When I read of all the crime occurring in our present age, I am astounded. Where are the morals that our peers had drilled into us, the sense of right and wrong, and the general goodness of our neighbours? Our generation still had the threat of a visit to the principal’s office and the liberal use of the strap. I recall the sight of some of the bigger, burly boys standing under the clock by the office with their noses to the wall while they considered their bad choices.
The people I knew during my youth were basically honest trustworthy folks. Thinking back to our old farm we never locked up when we were away. I don’t believe the door even had a lock. When we were all inside I recall a dinner knife sometimes shoved between the frame and the door: a good security lock when we were inside.
None of our sheds or outbuildings were lockable either. It wasn’t as though we had anything of value but neighbours were unlikely to trespass. Nor were we going to tour their property without permission. If a neighbour saw an unfamiliar vehicle in any yard when it shouldn’t have been there, he would have stopped to investigate.
One of the security features on the farm was a good guard dog. Ruff, our border collie, was a fun, playful cohort in our rough and rowdy games but when strangers arrived, the fangs came out. He was protective, on duty. No one messed with him.
Dad had the usual 45 gallon drum of fuel, ready for topping up any gas tank, whether it required a trip to town or a jaunt down the road to the church. The tractor needed filling, as well as a gas lawn mower and the Rototiller. I can’t remember any occasion in which someone came in to rifle through anything or to siphon gas. Dad would have offered anything he had to anyone in need, but no one helped himself.
Vehicles were rarely locked either. Often the keys remained in the ignition. Dad enjoyed telling a tale on a friend in Sundre. Dad had stopped at the Red and White grocery store to run in for some quick item. When he returned, his '52 Chevy was missing. He walked to the nearby police station to report the theft.
When they returned to the scene of the crime, Dad recognized another car at the curb, similar size, identical colour, a Plymouth, I think he said. It was owned by a local car salesman; it was still running with the keys inside. Together with the police dad made a visit to the dealer’s acreage and there was the Chevy in the driveway.
The policeman said, “John, this man wishes to charge you with car theft!” The story goes that after much laughter and backslapping the dealer said, “Did you shut off my car?” Dad’s keys weren’t left in the ignition after that. No chances taken.
When we moved into town it was a new world. We found kids in our backyard often, an elderly gentleman rummaging through our carport looking for pop cans. We even came home to find a stranger sitting in the living room, watching television. He had made himself a snack while he waited. What he didn’t realize was that the ones he was waiting for had moved across town.
Joyce Hoey is a longtime Gazette columnist
