to bed. Lately, I havenât seen her naked much, and sheâs always exasperated when I do, as if I shouldnât be so excited, as if we were a goddamned teenage couple without all the benefits of being teenagers.
But the heliotrope. The science fair. Like I said, it was my sonâs idea. Most of his classmates have opted for traditionalscience fair gigs: his friend Duncan has concocted a baking soda volcano; another boy, Richard â who has a glass eye â is doing a spinning Cartesian diver; one kid, apparently, plans to build a replica particle accelerator that smashes marbles together like atoms. If my son were here he might have a shot at convincing me to do something more grand, something to be proud of, like a small-scale homopolar railgun. Iâm not too upset that heâs away. I donât like him to see me drink, and Iâve had one or two tonight, Iâve had one or two one or two times. Heâs out of town, with his mom or with his soccer team, it doesnât really matter.
Gauss would have known where his children were, every hour of the day. He had six in total, two-thirds of whom survived to adulthood. For a man of his accomplishment, he sought modest futures for his offspring: marry a good woman, have good children, be a good dad. He abhorred the thought that they follow him into mathematics, but not for selfishness or even underestimation of their intellect; rather, Gauss foresaw the rise of the working class, of people like my neighbours who respect jobs that build things, jobs with a weight you can test against the strength of your arm. Only his eldest, Joseph, took this advice. The others fled to the new world, the frontier, to carve their way among the prodigal sons and daughters who waged war on the Confederacy.
A week ago my son had his first real run-in with the locals. I mean the hicks â the right-wing gun toters who exploit our unemployment system, who pop
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