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To Live and Die in Posun "We make a living by what we get,
we make a life by what we give." Gas stations became our one-stop shopping centre and home away from home. We washed ourselves and our clothes in an Onaway Shell station's washroom - leaving the sink cleaner than we found it. I shaved, filled our water bottles, bought groceries, and used the station's microwave to nuke the remaining half of our World's Largest Cinnamon Bun. Talk about home cooking! After our snack, in an effort to slip the long-weekend traffic, we followed various backroads. "One more day until the holiday crowds return to work," Sharon sighed. "Yep," I said. "You know, now that I'm on vacation full time, I hate long weekends! It's amazing how a person's perspective changes." We fought a belligerent headwind through Hawk. Several trucks, filled with overflowing loads of potatoes, sped past. In Posun, population 270, folks were preparing for their annual spud festival. A good time by one and all - a real outing for Mr and Mrs Potato Head. I imagined the fun filled contests: potato sack races; potato baking; potato carving; potato mashing; potato peeling; potato digging; and, of course, potato hilling. Prizes for the best trained tater. Disqualification for those shouting "Pull my tuber! Pull my tuber!" "Where are you from?" several Posun folks asked when they came over to inspect our loaded bicycles. "Alberta." "Where's that?" came the immediate response, followed closely by: "Never heard of it." "Canada," we generalized. "Above Montana." Still a blank stare, then the oft repeated phrase: "Never heard of it." "Ah," Sharon murmured. "To
live and die in Posun." |
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