Inuit Karaoke

Mark Concannon

I voted for The Big Man three times and so did everybody else I knew 

‘cause he was the only one who did anything to stop all those damn 

criminals with their brown faces and their funny way of talkin’ from 

pourin’ in from Mexico and Guatemala and all those other sorry-ass 

places, and messin’ everything up.

The way that I and all the other folks who did farmin’ in Gunther 

County, that’s in Nebraska by-the-by, the way we saw it, anyone with 

skin, that you know, looked real sun-tanned, was real bad news. Now, 

mind you, we all hired some of those individuals, I guess because we 

had to because nobody local would do them jobs for that money but 

none of us really liked ‘em and we sure as hell didn’t trust ‘em.

When you’re in the fields every day, brother, you pay a whole lotta 

attention to the weather, which we did religiously but we never 

believed in all the talk about global warmin’, figuring that was just some 

fancy talk from those folks on the other side tryin’ to scare us.

But sonovabitch, turns out they were right about that one. Gotta give 

those boys credit because that Nebraska county I was tellin’ you about, 

where my family owned a farm for like 150 years? It’s now like 100 

degrees there, every day. And they don’t get no rain. And this is 24-7-

365.

It happened real fast. The soil got real dry, the crops started wiltin’ and 

when they start wiltin’ it’s a whole lot easier for the bugs to eat ‘em, so 

the yields got low then they disappeared altogether. And what’s worse 

is when the pastures get sandy, there’s nothin’ for the animals to graze 

on so you try sellin’ off some of the herd but after a while, ain’t nobody 

was buyin’ ‘em so there were some real sad goodbyes to the cows, 

sheep and goats, plenty of them, you know, farewell dinners where 

they was both guests of honor and the main course.

Now I’ve delivered a few calves in my day but I ain’t no doctor or 

nothin’  but it was real easy to tell when the people in the county 

started fadin’ away too. They wasn’t coughin’ up blood or anything like 

you see in them Zombie movies but there was somethin’ about them 

that told you they weren’t doin’ too good. They just kinda got gray and 

grayer and grayer and one day you didn’t see ‘em around no more. 

Every family knew all the stories about the Dust Bowl in the 1930’s but 

we ain’t never figured it would happen to us.

So it’s hot like everywhere and there are only a few places left on God’s 

earth where anything’s got a chance to grow. Not many spots where 

you can farm with a whole bunch more farmers who are dyin’ (and I 

mean really dyin’) to farm somewhere and mister you’ve got yourself a 

situation.

This group called the United Nations, who’ve sorta been runnin’ things 

since The Big Man passed 20 years ago, figured a way to give everybody 

a shot at workin’ a piece of land. Now I say everybody, but it really 

wasn’t everybody, just those folks who could fork over 100-grand which 

got you a ticket into the lottery to see who got to keep farmin’ and who 

had to try somethin’ else. 

My brother Vernon, his wife Clara and me, the only adult members of 

our family still standin’ on this side of the grass, scraped together the 

100 K, got us a ticket, then jammed into the village hall, the only joint 

around that still got internet, to watch the lottery which was streamin’ 

in from Switzerland, I think. 

So there we were, squeezed in real tight (not as tight as it coulda been 

though since everyone was a might skinnier than previous) bumpin’ 

shoulder-to-shoulder with a bunch of drunk, sweatin’, stinkin’ 

sodbusters (wasn’t much water for showerin’ anymore), all hopin’ 

against hope to hear their names called to get one of them farms in 

them lands that still had ‘em.

The picture on the big screen TV was kinda fuzzy but you could still 

make it out pretty good. The show was called “Crop Luster” and It was 

a real glitzy deal with some silver-haired dude in a tuxedo drawin’ 

names out of a bucket that two chicks wearin’ fancy gowns pulled up 

from a well that looked fake as hell but I guess they wanted to make 

believe they were on a farm or somethin’.

They called out 100 names that night and wouldn’t you know it, the 

very last name they called was “CVB Farms in Gunther County, 

Nebraska” and that was us! 

The “CVB” stands for Clara, Vernon and Bunk, my sister-in-law, my 

brother and me. Now my real name is Eugene but people around here 

call me Bunk ‘cause I tend to run my mouth and exaggerate a bit from 

time to time. 

And even though they was pissed they didn’t have a winning ticket, 

everyone in the town hall offered us congratulations and best wishes 

and we said we hoped they would win next time but there was like ten 

more of them shows and nobody from Gunther County got picked.

But we sure did and that’s how come I’m in Esmitte, that’s in Greenland 

by-the-by, workin’ the land with Clara, Vernon and their two teenage 

boys. 

Now Esmitte used to be just north of what they called the Arctic Circle, 

you know, big ol’ sheets of ice that went on for miles and Polar bears 

roamin’ around. The bears and ice are all gone but some of the 

prettiest soil there ever was stretches as far as the eye can see.

It’s warm enough now to plant wheat, which we got a bunch of on our 

lower field. We stuck in some broccoli, kale, beets, carrots, turnips and 

radishes in the upper field closer to the house. 

And plantin’ around here took some gettin’ used to. When I first broke 

ground, some pretty weird, squiggly characters popped up from 

underneath. They didn’t look like any of the worms, grubs or crickets 

from back home but turns out they didn’t do no real harm to the 

harvest.

There are quite a few of us here now, so they needed to build some 

roads so we could all get around and I’ve become buddies with some 

boys from Iowa who got picked to be part of the highway crew.

And when all that ice melted, there was all kind of bones, like real 

ancient ones of bears, whales, seals and fish, so an army of them 

people who dig up old bones and stuff came here to investigate, 

wearin’ puffy jackets, carryin’ binoculars, teeny, tiny hammers and 

magnifyin’ glasses, lookin’ like them real educated types, you know, like 

some of them folks on the other side we didn’t used to care for but 

they were real nice, one of ‘em even stayed on to be principal at the 

grade school, and they even paid us a thousand bucks a day to look 

around on our land and there were film crews filmin’ them doin’ it and 

they all needed a place to stay so we got us a 200-room hotel, the 

Northern Lights Inn, just south of town. 

And these science people from Nuuk (that’s like the New York City of 

Greenland) just told us that real soon it might be gettin’ nice enough to 

grow corn, peppers, cukes and tomatoes. Hell, even pumpkins. That 

would be a big hit for the kids trick or treatin’ at Halloween.

And did I tell you, by-the-by that I’m a dad now? Don’t that beat all? I 

never did much with the ladies back in Gunther but mister, let me tell 

you, one look at Lusa at the hotel’s karaoke night and I was a goner. 

Lusa, which means “midnight” in Greenland talk was up there on stage, 

beltin’ out one of them Eskimo folk songs. I didn’t understand none of 

the words but it was a real catchy tune and that girl, I’m tellin’ ya’ that 

girl was somethin’ else. 

She’s singin’ away, her movin’ parts movin’ real good, her two long, 

black pigtails swayin’ to the music and then she starts givin’ me the eye 

and I’m poundin’ down a Coors Light and getting’ real sloppy with 

chicken wings and ranch dressin’ but still managin’ to give her the eye 

right back. Afterwards, she waves me over to her table and we get to 

talkin’, you woulda never guessed it by lookin’ at her, but hell, her 

English was better ‘n mine, and I come to find out she used to work in 

minin’ (which I told her was hard to believe since the little lady is like 

five foot tall standin’ on her tiptoes but when she invited me to 

commencin’ arm wrestlin’ to prove her point, I took one look at them 

muscles when she rolled up her sleeve and reckoned she’d whip my ass 

directly) and processin’ fish guts which she hated and now she’s just 

startin’ out as a tour guide for all the visitin’ folks who want to see what 

we’re doin’ over here and wouldn’t you know it one of the stops she’s 

making is our farm! Never thought in a million years I’d be a tourist 

attraction!

And in a billion years, never thought I’d marry a brown beauty but I did. 

There wasn’t no fancy ceremony. Lusa says in these parts, a boy and girl

 just agree to be married and that’s that. And I mean it could be first 

thing in the morning, last thing at night or durin’ a long day when she’s 

helpin’ us in the fields, no matter what, that girl always looks fresh, like 

she just stepped out of the shower. Never seen nothin’ like her and I 

never wanna be with nobody else.

Our kids, got two boys, Juko, who I call Johnny, Pittaq, Petey to me, and 

a girl, the apple of my eye Angajulleq, my little Angie. Lusa had some 

other goofier names in mind with a whole bunch more q’s but I put my 

foot down on that one.

Lusa’s been doin’ some redecoratin,’ makin’ these wood carvings that 

look like little Mr. Potato Heads with a bunch more teeth and puttin’ 

em all over the house. She says they’ll bring us good luck and they’ve 

been workin’ great for that so far. Little Angie knitted some green 

outfits for ‘em for Christmas and even Vernon and Clara, not exactly the 

smiliest people you’d ever know, got a chuckle or two out of it. 

The kids were complainin’ they were hot so I got one of them above 

ground pools they could splash around in. I taught ‘em how to play 

Marco Polo and it’s quite a sight, them chocolatey faces with black mop 

tops bobbin’ up and down in the water. Sometimes, I’ll take a dip 

myself, just layin’ back admirin’ all the greenery and the daffodils and 

cornflowers growin’ everywhere, like a blue and gold blanket down in 

the valley. Sometimes Lusa will bring me out a mug of what she calls 

“Greenlandic coffee” while I’m floatin’ around and I don’t know what 

she puts in there besides coffee but it sure as hell isn’t half and half and 

it sure as hell takes the edge off.

Things are goin’ real good.  We’re as busy as all get out. Trucks comin’ 

in three, four times a day, drivin’ down to Nuuk where they fly our 

produce to all corners, feedin’ the world, or what’s left of it anyway.

I mean, I still pay a whole lotta attention to the weather and it’s 

definitely  gettin’ warmer but it’s nothin’ like it was back in Nebraska 

back in the day so I’m thinkin’ we’re gonna he alright here.

Yeah. That’s what I’m thinkin’.

photo: Philip Rajchgot, Icefields 2014