Jim withdrew from contact with the Mensaplasms, shaking his head in bewilderment.

"Just when I thought I had 'em figgered," he muttered to himself. "A love story! A tear-jerker, no less! Yeah, like I'm going to sit down and write a romance!"

Although it was getting late he would have enough time to walk the dog and fix dinner before darkness fell, allowing him to see the home movies clearly.

As he strode up the road towards Horton's farm Jim was oblivious to the fashion show of colour that the autumn leaves presented. He ignored the unseasonably warm breeze that brushed against his face. Even Bernice's merry bouncing eluded his notice. A love story. Why had Pinky told him a love story? After conversations about Grandpa, his mother, Brother Robert's imminent arrival and developmentalism telling Jim a love story had been a total non sequitir.

He concluded that Pinky's motives would probably remain an enigma. Perhaps it was better that way. What had the Puppet Tiger said? If we peek at the all answers there will be no more mystery in our lives. A possibility caused Jim to slow his steps until he came to a full stop, standing on the side of the road. Was that the point of the story? That mystery could be as important as knowledge? It reminded him of what Grandpa had said about thirst being more precious than water. It also brought to mind Einstein's famous assertion that imagination was as important as knowledge. Equating the import of both mystery and imagination to that of knowledge gave rise to a subtle irony. The LOOP word "sarkata" meant "learning". Its passive voice, "sarkataga", translated to "mystery" while its aggressive form, "sarkatakoi", referred to knowledge. Specifically, "sarkatakoi" described pure science or theoretical knowledge. Theoretical knowledge? Wasn't that an oxymoron?

Jim's head was swimming again.

"Jesus!" he cursed, "I gotta get a hobby!"

Bernice had run ahead of her owner, bounding around the curve in the road, searching for something to pursue.

"Bernice?" Jim beckoned. "Here, Bernice!"

Yes, the dog could hear her master calling but there was the scent of rabbit in the air! Bernice inhaled deeply, hoping to discern how close the hare might be. She was trying to sense the fear that would make the rabbit her quarry. Her eyes scanned Horton's fields as they formed the horizon in front of her. Nothing. She looked along the roadside brush, cocking her ears for the telltale sound of rustling leaves. Nothing. With a sigh she lowered her eyes and ears and returned to Jim's side. Together they ambled home.

En route, Jim reached into his mailbox and pulled out his newspaper. Bernice guided him down the driveway like a seeing eye dog while Jim's eyes focused on Kevin Morley's column.

A couple of weeks earlier Kevin had made an offhand remark in his editorial that "North Dakota does not exist". The governor of that state picked up on it and offered Morley an all-expense-paid trip to see the sights of the state. Kevin's response came in today's paper. There, in the largest boldface font that his editor would allow, Kevin stated flatly that "NEVADA BROTHELS DO NOT EXIST!"

As he walked down the driveway Jim turned to the editorial page. With the Editor-in-Chief on vacation Kevin would be writing the editorial this week. Today's commentary was on cultural differences between Americans and English-speaking Canadians. Living as close to the Canada-U.S. border as they did, Kevin and Jim had often discussed the subject over drinks at Kelly's bar.

Kevin's column expressed his amazement at how Americans and anglophone Canadians could evolve into such remarkably different creatures. While America produced Tinsel Town and Las Vegas English Canada revelled in its well-earned reputation as the unsexiest place on earth. Australia, with only sixty percent of Canada's population, had produced two sex symbols: Paul Hogan and Mel Gibson. For decades Canada had managed none. Kevin divined that Canadian teenagers probably had as many posters on their walls as Americans but that none of them depicted compatriots. He allowed as how Gordon Lightfoot, Bruce Cockburn, Leonard Cohen, Ferron, k.d lang, Anne Murray and Rita MacNeil were all wonderful performers, but none of them were likely to occupy many people's sexual fantasies. Morley attributed Canada's lack of sex appeal to its long history of censorship.

Kevin went on to point out how Canadians were stereotyped as polite; Americans were renowned for their bluntness. He described "Roseanne" and "Married with Children" as quintessentially American with their "in-your- face" attitudes. Kevin quoted a New York sage as saying: "Part of our charm is our utter lack of charm." Paradoxically, Americans could display pronounced ethnocentricity and yet reserve their greatest enmities for each other. Kevin described the steps that U.S. television networks took to find news anchors and commentators who did not have identifiable accents. Since the Babe Ruth trade no Bostonian will lend his or her ear to a New Yorker. Since the Civil War no Southerner would listen to a "damn Yankee". But since Americans could not identify Canadians (unless they said "eh") they would not object to listening to Canadians reading the news. This, Kevin concluded, accounted for the number of "closet Canadians" anchoring American news shows.

The VCR clicked on just as Jim was entering the house. Ironically, he had set its timer to record "Due South". Following Morley's logic, the Dudley DoRight Mountie on the show represented Canada's first veritable sex symbol. Normally, Jim would prefer to watch the show on tape so as to "zap" the commercials. At the moment, though, he had some time to kill before darkness set in. During the show, Jim reflected on how his grandfather had not shared his interest in comparing cultures.

"No borders," the old man would say whenever the subjects of nations, nationalities or nationalism came up. No borders. He would never elaborate.

Sunset came slowly this day. The clear evening sky seemed to retain the light like a sponge holds water. Only the fading memory of the sun allowed darkness to take hold. Jim sat in his living room, listening to John Stewart on the stereo, until the night wrung the last drop of sunlight out of the sky.

With a flick of his finger Jim turned on the movie projector. The reel spun freely as it took up the slack. Once taut, it ground along at a steady pace, clicking audibly as it did so. An image of his mother working at her typewriter appeared. The picture was clear, but jerky. Obviously, the camera operator was no professional. Jim assumed that his grandfather was taking the pictures until he saw Jason walk into the den and peer over his daughter's shoulder to see what she had written. Cory laughed playfully and folded her arms over the platen, concealing her work from Grandpa. The scene evolved as the two engaged in a mock wrestling match. The sound track contained nothing but giggling and shouts of "Let me see!" and "No way, Daddy-O!" Daddy-O? Had she really called Gramps "Daddy-O"?

The struggle spilled out of the den as the combatants rolled along the floor past the camera operator. Only when the two of them stood up, Cory blocking her father from re-entering her writer's garret, did Jim realize who was working the camera. The angle of the shot gave it away. Jim had been the cameraman. The unsteadiness of the picture owed to the size and weight of the equipment in such young hands. Although he could not remember the scene or his role in capturing it on celluloid, Jim concluded that this film would have been shot when he was six, very shortly before his mother's demise.

The rest of this first reel showed Cory performing mundane household tasks: washing dishes in the sink, cooking dinner, listening to the radio and reading a book.

The second reel revealed Cory bringing baby Jim home from the hospital. She cradled her newborn in her arms, pulling back a blue blanket to uncover the infant Jim's face for posterity. Jim was struck by two things: how beautiful the proud mother was and how ugly her offspring was. Little Jim had weighed almost ten pounds at birth. His folds of loose skin, oversize cheeks and puppy dog eyes made him look like a cross between a Sharpei and a harbour seal. This unsightliness made no impression on Cory, who paraded her prize baby in front of camera, family and friends throughout the film. In one scene Jason McGuire grabbed his tiny grandchild, tickled his ribs and carefully threw him up in the air.

The last film's setting was an old cafe. From the men in high collared open shirts and greasy hair Jim placed the date as late fifties. Was this an outtake from "Lords of Flatbush"? Two of the male patrons broke from this pattern, sporting ragged woolen sweaters, longer, unkempt hair and sunglasses. Considering the darkness of the room, sunglasses would have been a fashion statement, not a practical concern. These two men were beatniks, precursors of the hippies that would emerge scant years later. Female attire ranged from poodle skirts and bobby socks to blue jeans and plain blouses. No tie- dyes. No Jackie Kennedy pillbox hats yet. Although he was no fashion historian, Jim could fine tune his estimate of the date to 1958 or 1959.

The picture was blurred by insufficient light and a thick haze of cigarette smoke. Virtually every patron sported a cigarette. Apparently, these people considered smoking more a matter of course than conscious choice. After panning the room for two minutes the camera operator moved across the room towards the stage. From twenty feet away Jim could see a woman onstage, tuning her guitar. As the camera zoomed in for a closeup Jim saw that it was his mother. From the bottom of the screen he could see the camera operator extend a microphone and fasten it to a stand in front of the chanteuse.

This explained the presence of guitar strings in the attic, Jim thought to himself, but where did the guitar end up? Would Grandpa throw out anything so valuable? What if Jim had wanted to take up playing? No. The guitar would remain a mystery. Another enigma.

Cory McGuire began her song. With lively strokes of her sixstring she established the tune. It was a typical folk chord progression, reminiscent of a Bob Dylan or Buffy Sainte Marie. The beat, though, was remarkable: strong and uptempo, similar to calypso or reggae. What struck Jim hardest, however, were the lyrics. In a strong and forceful voice his mother belted out the words like a torch singer.

"Man!" Jim muttered, "Mom had pipes!"

Jim listened intently to the words:

Hometown Sod

When your body is torn by those unborn
and you feel like life's afterbirth
With your hometown sod and your atheist god
you've got a piece of heaven and earth
With your Irish wake solemn mirth
Take apathy for all it's worth
When you've got a piece of heaven and earth.


No one seems to mind if evil is defined
as whatever we're sworn to fight
But what you do, man, when the gods become human
there in the dark of the night?
Over there, where they're safe out of sight
Over there, where our fears stand and fight
Over there in the dark of the night.


So I turned to the man with the tourist tan
Said: "How can you do so little?"
"I'm driftwood", he cried, "so stand aside
and let the noon sun whittle.
Let Nero laugh and fiddle
As it all grows dark and brittle
You just let that noon sun whittle.


Our life here, it seems, lies between our dreams
Slow down, enjoy the ride
Because time is just motion, flowing like an ocean
Out fate drifts with that tide
Our love's a victim of our pride
And all the things we left inside
As its fate drifted with that tide.


As history is told (brave battles against bold)
the seeds of war are sown
At the end of our tether, we've come a long way together
to find ourselves alone
Like abstract voices on the phone
You'll know respect from fear by its tone
When you find yourself alone.


Abraham at Nuremburg, he can't believe what he just heard
"Which orders should we heed?"
And how do we cope, knowing that hope
is the nicest form of greed?
And you know what I need
For you to hold me as I bleed
From the nicest form of greed...
...the politest form of greed.


Cory McGuire sang this tune with her eyes closed or focused on the fingerboard of her guitar. Only when she recited the epilogue did she look directly at the camera. Those eyes! Jim gasped as his mother's gaze reached across the room, across time and across the divide between the living and the dead.

"Angels don't need halos," his grandfather had once said. "Their eyes glow like lighthouse beacons, warning the cautious away."

By this definition, his mother was an archangel. But it was the words to this epilogue that frosted Jim's marrow:

The end comes not with a bang
Although that's how it might seem
And the end comes not with a whimper
But with the sunset of a dream.


Jim was flabbergasted. How could this have happened? Was it possible that he had heard her sing this song as a child? Could it have sat dormant within him like a land mine, ready to explode when Jim stepped into the limelight? There was a rough logic to it: both the memory and the dream would have been resident in his subconscious.

He fought the urge to dash outside and consult with Pinky. A little patience was in order. Tomorrow, at least, he would not be approaching the Ponders empty-handed. He would have more than a few questions for them.

The third and last reel came to its end, spinning freely on the sprocket. Jim replayed it over and over again until he knew the words to the song by heart.

He could resist temptation no longer. With a flashlight and a thick woolen sweater he braved the dark and cold night to revisit the Ponders. He thrust his hand into the near-freezing water and said one word: "Gilmakakoi."

"Gilmakakoi" referred to the part of a person which was, in fact, their mother or maternal grandparents.

"I'm sorry, Jim," Pinky replied. "I don't understand--"

"You know what I'm talking about," Jim said pointedly. "That speech I gave. It was nothing more than a recitation of my mother's work. And Grandpa's, of course. Hell, I was just a mouthpiece."

"That's not true, Jim." It was Rose speaking. "Certainly some of it was gilmakakoi. But some of it was --"

"Gilmakaga? What the hell would my father have had to do with this?"

"Remember the part about betrayal, Jim?" Rose asked quietly.

"Yes, but--"

"Betrayal," she explained, "was your father's concern."

Jim brushed this aside. His father left before he was born. The thought that he could have contributed anything to Jim's makeup was too ludicrous to pursue.

"Here, I was thinking that at least some of the speech was kimaka," he complained, alluding to the part of his character which was uniquely his own. "I had hoped that some of it was my own doing."

"Oh, but most of it was, Jim," Rose consoled. "Especially the part about the people you admired. The ones who shared the Wintaka dream. I found that very touching. Very moving. And very much a piece of you."

Jim was not entirely mollified. Rose and the other Ponders sensed his unease.

"Tell me what set you off like this," Pinky prodded.

"I'm sorry," Jim apologized. "It's just that I was watching some old home movies of my mother and--"

"And you were upset that your mother might have contributed to your speech?" Pinky guessed.

"Well, not just that," Jim admitted sheepishly.

"Oh? What else?"

"I-I-I don't know," Jim stammered. "It's just that hearing her sing...and the look in her eyes. I mean, it just isn't fair! I'm watching this film and thinking: `This is it. This is all that's left of her. This movie. This song. And a book of poetry.'"

"You're wrong, Jim," Rose said softly.

"How so?"

"The poems and the song may be all that is left of her work. But you are all that is left of her. You. And Margaret, of course."

Margaret? Jim had to wonder how much of little Margaret would be McGuire. Indeed, she was a Flint now, not a McGuire. As the years of separation passed Margaret's gilmakaga would fade into insignificance.

It was getting late. Before withdrawing his right hand from the water Jim suggested that they continue this conversation in the morning. As he had done the previous evening, Pinky wished him pleasant dreams. And, again, Jim felt a strange tingle run up his arm as he broke contact with the Ponders. Had his left arm felt like this Jim would have started scrambling to gather up some more angina medicine.

He played each of the films one last time before retiring. As he watched the first two he tried in vain to recall a memory of her. Even one faint recollection would do. But try as he might, those memories of his early childhood were gone. Cory was gone. Jim looked at the picture of her holding her gurgling baby in her arms. And he cried.

"Angels are wasted on heaven," his grandfather had said once. At last and at least, Jim understood.

Jim wiped the tears from his eyes as he viewed the third reel. At first, he mumbled along with the lyrics. By the fourth stanza he was singing aloud. At the end of the song he found himself on his feet, waving his arms and belting out the final chorus like an offkey mood singer. His voice was strong, his skin was flushed and his eyes gleamed more with passion than tears. It was another of those very rare happy-to-be-a-McGuire moments. Jim was finally part of something. Something important. He didn't fully understand what that something might be but, for the moment, it felt good to be included.

He turned off the projector when this last film ended. As he trudged up the stairs to his bedroom his thoughts turned to another angel he had encountered in the last twenty four hours. Meeka. The closer he got to his bed the more he thought of her. Meeka. His mind fixated on her as he removed his clothes. Meeka. Why hadn't he told her how much he wanted her? Why hadn't he taken her in his arms and told her: "Zaku na zul"? "You are the rest of me." The LOOP equivalent of "I love you". Jesus, Jim thought, I can't even be Rudolph Valentino in my dreams!

If he saw Meeka tonight Jim resolved that he would endeavour to do two things: tell her that he loved her and never wake up.

"Hey, wait a minute," he muttered aloud. "Where the hell are my pyjamas?"

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