What I loved most about the Gimli shows wasn’t just the playing. It was the odd, shining bits around the edges. Like the woman behind the bar who told me, at the end of the night, she used to live in Montreal and Toronto. Can’t help but wonder what road leads from Montreal and Toronto to Gimli. She said she studied Russian literature back in Montreal. I asked about Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita, and she lit up, same as me. Imagine that, finding another soul in Gimli who notices talking cats and devils hypnotizing audiences in Moscow. Then Billy, same from the old days, tells me the whole show reminds him of being in my parents’ basement, playing “Roundabout” by Yes under my red floodlights. Memories of the smell of tobacco and things rhyming with moustache. Funny what stays in the air years later. And then the lovely man who made it happen says he wants to bring us back in March, do it proper. A hall overlooking Lake Winnipeg, grand piano and all. I keep thinking: a gift horse, avoid the mouth, even with snowshoes.