Grace – A Beautiful Name for an Ornery Cayuse

One day at our Lodge we were discussing how difficult, indeed impossible, it is to separate people into clear-cut groups – into the “good” or the “bad”!  Life does not seem to work that way.  There are elements of the bad in the best of us, and something of good in the worst of us.  I am about to present a case for believing that the same may well apply in the animal kingdom too.

When my sister Doris and I were seven and six years old, respectively, our Dad decided we were old enough to ride horses to school.  Bareback riding it would be, no saddle to give a false sense of security, no stirrups to add danger to a fall.  We were to learn to move with our horses, hang on with our knees, and guide with the reins.  He purchased a beautiful sorrel coloured pony for Doris.  She promptly named her mount Daisy.  Dad wanted a slightly smaller pony for me, and could not find one in our area.  His search led him to the Indian reservation at Gleichen.  There he purchased from the Indians, a cayuse.  This was their name for any riding pony that was fleet of foot, trained to obey rein signals, and reliable.  Well, this cayuse was pure white, slim of body and legs, and with a nicely shaped head.  She was well trained to obey the neck rein signals and could run like the wind – but reliable?  That could be a matter for discussion!  As it turned out, she also had a will of iron.  I loved her at first sight, and named her Grace.    Continue reading

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Train Whistles and Nightmares

January 1951, Shoal Lake, Manitoba, and a perfectly normal working day.  The crew had left for their work in the country.  Sheldon, now party chief, was in his office, located in a trailer near by. Everything was “near by”.  The crew house trailers and the crew equipment were all parked in the town’s vacant fair grounds.  I was in our trailer with Ralph, just over three, and his sister Lorna who was 11 months old.  The washing was frozen stiff on an outside line, and I was bringing in a few pieces at a time to dry over our heater.  Suddenly Sheldon was at the door, knocking the snow off his boots.  He was greeted with excited squeals from the kids, who did not often see Daddy mid-morning.  He laughed and scooped them up, looking over their heads, and said, “I got a call from head office.”  My heart started to race as I asked, “And what did they want?”  “I’ve been promoted and have to report to the Divisional Office in Peace River as soon as possible.”

So five and a half years after we joined the seismic crews as a couple of newlyweds, another big change was underway.  In the middle of a Prairie winter we found ourselves in Swift Current, Saskatchewan, glad to be off the snowy roads and in a warm hotel.  The trip from Shoal Lake had been taxing.  The provincial roads were not well graded or maintained.  We cheered when we finally made it to the TransCanada Highway.  This should be better!  Well, it was but only marginally. It was not graded up high as roads are today.  It wandered across the prairies following the contours of land, gravelled not paved.    Continue reading

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Between the Blacksmith’s Shop and the Beer Parlour

Surprises and Challenges

It was early morning as I walked down the street from the hotel, accompanied by the clerk carrying our two suitcases.  As we approached our house I could hear the ring of the blacksmith’s anvil as it hit hot steel.  The shop was just a half-block beyond our house, and the smell of the hot coals in the blacksmith’s fire was pungent and unmistakeable.  I unlocked the front door.  The clerk stepped in, took a curious look around, and departed.  His departure marked the end of our nights sleeping above the hotel’s beer parlour.

Shutting the door behind him, I leaned against it and took a deep breath.  It was a mess!  Where should I begin?  I dithered a moment and then started with the obvious.  Grabbing up broom and dustpan (some of yesterday’s purchases), I started to sweep up anything that could be swept and tossed it out the back door into the alley.  The next tasks followed quickly: locating the gallon can of coal oil and filling the tank on the stove; pumping some water into a basin to wash up some dirty spots on the floor.  My spirits started to rise as I made some progress.  My thoughts flipped back to the Southern Ladies in the hotel in Saskatoon and I started to laugh.  My guess was that they might not even know how to get water from a pump!  Being a farm girl had some advantages.   Continue reading

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Our First Home

Sheldon and I were cuddled up together in our hotel bed, desperately tired and unable to sleep.  Our second floor room was right over the doors to the local beer parlour.  People had been coming and going, laughing and shouting to one another all evening.  “It should be quiet soon,” said Sheldon.  “They close at midnight on week days, and this is Monday.”  He gave me a hug.  “Tomorrow is the 29th, Marjorie, your birthday, and we will be moving into our first home!”  We were excited and thrilled.  The street noise was fading – and we fell asleep almost mid-sentence.  We were young—both 23—strong and healthy, but we had a right to be exhausted.  The last two weeks could be called momentous, life changing, or just plain hectic!

It was May 1945.  On Wednesday the 16th I had sat with my parents and Sheldon’s mother through the convocation service for Sheldon and the other graduates.  Later with our friends, we celebrated far into the night.  The next morning both families were heading back to Calgary, for on Saturday the 19th we were to be married.  Tight planning you say – and so it was.  We had tried for earlier, a year earlier in fact, but had yielded to our respective parents’ strong objections to our launching into marriage before Sheldon graduated.  Our cooperation was based on their agreement to a wedding right after his graduation.  Little did we or our parents know that we would end up having 11 days in which to graduate, get married, squeeze in a few days in Banff and a few in Lethbridge with his mother and her friends, and get to Saskatoon on May 26th to report for work with one of Imperial Oil’s seismic crews.    Continue reading

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The Sheep Who Thought She Was a Person

Doris and I were waiting for Dad to arrive home from a trip to the “big town” of Strathmore.  He needed some parts for the repair of a seeder, and Mom had tacked on a request for groceries.  We two were hoping the groceries included some store-bought goodies.  The old car rattled in and Dad got out.  He was carrying a bag of groceries – and cradling a cardboard box with his other arm.  “What’s that, Mom?” we asked with excitement.  “I have no idea!” was her reply.  He came up the back steps.  Mom held the door for him and took the bag of groceries.  Dad gave her a grin, and tilted the box so she could peek in.  Her gasp of amazement made Doris and me jump up and down in excitement.  “What is it?” we chorused.  Dad carefully set the box down saying, “See for yourselves.”  There was a tiny, white bundle, and a baby bottle.  It was a very small, very young, little white lamb!  It poked its nose towards us and gave a soft bleating cry.  Figuratively, if not literally, the four of us fell on our knees.  We were captives of this wee, needy morsel of animal life.

I never did hear the story of how Peggy (we all agreed this was her name) came to be in that box on her way to enter our lives.  The Thompsons never raised sheep.  We kids had rarely seen sheep, and never up close.  Even the adults in our family knew little about raising sheep.  More pets we kids did not need!  We already had house cats and barn cats, dogs, horses (who qualified) and mice and bats (who did not).  That did not even count the creepy crawlies that at least one of us enjoyed.  But never a pet like this one!      Continue reading

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A Little Town on the Western Prairies

I will soon be posting some stories regarding life in the 1940s on a seismic crew, from a woman’s point of view.  The five years Sheldon and I spent roaming around Alberta, Saskatchewan and Manitoba with the oil crews were years never to be forgotten.  Exciting, enjoyable, challenging, funny and scary – all terms applied at one time or another.  At the age of 23 we entered the field life of western oil exploration, young and inexperienced and “rar’n to go”.  It was, as the saying goes, to be a steep learning curve.  We left the field for the office five years later, a family of four.  In those five years we learned a great deal, both about ourselves and about life skills in general.  Along the way we built deep and enduring friendships.  The years have now taken Sheldon and many of our peers, but some 60 years later I am lucky enough to have some of the old friends from those crew days still with me.

So what has this to do with a Western prairie town?  You will soon see.  The events in some of my following postings will be set in surroundings and times completely unfamiliar to many of you.  Not wanting to write a history on the social, economic and political times of the 1940s (nor capable of doing so!), I decided instead to introduce you to Standard – a real and quite typical prairie town.  Try to hold the picture of this town in your mind.  When we meet Davidson, Saskatchewan, as seen in May of 1945, remember what you have garnered about Standard’s streets, sidewalks, homes, businesses and community.

Standard is located on the rolling prairies some 50 miles beyond the east edge of Calgary.  About 100 years ago conditions were ripe for bringing about its birth.  A new farming area was being opened up by the CPR.  Danish farmers from Denmark and the United States were looking for land.  A railway ran through the area and there was almost daily service to Calgary.  There was a small coal mine just south of town.  The CPR opened a station, using the kind of building found on their lines all over the West.  This consisted of a two-storey building which had the first floor opening out on the platform by the tracks.  This floor consisted of a large freight room, the station agent’s office, the ticket booth, and a passenger waiting room.  Stairs led to the second floor which housed the station agent and his family.   Continue reading

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Chewing Tobacco, Grasshoppers and Sex

It was sunny and warm so I carried my afternoon snack carefully through the house, heading for the shade of the east-facing front porch.  “I know
it is cool out there”, said Mother, “but it is covered with grasshoppers.  Do you want to go out?”  I assured her that I did and that I liked grasshoppers “Mom, they are interesting.” Mother smiled and murmured something about not being surprised.

There were a lot of grasshoppers I noticed, as I crossed the porch and sat down on the first step after brushing several of my hopping friends out of my way.  Doris and I enjoyed these little flying beasts who descended on us in waves from time to time.  We had discovered that if we caught one and squeezed it carefully, the response was predictable.  It would promptly spit out a dark, brown, sticky juice.  We would release the first one and catch another.  Same squeeze, same result – “Spitting tobacco juice” we called this behaviour.

Tobacco juice we knew about.  The Danish enclave which formed our district, was comprised of many who came directly from “The Old Country”  –  Denmark.  Cigar smoking was common among these new Canadians, but so was getting their nicotine another way, from chewing tobacco.  As they worked around the farm, the hired men usually had a lump tucked in one cheek.  They worked, they chewed, and they spat out brown tobacco juice.  The old men sat in rocking chairs by the kitchen stoves watching life swirl around them, and chewed a wad of tobacco.  Beside them were spittoons, jug-like affairs.  Usually they were stationed on a spread of newspapers – to catch the errant streams of juice that missed the jug!  Doris and I knew tobacco juice, and the grasshoppers spit certainly looked just like it.    Continue reading

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A Nap in the Hay

Spring was firmly established.  It was warm in the morning sunshine, cool when the breezes whirled by.  The sky was bright and blue, the clouds puffy and white and the meadowlarks were singing.  The farm teemed with new life – calves, little piglets and baby chicks.  The barn cats had kittens, the pet dog produced puppies, and the resident wildlife followed suit in their own style.

This morning the big news was the birth, during the night, of a little colt.  My Dad made the announcement at breakfast.  Mother and offspring were well and enjoying the day in the fenced paddock behind the barn.

As with most farm kids, even little ones, there were chores to do.  I attacked mine with a vengeance, then announced to my mother that I was going to the barn yard to see if I could catch a glimpse of the new colt.  She nodded her consent but added “Be quiet, Marjie.  The mare will be protective of the new colt, and you must not upset her”.  With her admonition ringing in my ears, I hurried away.  Up to this point my day’s record was  unblemished.  I had…

Done my chores,

Told Mother where I was going,

Said what I wished to do, and

Listened to her “Be careful” list …

BUT …     Continue reading

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No Need to Reinvent the Wheel

When one reaches the “aged” phase the temptation is great, and the privilege exists, to revisit life itself – decades and decades of it!  Mankind as far as we now know, is unique among our fellow living creatures, in having a consciousness of self.  We retain memories of the past, anticipate the future, and are acutely aware of our mortality.  With all this come questions: many of them!  Some are profoundly important throughout life, some vary according to our age, and for the most part the answers are elusive.

It fascinates me that these questions, the search for understanding and the efforts to find answers cut across peoples, cultures, and the ages.  Archaeologists now know that even the earliest of primitive people wrestled with much the same questions that plagued more sophisticated societies, and still remain unanswered today:

What is the purpose of life?
What is my role here?
Is there something “out there” that is greater than all else?
Why is there good and evil?
What can I do to make my life worth living?     Continue reading

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Our Feathered Friend

“Man’s inhumanity to man”  Robbie Burns

Spring was here.  The farm hummed with new life including newly hatched chicks.  Dad arrived at the back door cradling a little chick, about 3 days old.  The mother hen had hidden her nest, and the brood was just discovered. “He’s damaged,” said Dad, “he drags one wing.  I’ll have to destroy him but I feel badly, the little guy is so game!”

The chick looked up at us and chirped, and of course, the battle was won.  A pen was built in the house yard, hand feeding and cuddling by all of us — talk about bonding!  Dad still worried, saying “This won’t work.  Chickens do not accept anything that is different” – but we did not want to listen.

Charlie, so he was named, grew quickly as chickens do.  Well fed, well loved, well exercised chasing after Doris and myself – all the while dragging one wing.  When we called he came, answering as he did.  The family chicken flock was “free range” before the term was known.  Sometimes they would be right outside of the house yard fence.  Charlie would press against the wire fencing of his pen and call to them, with no apparent response in return.     Continue reading

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