Pop 89: How do YOU Make a Living?

By Madonna Hamel

“I renewed your books,” Betty announces as I step into the library. “And there's a whole new pile over there.” I thank her and make my way to the kettle by the window and fill it with enough water for two cups of instant coffee. Then I sink into the armchair across from her, and she fills me in on recent events, shenanigans and illnesses. I've been out of the loop since my brother's stroke. And now, suddenly, it's tax time. So, I did what I do - I call Amy and ask if she can come over. Amy is everybody's accountant. She's also a farmer-rancher and has three teens. Her family made up half our little congregation when The Nativity of The Blessed Virgin was still a functioning church.

Every year, Amy plops herself at my desk, and I make tea, then sit beside her with all my bits and pieces of paper and watch her as she flies through my online file. "Check. Check. Don't need that. Done. Check. Not applicable …" Her meticulous nails click their way through the forms, and eventually, we are finished. She prints the final form and hands it to me, and in turn, I hand her two meat pies, or a quiche and a box of muffins, or whatever. 

Only this year, I tell Betty, there's a glitch, an "oops" at the final step preventing me from paying for the filing service. And it keeps popping up. Eventually, I call the helpline and am put on hold for over twenty minutes. When someone finally answers, I tell them my problem. There's a pause, and finally, I am asked: "What is your problem?" And, I admit, I am so flustered after just having gone through the whole rigamarole that I snap impatiently: "I just told you my problem!" But I tell her again, and this time she says, like she's talking to a moron: "So, just pay." I take a breath and say: "Um, I think what I have here is a problem with the English language." Click. She hangs up.

"It's not a helpline; it's a helpless line," I complain. "But I can't blame the woman in China; it's these companies deciding they can make more money if they outsource. They shove her to the front lines and make her take all the flak, and it doesn't seem to matter that she can't 'talk us through' our problems because she can't 'talk our language.' And I will no doubt be called a racist for complaining. BUT, it's not about race, race isn't the issue here - it's greed. AND we are going to keep getting this problem as long as we fawn over greedy rich people. As long as we admire the company who made an obscene profit last year by outsourcing! As long as becoming a billionaire is our ONLY definition of success and making a living means making a killing, then we have only ourselves to blame." To which Betty responds: "The kettle's boiling." 

Point taken. "I guess," I say, "I'm thankful for the personal connection that still exists in Saskatchewan and in rural villages so small I know everyone I meet and do business with. I mean, the service here is excellent!"

On my way home with my load of books, I stop to visit with my friend James Page, and he welcomes me in with: "Come in, I have to tell you this story," and launches into it:

So, I decided to go to Reed Lake to see if there were any snow geese wanting their pictures taken. Remember the road that runs past Neidpath? I decided to turn down there and approach the lake from the south. Right away there was some snow and some icy patches. They sure got hit by that last storm. I kept going. Middle of nowhere. There was a long dry stretch and suddenly a whole lot of ice in front of me, I hit the brakes and released just before reaching the ice, but it didn't matter - I lost traction, tried to ride out the skid, but the snow grabbed my right front tire and ker-whomp! Into the ditch. Luckily, there was plenty of snow to cushion the impact. I never made it to the bottom, just ended halfway down. No damage. A guy in a pickup truck following about half a km behind me stopped while I got out. 

I walked over to his driver's side and said, "Shit." He laughed. Young guy. 

I said, "How far am I from help?"

"Not far," he said. And he added, "This is the worst stretch." That was when I noticed another car in the ditch, opposite side. 

"Been there since last night," the guy said.

Just then, a guy came from the other direction in a Jeep. He stopped. "Got a tow rope?" he asked. 

"Nope." The pickup truck guy didn't have one either, and neither did the Jeep guy.  

"Well," said the Jeep guy, "You couldn't have gone into the ditch any closer to a tow truck."

So off he went, and the pickup guy gave me a lift to the tow truck. It was a hundred yards farther down the road. Pulled into a farm yard with a sign, "Bulbeck Auto Body." Knocked on the shop door and luckily someone was there. Old guy. I told him, "I'm your entertainment for the day." He got a rope and chain, fired up the truck, hauled me out lickety-split. I said, "Thanks a million. I'll follow you back, and we can settle."

He said, "Naw. Forget it."

I said, "You're kidding."

"Nope."

So I asked, "How do you make a living?"

He laughed, his face breaking into a thousand crinkles: "I don't!"

Then he clapped me on the back and said, "Don't forget your camera!" I had left my big lens in his truck, but I wasn't going to forget it. Off I went. 

Only in Saskatchewan.