These hot and muggy summer days too often end with a display of wild skies, rolling thunder and waves of torrential rain.
It calls to mind the long, hot summers we spent on the farm between Sundre and Westward Ho.
Our old farmhouse had been moved onto the property during my grandfather’s time and then remodelled to make it more habitable.
I remember vaguely when an additional bedroom and bathroom expanded the main floor, also creating a dining area. From my earliest memories I recall our heavy dining table sitting in the living room as the kitchen was long and narrow.
Mom and Dad moved downstairs, into the newly created bedroom. Carol and I were given the upstairs bedroom.
Now I realize there was little or no insulation in that house. The interior walls upstairs were built with long slats of wood nailed one on top of the other. There was no Gyproc. Our walls had a charming rustic effect but did little to control temperature.
Those two bedrooms had no separating wall, just a floor to ceiling curtain as a divider. Curtains also hung in place of doors, giving a little privacy.
I remember many hot summer nights, sitting by our single window watching the natural fireworks as the lightning sent laser lights probing the night. Our windows were shoved open as far as they would go with a stick holding them in place. We did have one adjustable screen set into a wooden frame that could fit into the opening to keep out the night fliers.
It was always so hot and the steady drone of mosquitoes created white noise for the sleepers. I recall sitting there unable to sleep but listening to frogs and the occasional howl of a coyote. Now and then a vehicle flew past but we were on a side road; not an abundance of night traffic.
I well recall the sound of the rain pattering on the roof. There was little insulation there either.
Mom and Dad had moved frequently. Dad worked as a farmhand wherever he could, or worked at a sawmill or gas plant construction site until the job ran out.
Between jobs apparently we returned to Grandpa’s farm. I don’t remember living anywhere else.
Mom and Dad talked about working on the Robertson ranch off Westcott Road, Gordon Buschert’s farm when he was away at Bible school.
We spent some time at the Riddle place near Carstairs and on the Brower farm near Zella. None of those spark any recollections for me except of course the stories told around the Sunday dinner table.
We nearly always had guests for dinner. Mom prepared for a large group and invited someone or a loaded car of relatives dispersed into the yard.
We had no telephone at the time but she just seemed to know. Uncle Clarence and Aunt Frances from Carstairs or the Calgary cousins or Uncle Abe and Aunt Alma from Didsbury regularly graced our table.
Mom’s table extended to seat 14 or so. We had many chairs but the younger ones sometimes sat on an upended wooden box. Apples or eggs were the usual contents.
The one high chair still held a smallish wiggly child, the piano stool was fun to spin on but if I sat on the wooden crate, I learned to sit still. Splinters weren’t out of the question.
That large space was close to the wood-burning stove, still warm from roasting the turkey or chickens or luscious roast beef. I don’t think the dining room window opened so no doubt we were steaming.
I don’t remember thinking much about the heat at mealtime. Just listening to the stories fascinated me. We knew who we were, where we belonged and that we were valued.
