As children my siblings and I rode the school bus from our farmhouse, five miles into town. We were 2/12 miles off the highway and pavement, down gravel roads. We didn’t know the luxury of paved driveways or concrete sidewalks. That meant dust, mud or snow piled high.
On one occasion dad helped ferry kids home when the bus was stuck high-centred in the ditch, immovable. Of course today he wouldn’t be allowed to do that.
I was thinking of how delayed spring could be in the country. Mud was a guarantee. Dad paid for an occasional load of gravel for our long driveway but it didn’t extend to the yard. We were obliged to wear boots for a long stretch of time.
I remember feeling a twinge of envy when I watched the town kids walk home in their shoes. All of us country dwellers loaded in our yellow boxy transport as it trundled down the streets, heading out of town.
We came in from Eagle Hill, Eagle Valley, Westward Ho, Bergen, Nitchi Valley, Bearberry, McDougall Flats and James River and we funnelled into the Sundre School. All clad in muddy footwear. Fortunately at the time the school had “mud rooms” equipped with layer upon layer of shelving. We each exchanged boots for indoor shoes and joined the ranks filing into our classrooms.
On the return trip, again suitably clad in my heavy boots, I watched some of my classmates strolling home. In pairs or larger groups, they crossed the low bridge over Bearberry Creek and headed through the downtown. The streets were dusty with the detritus of winter but relatively mud free.
I had always enjoyed country living but mud was not conducive to happiness in my narrow view. We just took it as a given. Soon the heat of the season dried out the ditches and mudholes and we were back to the joy of riding bikes and playing outside.
We had a vast supply of creative versions of tag. I remember a fallen tree acting as a restaurant as we ordered imaginary entrees and desserts. We played baseball, practised our limited skills in track and field. We played soccer on the lawn, with the border collie running interference.
But all of that was on hold until the mud dried out. We had an abundance of snow most years and our property was quite heavily wooded. In the shelter of the trees the deep shade protected the piles of snow well into spring.
The barnyard remained soggy underfoot as we herded the cows, filled the water trough and squelched our way to the chicken house. I can smell the swampy ooze to this day.
That was quickly dispelled by the joy of country living. I loved caring for the chickens. No animal was as loving as our boisterous dog; however he put the run to non-family. Neighbours were cautious to exit their vehicle, until one of us grabbed the dog. Ruff saw himself as our protector.
Summertime on the farm was heavenly. The garden, mom’s flower beds, birdsong. We watched northern lights, played a spooky tag in the dark, light coming only by the tall yard light. Larry would hide in the shadow of the hedge and grab an ankle as we tiptoed by.
Our boots lined the wall of the large closed-in porch dad built for extra storage. A huge deep freeze, winter clothing, chore clothes and an army of boots greeted us as we rushed in and out.
– Hoey is a longtime Gazette columnist
