Old Times Gone

steel wagon wheels
rattle down the lane no more
grandpa’s rocker sold

Taking Turns in the Tub

The Old Wooden Tub

by Edgar Guest

I like to get to thinking of the old days that are gone
when there were joys that nevermore the world will look upon
the days before inventors smoothed the little cares away
and made, what seemed but luxuries then, the joys of every day;
when bathrooms were exceptions and we got our weekly scrub
by standing in the middle of a little wooden tub.

We had no rapid heaters and no blazing gas to burn,
we boiled the water on the stove and each one took his turn.
Sometimes to save expenses we would use one tub for two;
the water brother Billy used for me would also do,
although an extra kettle I was granted, I admit,
on winter nights to freshen and to warm it up a bit.

We carried water up the stairs in buckets and in pails
and sometimes splashed it on our legs, and rent the air with wails,
but if the nights were very cold, by closing every door
we were allowed to take our bath upon the kitchen floor.
Beside the cheery stove we stood and gave ourselves a rub,
in comfort most luxurious in that old wooden tub.

But modern homes no more go through that joyous weekly fun,
and through the sitting rooms at night no half-dried children run,
no little flying tots dash past too swift to see their forms,
with shirts and underwear and things tucked underneath their arms.
The home’s so full of luxury now, it’s almost like a club.
I sometimes wish we could go back to that old wooden tub.
From the Collected Verse of Edgar A. Guest
© 1934 by the Reilly & Lee Company

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Pixabay image

I had to smile when I came across this poem by Edgar Guest. It reminded me of what my employer told me back in 1978.  He was from a farming family of seven: six girl and himself. They grew up in the ‘Dirty Thirties’ in a very dry prairie region (west of Moose jaw, SK) so bath water was scarce, often obtained by melting snow, and all heated on the stove as the poet says.

On Saturday night my employer’s sisters all got to have their baths first (yes, in the same bath water) and he had to be the last. Even with that extra kettle-full of hot water added,  he says the bathwater was pretty murky by the time he set foot in the tub.

 

 

Spring Rain

all night the spring rain
falls on the drought-baked fields
wheat pours from the combine

Making a Man of Himself

…………Two of a Kind………….

Perhaps you have heard this story before
but I’m sure you won’t mind if I tell it once more:
of a farmer who lived in a cottage so fine,
whose one major fault was his love of strong wine.

He’d leave all his work for the slightest excuse
and drive off to town with his team and caboose;
he’d drink till the close of the day was at hand,
then bring home a jug of his favourite brand.

The little brown jug was hidden away
on a shelf in the pen where the hogs used to lay.
One night while imbibing too freely of wine,
he dozed off to sleep in the pen with the swine.

The jug was upset; the pig drank the brew
and soon such a feeling no hog ever knew;
he ran ‘round the pen and he tried to jump out,
then playfully rooted the man with his snout.

The pig became dizzy and soon he got sick;
he laid on the floor and started to kick.
He hit the old farmer right square on the nose;
from the pain of the blow Farmer quickly arose.

“You miserable brute,” the old farmer said,
“If I had a gun I’d blow off your head.”
The hog said: “You see, ‘twas that jug on the shelf,
but I’ll never again make a MAN of myself.”

I thought you might find this poem worth reading.
It was written by Saskatchewan poet Roy Lobb, born circa 1892.

An Old Dream Dies

wind rattles clapboard
pries slivers from the old shack
sweeping away dreams

 

A Glimpse of Spring

It was -20 C again this morning but according to the weather forecast the temperature is going to soar up to 0 C or 32F by next weekend. Spring is slowly making its way up north.

Here’s a cheery spring scene to contemplate, written almost 200 years ago by British poet John Clare, part of a very long poem from The Shepherd’s Calendar

February – A Thaw

The snow is gone from cottage tops
The thatch moss glows in brighter green
And eves in quick succession drops
Where grinning ides once hath been
Pit-patting with a pleasant noise
In tubs set by the cottage door
And ducks and geese with happy joys
Douse in the yard pond brimming o’er

The sun peeps through the window pane
Which children mark with laughing eye
And in the wet street steal again
To tell each other spring is nigh
And as young hope the past recalls
In playing groups will often draw
Building beside the sunny walls
Their spring-play-huts of sticks or straw

The milkmaid singing leaves her bed
As glad as happy thoughts can be
While magpies chatter o’er her head
As jocund in the change as she
Her cows around the closes stray
Nor lingering wait the foddering boy
Tossing the molehills in their play
And staring round in frolic joy

Odd hive bees fancying winter oer
And dreaming in their combs of spring
Creeps on the slab beside their door
And strokes its legs upon its wing
While wild ones half asleep are humming
Round snowdrop bells a feeble note
And pigeons coo of summer coming
Picking their feathers on the cote.

Paying It Forward

A young boy went with his parents to visit a farm family and he was allowed to go into the barn and watch the cows being milked. In a separate pen the calves were waiting for their share, and he watched the farmer carry some of the buckets of milk to them. The calves stuck their heads into the buckets and guzzled down the fresh warm milk.

Later his mother heard him explaining to his friends what he’d learned about cows. “When they’re little, the farmer gives them the milk and when they’re big they have to give it back again.”

Get The Facts Straight

“Where were you when the lights went out?”

Remember that question, popular in the early seventies? Do you remember the incident it stems from? Do you remember the Beegees’ song “When the Lights All Went Out in Massachusetts?” Hey, you’re as old as I am!

One day my mind went back to that long dark night, so I asked some friends these questions. They’d never heard of it. Yes, they’d heard that question, but had no idea what it referred to. Tsk, tsk! A whole generation has arisen (maybe even two already) who don’t remember when the lights all went out in Massachusetts.

But what year was that again? And what caused the power failure? And which states did it hit? I was pretty sure I remembered, but when I googled it, I found that I hadn’t gotten the basic details straight at all. All these years I thought the Yanks were to blame, but it actually started when Canadian electrical workers used the wrong size of wire. (Blush!)

One book I refer to at times and enjoy reading just for the fun of it is Jack M. Bickham’s The 38 MOST COMMON FICTION WRITING MISTAKES (And How to Avoid Them)  © 1992 by Jack M. Bickham

Chapter 20 in this book is titled: “Don’t Assume You Know; Look It Up”

This is invaluable advice.

I’ve written before about his saga of the Colt single-action “Peacemaker” revolver. He handed this pistol to his hero in a novel set in 1868 and sent him off to the printer to make his mark in the realm of westerns.

As soon as his book hit the shelves a revolt erupted. Wild western history buffs got a posse together to shoot it out with his deplorable ignorance of firearms. This gun was not patented until 1872. How dare he! His mailbox smoked for weeks and letters from irate readers were fired through the slot.

I felt a little bit like those buffs when I read a book for teens, one that was situated in my own beloved Saskatchewan. The writer, a West Coast gal, tells us in her acknowledgments that she’d been to Moose Jaw and sat with farmers at a local coffee shop and they’d told her all about farming in that area. Very well.

Common sense would then dictate that if you have info about farming in the southern part of the province, you should locate your story in the southern part of the province. We live in a short-growing-season land and crops are selected for the number of frost-free days they are apt to have. A crop that grows around Moose Jaw may not grow much further north because the growing season is somewhat shorter and cooler.

In one episode the writer sets the scene thus: a hot day at the beginning of July. Scant rainfall for weeks, everything is tinder dry. Her main character is spending a few weeks with her farmer aunt and cousin on a farm near Humboldt (two hundred miles north of Moose Jaw.) Then this writer has the aunt burning flax straw.

AHEM!

First off, farmers around Moose Jaw grow flax, but I have never seen it grown much farther north. (I’d have to check that out.) Second, there won’t be flax straw lying around to burn until after harvest–in mid September. Third, flax straw burns fast and hot. To send someone out to burn flax straw on a dry July day anywhere in Sask is asking for a furious fire that will consume miles of grass and crops.

By all means get your facts straight and verify them, as much as possible, with people who actually do live in that area. Even if you’ve lived through the time yourself, read up on the events again to refresh your memory.

I read once that the human brain can hold more information than what is found in all the volumes at the US Library Of Congress. (Or is it the Congressional Library?) No wonder we get data mixed up sometimes!

Two Things We Don’t Tell Immigrants

Sam’s father was killed in India so his uncle raised him on a farm in Galloway (in southern Scotland.)  As a young man Sam attended Oxford and had big dreams of earning his living, but when he went job-hunting, he found no one hiring.  So he did the only thing he could think of at the time: he enlisted in the army and was sent off to fight in the Boer War.

He made it back alive, but then what to do?  One evening he sat down with his uncle in their parlour and discussed his future.   Sam informed his uncle that he was thinking of going to Canada–supposedly a land of unlimited opportunity to brave souls not afraid to work.

“Good man,” his uncle boomed. “Couldn’t do better!”  He’d been over there for a few years himself in his younger days and had some fond memories of those wide open spaces.

He told Sam there just wasn’t much future in Britain anymore; he believed the struggle between capital and labor would eventually drag England down.  “Yes, emigrate.  Excellent idea!” Uncle pounded his cane on the floor enthusiastically.

“You’re a lad with good stuff in you — and a lad with stuff can do well in Canada. I’ll come over to visit you when you become a successful farmer with acres of wheat and herds of cattle!”

Sam’s imagination and courage perked up considerably as he envisioned the vast holdings he might someday have.

“There are two things I won’t tell you about Canada, though,” Uncle added.  “The winter and the mosquitoes.”

vexans vexans a.k.a. mosquito

A Walk on the WILD Side

When Hugh McKervill was in training to become a minister in the  United Church of Canada, he was sent in the summer of 1955 as a student minister to the people of the Smoky Burn-Battle Heights-Papikwan area (at the edge of the farming land, north of Carrot River) in northern Saskatchewan.

When he arrived, he learned that his flock had scrounged together enough money to buy their student minister a sturdy old Model A. This car served him well that summer, chugging over roads that were almost impassible after heavy rains. However, there were times when even the Model A surrendered to the elements.

Min. McKervill writes about one evening in particular when he was endeavoring to get from Point B, where he’d been visiting, to Point A where he boarded. This was after a heavy rain and the road to Point B – which dipped down into the Carrot River Valley and then up the other side – had been passable during the day. However, sometime later a tractor had lumbered down this road after him, slithered down the one hill and then up the other, throwing up huge clumps of mud and carving deep grooves as it fought for traction in the gumbo clay.

Returning home, the student minister started down the slope into the river valley and found he couldn’t keep the wheels of his Model A from sliding into those ruts. To make matters worse, the car wheels churned up more mud so the engine compartment filled with the goo. Then its wheels slid into the deepest tractor ruts and he was not only clogged up, but hung up as well.

This area was sparsely settled and it was later in the evening; the chances of another vehicle coming along were slim. He saw no choice but get out and walk home. He wore rubber boots on those rainy days and they clump, clumped down the hillside, across the narrow bridge and up the other side. On level ground again he realized that the daylight was almost gone. He reassured himself again and again there was absolutely nothing to fear in this wilderness.

Granted, he could meet a charging moose…or an angry mother bear…or maybe some timber wolves. There was even the odd chance of a prowling cougar, strayed from its usual range in the wooded hills to the southeast. But other than that, he told himself, there was nothing in the descending darkness that would harm him.

As young McKervill trudged on, he entered a forested section where trees crept right up to the road. With every step he reassured himself that there was nothing to fear; at one point he did decide it would be prudent to hurry–so as not to be too late arriving home. He dashed off like a gazelle chased by a leopard, though not nearly as graceful with his rubber boots going “Splat! Splat! Splat!” on the wet road.

At last he reached an area where the trees didn’t close in quite so menacingly. When he could run no more, he slowed down, stopping to catch his breath now and then. During one of these pauses he heard a twig snap not far from him. Heart pounding, he listened for telltale sounds. The silence shrieked at him, so he hurried on.

A few minutes later he heard another sound, then a soft footstep or two. He stopped and the noise stopped. He started walking and “it” started walking. He heard a rustling sound in the brush beside the road. This time he had to admit it: this was not just his imagination. Some creature was stalking him!

He envisioned the newspaper headlines reporting his demise. Something like :“Minister Mauled in Northern Woods.” He stopped again – and the creature stopped. “Getting ready to pounce,” his mind announced. He plodded on, come what may.

In a little more open space he froze when he caught a glimpse of a huge black form. He dug out his pocket knife, realizing how useless the tiny blade would be against such a massive enemy. He walked on a little farther, his heart thud, thudding in his chest.

When a gleam of moonlight outlined the beast’s huge head, its eyes glinting in the light his heart almost stopped. Suddenly from this black shadow came a bone-chilling wail.

“Mooooooo.”

His heart rate settled down to something near normal again and he plodded on. The cow or steer walked along beside him most of the way to his lodging, then turned aside to join other animals in a pasture. Half a mile further down the road the northern sky burst into a glory of dancing northern lights. He writes that at that moment he felt like dancing, too.

His heart must have been very strong, for he lived to tell write his book almost forty years later. I’ve condensed and retold this story in my own words, the original version is so much more descriptive! You can read it in:

THE SINBUSTER OF SMOKY BURN
The Memories of a Student Minister on the Prairies
© 1993 by Hugh W. McKervill

Published by Whitecap Books Vancouver/Toronto
and simultaneously by Wood Lake Books, Inc. of Winfield, BC