Winter Revels

WINTER IS COMING. So goes a major leitmotif in the HBO series Game of Thrones. Well here, in Canada, I can inform readers that WINTER IS HERE. In spades. And the question arises, 'What to do?'

My answer was to join three close friends and enjoy some days at The Emp's cottage in the north (vague on the location, for reasons of national security) and cavort in the snow. Or at least look out at the snow from a distance, while savouring the warmth from The Emp's fireplace. It was, after all, well below zero (C) during the entire three days we were there. The Emp's hospitality was, as usual, exemplary and much appreciated.

Returned just yesterday, and so this report is a bit late. These things happen.

Also in attendance was Sir Peter Crapp, glad to be taking some vacation time from an assignment he was not keen on, the shepherding of a bevy of bureaucrats around  Sevastopol in the Crimea examining the effect of global warming on an ocean port. Owing to a wee tussle that had broken out in Ukraine, the chances of getting their asses shot off were rising daily, and Sir Peter was glad that the powers that be finally realized that such a mission was ridiculous, and pulled the plug.

My sugar beet manager in Ukraine, Bohdan, was also in attendance. He had determined that my plantation, about an hour's drive away from Kyiv, was not in harm's way. This did not surprise, for I supply not only the Ukrainian market, but also the Russian. Such a split works, although I feel I must credit this approach to its proper creator, the Hopi Indian tribe in the American southwest. They traded with everyone, and were rarely attacked.

While certain of our discussions over the three day period must remain undisclosed -- national security again -- I can relay the following.

I have said that the weather was brutally cold. This was expected, at least by me. What was not expected was the type of snowmobile ride over to The Emp's island. Thawing and freezing can do nasty things to surfaces that would otherwise be flat, and the trip over was akin to participating in Olympic trials for mogul racing. The slamming up and down has given me a greater respect for the athletes that engage in such a sport.

The Emp and Bohdan continued their constant wrangles over culinary matters, but these discussions get so arcane -- the marked difference and use of corn, olive and Mazola oil -- well, you get the idea.

Something new, however, had an effect on these and other discussions. Sir Peter had brought along a very high tech PDA * and could consult it whenever an argument broke out. Such an activity recalls the adage that nothing will end a conversation faster than a person who actually knows what they're talking about.

Before leaving this missive, I must relate a very odd occurrence. A certain song came over the radio, and I immediately identified it as the Beatles Eleanor Rigby. Keeping this little tidbit of memorabilia to myself, I asked the Emp if he could recall the name of the song being played. He thrashed about a bit, got some of the lyrics, but the title escaped him. Sir Peter stayed silent, but I was pretty sure he knew the exact title.

Bohdan, however, got quite excited, and shouted "Aha! That's Martha Mackenzie!" Which was not the answer but did have a link to the lyrics. Not wishing to prolong suspense over such a trifle, I relayed the true title.

As for the Martha Mackenzie reference, a quick consultation with Sir Peter's PDA indicated it was not Martha, but Father Mackenzie that was being referred to, he who was"writing the words to a sermon that no one would hear."

Which left Sir Peter, The Emp and myself with a deep conundrum to work on in the weeks to come. The name Martha Mackenzie that had so exercised Bohdan had undoubtedly come from deep in his psyche. Who was she really, and how had she so influenced him?

Questions to be asked.

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* For those who have totally rejected electronic technology that is becoming more and more invasive, PDA is a personal digital assistant. -- Ed.