A FIRE, A WOOLLY MAMMOTH AND, MAYBE, A LESSON
A sad morning as we learn of the news of Cam Fuller’s passing. Our thoughts are with his family and friends, as well as colleagues who had the privilege of working with him. A passionate advocate of the arts whose indelible footprint on our community will never be forgotten. Sasktel Jazz Festival on its official Twitter account I’ll sorely miss (his) sharp wit and rich insights celebrating Saskatchewan’s incredible arts talent. RYAN MEILI, Saskatchewan NDP Leader Cam Fuller is a great friend, the absolute fishing buddy, and would have written 10 best-sellers by now if he weren’t so self-effacing. LES PERREAUX, Globe and Mail reporter He was brilliant. Always a good read. CONNIE MCGRATH, Starphoenix reader Saskatoon has lost not only a staple of its arts community but a fantastic citizen who, in my experience, wanted Saskatoon to keep getting better. SKYE BRANDON, Saskatchewan actor/ director/producer
Editor’s note: This column by Cam Fuller was first published May 26, 2018. There’s a lesson for me in the Kyle Hotel fire. It’s just that I’m not sure what it is.
On May 14, I was driving from Medicine Hat to Saskatoon. The middle part is a clear shot from Swift Current to Rosetown on Highway 4, a two-lane stereotype of Saskatchewan-straight pavement made for big pickup trucks to guzzle gallons and spit out miles.
The town of Kyle is on that road. It dates back to 1923, named after original settler Jeremiah Kyle. In the 1960s, they unearthed a 12,000-year-old woolly mammoth while building the highway.
I’ve passed Kyle quite a few times in my life. In fact, every time in my life. But driving lets you think. What I was thinking on the way down was “why?” Why don’t I ever stop in places like this? Too easy to keep moving. Don’t need gas. Plenty of places to eat in Swift or Rosetown, familiar places with familiar food advertised on TV.
But there’s something about Saskatchewan’s countless Kyles, those faded and peeling places fighting extinction. They had to be new once, they must have been busy in their day. Between them, you pass farmyards littered with forgotten stories in outdated machinery and classic cars on a journey from dust to dust.
There’s always a grand house that’s crumbling, a Halloween graveyard, an abandoned motel. What is it about abandoned motels? I picture a person I never was, leaning on a chair in front of a door with a one-digit number on it, rolling a cigarette with one hand and watching the sunset, anxious to get back in the finned Chevy early the next day because, well, there might be a duffel bag stuffed with cash in my trunk.
Back in reality heading home, with the radio on and a big truck in my mirror anxious about passing, I decide that today’s the day. I’ll stop in Kyle for lunch at that place advertised on a ditch sign. I let the exasperated GMC roar by, find the Farmer’s Grill without trying and risk being labelled a troublemaker by opting for the salad instead of french fries. Finally, I’m feeling like the suspicious stranger I wanted to be.
To prolong the fantasy after lunch, I step into the bakery down the street and buy a loaf of white bread, yeasty-fresh and still warm.
And then, I can’t even say why, I take a picture of the hotel on the corner — “Suites with kitchens, daily, weekly and monthly rates” — a plain white stucco building with a sign advertising ice for sale, the lettering on the word “ICE” topped by snow. It’s Monday, 1:40 p.m.
Having scratched whatever itch that was, it was back to numb normalcy heading north. Past the sign for Lacadena, which happens to mean something to me because it’s old Fuller territory. Past Elrose. Rosetown seemed positively hectic once I got there. Then it was on to home.
On Wednesday, May 16, at 5:30 p.m., firefighters went down into the basement of the Kyle Hotel, which was full of smoke. They quickly retreated and started spraying water on the buildings nearby. By 8 p.m., the hotel was in ashes, 72 years of history gone in 90 minutes.
Clearly, I’m not the least bit qualified to write about Kyle losing its hotel after seeing it once for two minutes. It’s just such an odd thing, having been there and taking what has to be the last picture of it intact, unaware that it had less than 55 hours to live.
It feels like there’s a lesson there, if only because I turn 55 today.
Maybe it’s this: Don’t drive by, not every time. Stop for a second. Look around. Take a breath. It’s later than you think.