Read Online Otherwise by Farley Mowat - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Farley Mowat
Tags: Biography
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handier.
There was, however, one antiquity of such commanding presence that nobody felt like putting an axe to it. A windup Edison gramophone housed in a towering and ornate teak cabinet, it played music through an immense cherry-wood horn. Or had done so once upon a time.
When, on the third day of the storm, I began to look speculatively at the massive teak cabinet, Al forestalled me.
”We have to leave that one, Farl. Aunt Jane’d kill me if anything happened to it. Was a present from her husband back about 1900, and it still works … kind of.”
To prove the point he carefully cranked up the machine’s coil-spring, placed one of only three surviving record cylinders in position, and engaged the playing head.
I could distinguish nothing above the tumult of the storm until I pushed
my
head deep into the flaring mouth of the horn, where I heard a distant, glassy tinkling soundingvaguely like an insect mating song. The effect was as odd as if I had tuned in to the voice of some unimaginably distant planet … or, as Andy suggested, to a spaceship from a Buck Rogers comic.
He and I were fascinated. Breathing frostily into the cavernous horn while the heat from the stove toasted our backsides, we listened intently. The garbled snatches of music and words that came through to us made little sense … except for a single verse of a single song.
When you’re trapped on the second floor
And someone bangs upon the door:
”Any old bones or rags to sell?”
Ain’t that a grand and glorious feeling? …
Early in the new year, principal Jimmy Stewart called me into his office. He spent some time deploring the rising tide of fascism in Europe before coming to the point.
”I believe, Mowat, you wish to become a zoologist and hope to take a degree from Queen’s University.” He paused to look me in the eye in fatherly fashion. ”Are you not aware that something more than passing grades are wanted for entrance into Queen’s? Your Christmas examination results were appalling. You failed chemistry … physics … algebra … and geometry. And Latin and French both seem to be truly dead languages insofar as you are concerned. Would you care to explain where the difficulty lies?”
I usually had no trouble producing excuses. Not for nothing did Angus sometimes call me Alibi Ike. This time, however, I could not find my tongue.
Jimmy gave me a knowing glance. ”So,” he said gently, ”perhaps your inability to concentrate has something to do with a certain young lady in your class? Yes?” He sighed a little. ”Well, I can recall the feeling….”
Marie Heydon was a slim, supple, dark-haired, and dark-eyed seventeen-year-old. Although no pin-up, she had a vivacity that made her irresistibly attractive, to me at any rate. The only child of the railway station agent in Richmond Hill, Marie liked birds, photography, and poetry.
My
poetry especially. We were simpatico … and brimming with hormones. We had begun eyeing one another early in November and by the end of January had become a couple.
Although we were in love, love-
making
was almost impossible. None of us owned a car or had ready access to one. Our parental homes were small, crowded, and the domain of mothers who did not go off to work and so could (and did) keep sharp eyes open for ”goings on.” We occasionally attended parties at the girls’ homes, where we sat around listening to the Big Bands on radio while eating gooey cake and drinking Coke. The best we could hope for would be a little feel or a quick smooch if no adult member of the hosting family happened to be looking.
If the indoor scene was pretty hopeless, the outdoor one in winter was little better. Walking a girl home on a subzero night; accompanying her on a sleighing party; snowshoeing through a frozen forest – all these served to inflame the mood but seldom resulted in satisfaction. One could only expect so much from a girl who was being embraced in a snowbank, or under an old buffalo rug
There was, however, one antiquity of such commanding presence that nobody felt like putting an axe to it. A windup Edison gramophone housed in a towering and ornate teak cabinet, it played music through an immense cherry-wood horn. Or had done so once upon a time.
When, on the third day of the storm, I began to look speculatively at the massive teak cabinet, Al forestalled me.
”We have to leave that one, Farl. Aunt Jane’d kill me if anything happened to it. Was a present from her husband back about 1900, and it still works … kind of.”
To prove the point he carefully cranked up the machine’s coil-spring, placed one of only three surviving record cylinders in position, and engaged the playing head.
I could distinguish nothing above the tumult of the storm until I pushed
my
head deep into the flaring mouth of the horn, where I heard a distant, glassy tinkling soundingvaguely like an insect mating song. The effect was as odd as if I had tuned in to the voice of some unimaginably distant planet … or, as Andy suggested, to a spaceship from a Buck Rogers comic.
He and I were fascinated. Breathing frostily into the cavernous horn while the heat from the stove toasted our backsides, we listened intently. The garbled snatches of music and words that came through to us made little sense … except for a single verse of a single song.
When you’re trapped on the second floor
And someone bangs upon the door:
”Any old bones or rags to sell?”
Ain’t that a grand and glorious feeling? …
Early in the new year, principal Jimmy Stewart called me into his office. He spent some time deploring the rising tide of fascism in Europe before coming to the point.
”I believe, Mowat, you wish to become a zoologist and hope to take a degree from Queen’s University.” He paused to look me in the eye in fatherly fashion. ”Are you not aware that something more than passing grades are wanted for entrance into Queen’s? Your Christmas examination results were appalling. You failed chemistry … physics … algebra … and geometry. And Latin and French both seem to be truly dead languages insofar as you are concerned. Would you care to explain where the difficulty lies?”
I usually had no trouble producing excuses. Not for nothing did Angus sometimes call me Alibi Ike. This time, however, I could not find my tongue.
Jimmy gave me a knowing glance. ”So,” he said gently, ”perhaps your inability to concentrate has something to do with a certain young lady in your class? Yes?” He sighed a little. ”Well, I can recall the feeling….”
Marie Heydon was a slim, supple, dark-haired, and dark-eyed seventeen-year-old. Although no pin-up, she had a vivacity that made her irresistibly attractive, to me at any rate. The only child of the railway station agent in Richmond Hill, Marie liked birds, photography, and poetry.
My
poetry especially. We were simpatico … and brimming with hormones. We had begun eyeing one another early in November and by the end of January had become a couple.
Although we were in love, love-
making
was almost impossible. None of us owned a car or had ready access to one. Our parental homes were small, crowded, and the domain of mothers who did not go off to work and so could (and did) keep sharp eyes open for ”goings on.” We occasionally attended parties at the girls’ homes, where we sat around listening to the Big Bands on radio while eating gooey cake and drinking Coke. The best we could hope for would be a little feel or a quick smooch if no adult member of the hosting family happened to be looking.
If the indoor scene was pretty hopeless, the outdoor one in winter was little better. Walking a girl home on a subzero night; accompanying her on a sleighing party; snowshoeing through a frozen forest – all these served to inflame the mood but seldom resulted in satisfaction. One could only expect so much from a girl who was being embraced in a snowbank, or under an old buffalo rug
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