Ep 1: Doug Henderson's War on Joy

It's a nice town, Mirror Falls. Sits on the north end of Vancouver Island. About 400 people live there. It has what you expect: a coffee shop called Dark Side of the Moon, a gas station called the Gassen-Gott, and a faulty electrical system. Every morning, the power flickers across the whole town. Nobody's figured out why, but you can set your watch by it. 9 o'clock every morning. The Gen Xers and Boomers call it the beginning of the long dash and refuse to explain the reference to anyone younger. If you're paying attention, you can sometimes hear it too. A little buzz off in the distance, to the west of town. The zap, the flicker, then things go back to normal. The other strange little quirk about Mirror Falls is that there are no waterfalls, which, you know, is confusing. People hear Mirror Falls and immediately picture a majestic cascade, mist in the air, and maybe a wooden viewing platform with a plaque nobody reads. What they get instead is a flat stretch of creek and a picnic table that wobbles. The question does come up a lot. Tourists ask it first, then realtors, then children, usually around age 6 when they realize the adults have been lying to them. As for why there are no falls, the official answer is geology. The real answer is Doug Henderson. Doug moved to town in the fall of 2001 after a storied career, mostly behind the camera at the CBC in Vancouver. Sort of a jack of all trades, sometimes operating the boom mic, but more often than not working in the shop, building stuff that other people would take credit for. I say mostly because there were times he was forced to the front of the lens. Stat holidays, vacations, flu season. If someone from the local news was out, he'd fill in. Sure, he wasn't a meteorologist, but he could read a teleprompter and hell, that's 95% of it, right? Easter 2001 was one of those days. Most of the building was empty for the long weekend. The radio techs on sea level were hosting their usual staff party, which involved more gin than should ever be in one place. Which is why Doug meandered down the stairs about an hour or so before the show. Shot of liquid courage before having to go on air and do the weather. Or maybe a couple of shots? Honestly, Doug lost track, and When the control room called him back to the studio, well, he was in a fine mood. The kind of mood that makes you overly optimistic about your abilities. It was about 3 minutes to air. The show leading into the news was a political interview show. The anchor was interviewing the leader of the opposition, a guy named Stockwell Day, who'd been under siege from his own party. Tonight, musical chairs. 3 of the rebel MPs go back to the Alliance.

8 others join a new coalition.

Several MPs left, some kicked out. The opposition caucus was shrinking so fast it felt less like a party and more like a countdown. The interview was live. Doug can see it on a monitor at the back, but he was busy with mic check, which normally involves the on-air talent saying the word sibilance a few times. Broadcast technicians are deeply suspicious of the letter S and feel it needs constant supervision. But Doug, a couple of shots of gin under his belt by now, thought it would be funnier to say syphilis instead. Syphilis! Syphilis! It's syphilis, folks! he laughed. The camera guy was chuckling. The sound guy let a giggle out. The floor manager, who was the only one on headset back to the control room, was not laughing. She made the universal cut-it-out gesture, finger across the throat, And Stage whispered, "Stop talking." See, it turns out the radio techs in Vancouver weren't the only ones having a party. Master Control in Toronto was too. A great party. Also involving more gin than should ever be in one place. Master Control is the place where all the wires end up. The wires for the live shows. The wires for the studios just getting ready. And the wires for the microphones being tested. None of those connections are ever supposed to be live at the same time. But Jin has a way of creating new interpretations of policy. The guy in charge of the network's audio accidentally left the Vancouver studio up right over top of the Stockwell Day interview. And at the exact moment when Stockwell Day was asked to explain the shrinking of his caucus. Doug left the CBC's employ that day. He decided the meeting with the nice lady from HR was a kind omen. A mutual decision, she called it. By fall, Doug was in Mirror Falls working as the town's only taxi driver and signmaker, two professions where microphones are blessedly optional. Back then there was a waterfall in Mirror Falls. Not an impressive one, about 3 feet. Enough to feel proud of itself. Still, Doug hated it. He said waterfalls were noisy and would attract what he called the riffraff. Tourists led to loitering, loitering to littering, and littering somehow to the embrace of the devil. Or at the very least to bad decisions involving rolled-up pants and confidence that had not been earned. He cited one sprained ankle and what he called a troubling rise in shirtless optimism during the summer months. And in 2002, Doug went to council with a hand-drawn diagram, 3 jars of creek water, and a speech that lasted 47 minutes in which he proposed a quieter, more reflective alternative A gently moving creek that knew when to mind its own business. Amira Falls produces a lot of resources: water, logs. But near the top of that list is apathy. So the idea just sort of stalled until the Germans came. In 2005, a busload of German tourists arrived. They had maps, they had cameras. They had expectations. Their travel agent told them that the falls were beautiful. Majestic, even. There was even a photo, which was later determined to be Niagara Falls mislabeled. They stood at the miniature dribble in silence for a long time. One of them clapped. Slowly. Sarcastically. They got in the bus and left. The de-waterfalling work party happened the next Saturday. Everyone showed up because, well, free donuts. They added rock to create a gradual slope, and by noon, the waterfall was gone. Over the years, people did suggest the name be changed from Mirror Falls to something like Mirror Creek, or maybe something entirely different. Nobody knew where the mirror part came from. I mean, except for a local elder named Mary George, but she's convinced it involves the feds somehow. In the end, of course, they did nothing. So if you do manage to get around these parts and ask why there's no waterfall, someone will eventually sigh and say, "Dug." Which brings us to this week. The town decided it was high time to change the sign on the highway which, until now, had read "Unincorporated Area Approximately." The mayor, an older tall Dutchman named Hans, thought this would be the perfect opportunity for an extraordinary Monday morning meeting of city council. The winter had been hard on Hans, and he rather liked the company. I'd like to say that city council didn't usually have extraordinary meetings, but that would be a lie. In fact, they had them all the time. But people in town can't agree on whether the town as a whole enjoys them, or if the town as a whole humors the mayor. Any opportunity to force people to eat stale Dutch licorice Well, this brand, Hans once said, you see, my brother Peter brought this over last year. This one doesn't taste nearly as much as, what'd you call it last time, Dave? Like ass? The meeting announcement was posted in the local paper, the Falls Optimist. And by paper, I mean website. And by website, I mean a single web page with more fonts than actual news stories. GeoCities called and wants its soul back, the school's music and art teacher Stephanie would often say. When city council meeting day came, the usual suspects were there, about 20 in all, including the mayor, the 4 city councillors, Kelly the nurse, Jocelyn from the coffee shop, Mary George, and that nice couple that run the Chinese restaurant that come to every meeting, sit at the very back, and never say a word. The clock hit 9 o'clock. As usual, the lights flickered. The mayor considers that the town's unofficial gavel, so he put his chocolate bar away and called the meeting to order. The decision itself was made pretty quickly. The sign would be simple. No graphics, or fancy shit as the mayor called it. And they'd do it quick. They put up the sign the next day because the highway crew was already scheduled to be out that way. Welcome to Mirror Falls, it said. Take your time. White letters, green background. Very tasteful. Nobody noticed the issue until Thursday. The problem was that the town you pass to come west off the main island highway, a little place called Ashford Bay, for as long as anyone could remember, claimed "take your time" as an unofficial slogan. It was never on a sign. It was just something people said. You stopped for gas there, the attendant would say it. You asked for directions, they would say it. You hurried through a conversation, they would say it. Take your time. So when the Mirror Falls sign went up, it didn't take long for news to make it to Ashford Bay. But they're Canadians, polite Islanders, so there were no calls, no complaints, only the time-honored Canadian tradition of focused, burning passive aggression. By Thursday, there was a new sign just outside of Ashford Bay. It read, "Welcome to Ashford Bay. Take your time." Now, in normal towns, this kind of thing gets resolved quickly. A call, maybe a beer. But neither of these are normal towns. And in an apparent attempt to cement their marketing tagline, on a Saturday night, they added a smaller sign under the main one: "We mean it." On Sunday morning, someone added their own sign black lettering painted on a piece of driftwood. "We can tell." Nobody ever admitted to doing it, but everyone knew it was Doug. Sure, he had the equipment, but he also possessed the area's most abundant supply of seething, unchanneled pettiness. Drivers started slowing down. People pulled over to take photos. Someone started a page at facebook.com/ashfordbay just for the sign. It was like a hockey rivalry no one remembered starting, but everyone was certain they were winning. By the following week, Ashford Bay had added a flower bed. Mirror Falls put a bench by their sign. Ashford Bay added a historical plaque explaining the town's long tradition of patience. Someone stole the take-a-number dispenser from the medical clinic and bolted it to the Mirror Falls sign. Ashford Bay added a suggestion box with the slot hammered shut. And that's when the highway department got involved. They asked very calmly, "Which of these signs are official?" And when nobody could give them a straight answer, a compromise was reached. Both towns would remove everything except the original signs. No add-ons. No sarcasm. The next morning, the highway looked normal again. Almost boring. Until Stephanie took her grade 3 art class down to the sign. Together, they put up their own sign. It reads: Welcome! You made it! So far. It's still there.

I am strolling along, just minding my business, humming a song. I'm happy by myself, not a care in the world. This is the life, just me, myself, and I.

Mirror Falls is produced with gratitude on the territory of the Coast Salish people. Story and sound design by Tod Maffin. Join other Mirror Falls fans and chat about this episode at chat.mirrorfalls.com. You can subscribe to Tod's free newsletter about Canada at farandwide.news. Music licensing by Epidemic Sound. Theme song by Nicholas Gabrielson with the Martin Landstrom Orchestra.

I'm out and about. Painting the town red, I'm coming around. There ain't no doubt about it, I'm no longer blue. So glad we are through, just me, myself, and I.