Arctic Bay’s community hall, a similar structure to that in Grise Fiord, was jammed with people. Among the interplay of adults talking in the measured Eskimo language, the hall was bombarded by the hubbub of babies crying, toddlers thundering up and down the plywood floor, mothers soothing their young and the door opening and slamming shut as another late arrival entered. Each time the door opened a blast of cold air and fog billowed into the room. I kept my parka done up tight and my mitts on. My nostrils swam in the distinctive smells of sealskin and fur, a strong and oily combination that was definitely peculiar but not unpleasant.

At the entrance, a mother with a particularly unhappy baby in the back of her parka calmed the child by crooning softly and doing a distinctive type of jig. She placed one foot well ahead of the other and began a step in which her feet shuffled back and forth and her body weight was transferred slowly to and fro.

Tacked on the wall were numerous bulletins. One handmade poster announced: Ice Thickness: 24 Ft. 9 Ins.

Another, from the Atmospheric Environment Service at Resolute, read:

The sun never rises from Nov 7 to Feb 4, inclusive.

The sun never sets from April 30 to August 13, inclusive.

Maximum Temperature Today: -25°F.

Minimum Temperature Today: -52°F.

Wind: 15 mph.

Wind Chill Factor: -90°F. Bill Kempt, the local schoolteacher who, like Cloughley in Grise Fiord, doubled as area administrator, seated themselves at a plywood table at the front. As we waited for the stragglers to get settled, I studied the landscape through the little window by my shoulder. The hall looked out over a bay named for a whaling ship called Arctic that anchored there in 1872. Ninety people lived in Arctic Bay, and another two hundred hunted for a living in nomadic camps scattered around the region. Hunting seal, polar bear and white fox was the main occupation and means of sustenance. The settlement had a little store operated by the Hudson’s Bay Company, a one-room school, an Anglican mission and a series of small houses. All of the white residents of Arctic Bay were in the audience: the Hudson’s Bay clerk, the Hudson’s Bay manager, the power plant operator and Bill Kempt.

I asked the Hudson’s Bay Company clerk, seated next to me, if there was a community leader. He explained that most Eskimo communities had no clearly labelled leaders. If anyone received special designation, it was because of his or her proven skills as a hunter or a healer or a prophet. No one exercised political dominion over others. Indian communities had been the same until the white man’s treaty parties went to each band and demanded someone be named leader, just so he could mark his X on an unintelligible piece of paper. But of course no treaty parties ever visited the Eskimos because no one had coveted their land.

An Eskimo in rough pants and a long, checked jacket moved into the empty space in front of the seats, carrying a large hoop with a handle fastened on the side. It was a drum, flat and somewhat larger than a barrel hoop, with a skin stretched over the outer rim. The man twirled the hoop back and forth, giving the side a whack with the thick, short stick held in his other hand. Then he twirled the hoop in the other direction and gave it another whack. Boom. Boom. The sound reverberated through the small building. He repeated the twirling and beating motions faster and faster until the room filled with a firm, steady rhythm. He squatted down and began a hopping shuffle, keeping time with his drum. Boom. Boom. Then he began to chant. “Ayee. Ayee.” Several women rose and spilled into the open space, joining the drummer in his song. The drummer’s torso was almost doubled over and his legs bent as he moved to the powerful rhythm. With his eyes closed, he gave the appearance of being totally absorbed and transported by his art. The women swayed back and forth, echoing the drummer’s guttural chant.

He was singing and telling the history of the community, the power of the land, the strength of the spirits, said the Bay man.

When finished, another drummer performed a new song and dance, followed by several more. Both men and women took turns, each performing a unique song. The hall was animated, excited. Everyone watched and smiled appreciatively. When the drummers finished, two women stepped forward and, with their faces four or five inches apart, started breathing hard, in and out, each into the other’s mouth. A haunting sound erupted and built to a crescendo. It was a stirring performance.

“Throat singing. Passed on from generation to generation,” explained the Bay clerk. “Very difficult to do.”

Bill Kempt thanked the performers, announced that he was putting on his area administrator’s hat, and introduced Hodgson. As in Grise Fiord, Hodgson called for someone to act as translator. Some minutes passed before a young man stood up, came forward, and took a seat beside the Commissioner.

With the young man’s help, Hodgson talked about how the group was stronger than the individual and how several could overcome a polar bear when one hunter alone might be killed. There was a lot of whispering and knowing smiles when he talked about the way muskoxen work together to protect the weak when danger approaches. Some of the people looked covertly at Hodgson and spoke a few words to each other in Eskimo. He paused and looked puzzled.

The translator said, “Muskox! Umingmak! Looks like you!”

Hodgson grinned, then seized on the fact he had the audience’s attention. He turned to the blackboard and with a stubby piece of chalk graphed out a pyramid to show the relationship between the big government in Ottawa, the government in Yellowknife, and the myriad of communities like Arctic Bay. Soon he had squiggles, lines, arrows and circles to show that some power was now handed down from Ottawa to Yellowknife, and that members of the Council of the Northwest Territories, like Michael, represented and spoke on behalf of Arctic Bay and other Baffin Island communities.

Hodgson was well aware these people knew absolutely nothing about the functioning of government, about European democratic traditions, about protocol or politics. He wanted to give them an elementary primer, using explanations like his snowmobile analogy that were simple but not condescending. Speaking in English, he made an effort to adopt the unhurried cadence of the Eskimo language—a slow, measured delivery with lots of pauses that helped build rapport with his audience.

It was a lot like watching a one-man play, in which the actor entrances, mystifies and then enlightens his audience. I admired Hodgson’s skill, his natural ability to engage an audience, even this one, which was more uncomprehending than he’d ever met in his union days. The pitch of his voice, his posture, eye contact, facial expressions, hand gestures and the way he walked in front of the crowd to involve everyone was masterful.

An hour after the meeting started the back door opened and, along with a rush of ice fog, in shuffled a plump, short woman with a wide, toothless smile and tattoos on her face. The crowd fell silent.

“Atuat,” whispered the Bay clerk. “Eighty-one years old! Hadn’t encountered white people before she was forty or more. They call her Grandmother. Hunted until she was well into her seventies, and once killed a polar bear using nothing but a spear. People treat her like The Queen.”

With the help of a cane, the grand old lady walked past the audience to the open space where the drum dancers had performed. I stared at the vivid blue tattoos on her face. There were parallel lines from her mouth down to the middle of her chin; more swept across her cheekbones and descended from her hairline to the bridge of her nose. She was maybe four feet ten inches tall and hunched over from age. Her skin was wrinkled but her hair was still dark and her eyes clear. Born in the late 1800s, she had fully experienced all the harshness of a nomadic Arctic existence.

Atuat plonked herself down on the floor in the open space before the seats and stared up at Hodgson, giving him a big gap-toothed smile. Hodgson walked from behind the table and extended his hand. She took it for a brief moment and said something in Eskimo before she let Hodgson return to his place.

Hodgson threw the meeting open to questions, and there were plenty. As with Grise Fiord, they were about ways to solve the privations and isolation of the residents, not about how Hodgson’s new government could have any bearing on the realities of their lives. Hodgson patiently answered them, throwing out instant solutions in some cases, offering to come back with answers to others, skilfully keeping the audience involved. When three men started discussing a point privately, he spoke to one of them and flashed a smile to encourage open discussion. If an old lady looked doubtful, he’d stop and give her time to ask a question. The meeting continued for another hour. Then, after about two minutes of silence, he asked, “Are there any more questions before we close this meeting?”

Atuat motioned and someone darted forward to help her to her feet. She leaned on her stick and looked at Hodgson as she spoke. She spoke slowly, thoughtfully, melodiously. Sometimes, when I thought she was finished, she was just considering her next words. Hodgson listened as if he planned to spend the next two weeks in Arctic Bay.

The translator spoke, “Ten years ago I lived in a snow house in winter and a tent in summer. It was the old way, but it was a difficult way to live. Now we have houses and we enjoy living in them much more. We are warm and dry all the time.”

There were nods and murmurs of agreement around the audience.

“You promise to do many good things for our community. For that we are grateful. We are grateful that you want to help.”

Hodgson nodded, waiting for her to speak again.

“I have one request. Could you build a community bathhouse for us in Arctic Bay? I had a bath once, and I’d be happy if I could have one more before I die.”

I was stunned, suddenly aware of how much we take for granted in our southern lives. Hodgson looked at her with a smile. “I will arrange to have the materials shipped up on the summer sealift and the people in the community will build the bathhouse this fall. And when it’s built, I want you to be the first one to use it! Next year, when I come back, I also want to use it.”

Smiles of appreciation filled the room. Atuat beamed and walked to the table where she extended her hand to Hodgson. Hodgson bent down and hugged her, to the delight of the others. They behaved like lifelong friends.

The meeting had come to a close and Bill Kempt announced it was time for lunch, a welcome respite. My eyes were raw from the tobacco smoke, which rolled through the room like sea fog.

Sometimes history overwhelms us with its swirl of facts and events apparently unconnected to our own late twentieth-century world. At other times, the connections are so vivid that we feel deja vu - when we look at a 1901 photograph of a cyclist tooling around Stanley Park, or when one's teenaged son exclaims with shock that his great-grandfather in the daguerrotype is wearing trendy wire-rimmed spectacles just like his own.

It so happens that the birth of the twentieth century coincided with a time of great change and upheaval in the western world. Vancouver was no exception, having recently become the western terminus of the national railway. I wanted to capture the sense of time and place in Vancouver, city of my birth, by way of a snapshot view of the era, hoping as well to discover some trends, habits and events which give Vancouver a distinctive character with which we identify today.

During the course of my research I met Lynda Orr, who is an interpreter at the Burnaby Village Museum and a passionate devotee of history. She urged me to consider writing a book on the life of Sara McLagan (nee Maclure), who in 1901 became owner and editor of the Vancouver Daily World. Sara was the first woman publisher of a Canadian daily newspaper, respecting which Lynda had produced a well-written paper. I had become aware of Sara and her intriguing life and career in the course of writing The Fraser Valley: A History, but there was insufficient material for a full biography. Why not then combine the two ideas, and capture Vancouver at century's turn through Sara's eyes?

I was and remain wary of writing history as an imagined memoir. The approach necessarily involves much speculation and educated guess. We know, for instance, that Sara had strong opinions on social issues and wrote many editorials for her newspaper, and that her hands-on approach to management left little room for editorializing that ran contrary to her own beliefs. Yet this memoir must be viewed as a work of historical fiction. As much as Sara's personal diaries and Daily World files have revealed her life and times for me, I take sole responsibility for errors of fact and interpretation.

Pioneers die; memories fade. The Vancouver scene at the dawn of our century was a very special time and place, and interpretations of that scene will differ. But perhaps, as Ralph Waldo Emerson put it, "there is no history, only biography."

Excerpt from Chapter Four: 1901:Winter Sorrow"

Vancouver greeted the dawn of the new century with a glistening white devil-may- care air. A foot of snow bathed city streets, which were deserted in the morning; even the streetcars were idle. By afternoon, though, the pleasant tinkling of sleigh bells was heard, and a motley collection of sleighs of all sizes and shapes appeared downtown, contraptions which would have horrified proper Torontonians. Douglas and not a few of his friends, I am sad to say, hurled their fair share of snowballs at the passersby on Georgia Street.

John was well enough to sit downstairs and receive a dozen or so guests for our New Year's Day at-home, but he remained very pale, withdrawn and weak. I busied myself with World affairs, meeting with staff and assuring them that all would be well; we would press on in spite of their old chief's illness. I appointed Sam Robb as city editor at this time, laid additional duties upon Fred, and shared chief editorship duties with the recently hired Harold Sands. (Donald had finally left, claiming too much interference with his editorial positions.) There was now no question in my mind of John ever returning to manage the business - either he let me have a completely free hand or we would sell the World.

Perhaps it was John's illness or maybe I still smarted over her caustic criticism of the World's costume ball piece, but Julia Henshaw and her cliquish snobbery began to irritate me beyond measure. So, as a spoof in response to all her banal plaudits of high society hostesses and their receiving lines, I published a social register listing some 218 Vancouver hostesses and their weekly receiving days and hours-including my own. I meant it to be facetious, but Lady Tupper and others congratulated me on the World's new "social awareness."

In order to shock the city's smug snob set, I revelled in publishing stories about the underside of life in Vancouver. The Tuppers and Henshaws were aghast at my focus on the "low later": "The old man was sitting in a Granville street car the other evening, and anyone could see that his had been a hard day's work. The very fact that the poor old fellow seemed on the verge of prostration appealed to the pity of fellow passengers, and they made way for him so he could rest his worn-out limbs. As he sat down, his gnarled hands wandered nervously over his forehead, as if his 62 summers burdened his very soul down. At the post office, two ladies got on. . . They had fine clothes, and to judge from their talk, they lived in the West End.

The only vacant seat was next to the old man, and as they gracefully deposited their luxurious persons, the one nearest the old laborer drew her dress in carefully in fear of contamination. One woman then audibly stated, "Deah me, why don't they have special cahs for these working creatuahs? It is getting too horrible that a lady cawnt ride in a cah without getting a dress spoiled. They ought to have special cahs, with the place for these working people in the rear. It is simply disgusting."

Vancouver was still small enough that all of the social and personal items that one normally associates with rural weekly newspapers could be dished up to our readers. For years, we ran a "Daily City Gossip" column. Some samples:

"J. Anderson was yesterday fined $50 for smuggling and $10 for using abusive language to the landing waiter at the CPR wharf Anderson was caught bringing a choice piece of silk, in the form of a lady's wrapper, off the Empress."

"It is said that there were two whales in the Inlet yesterday. They came in on Saturday and the monsters could not again find the narrows."

"Joe Fisher, well-known Calgary rancher, arrived in the city Thursday with a shipment of horses. Half the carload were shipped today to Nanaimo to work in the mines. The others are now on sale at the stable in the rear of the Granville Hotel."

"A man in the West End has his dog trained to steal the papers off his neighbour's porch."

"Another round-the-world tramp struck the city yesterday. It is time these pestiferous nuisances were stopped."

"Rev. R. G. MacBeth entertained an appreciative audience at Eburne last evening with his reminiscent talk on the Northwest Rebellion."

"Thomas Shirley states he will hold the city liable for his typhoid fever illness, alleging that the officers of the health department were negligent. . ."

My daily life began to follow a predictable pattern. After seeing the children off to school, checking on John in his bed and instructing Louie and Tring on the day's chores, I headed down to the World ,/I> office on Homer, usually walking along Georgia to Granville, and then taking the tram along Hastings Street past the post office. As soon as I entered the office, I smelled the musty, inky scent of the presses, heard the click clacking of machinery and the familiar old tapping of the telegraph keys.
John's office was a trifle large for my needs, but I admit to a thrill at sitting down at the big mahogany desk and commencing the checklist of our daily stories. One of the reasons that we went through so many chief editors at the World was because John and I had always insisted on a proprietary approach to each editorial and story. I scanned everything for content, accuracy, grammar and spelling-in fact, my proofing of each edition later got me in trouble with the Proof-Reader's Union. My eyes and ears were Sam Robb; for the city editor is the field commander, running to and fro to meet and direct the reporters, demanding the story on a suicide on Carrall Street or a drowning in the harbour. Sam knew that I wanted human interest stories and he got them, regularly.
The staffers were always deferential toward me. My warm but businesslike relationship with them did not change after gaining the presidency and sole ownership later on. In any case, I never stood on formality: they all knew that I just wanted the job done well. We had some mighty good times down at the World, when I think of it. Sam kept us all in stitches with his humorous stories. Known for his ability to entertain and graced with tousled hair and ragged moustache, he was dubbed Vancouver's Mark Twain by World staff. Copy men and reporters alike often crowded into my office to hear Sarn's latest scoop on the waterfront - for even after becoming city editor, Sam insisted upon rooting out many stories by himself.
The most unusual character associated with the World was Francis Bursill, whose pen name was Felix Penne. Bursill lived in a shack in the South Vancouver woods. But he spent his days downtown. Sporting a scraggly grey beard and carrying his customary bundle of newspapers under arm, he strutted about town and for a time kept a salon on Pender Street, near Cambie - a huge, barnlike room cluttered with furniture, books and pictures. Here he entertained friends over a glass of whiskey. I am told that it was a decidedly Bohemian atmosphere, though Bursill loved all art and literature. And he was a good writer. I persuaded him to con-tribute a regular column in the World on literary matters.
Bursill founded both the Vagabond's Club and the Shakespeare Society. The Vagabonds met monthly at his salon. God knows what they accomplished. But one night the organizing committee planned a gala evening of fun and sport involving a make-believe trial of Bursill on a charge of murdering some city resident. Bursill turned up as usual, wearing a special velvet coat he reserved for formal occasions and smoking a Havana cigar. Not being aware of the planned events, he became apoplectic when the frock-coated Vagabond clerk formally read the charges to him of having committed a gruesome axe murder. As poor Bursill rose trembling to protest his innocence, he unconsciously threw his burning cigar into his coat pocket. Smoke rose, then flame. The velvet coat was shed and soon lay ruined on the floor. Bursill angrily ejected everyone out of the salon; the Vagabond Club was no more.

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