Looking for Minnows - stories by Ray Bonneville

Killing Fog

I worked as a bush pilot in the Canadian wilderness for two seasons in 1989 and 1990...

KILLING FOG

The heading indicator swings wild in the panel as I desperately try to fight my way through and around the blinding cloud cover that has suddenly dropped down from above as I climbed out of the shallow river basin. I know right off that I’ve made a deadly mistake. The back of my throat is suddenly filled with the acidic taste of fear, reminiscent of the incoming rocket and…

First Band

Cutting southwest in broad daylight on Highway 81, through south-of-Roanoke country, a big doe jumped out of the trees and came across the highway reckless in front of me. I barely missed her and was pumping adrenaline. I pulled over to gather myself. I had a few hours before sound check at a gig down the road someplace, so I dropped into a café at the next exit. The sultry lady brought me coffee black like I ordered. I sat looking out the window at the road and…

A Hard Flight

A Hard Flight

Evelyn, who was running Air Tamarak by herself at the time, came for me at my cabin early one morning. “I need you down at the dock right away. There’s an unplanned trip for you to fly.” That was all she told me before rushing back, so I didn’t know what to expect as I walked down to the dock. When I got there, a pickup truck was backed up to the ramp.

In the bed of the pickup lay the body of a fifteen-year-old boy, wrapped in heavy-duty plastic from head to…

A Wandering Mind

I’m in the kitchen of my long 1957 Spartan trailer, with its turquoise stove top. My chef’s knife makes a swishing sound going through the strong onion flesh, as I dice it up into pieces about a half inch in size. I chop up a clove of garlic, then slice up half a red and half a green pepper. I put the onions in a big cast iron skillet and turn on the propane burner to a little under medium. I add olive oil to drench the onions and stir it up with a wooden…

The Woods Behind My House

I put on my well-worn rubber boots that have a faded red stripe along the bottom. I have the tops folded down and over a few inches. The inside canvas shows and is frayed, like my Uncle Red’s boots. They remind me of the times when he takes us looking for minnows. Red drives us from camp in his car, with its oblong steering wheel and three-speed transmission, down a dirt road to a farmer’s field to get the minnows. We usually catch three or four…

Runaways

Runaways

There were four of us: Leo, Bill, Michael and me.

I was closest with Leo, the first boy I met at the beginning of the eighth grade a few years back, when I only knew some basic words and phrases in English. At the beginning of the summer of 1962, my family had moved from Quebec City to a town some ten miles north of Boston. Before then, I had only spoken French.

(photo: Ray's house on Cliff Street, Winchester, MA)

I had been roaming the junior high school halls on…