Espanola and Beyond

Sometime in the 1780s an Ojibwa tribe occupying a bit of land on the north shore of Lake Superior sent a raiding party south into what is now the United States. The raiding party brought back with them a white, Spanish speaking woman who married an Ojibwa man of a family living near the mouth of the river.
The woman taught her children Spanish. Much later, when French Voyageurs came to the area and heard the locals speaking bits of Spanish they called the place “Espagnole”.
This was anglicized to “Espanola” and the river was named “The Spanish River”.
At least, this is the story I’m told on the card on my nightstand in the motel just north of town.
I’m also told the town gained some notoriety in the eighties when the mill mistakenly discharged toxic waste into the river killing thousands of fish. The card goes on to assure me that the accident actually flushed the river. When the fish came, I’m told, back they were untainted and the mill now has an extraordinarily strict zero-emissions policy.
But I’ve never been one to believe everything I read.
And this is where I am tonight; watching the rain fall on the black, rocky hills where the Trans Canada Highway intersects with the main road of Espanola. I’m watching the warm red glow of the Tim Horton’s sign across the street through the white haze of the drizzle and wondering how I got to be so far from home.
The card on my nightstand also tells me that the CBC series “Adventures in Rainbow County” was filmed here and that the star of that show, Lois Maxwell, lived here for eighteen years. The card reminds me that I probably know her better as Ms Moneypenny from the 007 films.
Every shit town has it’s claim to fame. Even here, just outside of Sault Ste. Marie, nickel mines and all, a town no bigger than the one I grew up in can gain some fame—dubious or otherwise.
Al Secord—two time NHL All-Star—grew up here. Former Canadian steeplechase record-holder Greg Duhaime lived here. Some local yahoos played a three-day-long hockey game to raise money for a local hospital and managed to set a world record.
I cross the road and start up one of the black hills. Believe it or not, there’s some beauty in it. My sweater, damp from the rain, catches on some thistle and I sit down to pull the needles free.
Sure, folks in Espanola Ontario have a handful of things to brag about. They have their stories to tell. Doubtless, if I were to step into the dingy-looking tavern I saw on the main drag I could find a few faces—deeply lined, dirt so at home in the creases you could grow radishes in it—that could entertain me for an hour or two. I could hear tall tales and drink watered-down lager from dirty glasses and—I hope—hear a song or two.
But here I am, at the end of the first day of my journey between Tilbury and Prince George and while I can’t decide which of those is really my home—I know it ain’t here.
So I sit there, unaware at that point that the rock under me was turning my shorts an evil shade of black, and I smoke a stolen cigarette, reminding myself that the ungodly amount of smoking I did in Ontario must cease. And trying to decide where home really is.


Don’t count on the stories I tell about my time in Ontario and the trip back to be in any sort of order. The stories I want to tell will get told, in the order I want to tell them in. Simple.
Really what this is about for me is getting back into the swing of storytelling. I did so little of it on my vacation that I need to reestablish my footing and relearn a few of the ropes.

The (just short of triumphant) Return

Okay, so, I didn’t write a goddamn thing in here while in Ontario. What’s more, I haven’t written a fucking thing since I got back. But you know what? More and more Chinese made products are being found to be made of dangerous materials every day and people are coming up with just about every solution under the sun short of calling a stop to the use of Chinese sweatshops to produce North American goods.
So you’ll forgive me for thinking my lazy pen is maybe the least of our troubles.
You know, it reminds me of a business class I took in high school. They were teaching us this shit about supply and demand and how the economy constantly cycles between recession, depression, prosperity and inflation. “It’s all inevitable,” the teacher said. “Sure, sometimes we skip outright depression and the prosperity portion of the cycle is sometimes short but this is the cycle and this is how it must work.”
I raised my hand and, when called on, I said, “Well, couldn’t we nip inflation in the bud? It seems to me that constantly charging whatever the market will bear is what makes recession inevitable. If producers and retailers just voluntarily lowered their prices now and then couldn’t we avoid the jugfuck of recession and depression altogether?”
The teacher, the look of a fawn caught in a Hummer’s headlights crossing her face, said, “Well, how does one convince a retailer or producer to lower their prices for the common good?”
“Well, assuming that a businessman is less interested in the common good than in profit, couldn’t the government regulate it?” I asked.
“That’s communism,” she said, “and that’s evil.”
So, before you suggest to someone that production of goods be moved back to America or Canada where the government can regulate the process and materials involved or (heaven forbid) suggest that Chinese workers and producers be paid fairly and, in return, expect that the materials used be of the highest quality (or at least demand regular inspections) remember: that’s communism and communism is evil.

As far as my lack of entries goes, I do have some good news.
While I was away, in Ontario and as I drove back across the country, I did take notes. Lots and lots of notes. Oh your God… they’re scribbled in pen on hotel stationary, printed in crayon on the backs of pictures drawn by my niece… they’re fucking everywhere. They detail the origins of little towns in Northern Ontario, they describe the joy of the wedding of a lifetime, they exalt the beauty and simplicity of friendships rediscovered.
I would imagine that somewhere in that mess of scribbles and scrawls I can find a story or two to share. In fact, I’m certain of it. This is a wildly wide country and I’m an obsessive storyteller. The things I’ve seen… they’re worth a keystroke or two.
So!
Apologies for my blogger’s delinquency. I am back and I have time. The stories will come if you’re patient. In fact, the more patient you are, the sooner they’ll come…
…or maybe it’ll just seem that way.
Either way, take heart in the fact that someone is here to tell it.