I saw a recent posting on Facebook: “old roads, old ways.” There was a photo of a country lane winding through an open gate, then disappearing behind a line of trees. What images that statement brought up for me.
In today’s world of advanced technology, with everyone’s eyes glued to cellphones, earbuds blocking out distractions, the day-to-day of life has changed. The gathering of information is definitely easier, producing and storing data, finding lost or forgotten relations: but are we really connecting?
I’ve heard the tales of people riding together on public transport or even in a family vehicle, hardly aware of one another. The odd behaviour of texting friends, sitting side by side, who never make eye contact or rarely speak, is a sad comment on how disconnected from life our kids and grandkids have become.
When the younger generation enters the workplace and encounters resistance to their desire to be plugged in at all times, they are stunned. Putting their phones away and focusing solely on the job is a hard concept. In our church congregation, there is always a request to shut off phones prior to the service. On occasion there is still the disruption of a persistent caller.
When I think back on my early years, I can see why the idea of old roads spoke to me. We lived on one of those old roads. We were 2 ½ miles off the highway, bordering a well-maintained gravel road. We country folk didn’t have access to telephones; the main line was installed from Olds to Sundre along the highway. We had to drive to a neighbour’s house to make a call initially.
When we finally received service we shared a line with three other families. Our parents restricted our phone privileges, not allowing us to tie up the line. We had to be good neighbours after all.
We didn’t have television until later either. When my brother passed away the farm was strangely silent. Even the dog was distraught. Dad purchased a television to fill the blank spaces where Marvin’s laughter and whistling used to dwell.
Prior to the overriding chatter of movie night, Gilligan’s Island and Bonanza, my older siblings participated in the youth group at the Nazarene Church. Sometimes events bubbled over into our living room. Larry brought home groups from Bible College, when the choir was on tour.
Our family had games night often. We enjoyed Pit and Rook, Aggravation and Scrabble. Dad was a pro at most games but he enjoyed the success of others too. I was a willing participant at home, in my own environment.
We spent time taking day trips: picnics out west along the river, sightseeing in the Ya Ha Tinda or just visiting neighbours. We knew our neighbours. Dad regularly was a part of a work team during the local harvest. Neighbours always helped each other. No one could afford to make it on his own. We knew each other’s routines and watched diligently for strange vehicles prowling our back roads.
We girls were sent on foot to deliver a dozen eggs to the Carlson household. We must have stayed occasionally. We all remember learning to play Scrabble with Mrs. Carlson and her mother, who lived there for a time.
We visited there often, as well as the Frenchs' house on the next road. I remember an evening visit to Eagle Hill, at the Lockrem property, a well-manicured gorgeous spot. We also stopped after a berry picking episode at Bud and Phyllis Bird’s farm. With a cold drink and a stretch we settled in for some great storytelling. I was surprised years later to learn that the Birds were good friends of Grant McEwan, the lieutenant governor of the time.
Dad always loved that area, having begun his married years working for Norman Cook in the Eagle Valley. I’ve driven to and from Sundre often but a rare decision to take a side road revealed a stunning paradise. The road was narrow like our own had been but the area is quite hilly. As I rose over a knoll, I breathed in the beauty of the valley opened up below me. I had to pull off the road to take it all in. One author whose work I enjoy refers to such a sight as “the land of counterpane.”
If we had been raised with technology we would have missed so much. We would have lost the knack of imagination and making up our own games. We would have had no need of each other's company. We enjoyed the day trips and storytelling, along with the singing in the car as we returned from a late night at the Youth for Christ Center.
We grew up knowing that the family connection that held us together would continue to guide us. Mom and I talked each week. In those days when phone calls were expensive we took turns calling. My grandma wrote to me regularly. When I was having difficulties with something around the house or plucking a detail from a forgotten memory, it was dad that I called. The storyteller knew the answer.
