bout de papier, Vol. 8, No. 4 (1991) — Fall 1991 // Automne 1991, p. 11
[Author’s Note: In mid-May, the Newfoundland branch of the family gathered to bid farewell to one of its senior members and, thus, we abruptly left humid, fuggy, rainy Central America for the chilly, windy, not-quite-yet-Spring Rock ….]
“We’re gonna head back now, afore it gits dark.”
“Aw’right. We’ll sees ya agin. T’anks fer cumin’.”
“Still be light times we git to Dildo Run an’ we leaves now. Some dark when t’sun goes down.”
“Yis, bye. An’ dere’s moose on t’road. Feller saw t’ree t’uther marnin’, up by Jake’s Pond dey were.
“Some good t’eat, though.”
“Yis, bye, dey is t’at. I’ll git anuther one t’fall now. Las’ one’s all gone.”
“Well, bye fer now.”
“S’long. Watch out fer t’moose, now.”
Everyone at the family gathering had a moose story and this final admonition was tagged on to every farewell. Moose in the yard, moose in the shopping center, moose strolling the TransCanada, moose looming in the car headlights and moose-car collisions; surely some of these were the same moose, there couldn’t possibly be that many moose on the loose, even in Newfoundland.
Scepticism aside, there were 400 moose-car collisions last year. If half those moose were killed, they provided hospitals and government facilities in that province with 120,000 pounds of tasty, free meat. Hard on the cars, but good for the provincial budget.
Designed in a moment of silliness, a moose is an absurd creature. Its legs are too long for the heavy body, its magnificent shoulders taper to a scrawny rump and its majestic antlers spread their glory over a lugubrious, baggy-lipped face. However, never laugh at a moose. They have absolutely no sense of humour. After all, they don’t laugh at us as we crack and snap our way around the spruce forest through which they manage to slip their 600 kilo bulk with wraithlike delicacy.
Absurd or not, they can be some impressive up close, as I have just had reason to experience.
During the aforementioned recent family gathering, in the midst of all the moose stories, it became obvious that I (“she’s from t’mainland, ya know”) had never seen a moose on the hoof. They made it quite clear that my Newfie husband was being shamefully remiss in his duties in not arranging for me to meet a moose. No time was to be lost. This was early Spring, the season for them to come out of the woods, and he was advised of all the likeliest venues for moose viewing, “down t’auld railway station”, “out by Dead Men’s Pond”, or “up long Reachy Run”.
We made the rounds. Not a moose.
The Sunday morning of our last day dawned with the spectacularly blue May skies and crystalline air that make a painter lust for his brushes. My lungs cried out for the rush that comes from such cold, pure northern air after months in the steamy tropics, so I went ; out for a walk The somnolent neighbourhood was still and silent. No children weaving along on little bikes with pink training wheels, or swinging shiny new bats at unscarred baseballs. The sun was glinting off the polished 4 × 4’s and half-backs parked in the driveways. Here such vehicles are not macho machines for insecure yuppies but working vehicles. The ice was off the brooks and the salmon were expected to begin their dash up the rivers any day. What you can catch, trap or shoot, you don’t have to buy so the vehicles were ready.
Reaching the end of the block, I turned back, to gaze at the modest, neat houses in their coats of bright paint and to ponder briefly on the road between then and now. With a sigh, I resumed my contemplative strolling, only to zoom back suddenly to reality as I found myself nose-to-nose with a three-quarter grown calf moose, puckering up for a nibble on my coat collar!!! Surprise on both sides was total. Startled blue eyes stared into doleful brown ones. Too stunned to react, I watched motionlessly as he whiffled a steamy greeting and ambled on down the pavement, : across a lawn and around the corner. As they say on the Rock, “Lard Jayses, dey ’re some big.”
“Nobody,” I thought, “is going to believe me.”
A few of the early-rising relatives had gathered for breakfast and I told them about my adventure. I could see their dubious looks. One of them asked me if I was sure it hadn’t been a horse. Horses are rarer than moose in Newfoundland so I scoffed at that riposte.
I pointed out the window to amplity the tale and there, ten feet from the back window, was another moose. A full-grown cow moose this time, her coat glowing like burnished gold in the morning sunlight, she stood sniffing the aroma of frying bacon wafting on the breeze.
We crowded onto the side stoop. With enviable insouciance, graceful as a knock-kneed ballerina with pigeon toes, she glided down the driveway, across the lawn and around the corner.
“Some’un’s puttin’ out scraps. Smart t’ings dey is. Dey knows.”
“Yis, I’spects so. Yer’re right dere, deys smart t’ings.”
In one fell swoop, I had seen not only one, but two, moose and had contributed to the family folklore. Already I had heard them in the living room asking the newcomers, “ ’Ear what ’appened t’Lara dis marnin’?”
Smiling smugly, I thought to myself, “Smart t’ings indeed! Never underestimate a moose; nor a mainlander.”
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Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 8, No. 4 (1991) — Fall 1991 // Automne 1991, p. 11. Read the rest of this issue →
