MEMORIES OF THE HOITO IN THUNDER BAY

 

 

MEMORIES OF THE HOITO IN THUNDER BAY 

I was introduced to the Hoito when I went to Lakehead University. It was known for its good food and good prices (their famous Finnish pancakes were the attraction), and it became a regular eating place for many students, especially students from out of town; and if I’m not mistaken, it was purchased by a former LU student who came from Sault St. Marie. After university, I had to go to Thunder Bay to pick up supplies for my contract drywall taping and painting business, and I often stopped off at the Shuniah township office and see if my friend Ozzie Kankkunen, who was the former town engineer in Nipigon, was free for breakfast, or lunch. Ozzie loved the Hoito’s liver and onions, and it became one of my favorites as well. And I often went to Chapters in the city with my friend George Zurowski (now deceased) to pick up new books as well as The New Yorker, Atlantic, Harper's, and other magazines; and then we’d go to the Hoito for a meal. George more often than not had Mojakka (fish soup). We would also pick up our mutual friend Ernie, a retired civil servant, if he was free, and we’d have long philosophical discussions with our meals. In fact, I wrote a novel inspired by our friendship called An Atheist, An Agnostic, and Me; but it’s not published yet. I have many wonderful memories of the Hoito, and it’s sad to see it go this way. It will be missed.

New poem: "The Hundredth Monkey"

 

The Hundredth Monkey

 

Until the Wheel of Life turns upside down,

and the up is down and the down is up,

the hundredth monkey of moral accountability

will not come into play; only then will

this covid pandemic go away.

New poem: "Putting My Gurdjieff On"

 

Putting My Gurdjieff On

 

The time has come to put my Gurdjieff

on and go back to sanctuary, where

not even God can reach me, and nourish

my famished soul; —

 

The time has come to say goodbye, it’s

been nice knowing you; but it’s been

such a long time since I’ve been Home,

that I’ve got to be moving along.

 

It’s not this covid pandemic that’s calling

me Home, all of the anxiety and distress

of waiting for death, nor the comfort

and joy of knowing I am Soul; —

 

It’s more a question of the same old thing,

the tiring refrains of not knowing, one

talking head out-doing another, a pouring

of the empty into the void.

 

The time has come to put my Gurdjieff

on and go back to sanctuary, where the peace

and quiet of no desire can nourish my soul;

and when I am strong enough, I can bid

farewell and go back Home.

New poem: "John Hoyer Updike"

 

John Hoyer Updike

 

Re-reading the biography of America’s

preeminent man of letters, Adam Begley’s

UPDIKE, I marveled even more the

second time at John Hoyer Updike’s

writerly accomplishments, which pulled

at me like a siren call to the infernal

depths of writer envy, but I kept myself

from falling as I valued the worth of my

humble life, examining the trajectory

of my own writerly way into the center

of life experience that every writer seeks

but cannot find, and the anguish left my

troubled heart and was replaced with a

gratifying joy for John Hoyer Updike’s

Nobel prize-worthy talent.

New poem: "The Oink of the Lone Pork Loin"

 

The Oink of the Lone Pork Loin

 

“Who will hear the oink of the lone pork loin?”

It’s so far outside the box that to be pounded, tenderized,

and fried alone would truly be poetic irony; —

 

There was once a song in popular culture called “Little Boxes,”

the homes we occupy, our thoughts, dreams, and noble ambitions,

every “ticky-tacky” thing for you and me and everybody; —

 

But as I grew older, I grew wiser mastering the ancient art of Sufi

sausage making, and so thin did I become in my dying that my pants

no longer fit me; and I needed a bigger house to live in; —

 

Standing by the kitchen sink this morning, the four pork loin slices

unwrapped from their cellophane packaging, one slice of loin

stood out in its own see-through wrapper; —

 

I felt sorry for the lone pork loin, estranged forever from itself

and everything familiar, and turning to heaven, I sang in playful anger,

“Who will hear the oink of the lone pork loin?”