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Dee Blair: The View From Sunnybank

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January 9, 2011

View From Sunnybank: Service, firelight

By DEE BLAIR Local Columnist

Three a.m. It's raining. The snow's wimpy-looking now, and I feel like kicking the wall. This isn't winter. A foot of the stuff, titanium-white — that's a proper winter. I hate these wussy reversions. Bring on a blizzard, with a wind that freezes my thermal-undies and steals my breath away — followed by icy silence. Bring on fluffy deep powder that smothers every sound. Lured outside I'll move silently down Sixth Street in the dead of night, in word-love, immersed in snow magic — aware of the dangers of wandering around out there, but making caution an orphan.

Whoa! Who's responsible for such passion? Ahhh … He's a hunk who makes me laugh, sigh and shiver with awe — and he ain't my husband.

The guy looks like lanky Randolph Scott. (Who's zat? non-wrinklies ask. Jeez.)

Robert William Service (Jan. 16, 1874-Sept. 11, 1958) had well-to-do parents who gave him a fine pre-college education. But this tall, intelligent Scotsman yearned for more than his boring (but lucrative) bank teller job. He chucked it all, to his parents' despair, and moved to the Canadian frontier to live on scraps among vagabonds and roughnecks.

He wound up in the Yukon flat broke, skinny as a ghost, but happy. Any job, however humble, sufficed, like being handyman for a cathouse. He stashed away his "proper society" persona and hung out with his new friends — hardened prospectors and harder drinkers — who regularly confronted the Yukon's terrifying wilderness in their relentless quest for a poke of gold.

Robert slapped away Yukon-sized mosquitoes while he scribbled riveting poems inspired by the men's soused ramblings. Proper paper was 2,000 miles away. These were scratched out on the backside of his cabin's grubby wallpaper.

Service mailed his dad a modest collection of poems, asking him to hire a printer to run off a few vanity books so he could give copies to his friends and family. He included 100 hard-earned dollars to cover the cost. Instead, a publisher saw the manuscript, and couldn't put it down! Service had struck gold. Quick as that he was a rich man.

Imagine a world where only the wealthy had telephones and electric lights. Imagine life without radios or televisions. Imagine imaginations on fire, stoked by Robert Service. Everyone who read his exciting, blunt poems felt they knew him. This dude roared through the English language, snatching out ordinary words to set them down again in such a way as to electrify readers.

Here's the thing: Robert's stuff begs to be read aloud. And a tot of whiskey might be handy as you recite, preferably in a fire-lit room. Savor every word.

Start with "The Cremation of Sam McGee," a thriller.

"There are strange things done in the midnight sun

     By the men who moil for gold;The arctic trails have their secret tales

     That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights

     But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake LeBarge

     I cremated Sam McGee."

Does your hair prickle? The rest is instantly available on the Web …—¦men who moil for gold…" Ohboy. Choosing toil would have made that phrase — ordinary.

Here was unvarnished genius.

In one minute you'll experience horror, shivers of paranormal awe, and naked delight. "McGee" put genteel ladies and starch-collared gentlemen on the edges of their seats, desperate for more. Service flung poetry at them. Delicate Byron and wordy Wordsworth tomes found themselves wedged between the sofa cushions, forgotten.

Thirsty for another? Right! Read out "The Shooting of Dan McGrew," gulp some whiskey, and whoop!

Dee Blair's Sunnybank Gardens are closed for the season. Her new book, "The View from Sunnybank," a collection of her columns, is available at Horizon Books, Amazon.com and at www.deeblair.com. Find more of her columns online at record-eagle.com/deeblair.

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