Creative writing
Thirty-seven years ago, when my dad moved from the University of Guelph to the practice he’d bought in Vanderhoof, sight unseen, he had no idea that he’d be servicing farms from Prince George west to Telkwa, and from Fort St. James south to Moose Lake.
In his early years, many of his farm calls outside the Nechako Valley were fly-in calls he made in his Luscombe tail-dragger.
When he married my mum, a teacher in Vanderhoof, and had four kids in quick succession, he often found himself babysitting on the job, sometimes in his clinic and sometimes on farm calls. I had a lucky and unlikely education in animal husbandry and medicine, following my dad from calvings to bone surgeries.
As I got older I was able to help more and I realized while watching him work that my dad’s success in his profession comes from his careful, compassionate way with animals and humans.
So much of doctoring comes from hard-earned book knowledge, and my dad has that in spades, but there is so much magic that happens between incision and sewing up that has almost nothing to do with medicine and everything to do with a vet in love with his work.
I have always been drawn to write about the juxtaposition of the tender and the gory that pervades almost every interaction a vet has with an animal.
In these poems I hope to convey the hard work, the heartache, and the dedication with which my dad approaches his work. My brother James, a filmmaker in Vancouver, is collaborating with me on this project. In the spring he will be collecting tape and filming at the Vanderhoof Vet Clinic and on calls. We hope that the documentary we make will offer an honest view of a country vet at work, in his own words and through my words.
Boots
By Gillian Wigmore
after whatever operation, whatever struggle in the dust or dark
in the yard by the trucks
he washes his bucket with a wide-bristled brush
the loud complaint of stiff plastic on stainless steel
fills the barnyard
he washes the inside with the water in the bucket
he washes the outside by slopping vigorously
he washes his hands and arms in the cooled water
red with blood and viscous with amniotic fluid
he washes his boots at the end
pours the last half-litre on to his feet
placed together so the water washes both of them
green rubber emerges from the muck
the steam rises
he smiles to make lighter the night of a long ordeal
he looks kindly at you
through blood
dried to the lenses of his glasses
Literature
Creative writing
New theatre
By Gillian Wigmore
when you lost the tips of those two fingers in the snow-blower it slowed you down—your spays and neuters took twenty minutes instead of thirteen—but you’ve trained your shorter fingers and are quicker now
in the new theatre the heart monitor beeps and that thing with the inflating black bag doesn’t whoosh in the corner like I remember it—when two or four kids stood on stools—no surgical caps, breathing all over the inner flesh of a sleeping terrier—watching you work—trying not to handle the perfect silver implements of operation
a dog died once because we wouldn’t settle down—a golden retriever—i saw his tongue hanging out beside the tubing in his throat—a simple neuter we messed up because you were babysitting and we wouldn’t stop yelling
you tell me it was the dog—that each animal is different and some don’t take drugs well—i don’t allow my own kids in the clinic after hours—but i suspect you wouldn’t mind them, for company
late at night you stand under the new lights in the new theatre—listening to cbc 2—clicking down one clamp to pick up another—no kids in the audience—no audience—but swift precision—same as ever—there is pleasure in that, but this is a solitary job—maybe you miss the amplified breathing of dogs on your table, though the new machines are more accurate—maybe you miss the clang of the kennels as your young kids lock each other in and scream to be let out
maybe you don’t—fast and efficient is your motto—you embody it, in your blue cap and white gown—you don’t falter when you pick up the scissors clamp, already off its hook and resting on surgical paper between the dog’s outstretched legs—you never falter—but do you notice the small space between the ends of those two fingers and the dusty fingertips of your surgical gloves?
You pay more for a farm call than you do to bring it in
By Gillian Wigmore
evening swallows dive
from the lilac at the cats
a week-old calf lies spread-legged in the back
of the bed of a pick-up truck
slick with green poop
‘scours?’ the farmer asks
‘maybe’ says dad
he slices the skin away from the muscle
I see shitty brown fur, whitish fat
grey stuff and black stuff
the sides of the truck are cool and smell of metal
the calf’s insides drip through the gap
between the tail-gate and the truck
‘what’s the pasture like?’ dad asks
‘green’ says the farmer, holding a hoof at shoulder height
‘most likely scours’ says dad
‘thought so’ says the farmer
he lays down the leg so the calf closes
he looks at my dad
my dad looks back
they did this last year, too
it costs more for the vet to dispose of the calf
than for the farmer to take him home
they bang up the tailgate and shake hands
I watch the calf’s closed eyes the whole time
the swallows hunt the cats without mercy
Northern writers collaborate
Prince George poet Gillian Wigmore is touring the Northwest before Christmas, promoting Home when it moves you.
Launched by Creekstone Press, the 28-page chapbook is her first collection of poems, with an emphasis on storytelling and natural history.
Poet Robert Hilles, who met Wigmore when she attended the Banff Wired Writing Studio last fall, has lots of praise for her work. “What a wonderful, fresh voice Gillian Wigmore brings to the page. These wise poems know the push and pull within family. They reveal the tender truths behind the rough edges of small town life. Her voice resonates with authenticity, and whether she is writing about a near drowning or ice fishing, she is ultimately writing about the complications of love. These are poems you will not soon forget.”
The Studio’s director, Fred Stenson, was equally impressed: “Gillian’s poems are place-literate, fully flexed, often suspenseful. When she writes of the life and death of northern people and northern rivers, you love and grieve.”
Wigmore grew up with two brothers and a sister on 60 acres outside of Vanderhoof where her father is a vet and her mother taught English. Between dipping into her mom’s library of contemporary Canadian poets and making farm visits with her dad, she learned early about stories and the language poets use.
“There’s a way of telling stories up here,” says Wigmore. “I want to capture the urgency of life and death up here, to make my poetry imperative.”
When she went to the University of Victoria’s writing program, she was especially influenced by the spare poetics of Derk Wynand. “He told me to quit fooling around,” Wigmore says, “and taught me to pay attention to every word.”
The publication is a regional collaboration with Dawson Creek poet, Donna Kane, who has designed and made 75 beautiful handmade copies in a limited edition of Home when it moves you. Prince George poet, George Sipos, edited the collection.
“I think the goal of book design is to make readers more attentive of the work inside,” says Kane. “A handmade book honours the poems in an even more personal way. My hope is to give each step of building this chapbook the same care and thought as the words that make up Jill’s wonderful poems.”
Home when it moves you is available through Creekstone Press and at readings. For dates and times of the readings, please log on to northword.ca, and click on events.
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