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The Homestead, Part Five

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Snow

Snow usually came early. The girls at our two-room school were required to wear skirts or dresses to school until the end of October, which is when we were allowed to attend class in pants. But the snow always arrived before that. Hallowe’en was carried out in the snow up there. As the road to where the school bus stopped to pick us up was a mile and a half away from our house , it was a jarringly cold trek in a skirt. Sometimes we wore pants under our skirts to ward off the frigid temperatures.

As the snow deepened and continued to fall intermittently over the winter months, it began to pile up and the depth increased. There were times we walked through snow up to our mid thighs. It could be a tough slog. Our family didn’t have a vehicle that could navigate such conditions, so there wasn’t another option for us. Dad tried to train our dog to pull a sled so Nell and I could take turns walking and riding on the sled. Unfortunately, Captain was a pretty undisciplined animal. The only way we found to get him to turn around and come back to us was to roll off the sled into the snow. Then he would continue racing down the road, and as he got further away, we would call him and he’d roar back, pulling the empty sled.

The wind could be wicked cold as the snow fell. However, when the temperature dropped, the wind died down. By the time it hit thirty below Fahrenheit, usually there would be no wind. The air was crisp and clear, crackling around me, but didn’t feel as cold as when the wind blew in slightly warmer temperatures.

The school closed when it hit minus thirty and the bus didn’t run. Dad would listen to the radio every morning and if the school was closed, there would be an announcement sent out to the community. The last thing we wanted to do was walk the mile and a half, wait for a bus that didn’t come, and walk back.

After we had lived there for a little more than a year, it seemed to register that a family with school children lived on our road, not just the two bachelors who had settled there some years before. Thus when the snow plow came through, our road would get ploughed too, which was a real luxury. It was much easier to walk the road after it had been ploughed. No trudging through knee-deep snow that day. Given how often and much it snowed each winter, the clearing of our road only happened sporadically and most days the snow was pretty deep. Our winter boots were stuffed with insoles and we wore several pairs of socks with pant legs tucked into them so the boot tops were blocked and the snow didn’t collect inside.

We had a driveway to the house, which had been cleared by felling the trees to open up a path when we first built there. It was seldom used, as we had no vehicle. However, when we had visitors the snow would get packed down from the wheels of the visitor’s trucks. But, we didn’t walk out to the road that way. Going out the driveway to the road and then down added a good half mile to the walk to meet the school bus. We had forged a different path through the trees, emerging at the ditch beside our road. When the snow first started to fall each winter, we would plough through, getting snow in our boots. As the winter extended, our feet tamped down the snow to create a useful trail. The snow got hard and the trail, although elevated due to the depth of snow compacted on it, would be easier to walk.

However, in the spring, when everything began to melt, the trail would get slippery and a bit difficult. The softened snow crust would weaken, and we would break through the path, sinking deep into the snow. We would pull our feet out to try again. Eventually, it was easier to walk beside the trail in the melting snow rather than stick to the trail and continue to break through the crust with every other step.

Our Car

When we arrived in Fort St. John, we had the car that we had driven there. That vehicle worked for about a year. However, in the first fall, Mum had gone berry picking with Sarah Greene, a neighbour who lived a couple of miles away. They were out in the bush with buckets picking saskatoon berries and had several buckets full.

At the time, Mum was pregnant with our youngest brother, Teddy, who was born in early spring the following year.

After a morning of picking, Mum was heading home. On the way, she parked on the side of the road in front of the Co-op store to pick up the mail. But before she or Sarah could get out of the car, they were rear-ended by a transport truck.

The buckets flew into the air, berries spraying everywhere. The front bench seat disengaged and banged backward into the rear seat. Mum had whiplash and the baby was knocked about in her womb.

The car was a total write off. The insurance company took the truck driver to court, where he testified that the sun was in his eyes and he didn’t see a car parked on the side of the road. He paid one hundred dollars damages, which in no way could replace the car. We were left without any transportation.

Pamela, my older sister, still has the rear window from that car. She always intended to make a coffee table out of it. (More to come)

The Homestead, Part Four

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Building the House

During the month of our occupation of the basement suite in Fort St. John, Dad spent his days out on the homestead. He built a small structure on the land which would eventually become the kitchen for the house. It was eight feet by twelve feet, walls and floor made of quarter inch plywood, no insulation. They bought a cast iron kitchen stove, wood fired with a water reservoir, and set it up with thicker pieces of wood beneath the feet to support its weight. Then we moved in. There was also a dry sink against one wall. A dry sink has no water supply. It is used usually with a basin in it, and the water in the basin can be let out through the pipe in the bottom of the sink. Sometimes that pipe leads straight outside. Sometimes, as in our situation, it lead to a bucket under the sink. The water could thus be reused to water the garden, or the animals as needed.

In the kitchen, my parents set up a double bed with a single bunk positioned above it, and the rest of us slept on the floor. It was now October and the temperature had plummeted.

Pamela, my oldest sister, began distance learning, what we then called correspondence, which was conducted through the postal service, as she was past grade eight, and that month my second sister, Nell, and I began to attend the two-room school in the village of Cecil Lake.

Dad was felling trees in preparation for building the actual house, and the surrounding neighbours generously organized a house-raising day. Trucks began to arrive early that morning, and men tumbled out of them, carrying axes and saws. More trees were felled, limbed and dragged to the construction site where the ends were whittled until they fit together. By the close of that first day, the walls of the structure were about eight feet high, no floor as yet.

Dad dug a root cellar in the middle of the square of walls, to be used for the storage of produce and canning in the future. Little did he know that when the snow melted in the spring it would always fill with water and Mum would find her canning jars had floated off the shelves and hovered in the water just below the trap door used to access the cellar.

As the weeks went by with all of us living in the small kitchen, we began to get sick. Once we all came down with the flu. Most of us stayed in bed when not throwing up in basins or buckets. Dad went out to chop firewood, vomiting into the snow when necessary.

Several of the men kindly returned for more days of voluntary work and eventually the house was built. The roof was erected and covered with tar paper. The floor of plywood was installed on a grid of logs to hold it up off the ground. There was a short staircase to the small second floor that was positioned beneath the eaves with a window at each end. This would be the bedroom for all the children.

Dad cut the doorway through from the kitchen to the house on Christmas Eve that year.

The Homestead, Part Three

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Faith

Mum and Dad both had a strong Christian faith. Through the tough years of their marriage and after, they each relied on Jesus’ love and support.

Dad had been raised in the Salvation Army tradition, Mum with the Anglican church. As a family, we seesawed back and forth, attending one or the other service throughout my childhood. Dad especially loved the music with the Army, the drums and violins.

When training as a lawyer, years later, I was impressed with the service the Salvation Army provides to street people and the homeless. Not only do they run shelters and kitchens to feed the needy, they have volunteers who will attend Provincial Court with them to provide someone to speak on their behalf for minor infractions such as shoplifting, dine and ash, or being drunk and disorderly.

Life was not easy for my parents. Their faith saw them through some very difficult times.

Fort St. John

Fort St. John was first established in 1794 as a fort or fur trading post for the North West Company. It has been moved to several different sites in the area, depending on whether the river was the main mode of transportation, or new roads had made a different site accessible.

It was September 1959 by the time we arrived, and we rented a basement suite for a month in someone’s house in town to see how things would unfold. At 11, I remember watching other kids heading off to school down the street in the morning, wondering what would happen with our chance at an education. My parents didn’t appear to be strategic planners.

Mum and Dad sought out the Land Title’s office in Pouce Coupe. There, the agent was able to show my parents a map detailing where quarter sections of land were available, and they chose one just west of the tiny village of Cecil Lake, some miles east of Fort St. John. Dad signed up, received approval and our destiny was decided. Homesteading 101.

Cecil Lake

Cecil Lake was a small community consisting of a tiny log-built Anglican church where a service was held every third Sunday of the month, a large community hall with a kitchen attached at the back and a baseball field cleared to the side, the two-room school, and a Co-op store with gas service station, where groceries were available and the post office was located. The area had been opened up for homesteading in the 1930s when many families originally moved there to farm the land.

The community hall was used for every local celebration. Weddings were conducted at the church, and the reception and dance were moved over to the community hall, where every family in the area contributed food and drink.

The first year we were there, Nell and I heard at school that there was a fall dance and potluck to be held at the hall, and ‘the folks’ were playing. I asked whose folks would those be. The answer seemed to be simply that ‘the folks’ would play. Our family attended of course, and ‘the folks’ turned out to be the Fauks, a father, son and daughter who played wonderful dance tunes.

When everyone arrived, coats were piled on the two bunk beds in the back room, and food laid out on long tables set up in the hall. As the evening wore on, the food was cleared away and younger children nestled down to sleep among the piles of coats and jackets on the lower bunk bed as the music ramped up and the dancing began. Little girls danced with their fathers, some of them standing on daddy’s toes to be escorted across the floor. Clusters of little boys tore around the hall, chasing each other and dodging between the dancers.

Most of the young men lingered outside in the dark, where quite a large amount of homemade liquor seemed to be consumed. Chairs were lined up down one side of the hall, and the girls sat in a row. When the boys were ready to dance, they walked down the line with their hand out, until a girl accepted the invitation to dance. Often they were pretty inebriated before they came in to take part in the celebration.

There was always a Christmas festival there, with performances on the stage. Mum would write up a skit and Nell and I would be volunteered to act it out at the festival. We also sang, depending on what the festival topic was.

Once word spread that a family had arrived with daughters, the young men began to gather round. Pamela was at home for the first year, doing correspondence before she went in to live in the dorms in Fort St John.

One afternoon, two young men arrived at our place to visit. Dad chatted with them outside for a while, then brought them into the house where Mum served them coffee. They sat and drank their coffee, smoking cigarettes and dropping the ash into the cuffs of their jeans. They didn’t say much, but Pamela had obviously already met them, because she hung in there in anticipation, listening.

Finally, one of them got to the point. There was a dance coming up at the community hall, and he formally asked Dad for permission to escort Pamela to the dance. Dad considered, then gave his consent. A time for pickup was arranged and they left. Mission accomplished.

(More to come)

The Homestead, chapter two

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Our Journey North

My parents met in Esquimalt when Dad was sent to Vancouver Island for training in the Canadian Navy. They married during the Second World War. After the war ended, they settled in Victoria, where my two older sisters, Pamela and Nell, were born. I was born there also. When I was five, our parents sold their small house situated near the Gorge, and bought a box truck. Dad loaded everything into the truck, positioning a couch in the front facing forward with a window cut out of the box allowing us to see through the windshield of the cab. This is where my sisters and I travelled, looking through the front window as we drove.

We ended up in Nipawin, northern Saskatchewan, Dad’s old hometown. However, we weren’t there long. Obviously things didn’t work out as Dad had thought they would, and about eight months after we arrived, we were riding in an old Ford car headed back to Vancouver Island. It was Christmas Eve when we stopped on our journey to overnight at a hotel in Regina. I remember running up and down the hallways on the second floor with my sisters, working off steam after a long day of travelling in the car. There was an elderly bachelor in one of the hotel rooms who invited us in for a sip of pop and some candies. We never got pop, and were thrilled to receive such a treat.

Once we arrived back on Vancouver Island, we stopped in Duncan, just north of Victoria, and bought a house there. This house had three rooms, and was about four-hundred and fifty square feet in size, with a front porch and a set of stairs at the back. After about a year, Dad had enclosed the front porch to create a bathroom, and dug a new well in the yard as the old one was too shallow and ran out of water in the summer. The fourth daughter, Cindy, was born there, as well as the first son, Derek.

Dad was a journeyman carpenter, able to perform just about any task. He raised our house on car jacks and built a foundation for it. But he didn’t fit the mold of a regular working man. He took several jobs while in Duncan, one of them working on the construction of the Chemainus mill, but none of them lasted very long. After six years, Duncan proved to be a poor fit for our family and our parents had become interested in the land grant program in the North Peace River area.

Dad found an old truck and cut the box off it. He welded a ball mount hitch onto the frame of our car, and a towing hitch onto the front frame of the truck bed. We loaded all our stuff into the truck bed, including a full-sized pump organ, beds and linens.

By now there were five children. Mum and Dad sat in the front seat of the car with our youngest sister, Cindy, positioned between them. We three older girls sat in the back, with our one-year-old brother, Derek. He crawled restlessly over our laps and legs during the entire journey.

It is a long drive from Vancouver Island to the North Peace River area, especially in those days with the type of vehicles we had. Today, it is eight hundred and fifty miles or thirteen hundred and sixty kilometres by road. We camped along the way, sometimes in someone’s field. We met some kind and interesting people that way.

Pamela, who at fifteen years of age had already started high school, was devastated by the decision to move. She cried pretty well the whole trip north, mourning her lost friends and life at school. Nell and I, at thirteen and eleven, were less concerned, likely because we didn’t have a good grasp of how our lives were about to change.

Once we reached the town of Taylor, situated on the Alaska Highway between Dawson Creek and Fort St John, we discovered that when the ice left the Peace River earlier in the spring it had taken the bridge out with it. The only way across the river was over the railway bridge. This is how the locals were getting back and forth until a new bridge could be built.

It was hair-raising. Dad maneuvered the car onto the railway, the truck/ trailer bumping up behind. Between the ties, we could see the river roiling below us. I remember holding my breath in the hope we would get safely across. So that is how we arrived in Fort St. John, after driving across on the narrow railway ties high above the Peace River.

(More to come )

False Confession

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Music teacher Glory has given up on men, with good reason. Then she meets the handsome lead guitar player in the band she has just joined.

Alex, body builder and construction foreman, is determinedly single because he’s given up on women. But that’s before he meets the keyboard player who just joined his brother’s rock band. Suddenly his interest is revived and he goes on a crusade to gain Glory’s attention.

But when Alex disappears and the police claim they have a confession giving damning evidence against him, Glory has to make a decision. Can she trust the man she’s fallen for, or has she been fooled into believing a lie?