Description
Ward Hunter is a retired farmer, one with frequent humorous observations. One of his favourite topics is assumptions, the problems that can happen when someone assumes something. He plays poker every week with four friends, an eclectic mixture that provides both an inspirational source and an audience for his comments. The daughter of one is the editor of the local weekly and after hearing many of his stories second hand, asked him to write a column. He called it ‘The Observation Ward’. However, coping with an uninvited guest one evening calls on all his insight
G’day ladies and gentlemen. And anyone who doesn’t fall into one of those categories. My name is Ward Hunter and I’m coming to you from East Matekin. I’m not sure why it’s East. There’s no North, South or West Matekin. And that’s pronounced Mat-e-kin, not like those yokels from over in Willisville claim when they say it’s called Mate-kin because we can’t spell incest.
I guess I became something of a celebrity in town after I started writing the column for the paper. My wife Martha says it’s a good thing it’s not the radio or I’d be adlibbing. I like to talk in case you hadn’t figured that out yet. Once when I was leaning on Archie MacDonald’s manure spreader while I told him about a tractor I was trying to sell, Martha leaned out of the truck where she was waiting for me and yelled, ‘Careful there. That manure spreader’s not used to that big a load.’
Even though it’s writing, not talking, I still have to watch it. Or I’d be like one of those moonshine authors – you know, eight gallons of scraps for every quart of goodness.
She calls it notorious, not celebrity. Celebrity is the guy who pulls people out of a bus that flipped. Notorious is the guy who was supposed to fix the brakes. Still, people assume things about me just because now I appear at their house every week. Mind you, so does the garbage truck.
Being a celebrity in a town like this isn’t saying all that much. After all, it’s so small, last year’s New Year’s Baby was born July 18. And last week, I was forced off Main Street by a combine coming the other way.
Everybody knows Butch Sutherland too, but with him, it’s definitely notorious. His real name is Harvey, but everyone calls him Butch. Or they call him Mad Dog Sutherland, but never to his face. Major temper. He’s the mad one, not his dog. The only time he doesn’t seem angry about something is when he’s walking that thing. More like marching than walking, but the dog doesn’t mind the determined pace. Keeps Butch in shape too. He’s in his 40’s but looks younger. All that exercise. Keeps his head shaved, so you can’t tell that way either.
And people say just because his mother calls him Sonny doesn’t mean he’s bright. Last time he was in front of the judge for fighting again, she said he should take some anger management classes ‘cause next time, he was going in. So then he went to the vet and asked for a distemper shot.
He still lives with his mother. They have a trailer in the park out where the Centre Line starts. At least I think she’s still alive. I haven’t seen her for quite awhile, but her name hasn’t been in the obituaries column. I read it every week ‘cause names I know show up regularly. A few years back, I read the Magistrate’s Court column for that reason.
Though I think there’s more going on in Mad Dog’s head than people assume. Often I notice him standing on the edge of us old codgers down at the feed store, and it sure seems like he’s following what we’re jawing about, whether we’re discussing hockey scores or council’s plan to turn the old mill into apartments for seniors. Like we would ever live there. Not that any of us believe in ghosts or bad luck, but there’s something about living in a place legend says a miller died when he got his head stuck in a honey pail trying to lick out the last drop.
I hear Butch does break-ins but he’s never been caught. The boys were speculating he did the armed robbery down at the gas station a month back too. The cops found the mask later in the dumpster behind the school and that’s one of Butch’s favourite places for walking his dog. But no one’s saying anything. You don’t want to get on Butch’s bad side. Thirteen year-olds in a stolen car are more predictable. And less dangerous. He could start a fight in an empty house.
Theresa Parson is the one asked me to write the column for the local paper, The County Toiler. It was founded over a hundred years ago when everyone around here was a real hard worker, mostly farmers. Folks call it The County Toilet.
She’s Larry Parson’s daughter. He’s one of my poker buddies. I play every Tuesday night over my friend Harold’s garage. Harold’s eyesight’s deteriorated a lot over the past few years and since he’s been my best friend forever, I take him out every morning down to the Co-op to see the boys, then out for coffee. But when it’s dark, it’s easier to go to his place, even with the steep stairs to the room over his garage. He’s not totally blind but he jokes he should get a job at the Parkview Hotel. It has a reputation for serving people ‘til they’re blind drunk. Harold says he could lead them home ‘cause at least he’s used to it.
Larry sees everything in black and white. His favourite hat is a multicoloured neon thing, but he’s colour blind, so it’s only grey to him and he doesn’t care. For us though, it’s like playing poker in a disco, only without the music and dancing.
Then there’s sex-maniac Randy. Well, not really a maniac I guess, but he thinks about sex the same way a hockey player thinks about his jock - Don’t Leave Home Without It. He thinks erections count as personal growth. He’s in his 40’s, not pushing 70 like the rest of us. Actually, Harold and I are pushing down. Randy tries to look even younger by dressing trendy and dyeing his hair. He combs it over to disguise how thin it’s getting, but that’s like hiding in a blueberry patch when you’re wearing a blue track suit ‘cause you think it’ll camouflage you. He calls the way he dresses hip, but I can think of a different part of his anatomy that would make a better label. Nobody says ‘Those clothes make him look like a hip.’
The fifth guy is Winston. He’s a retired university professor of Medieval English Literature. Doesn’t really fit in, but he isn’t a good player, so even if we only play for plastic chips, we don’t complain. Though sometimes I want to take away that white shirt and grey vest and give him a more fashionable look. Like maybe something in plaid flannel like me and Harold wear. I know it wouldn’t relax him though, any more than putting uncooked spaghetti into a different package would make it bend.
Theresa moved back here to run the paper when her mother died, lives with Larry. She’s about forty. Never married. She says it’s cheaper to live with Larry than get her own place, but I think that’s an excuse. Like Randy saying he goes to Lucy’s Roadhouse for the music. She knows Larry depended on her mom, Norma. Besides being colour-blind, he’s so cheap he’s got pennies in his pocket last saw the light of day in the Ming Dynasty. It was Norma bought groceries and made sure he ate right. Once when he was a kid, he speculated in pop bottle futures. Collected them until their back shed was full. Said when the deposit went up, he would make a killing.
Theresa said when he comes home from poker night, he always repeats something funny I said, so she asked me to write a column. I wanted to know what she expected though. No way I was going to be the town Jerry Springer, writing about both parents having sex changes so now the mother’s the father, the father’s the mother, and the kid’s totally confused.
I realized when she was talking me into it, it was because of things I pick up on. I’ve always been good at that. I was the youngest in a large family, the runt of the litter, and my parents were from the old school – spare the rod and spoil the child. So I was always paying close attention to what was happening around me, a kind of self protection I guess. But I never stopped being an observer. My name’s Ward, so it made sense to call the column The Observation Ward.
Theresa offered me one of their old computers to use, but I said no thanks. We have one at home but I won’t touch it. Martha’s the expert. There was a time when I was curious enough about them that I thought I might learn. I figure curiosity kills more mice than cats. But after the problem with our account at Sears when they blamed the computer for everything, I changed my mind. To err is human; it takes a computer to really screw things up.
Of course that’s not always true. Randy once messed up a date before they even got where they were going. At poker, he talked about this woman for three months before she gave in and agreed to go out with him. When he picked her up, she said, “You didn’t say where we were going so I wasn’t sure if I should dress up.”
“I’m glad you didn’t,” he said, only she did.
The first big sign of my celebrity was when Pastor Fields cornered me after church one Sunday and asked me to speak to the Young People’s Group. When I scoffed at the idea – you should hire a teenager while they still know it all - , he said, “You’d be surprised. One boy says his father thinks your column isn’t fit to line the kitty litter box, but I stuck up for you and said it was.”
Martha’s always wanting me to take a more active role in the church so I said yes, assuming it was about writing. “Great,” Pastor Fields said looking like a cat that has learned to read the word tuna and work a can opener, “Friday at 7:30 at the church hall. Next week, Sergeant Peterson is talking about drugs and a retired D.J. is coming the week after for rock and roll. You get sex.”
Just then, Boyd Barry grabbed him to introduce his fat brother-in-law from the city, the one that looks like a cross between Porky Pig and Smokey The Bear. Porky’s nose and Smokey’s fur. The coyote’s eyes too, the ones after a boulder lands on him.
When we were in the truck on the way home, Martha asked what the pastor wanted, so I told her I was going to speak to the young people’s group Friday. Usually that’s our TV night. I was embarrassed to tell her what for. Despite the way I like to go on, I never talk about sex. Not since I was 13 and overheard my mother telling my older sister, “You have to watch the quiet ones. Those that talk the most, do the least. Lots of foam, no beer.” That’s not the way I wanted anyone thinking of me. It made me think of my father who was about as talkative as a teenager at a family reunion where he’s the only one over the age of ten and under thirty. He used to say silence is a virtue so we should be virtuous. I thought about my parents’ wedding date and my sister’s birthday. I put one and one together and got three, but I kept my mouth shut.
Not like Randy. With the rest of us guys, the obsession with sex has wilted, decreased in inverse proportion to our bald spots. But once Randy said, “I’m so good in bed, sometimes I scream my own name.”
So when Martha asked what I was going to talk to the young people’s group about, I said canoeing. We have a trailer up in cottage country and we used to do a lot of paddling. So I thought saying that made sense. It was fine ‘til she ran into the pastor’s wife at the A&P. Mrs. Fields said it was good of me to be coming and Martha said, “Yes, but I don’t know why they asked Ward. He hasn’t done it in at least ten years. Not since he threw his back out trying a fancy new stroke. He wouldn’t have been going with someone else either. His stomach’s so delicate he has to take Gravol beforehand in case things get a little too bouncy. Maybe I should come with him. Bring some pictures from when we were younger. We’re a little too old to do a demonstration.”