by Joan Soggie
Eric turns scornfully from the squalling youngsters. Are they more annoying when they play their silly baby games, or when they’re howling? He hooks the water dipper over the lip of the pail, hoists the water bucket and carries it inside.
Fetching another pail of drinking water before supper was the last of the long list of chores his mother assigned him. The big cistern in the cellar holds rainwater topped up with barrels of spring water hauled to the house on the stone boat, but that gets stale and unfit to drink. In August heat, icy well water is a welcome treat for the men who will soon be in from the field.
“Did you finish hoeing the potatoes?” Abigail barely glances up. The toe of her foot pumps the butter churn pedal in time to the snik-snik-snik of her paring knife as she adds to the pile of carrots being cleaned for supper. The big stew pot simmers on the stove. Eric’s stomach rumbles as he inhales the rich meaty smell.
“Yes, Mother, and I picked the eggs, too. They’re in the pantry.”
“Good. Elise, when you finish the separator you may go pack the eggs in a crate. I’ll take them to the store on Saturday.”
The girl standing at the kitchen sink nods. “Yes, Mama.”
Her red, chapped wrists swish through the murky water. Elise looks across the kitchen at Eric and grimaces. Eric grins and winks back at her. She never complains to their mother, but Eric knows how much she hates washing the multitudinous parts of that separator. As the only girl in the family, she has more than her share of chores — make the beds, wash the dishes, sweep the floor, clear away food after every meal. But cleaning the cream separator is the worst. If she doesn’t get it clean, the cream will smell bad, the storekeeper will refuse it, and Mother will not be happy.
In their small world, pleasing Mother is the children’s daily goal, and disappointing her their greatest shame. The years since they moved from the sod shack on the homestead have not been as kind to Abigail as her mother hoped. Two more babies combined with unrelenting physical labour has changed the strong young woman into a gaunt farm wife. Duties are not neglected, but seldom enjoyed. She sets eggs with broody hens and raises the chicks to sell as fryers. She has had good luck raising turkeys, notoriously accident-prone birds, to fat and delicious maturity. She carefully rations the eggs, butter and cream used in her own kitchen so that by Saturday she often has a few extra pounds of butter, a cream can of cream and several dozen eggs to trade at the store in exchange for their other household needs. Any cash income that is not immediately needed is secreted away in a safe of her own contrivance, a coffee can sunk into a hole in the floor of the cellar.
Eric has observed his father readily fall in with her plans for improving the farm, trusting her shrewdness and admiring her energy. Per has developed his own unique skill, handling his odd mixed team of mules and oxen. Eric saw the neighbours’ laughter turn to grudging respect.
“I didn’t know it couldn’t be done, you see,” Per explained with his lop-sided grin. “So, I went ahead and did it.”
It was not his only success. Per subscribes to farm papers, keeps abreast of the latest trends in agricultural practice and markets, listens to his neighbours’ stories and observes their methods. Eric has overheard the remark made, and never disputed: “Per may not be much of a farmer, but he knows how to make a good deal.”
And yet, despite hard work, shrewd management, and never-ending thriftiness, it seems that more labour, more planning, and greater economy is always required. The farm is a hard task master.
Weather controls their life. On this hot summer afternoon, Per jounces along on the binder, one eye on his team plodding at a steady pace in their slow circuit of the field, the other on the hired hands expertly stacking bound sheaves of oats into tipi-like stooks. Crops are ripening too fast in the heat. Fields scheduled for threshing next week are ready now. But the threshing crew he has contracted is ten miles away working for his renter, Karl Nohr. If the crew could finish up at the old homestead and get here immediately, before damp weather moves in and ruins his bumper crop, Per could afford to pay a bonus. In harvest season, time is money.
And everyone must do his part. Even the children.
Eric hears his father’s shout across the yard. “Eric! Come here, boy! I need you!”
Eric’s frown dissolves into a grin as Per explains the errand to him. “As soon as you’ve eaten supper, saddle Pet and start out for the homestead with a message for Nohr. You can return home in the morning with the news of when we might expect the threshing crew.”
He has never ridden by himself the whole ten miles from their farm to the old homestead. But he knows the way, having gone with his father once or twice in the past few years. Eric has no misgivings, even though he’ll be travelling most of the way after dark.
Supper over, chores done, Eric whistles as he turns Pet’s head away from home and urges her into a gentle trot up the long slope south of the yard. The sun’s slanting rays warm his cheek and shoulder, and when he glances to his left, he admires the long silhouette of horse and rider moving across the golden field.
The sun rests on the horizon before he and Pet reach the summit. The shadows have grown immense. He glances to the east where he thinks he can see the glinting windows of his grandparents’ farm. But his way lies in the opposite direction. Turning towards the sun, he can just make out the hills that overlook the old homestead, still as familiar to him as his mother’s face. The homestead itself is hidden by distance and shadows. It occurs to him that he has a long way to go.
Then the sun sinks behind the earth’s rim, the light changes from golden to pale grey, and the world exhales. Eric reaches for the jacket he has slung behind his saddle and kicks Pet’s sides as he urges her into a trot. Soon the trail will disappear into night, along with all familiar landmarks.
An hour passes. The breeze accelerates to a steady wind as the night grows darker. Coyotes howl, answering each other, then yip in a steady chorus as the pack closes in on its prey. A jackrabbit, maybe, or a baby antelope. Eric has heard coyotes hunting almost every evening of his life, but never when he was so alone. It seems the sound is drawing nearer, and he shivers.
Unwillingly his mind dredges up the story a neighbour told, of bones found in the hills. Scattered by coyotes, still a few tattered rags showed this had once been a person. Eric wonders, had he died when he fell from his horse? Or had those demon coyotes finished him off?
Surely Pet would never rear up in fright, throw him to the ground? Maybe breaking his leg, leaving him to such a fate? Never. Dad and Mother would not have sent him out here if it were that dangerous. But grownups can be so stupid. They have no idea what it is like to be small and always trying to be big.
How much farther does he have to go? Or is he even riding in the right direction? Has Pet turned around or gone off the trail without him realizing?
When a small light suddenly flares out of the darkness, Eric immediately turns towards it.
There it is, the lamp-lit window of a shack not a hundred yards to his left. Eric dismounts at the door and knocks, breathing hard, as though he has been running. With a gasp of relief, he recognizes the sunburnt face that peers down at him.
“What’s this? The Tollerud boy out alone at night? What’s wrong, boy? Some trouble at your farm?”
The bachelor begins stuffing his feet into the boots set inside his doorway, ready to embark on a rescue mission. But Eric’s pale face explains as much as his hurried words.
“I’m supposed to take this message … Dad told me… to Karl Nohr… I’m not sure which way …”
“It’s all right, boy,” the man says, grinning and patting Eric’s shoulder. “You can’t lose your way now. See, the moon is in the southwest. Just follow the crescent moon, lad. It will take you right towards the hills. You’ll be at Karl’s place in no time. Follow the moon.”
The atmosphere of the night changes for the last part of his ride. Noises that were threatening, before, now seem merely interesting. The darkness no longer
terrifies him. Instead, he feels a return of the exhilaration he felt when he first started out. He hears a murmur of unseen life all around him, going about its business with no thought of him. It feels comforting to be thus ignored.
He, too, has a purpose. He, too, belongs to this land, this night, this place.
Chapter Five
Some plants are shown in field guides beside Similar Species. They may be mistaken for each other. A case in point is Kentucky Bluegrass and Plains Rough Fescue. Gabriella’s Prairie Notes
Gabby (2012)
Monday morning found me rolling out of bed still in the grip of a dream that involved horses, cowboys, maybe a few Indians, and the open range. Not surprising, after my weekend, and the assignment Diane set me for the week. She had gotten all excited when she learned this ranching area boasted one of the longest running rodeos — or stampedes, as some still called them — in the province. She urged me to pursue this topic. Maybe Mr. Tollerud would have some recollection of the genesis of that tradition. As before, I was to supplement anything he could tell me with information from old documents, newspapers or local history books, as well as interviews with family members who might be willing or able to flesh out the stories.
Before heading back down the highway to talk to him, it seemed a good idea to do some background digging myself. The local newspaper had a big spread that weekend advertising the upcoming First of July celebrations, a rodeo and horse show, livestock fair and midway. So, my first stop would be the two-story brick building with the modest sign out front advertising itself as head office of the Cow Country Gazette.
The brisk unsmiling lady behind the receptionist desk shook her head. “We can’t let just anyone in to rummage through those old files,” she snorted. ‘You’d better go talk to the local history department at the library.”
My second stop was more productive. There were pamphlets and scrapbooks and old black and white photos of bucking horses and grinning cowboys and chuckwagon races. Obviously, this cow-town had been obsessed with the Wild West since day one. Maybe because I was an Easterner, and a girl, this left me feeling kind of scornful. What was the big deal about rodeos, anyway? Macho testosterone-fuelled shenanigans. I’d seen enough of that growing up on an army base.
What did any of that have to do with the ranchers whose land I’d roamed this past weekend?
I think I got my answer later that day.
Before I’d gone halfway down the hall to Mr. Tollerud’s room, I could hear his thin voice, sounding stronger and angrier than I had ever heard it.
“What did they think they were doing? Playing cowboy?”
“No, Dad, the boys just wanted to do things the old way. It was easier on the calves in the long run.”
“Hmph.”
I peeked into his room. A woman in a denim jacket stood with her back to me, arranging a knitted blanket over Mr. Tollerud’s knees.
He saw me and grunted a “Hello!” that sounded a few shades friendlier than the tone he had used a moment earlier. Well, now he’d seen me, no sneaking away.
“Hi, Mr. Tollerud, I’m back. But I see you already have company. Maybe this isn’t a good time?”
The woman turned, smiled and extended her hand as I introduced myself.
“I’m Jo,” she said. “Dad has been telling me about you, and the Centenarian Project. Great idea, to record the memories of the old-timers.”
Mr. Tollerud grinned. “Gabby should interview you, Johanna. You’re getting to be an old-timer yourself.”
I seized the opening. “Actually, I would like to interview some of the family members as well as your father. Whenever you have time.”
She looked surprised, but a pleased little smile played with the corners of her mouth. I suspected she wouldn’t be reluctant to share her own memories. I hurried on, explaining what I learned about the Frontier Days celebration in Swift Current, and asked if they could tell me more.
Jo chimed in right away. “Frontier Days was a family tradition for most of the farm families within a hundred miles or so of the city. In my day, for any of us kids who belonged to a 4-H club, Frontier Days 4-H show was the highlight of our year. And everyone camped out right there in the fairgrounds, close to the stables where we had our prize calves and show horses. After the livestock judging and horse show we all stayed for the rodeo, and the grandstand performance, and the fireworks. People still do that, although I guess there’re not nearly as many 4-H clubs as there were sixty years ago. But you want to hear about the history of the rodeo. Maybe Dad can tell you about that.”
Mr. Tollerud shook his head. “Never cared much for rodeo. All that bronc busting and bull riding and steer wrestling. Just an excuse for a bunch of young fools to risk their necks showing off and ruining good horses. Playing at being cowboys. The real events, the reining and cutting events and team roping, that’s a different story. That’s the kind of work done on ranches. Still is today.” He shot a malevolent glance at his gray-haired daughter. “If they do it right, instead of just playing cowboy with a bunch of dumb beasts.”
Jo heaved an exasperated sigh. “Oh, for goodness sake, Dad. That’s why I recorded the branding, so you could enjoy seeing it done. The right way. The old way. Come on, Gabby might find this interesting.”
I followed them down the hallway to the small sitting room, empty this morning except for one old fellow dozing in a recliner. Jo positioned her Dad’s chair in front of the tv and bustled around locating the correct remote and then pulled a DVD out of her shoulder bag and slid it into the slot. In a moment pictures filled the screen. First a few still shots of green hills, open pastureland, and a big corral filled with cattle.
“The boys rounded up the cow-calf pairs the day before the branding,” she explained to her Dad. “They were only corralled overnight. This was last Saturday morning. James and his boys invited a few neighbours, and others heard about it and asked to come. And of course, Henry drove out from the city to give a hand. Trust him to be there if there’s any work he can help with, you know how he loves the ranch.”
As she talked, she flipped through more still pictures. Half-tons hooked to horse trailers, black and white border collies dozing in the sun, a small group of men in boots and hats leaning against the corral drinking coffee. I got the impression of old friends at ease with one another, enjoying each other’s company. The DVD switched to video, and the quiet room filled with fragments of conversation punctuated with laughter, friendly jibes, the lowing of cattle. The focus shifted to the cattle, who were peering curiously over the wooden rails of the corral. The scene was incredibly calm.
And it remained that way. As her recording of the morning’s work proceeded, Jo explained, and her Dad filled in the gaps with his own comments about the land, the cattle, and the cowboys. I began to feel a reluctant respect for the way these people worked with their well-trained dogs and intelligent horses. On the screen two riders moved quietly among the cattle in the corral, ‘cutting out’ one calf after another, roping and gently — yes, gently — pulling it to the work area for branding and tagging and whatever else needed to be done. Each task was accomplished with a minimum of fuss, and, it seemed, with a minimum of trauma for the calves. Each of the mothers followed her calf, lowing softly and nosing it away as soon as it was released from the rope. It was dirty physical work for the men, but seemed, surprisingly, not all that upsetting for the cows or the calves.
“Those cows make me think of mothers at a baby clinic, watching their kids get an immunization shot,” I said.
“You know what really upset the cows?” Jo grinned. “It was me and my camera. They’re used to the dogs, the horses, the men. But me? With the camera? They didn’t trust me, not one bit! I ended up standing in the back of the half ton and using a zoom lens so as not to alarm them.”
Mr. Tollerud smiled, too. “Well. It looks like it was a good day.”
“I told you it was,” Jo responded tartly.
“But,” I persisted,” what does this
have to do with rodeo?”
“It all comes back to the ranch hands,” Mr. Tollerud responded. “Roping and handling cattle, breaking and training horses meant a lot of tedious work. Hard and dangerous. Like all young guys, they liked to show off. And prove they could do something better than the other guy. Rodeo were just competitions. Cowboy against cowboy. There on the ranch.”
Now I was getting somewhere.
“Do you remember your first rodeo?” I asked.
Mr. Tollerud rubbed his hand over his grizzly chin thoughtfully.
“I guess I was 12 — no, maybe 11 — think it was 1923…”
Eric (1923)
Bronc busting this Sunday afternoon at Jacoby’s ranch. That phrase sings through his mind.
Crops planted, summer fallow worked, the herd put out to summer pasture. The long sunlit days of June are never quite long enough for all there is to do. Except for the day-long spring cattle drive to move the cattle from farm to hill pasture beyond the homestead, Eric hasn’t left the farm all month. Maybe that is why Mother, against all hope, agreed to let him go.
His Dad says what he always says. “It’s alright with me. But you’d better ask Mother.”
Not only has she said yes, she suggested he ride over to Floden’s a day early and stay the night. He and Harold could ride together to the Jacoby ranch to watch the cowboys breaking the green broncs.
And on a Sunday, at that. He never expected to get permission to spend a Sunday at a bronc busting. Even with no formal church service to attend, his mother has been adamant. “It is still the Lord’s Day.” For as far back as Eric can remember, she has led a family Sunday service of Bible reading and hymn singing and enforced a strict code of abstinence from frivolous activities for the rest of the day. If Mother has a list of Things One Should Avoid Doing on the Sabbath, bronc busting would probably top the list. But she has told him he can go.
