The Sandbox Theory Read online

The Sandbox Theory

  by Les W Kuzyk

  Copyright 2014 Les W Kuzyk

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  About Les W Kuzyk

  Discover other Writings by Les W Kuzyk

  Connect with Les W Kuzyk

  Chapter 1

  He slows, keeping his eyes on the long-haired man standing, thumb extended, in the grassy ditch beside the green highway sign. The fellow looks peaceful enough and Sid trusts his intuitive voice, one voice now on a new playing field.

  He looks across the front seat of the Fairmont, as the big fellow swings the passenger door opened and squats to look in, face unshaven.

  “I’m heading in to Saskatoon, then north,” he tells the guy. “Gotta pick up my cousin at the airport. Where you going?”

  Stained teeth show broken as the man grins. “Well, Rosetown anyway.” He squeezes in, his torn-jean knees bumping the dash, setting his gym bag between them.

  Sid slides the seat back a click, another, no, he still has to reach the gas pedal. He checks his rear-view and pulls back onto the shimmering black highway. A couple days lead on July long weekend keeps traffic light for this tranquil prairie-crossing morning. The sun’s heat has been gathering strength, bringing forth a distinctive gleam from the grain fields, as Sid weaves his way along the secondaries.

  “There’s lots of trees up here.” He squints at poplar scrub along a fence line.

  The big guy glances over, his jaw cocking sideways, looking blank.

  “Not so many grasshoppers,” he says. “Different from down south.”

  The fellow nods slowly.

  “My cousin’s flying in from LA, and I’m giving him a ride up to Sahiya Lake. He changes planes in Calgary, probably not long after I left there this morning. Bizarre, isn’t it? You’d think I’d be picking him up at Calgary airport,” he sighs. “Family communication, you know.”

  “Right.”

  “I actually never met this cousin before.”

  “Right. Hope you find him.” The fellow stares straight, scratching his cheek.

  “Well, my auntie says he’s tall and dirty blonde, and he dresses well, like in a classy sports jacket.”

  “Looks don’t run in the family much.”

  “Yah, hmm.” He makes as if to adjust the rear-view, quickly glancing, checking if he shaved. There’s a nick, yes, he remembers the morning mirror now, his own blue eyes looking out from under his dark thinning hair, his rough complexion and his weekend T-shirt.

  He fidgets, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. His passenger raises his elbow onto the gym bag, as if to protect it. The odd grasshopper crunches under the tires. A line of semi-trailers park, waiting, at Barney’s Border Gas, then, the wooden carved sign welcomes the world to Saskatchewan.

  “I’m goin’ to my uncle’s,” says the big guy.

  “Hey, I’m going to see a bunch of uncles too. We’re having a reunion. The whole nine yards. My uncles’ and aunts’ idea. My Grandma and Grandpa had six kids.”

  “Right,” the big guy blinks.

  “So those six have fourteen of their own, I think it’s fourteen anyway – me and my cousins.

  “My Grandpa came over from Eastern Europe. His Polish boss made him sleep in the barn with the horses. So when he had the chance to come homestead over here, he jumped on it. He came to grow grain.” Sid waves his hand around at the wheat fields, lying like sheets of freshly minted greenbacks.

  “My uncle’s a mechanic,” says the big guy.

  “Right on. Yah, I can see why Grandpa left. Now his kid, my Aunt Lola, supposedly lives in a mansion, well, rumour has it a big house anyways. The thing is, she doesn’t talk to anyone in the family, not for years.

  “The story goes she just left the farm one summer, still in her teens. She moved to the city, got a job in some classy restaurant, and she only came home for Christmas.” He takes a breath. “My one cousin says she ran away for love, but my other cousin says she just ran away. She got married pretty quick, anyways, to this guy no one ever met – Uncle John. And she moved to California. They say the only one she talks to is her one brother, my Uncle Nick … and not too often either.”

  “So she’s a rich one.” The big guy’s jaw hangs.

  “Well I suppose. I mean Grandpa sure did better here in Canada than back on the Polish farm. And now my uncles and aunts are even better off than him, so his kids are way richer than he was back in the Old Country. Depends how you look at it.” Sid shifts into a faraway look. “’Cause I dunno who’s rich, really. Like are you?”

  “Oh yah,” the fellow smiles mysteriously, patting his gym bag. “I’m rich. I got everything I’m looking for … even a little extra.”

  Sid catches his breath, glances over quick, then down at the bag. First time anyone ever answered that way. Most people want a lot more than a gym bag – most want houses, cars, pay checks … a little voice has been hounding Sid lately. Any other kind of wealth was never discussed in university. And while the politics of Eastern Europe were adjusting, Grandpa lived on cabbage soup, but now Sid mostly just walks by the cabbage section when he’s shopping.

  “So what’s in the bag?”

  “Oh, it’s my hoard, all on paper … and a lot of good memories,” says the fellow, grinning. “Couple changes of underwear.”

  Sid looks at him, eyebrows knit.

  “Well, my Grandpa escaped a lousy life when he came over here. Who wants to sleep in a barn? He got a lot richer than his brothers back in the Ukraine.” Sid becomes thoughtful. “You know, my one professor said education has the biggest influence on people getting richer, you know, more school, more wealth.”

  “Oh … never went to college myself …”

  “No? Well, take doctors and lawyers. But my sister has two degrees, and now she’s an artist. You know, the poor artist thing … well it’s true. Then there’s my cousin Franco. He never even finished high school, but he’s really good at business. He’s got his own big house.”

  “Right. He’s a rich one for sure.”

  Sid bobs his head side to side, shrugging, “I’m not so sure about that …”

  A green sign announces Rosetown.

  They slow down to the intersection at the main set of lights. “I started school in this town – first grade.” Sid looks around at the buildings. “We lived here for a year, then moved.”

  “Oh yah.” The hitchhiker grabs the handles of the gym bag.

  “So which way you going?”

  “That way.” He points left. “Thanks for the ride.”

  “Take care.” Sid lifts his hand in salute.

  The fellow turns and waves, as Sid waits on the red.

  Shit. He talks too much. He should ask more questions, listen more, then he’d find out what he really wants to know. He creases his eyebrows hard, watching the gym bag bob across the street.

  ###

  He pulls over at the Red Rooster, and comes out with a hoggie. He searches for that first year of school, driving the streets, seeking out the house. The pink one, with a huge side fence where King Plum was the game, loses itself somewhere; under a blanket of memory lost or a fresh coat of colour. Three blocks from school, he remembers that much … he p
icks a likely home and parks. He sits, chewing his sandwich, drinking his soda.

  The streets, lined with tall trees, form the corridor of those weekday walks. The long blocks march by on a journey to a far off red brick building, story books, a kind teacher and other kids… he hears the school-ground laughter; laughter squeezed thin by a serious voice. For Old Country wisdom speaks across ocean and decades; school is serious, study hard, escape from the barn. The school-room still had its childish joy too.

  But later, along the path of life, he wondered if there wasn’t more than just chalkboard and lecture hall instruction, maybe something a person learns by just plain living. Life seems to offer its own lessons. Maybe some important ones. True Grandpa, through sacrifice of Great-Grandma, finished four years of school. He could read and write – he could fill out the immigration forms.

  But formal education only goes so far. Grandpa learned English from the boys on the farm, painfully scribbling with blistered rock-picking hands. And what he learned about grain farming, and how to hack a homestead out of the poplar forest, hadn’t come from any university class.

  Damn. Should have asked the hitchhiker more. The guy must have been joking around. There was nothing in the bag … or was it full of cash? The thing is, most people know of someone else richer than they are, usually far richer, so they never say they are rich themselves. Always aspiration for more, for what the richer have. Why can’t Sid be just like them? Recently, anyways, the thought of a full bank account leaves him feeling empty, a big hollow, a blank cheque that can’t be signed. That damn little hounding voice, a voice gaining strength on the internal committee.

  He opens the car door for a three block leg-stretch, coming to the highway across from the school. Cars and trucks whiz by, as they did for the little boy, on a spring day when a huge mud puddle invites him to explore. He feels a tingle of excitement, interest, like he felt for the alphabet on the chalk board that day. He steps in, watching the boot sink into the water, into the mud. He is thrilled, he steps back, but the rubber boot sticks behind. “Wahhh…” and a dirty sock. “You wait. I’ll get it for you,” a big third grader helps. He has his boot back, good, but it feels squishy inside. Then, after the journey home …“How did you get so dirty?” His mother’s tone still wakes him up in a sweat.

  The after school experience was at least as educational as the alphabet, one to be filed for future reference. The lesson was clear. When considering new ventures, don’t expect support from the old school of thought.

  Sid turns back. He accompanies the child’s sloppy walk home that day, then, after the scolding, images his heart’s hand on the tiny long-ago-shoulder, as a sign of solidarity, of inner support, and as continued commitment to his most recent agenda. The spiritual.

  Hopping in the Fairmont again, he finds his way through town and pulls out onto the secondary to Saskatoon. Andrew will be in his late twenties, a decade younger than Sid – and just maybe he won’t be alone.

  The heat peaks at the potash mines. Like a giant gopher colony digging holes in the prairie soil, people excavate fertilizer. Industrialization helps supplement, and even replace, the more natural forms – Grandpa’s cattle manure. Industrialization, a professor said, is a primary factor in the recent historical creation of wealth. Right. He relapses into highway hypnosis.

  ###

  The elevated hum of urban intensity brings him back. He works his way through the municipal street patterns to the airport terminal, pulls into a parking lot and leaves the car, with its grasshopper coating, to await their return.

  The Meeting Place is not so busy, this airport yet to become a major hub. Sid spots a tall young man glancing around. He smiles when he sees Sid walking directly over. A bright shirt and tailored sports jacket background the glitter of gold from his wrist, his neck and his left ear.

  “Andrew?” he raises an eyebrow.

  “Sidney.” The smile widens.

  “Cousin. Finally we meet. Welcome to the cold north.” He holds out his hand, searching the face for any sign of common ancestry.

  “Kind of you to pick me up.”

  “No problem. It’s a nice day out there on the road. You came alone, I guess, I wasn’t sure …?”

  Andrew’s smile dims. “Oh yes, Mother wasn’t feeling all that well. Robert had business … he’s my brother.”

  “Well three more hours in a car,” says Sid. “Got any baggage?”

  “Just this carry-on,” he lifts a slim leather bag.

  They walk out of the cool into the mid-afternoon heat. Andrew’s polished leather shoes scuffle across the small stones in the parking lot. He eyes Sid’s old car with curiosity as they walk up to it, his smile holding. Sid unlocks the Fairmont. “Throw your bag in the back seat with my suitcase.”

  “Fairly flat around here,” Andrew mentions casually.

  “Ah, cum’on, there’s some hills,” Sid’s voice cracks. “You live in the mountains or something?”

  “Uhh … yes, well, Redondo Beach.” He eyes Sid carefully. “We have the ocean on the one side, and the mountains are behind us. Hey, I’ve never been to Canada before OK … well, Toronto once.”

  “Yah … well that’s way out east,” says Sid. “Maybe it’s flat out there.”

  “Lola … Mother … told me there are lots of lakes in Saskatchewan,” Andrew broaches another subject.

  “Well, Auntie Lola remembers right. There’s plenty of lakes up north,” Sid relaxes. “Hey, any chance you fish?”

  “Yes, I love fishing.” Andrew sniffs. He tells Sid of the Trent family sail boat; one you can sleep in overnight; and fishing in the Pacific. Big ocean fish. Some familiar, sword fish and marlin, some not, hake and bocaccio.

  “You gotta meet Ryan.”

  ###

  They are on the highway. Green crops of wheat, blue-tinged flax and yellow flowered canola now print a multi-coloured mosaic, like fresh Canadian cash. Thermals rise, over dark, summer-fallow fields, to form cloud mushrooms, potential thunderstorms on a hot afternoon. Sid’s spine tingles.

  “I like your car.”

  “Thanks.” Sid laughs lightly. “What do you drive?”

  “Oh, it’s a Porsche … a 911.”

  “No shit. I read about those … what’s it got for an engine?”

  “Oh, it’s just a six cylinder.” Andrew rubs his nose.

  “Yah, right. I have a six cylinder in this bucket of bolts. Like how many horsepower?”

  “Oh maybe 450, I think.”

  “Wow, Porsches.” Sid’s mind jumps a memory track. “Like a McPherson strut suspension … maybe one of those EEMS’s, what’s that, electronic engine management systems.”

  Andrew nods.

  “Hah, you know, my engine management system is me and the rusty box of wrenches in the trunk.”

  “Whatever works,” Andrew shrugs.

  Maybe no appreciation for provincial topography, still, Sid is starting to feel a warm glow around this fresh-met cousin.

  It turns out they have both been to Montana. For different reasons, though. Sid checking out another university, Andrew with his brother in Robert’s Carrera GT with a V10, to drive the no-speed-limit Interstates.

  “You hungry?” asks Sid.

  “I could eat.”

  They pull in to Blaine Lake Truck Stop. Sid jams the Fairmont’s stick shift into reverse – a sports car driver for a fleeting moment – then he leads his cousin in, leaving the car floating on the gravel. Andrew sniffs as they walk – a summer cold or travel fatigue, Sid decides. They find a table. Mid-afternoon farmers sit scattered, coffee mugs in hand, words on weather and crops floating about like poplar tree fluff.

  “So I hear they sent your mom an invite,” says Sid.

  “Yes. She didn’t want to read it, though, so she gave it to me. I called Auntie Teresa to say I would come. She called me back; she said you were coming to meet me.” Andrew shrugs.

  Sid nods.

  “I hear your mom talks to Uncle Nick.”


  “I don’t know, I think she gets letters. Her and Nick were tight as children. Then they hung around with Harry and Ksandra when they were all teenagers. I think Harry is a couple years older.”

  “Ksandra? Who’s that?”

  “Oh, I thought you would know, she was their cousin … she was Mother’s best friend. Her and Mother were almost exactly the same age.”

  “Really? I know Uncle Harry. He won’t be at the reunion, that’s for sure. He drinks a lot, you know what I mean. But how ‘bout Ksandra?”

  “Ksandra,” Andrew looks over, his voice softer. “Ohh … no, she died long ago.”

  “How’d that happen?”

  “I’m not sure …”

  “Oh, I see…”

  They finish their burgers and fries.

  ###

  Along main street Andrew points curiously at some tiny houses.

  “Do people actually live in those?”

  “Yah … why wouldn’t they?”

  “It’s almost like East LA or Cardboard Alley. Some people live in board shacks, some in cardboard boxes … at least when it doesn’t rain.”

  “Wow.”

  “But most don’t. Most homeless in California don’t have any roof at all, not even cardboard.” Andy looks over at Sid. “And there’s a lot of people sleeping in the park in Southern California.”

  Sid’s mind reruns clips of his Hollywood version of California – the place you otta be. The poverty stricken appear in human drama, but the movie screen never struck him as entirely real. A one-bedroom house in Blaine Lake or a park bench in sunny California, which would a guy choose?

  “You know Grandma lived in a sod shack before she met Grandpa. Maybe bigger than those houses, but then there were sometimes eight people living in it. I saw pictures.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Yah. You know, Grandpa Pawlo was a real story teller,” says Sid. “Maybe you heard some of them. He kept telling us how he busted his butt on the homestead cutting down trees with an axe, pulling stumps with a team of horses and there was always a new crop of rocks sprouting up each spring. Sounds like fun, eh?”

  “Fun, yes, lots of fun. I did hear he was from Eastern Europe.”

  “Man, he could really paint some vivid images of that little village in the Carpathian Mountains. They had a few acres of Austro-Hungarian Empire land when he was born. Then the Russians came through, when he was ten or so – soldiers beat up Great-Grandma and killed their only cow … that’s the children’s version of the story too. He talked a lot about being refugees on the road and living in Russia for four years. Cabbage soup and bread.”