Brian Doyle - The Brian Doyle Spud Sweetgrass Bundle

Published in Canada and the USA in 2016 by Groundwood Books
groundwoodboks.com

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We acknowledge for their financial support of our publishing program the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF).

ISBN 978-1-77306-060-6 (epub) ISBN 978-1-77306-061-3 (mobi)

Cover illustration by Tracey WoodReactor
Design by Kaitlyn Sykes

Also by Brian Doyle

Boy OBoy

Mary Ann Alice

The Low Life

Uncle Ronald

Spud in Winter

Covered Bridge

Easy Avenue

Angel Square

Up to Low

You Can Pick Me Up at Peggys Cove

Hey, Dad!

Spud Sweetgrass

BRIAN DOYLE

Copyright 1992 by Brian Doyle
New paperback edition 2006
10 09 08 07 06 1 2 3 4 5

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a license from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright license, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll-free to 1-800-893-5777.

Groundwood Books / House of Anansi Press
110 Spadina Avenue, Suite 801, Toronto, Ontario M5V 2K4
Distributed in the USA by Publishers Group West
1700 Fourth Street, Berkeley, CA 94710

We acknowledge for their financial support of our publishing program the Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP) and the Ontario Arts Council.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloging in Publication
Doyle, Brian
Spud Sweetgrass / by Brian Doyle
First published: Toronto: Groundwood Books, 1992.
ISBN-13: 978-0-88899-756-2
ISBN-10: 0-88899-756-6
I. Title.
PS8557.O87S6 2006 jC813.54 C2006-902346-8

Printed in Canada

Special thanks to: Wilf Pelletier, who knows how to make it rain by dancing; Jim Dillon, who knows how propane tanks blow; Marlene Stanton, for helping research Bank Street; Mike Paradis, for the invaluable critique; Jacques Dussault, for the use of Westboro Beach; Sue Wong, for the help with the names; the Kocoris and Langis boys at the Easy Street Caf, for explaining cooking oil; and the humble potato.

The author gratefully acknowledges permission from Clark Parry Doyle Productions to reproduce the song Fry-Day from the musical, Chipwagon! 1982

This book is dedicated to my grandson
Matthew Patrick Doyle

I walked with my mother and father into the bush. My father was carrying his trombone in its case.

In about an hour we came to the shore of a small lake.

It was my birthday. I was nine.

Beside the lake, my father took out of his trombone case three things: a knife; a fishing line with a hook; one wooden match.

You will stay here by yourself until after breakfast tomorrow morning, he said. My mother stood beside him and took his arm.

You will cut balsam boughs to make a shelter for yourself. You will build a fire and be sure that it doesnt go out during the night. You will catch a fish for your supper and another one for your breakfast. There are berries and butternuts and wild garlic around to eat, too.

We will be ten minutes from here. But you will not know which way. You will not be able to find us.

I was watching my mother. She had a nice look on her face. Her brown eyes were proud of me. They were holding me. There were green flecks flashing.

But you can call to us if you are in trouble. You call by blowing a strong note on my trombone. But only take it out of the case if theres an emergency, my father said.

My mother had a small smile on her beautiful face. Her head was tilted to one side. There was love all around the shore of that small lake.

You will be alone, said my father, this afternoon, this evening, and all night, which will be the hardest part.

My mothers smile got bigger.

We will be back to get you after breakfast, she said. Then they both put their arms around me.

And then they kissed me.

And then they walked into the bush and disappeared.

I dont like Dumper Stubbs.

I dont know if its the way he looks or the way he acts or the clothes he wears, or what, I just dont like him.

My mother always used to say that you should get to know people before you figure out if you like them or you dont like them. Then she and my father would start talking about exceptions. But every rule has some exceptions, my father would start. Then theyd have this funny conversation.

Of course, my father would say, people with very large chins are basically very cruel people. And people with their eyes very close together are very stupid... And then my mother would say, ...and people with very large heads cant control themselves and people with big, low ears are gossips. And then my father might say, while he started to laugh, and people whose nostrils flare out are perverts and people who walk with their toes pointing outwards never wash themselves properly. And then theyd both be laughing and saying stuff like people who walked with their hands in their pockets were thieves and people who slouched were cowards, and people with loud voices were bullies and people with bad breath were liars and women who smoked were two-faced and men who wore their pants high were abusers and theyd keep on like that until they couldnt think of any more and then theyd say, both together, but you cant judge a book by its cover!

And they would laugh all over again and then go across the street to the Village Inn to see their friends.

My mother and father dont do that stuff together anymore.

My father died last September of a brain tumor.

And my mother, I dont know whats wrong with her. She seems different now.

So, here comes Dumper Stubbs to pick up the garbage and change the grease.

And I dont like him.

Dumper has a large chin, close-together eyes, a big head, low ears, flared nostrils, pointed-out toes, his hands in his pockets, a slouch, a loud voice, bad breath and high pants.

And I miss my father, who was big and handsome and brave.

Oh, if only now I could blow a long note on his trombone and hed be only ten minutes away!

Maybe thats why I hate Dumper.

Because hes alive. Hes alive and my father is dead. It just isnt fair.