Brother Broken

  Brother Broken Alf Reads about a night walk... By late March 1990, the sun was rising earlier and bedding later, like a candle burning brighter at both ends. The boost of extra daylight was unmistakable, promising the return of warmer weather. Evenings still had a bite to them, though. Stargazing wasn’t tolerable for extended periods. It was best to stay inside, guarded against the cold, and safe, until winter’s sting lost its punch. Uncle Emil wandered still. Nights were too quiet and too long to spend alone. Better to find a home where he was welcome to sit for a while. Uncle wasn’t a bother. He was a straight-up kind of guy who didn’t impose himself on others. He was happy to be in the midst of friends or family. A hot cup of coffee was all Emil asked of his host, but most were quick to offer him a slice of pie, a cookie, or even a meal. Emil was happy to accept. One night, he opted to trek a little further up the highway. He ventured west about a quarter of a mile out of ...

  Brother Broken Alf Reads about playing pranks... about playing pranks . . . For some of us, the telephone switchboard fed an impish itch for fun. I followed John’s lead as we indulged ourselves playing pranks on other kids. One of our strategies was to have a kid place the telephone plug in his mouth. He or she usually required some convincing to do it. “Just put the plug on your tongue.” We were gifted at crafting reasons why a plug to the tongue was a good thing. “It’s fun,” we’d say. Sometimes, we had to persuade by demonstration, so we’d show them by illustrating with a mouth full of plug. “See? Wike yiss.” It took some doing, but we eventually persuaded one wide-eyed patsy to try. He opened his mouth as though to receive a communion wafer, and we dropped in the plug. Timing was key, and before he got a chance to change his mind, one of us worked the hand crank. The surge of electricity never caused his hair to frizz, but watching his eyeballs bulge was satisf...

  Brother Broken Alf Reads the story of the windshield: When Mitch was six years old, he got us all into trouble with Dad. It happened at my grandparents’ farm. A few of us were sitting on the trunk of the car, waiting to leave for home. Mitch ran a toy tractor down the surface of the rear windshield. One moment, the windshield was in perfect condition and the next, it had morphed into a mosaic pattern of splintered glass. I watched, dumbstruck, as a star burst emerged from the centre of the windshield outward. It looked like a spider had webbed a silica net. Dad was pissed, but the windshield held. As we ventured home that day, all of us in the back seat exhibited forward-focused, model behaviour for a change. We sat quietly so as to not bring attention to ourselves. We tried communicating with hand signals, but the messages were too cryptic to decipher. Dad drove the car down the six-mile stretch of road going home. We rode in silence except for the sound of the motor and t...

  Brother Broken Welcome to the new series: Alf Reads The move to the city… Saskatoon is known as the Paris of the Prairies, Stoon, and Bridge City. If the province could grow body parts, Saskatoon would be the heart. On a map, road lines radiate from the centre of a large dot resembling a starburst in the centre of Saskatchewan. They lead to and from the city in all directions like arteries—which explains how it got its other name, Hub City. If there is a contest, Saskatoon wins the award for being the pretty city. It has class, with natural and historic features. It is a city of progressive thinkers who promote the arts and education. Denis’s appreciation of academics fit it well, so he adopted Saskatoon as his new home. He settled into a respectable routine. He relaxed and felt more secure about his future. Every so often, he was shuffled between group homes, which meant more adjusting and adapting. He resolved to make the transitions, and for the most part, things worked ...

  Brother Broken Don't miss the hockey game: Out-of-town games were rare, so most of the hockey action happened during practice or while playing shinny. Road hockey was common—especially when ice at the rink was junk. Between siblings and cousins, we fired up a game of shinny on the street in front of our home. The road had gravel mixed in with packed snow, so the surface was coarse. We didn’t have protective gear like pads, helmets, or gloves. Winter boots encased our feet instead of skates. The goalposts were gunny sacks partially filled with straw, and it didn’t matter if a car drove over top of them. I was the only girl player, and they let me drop the puck at center ice to start the game. “You stand close to the goal and wait for me to pass you the puck.” My teammate was lining me up to score goals. Nobody played goalie, because no one was worried about players whose long shots were mostly off target. I felt like the Rocket, waiting to earn a hat trick. I stood near the ...

  Brother Broken How are you today?  Are you up to a lesson in languages? Most people that I knew spoke Saskatchewanese, which is particularly handy for anyone living in Saskatchewan. We used words like gibbled , Vi-Co , and chesterfield , and didn’t think the lingo caused confusion for anyone. I didn’t even know our dialect was distinct from the rest of the world. My family was also well versed in Saskatchewanese en français . Apparently, the word we used to refer to the toilet was actually borrowed from the Queen’s English. We called it the bécosse (bā∙kuss). The English referred to it as the “backhouse.” French people adopted the English word, added their own distinct flair, and it came out sounding like bécosse . In much the same way “cut the grass” became mowdelawn , and tro-up translated to vomit. The trick is to speak rapidly and merge the words using a French accent. Brother Broken Foreword  Clarion Review   https://www.brotherbroken.com/ Follow on:...