I was thinking recently of the local neighbourhood where I was raised. Our nearest neighbours, the Carlsons, lived perhaps half a mile to the west of us. Their property sat on a corner with a road allowance to the south and another to the west.
Sometimes dad explored the southern track, which apparently ended at Jackson Lake where we often went skating in the depths of the winter months.
Dad had come to the area to work for John and Grace Harder. Their farm had to be accessed by skirting around, south then west on Bergen Road, north again. Along that road, Earl Buschert’s property abutted the Harders' place. Across the road sat the Ness property.
The Harders' road also didn’t extend any farther: another road allowance and again the massive body of Jackson Lake. Larry says it was just a large slough, swampy but beautiful in its isolation.
When we were planning a skating outing, Dad took his Allis Chalmers tractor to blaze a trail through the undergrowth. There was a closer access road that also dead-ended. That road passed a property long abandoned, the Shane place, I think. In my early remembrance there was an old two-storey house but no sign of recent habitation.
Dad’s broken trail gave him access to the lake. He drove out onto the lake and bladed the crusted surface to prepare a smooth rink. Dad loved to skate and play hockey. For all the good his efforts did his progeny were not athletic. Years later when he had given up, Warren took to hockey with a skill not seen in the rest of us.
When dad decided that skating was our family activity there was no arguing. He fitted preparation of the site into his already busy Saturday. We knew that Sunday after church and mom’s nutritious Sunday dinner, after the required cleanup, we were all piling into the massive old Chevy. It was the only early family car that was large enough for all of us. We were a family of eight at the time.
I recall trundling and bouncing down that trail, overhanging branches clutching at the windows and scraping the roof. We burst out of the treed tunnel and emerged into the sunlight. Dad had prepared a site for a fire and several upturned large blocks of wood acted as seating.
In addition to the passel of kids we also toted a kitchen chair: one of us always was a beginner and the chair acted as a steadying influence till we found our centre. I can see my brother with his mittens, his breath frosting his vision.
I’m sure each of us took our turn with that staid but comforting skating partner. If we held tight we were safe. If we let go we were soon sprawled face down, cold and howling.
Mom didn’t skate. She sat by the fire, feeding the logs into the flame, tying skate laces, wiping noses, comforting the fallen. She also provided hot chocolate and marshmallows to roast and time to listen while we warmed ourselves.
Dad loved to tell tales of those early years when the Mennonite families in the area gathered for worship in homes for awhile, then a local rural schoolhouse, while they built a tiny church. The majority had originally come from the Didsbury region from a larger church. Many of those still came to us to assist with teaching or as relief pastor and to enjoy the fellowship.
Dad talked of frequent outings to Jackson Lake. He and mom were a part of the young people’s gatherings; some were already married, many were not. Dad had several black and white photographs of the era. The problem with his Brownie camera was not the quality of the photos. Nice, sharp pictures that didn’t fade like the early coloured ones. The difficulty was that there was no zoom lens. All the figures were miniature and without explanation we had no idea who was in the image.
One showed Earl Buschert skating energetically with someone clutching his jacket. The one being towed waved and laughed. She may have been my Aunt Frances. I couldn’t tell and there isn’t anyone to ask anymore.
What is evident is the good-natured camaraderie. We called it fellowship. That is something I well remember from those beginning years. Everyone was included. There was always room in hearts and homes for one more.
– Joyce Hoey is a longtime Gazette columnist.
