by Joan Soggie
It might never have happened but for those disastrous church meetings last winter.
What a hullabaloo that was. After months of discussions, all their Lutheran neighbours — Norwegian, Danish, German or American — agreed on the need to build a church. Eric’s grandparents donated land with ample space for churchyard and cemetery, a hilltop where the church spire might be seen for miles. Everyone agreed on the name: Valiant Lutheran Church.
The next order of business was to choose a denomination out of the many brands of Lutheranism represented.
That’s when the trouble began. The Hagens and others wanted a Free Church congregation, pietistic in character and Norwegian in language. The Hoemeisters opposed that, and some whispered, They want services in German, you know. Of course, that option was not even discussed. Memories of the Great War were still painfully fresh.
Eric’s parents and grandparents offered to accept any Lutheran pastor, but wanted services held in English. They were English-speaking American-Canadians, after all, and were not, as Grandma had unwisely remarked in the heat of the moment, “Raising a bunch of little Norwegians!”
From there on it was all downhill. Arguments over doctrine served as a cover for squabbles fueled by private grudges. In the end, no denomination is chosen, no church built, and the formerly unified pioneer community is divided.
That winter was a bleak, miserable time for the Tollerud family. During the weeks following the disastrous final meeting of the Valiant Lutheran church committee, Abigail and Per’s baby girl became deathly ill.
Eric was 11 when his littlest sister was born. His pride at being the one sent to fetch the midwife was only exceeded by the glow of being the first, after his father, summoned to meet the new baby. In the next weeks, he never missed the opportunity to rock her cradle, to smile into her blue eyes gazing up at him as though she already knew him as her favourite brother. But almost before he has time to get used to the wonder of those tiny pink fingers closing around his own, Joy is gone.
Her small gravestone ensures that, although the church has failed, the graveyard will not be forgotten. Her death seals the Tolleruds’ commitment to the land. Where their baby Joy lies, they too will lie someday, in a cemetery on a high and windy hill, with not a church building within ten miles.
Sometimes Eric thinks it is the coldness that ended those awful meetings that changed Abigail. But deep inside, he senses that failure of fellowship, as his grandmother calls it, is merely the irritant that slowed the healing of her grief. He himself longs sometimes to lay his head on his mother’s knee and cry for baby Joy. But he dares not mention her name. His mother never speaks of the infant since her burial, as though her memory should, in all decency, remain covered with her casket.
Failure of fellowship, failure of faith, failure of motherhood? Whatever it is, his mother’s step is slower, the orders she gives her children less peremptory. When she looks at him, the dullness in her brown eyes frightens him. He wants to comfort her but has no idea how. So, he works harder than ever, and urges Elise and the little boys to do all they can to “help Mother.”
Maybe Abigail sees how her depression casts a cloud over every member of the family. In later years, Eric wonders if it was as compensation to them for her sadness that she relaxed her rigorous control over Sunday activities. Sunday is still a day of rest from their daily chores, but now they may use some of those hours for sports and play. A ballgame with the Johansen’s children. Frog hunting down along the big slough. Permission to spend Sunday at a bronc busting
As he turns his horse’s head towards the trail leading to the Floden homestead, Eric grins. Harold will be surprised to see him. He wonders if Mrs. Floden still bakes every Saturday. His mouth waters at the thought of her cinnamon buns.
Harold, Eric, and Ole, the Floden’s hired man, are slow saddling their horses the next morning. The feast Harold’s mother prepared for breakfast satisfied even Eric’s appetite and took half the morning to consume.
“Now, boys, you must take this lunch with you,” calls Mrs. Floden from the door yard. “And mind you handle it carefully. I put in a quart sealer of coffee, all wrapped up in old towels. It should stay hot until you unwrap it.”
Eric beams his thanks as he takes the heavy leather bag. He is confident they will find more cinnamon buns inside. The short, plump woman looks at them with a frown on her usually serene pink face. “You boys, Eric and Harold, you be good and stay out of trouble. Your Mama, Eric, she trusts you to be a good boy. And I trust my Harold. If those cowboys start passing their bottle around, you just tell them ‘No thanks, I got my coffee!’”
Harold and Eric laugh and nod. “Yes’m!”
Even with their dawdling, they are ready to start the six-mile ride to the Jacoby ranch by mid-morning. Most of the prairie here is still unbroken, too hilly for the plough, and such good pasture that no one has thought to improve on the native grasses. The green hillsides are dotted with white-faced cattle, calves frolicking in their stiff-legged games. A long-billed curlew flies up suddenly and circles low over the horsemen. It calls anxiously to its ungainly chicks as they scurry to find cover in the short grass. The mother bird flops along the ground in the opposite direction dragging her wing, plaintively pleading “Chase me! Chase me!” The riders rein in their horses to give the birds time to escape.
“I’ve seen those birds keep a coyote yust running back and forth, back and forth, all day long,” chuckles Ole. “Gud mothers and fathers, they are. Takes smart parents to raise babies in this country.”
A fence marks the boundary of Floden’s land, and they stop to open the gate.
“Remember the Laprairies, Eric?” asked Harold as he loops the barbwire around to refasten the gate. “They live right over that hill. I suppose Jack will be at Jacoby’s place today. He works for them sometimes.”
Half a lifetime ago! That is how long it has been since he rode to the Laprairie place after getting the mail at Flodens. There has never been another opportunity. He has heard “the Laprairie boys” mentioned by neighbours, but they are part of a world outside his daily life. And their father, the old man he met so long ago, well, he might not even be alive anymore.
It’s funny. I only met him that once, but it felt like he knew me, and I knew him. I wish I could see him again. I liked hearing him talk about the old days.
“I don’t know Jack,” says Eric. “What’s he like?”
“Well, he’s big, really big,” replies Harold. “And he dresses kinda funny, both him and Pete wear buckskin jackets, and moccasins. But even in their moccasins they’re way taller than most of the cowboys in their big boots. Jack doesn’t talk much. Pete’s the one who made me a bow and arrow when I was little — remember that, Eric? And that Pete! Well, guys say he is the best shot in the country. Can shoot a fly off the barn roof. But I don’t know what Jack is good at.”
“He likes to dance,” offers Ole helpfully. “He comes to all the school-house dances, and when he starts step-dancing, everyone else yust stands back and claps. Never saw anyone dance like that before.”
Dancing? This doesn’t fit into Eric’s picture of the rough, tough life described by the old man.
“But aren’t they cowboys?” he asks. “I mean, they work for Pradera Ranch sometimes, don’t they? And for Jacoby’s? And they have a spread of their own. Their own land and cattle and everything?”
“Well, sort of, but I guess they’d rather be hunting or working with their horses. The cattle mostly run free, and sometimes get mixed in with other people’s herds …”
“And get branded with other people’s cattle, too!” adds Ole. “Uff da. It’s a shame, but some guys get so mad about the way they let their cattle run on other folks’ land, they say ‘If they want to give me their calves, I’ll take ‘em.’”
Jacoby’s ranch is now in sight. The corrals clustered before the low ranch house and small bunkhouses are ringed with cowboys’ saddle horses. Within one corral several skittish horses mill abou
t, raw three-year-olds fresh from the range. A cowboy on horseback tosses his lariat, settling the rope neatly around a buckskin’s neck, then, looping the rope around his saddle-horn, forces the buckskin through the open gate of the larger riding ring. Men in plaid shirts and floppy, broad brimmed hats lean against the fence or straddle the corral rails. The two boys clamber onto the corral as a couple of leather-faced cowboys make room for them.
Voices ring loud, and laughter louder, as they cheer on the rider. The horse bucks and twists in mid-air, landing stiff-legged, snorting and wild-eyed. Eric whoops with delight as the cowboy rakes his spurs from shoulder to flank, waving his free arm, urging the animal to spend its fear in futile plunging. Finally, the buckskin stops head down, mouth flecked with foam, knees trembling. Its rider gives it a breather, then urges it into a slow trot around the corral. Everyone cheers.
“Aw, that was an old nag anyways!” jeers one of the fence-sitters good naturedly. “See if you can’t find a better one for me.”
An hour passes and half dozen more riders take their turn at bronc busting before Harold nudges Eric. “There he is.”
“There’s who?” Eric turns in the direction Harold indicates. The man who has just ridden into the yard looks immediately familiar. The broad shoulders, thick hair, dark eyes recall to him the stranger whose stories have haunted his imagination for the past six years.
But it is not the same man. This man is younger, although he seems old to the boy, as do all grownups. And he lacks the commanding presence, the quiet confidence that Eric instinctively trusted in the older man. Eric glances at Harold inquiringly. Is this Jack or Pete?
“It’s Jack Laprairie,” hisses Harold. “and I think he’s drunk.”
Watching the tall man swing down from his horse, losing his balance as his feet hit the ground and staggering to the right as his horse skittishly pulled left, Eric agrees. He’s never actually seen anyone “under the influence.” His mother’s strong views on the subject are too well known in the district. But he’s heard enough from older boys at school and the young toughs on fall threshing crews to recognize the symptoms.
“Is his brother Pete here, too?” he asks his friend.
Harold shrugs. “I don’t think he likes being around Jack when he’s bin drinking too much.”
By this time, some of the cowboys on the fence notice Jack supporting himself with one arm around his horse’s neck. There’s a little nudging and laughter, and then one of them calls out, “Hey, Jack! Why don’t ya show us how to ride?”
Another one adds, “We bin saving a bronc just for you. Knew you wouldn’t want to miss the fun.”
Jack raises his hand in acknowledgement but makes no reply.
“Let’s go get Ole,” whispers Harold.
But a quick search of the crowd around the horse corral produces no Ole, and before they return, a horse has been roped and pulled, bucking and snorting, into the corral. Two cowboys snub its head up tight to the post, slip a bridle over its ears, force the bit between its teeth. The men who called to Jack are already boosting him onto the temporarily immobilized bronc. The boys run to reclaim their spot on the corral rails. They’re half convinced that Jack is going to be killed, but, whatever happens, they don’t want to miss it.
The ride is short and dirty. The horse’s head goes down, its tail straight up, the rider’s head snaps forward, and for a moment the man’s black hair mingles with the flying mane. Then as four hooves hit the ground, the horse’s snorting is drowned by a collective groan from the watchers on the fence. Jack’s whole body snaps backwards, then forward. He turns a somersault in midair and lands face down in the dust.
In a flash half a dozen horsemen are in the ring, two ropes around the horse’s neck, and two burly men staggering out of the ring with Jack’s arms draped over their shoulders.
“Don’t worry, boy, he’ll be alright.” The cowboy perched next to Eric lays a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Drunks fall easy, soft-like. He’ll wake up thinkin’ it’s just another hangover.”
He spat and shifts the wad in his cheek. “Now, if he’da been stone cold sober, he coulda bin thrown just as bad, and woulda fallen twice as hard.”
A tall man whom Eric guesses must be the other Laprairie brother has materialized from somewhere and kneels beside Jack’s recumbent form. Ole hurries over with a pail of water from the horse trough and splashes some on the unconscious man’s dirt-covered face.
The boys scramble to join the group of cowboys soberly observing the efforts to revive Jack. Pete mutters something as his big brown hands move over Jack’s limbs and neck, prodding for broken bones. After a few minutes Jack’s eyes open and he waves his arm feebly, pushing Pete’s hand away. He glares up at the crowd and mutters something. The cowboys cheer.
One laughs, “Well, Jack, you sure do win the prize for the purtiest dismount of the day!” Reassured that no serious harm had been done, the cowboys pick up their banter where they left off and drift back towards the corral. There is time for more rides before the sun drops low.
Relieved to see Ole, the boys hunker down beside him.
“Will Jack be alright?” Eric’s question is addressed to no-one in particular, but he glances up at Pete, sensing he is the one in charge. The big man ignores him and speaks in a low voice to his brother. Jack responds, his voice a little stronger and his words clearer than before, although Eric still does not understand him. He raises first one arm, then the other as though to prove that he can. Slowly and painfully he turns on his side and clumsily pushes himself to his feet. Pete grabs him to keep him from falling over as Ole steadies him on the other side, and together they help him to his horse.
“Ole, you take my horse up to my place for me. This brother of mine will fall off his old mare if I don’t hold on to him.”
With that, Pete swings up behind Jack, the two big men dwarfing the horse.
Eric wonder if some of the cowboys will make fun of them. But if they’re tempted, they wait until the riders are out of earshot. The boys are in no mood to watch more bronc busting. Besides, here is the perfect excuse to go see the Laprairie place. They dash to their horses, have cinches tightened and are in their saddles by the time Ole has bridled his mount and caught Pete’s horse. The trio catch up to Pete and Jack before they are out of sight of the Jacoby’s place.
The Laprairie place looks much as Eric remembers it. The sod-house is a little more dilapidated, the grass on the roof a little taller. The boys turn Pete’s horse out in the corral and tether their own to the lean-to while Ole helps Pete get Jack inside. Jack is already snoring on the bunk bed when they peek through the doorway. Ole waves them in.
“Pete is yust making us some coffee,” he grins.
Eric grins back. Ole never turns down a cup of hot coffee.
“Hey, Eric, did you eat all the buns Mama sent with us?” asks Harold.
Pete seems to enjoy Mrs. Floden’s baking as much as the boys do. Ole helps himself to another cup of coffee. Harold spoons more sugar into his already syrupy cup. Eric passes Pete the last of the buns and, trying to sound grownup, says, “I never saw anyone break a horse in one day like that.”
Pete snorts. “Those broncs won’t be good for nothin’ but Sunday rodeos for a long time yet. Some of them will just turn mean and ornery, never be good for anything. Takes weeks to halter break a horse good, and weeks more for him to get it into his head what you want him to do.”
“Ja, the best teacher for a young horse is a smart old horse,” muses Ole. “They know more about it than most people do. They speak the language.”
“I guess that’s how we train our colts,” Eric exclaims, suddenly understanding the reason for the way his Dad handled his team. “Dad teams up a green colt with one of our old mares pulling a stone boat until the colt gets the idea of what he’s supposed to do.”
“All the same, I hear you had quite a wreck with your green team this spring.” Harold grins.
“Yeah, it was some bust up alright.�
�� Eric launches into a lively account of the misadventure. “Dad and me, we’d been breaking in a new team for weeks. Dad would harness them with our old horses and hitch up an old wagon, me driving and him walking along side. We did that every day. The green horses were going pretty good by the time we had to start spring’s work, so Dad had me take the old team to work another field with the eight-foot disk while he hitched the new team to the drill. Well, I heard an awful racket and there was Dad hanging on for dear life and that new team bucking an’ kicking like they thought the devil was chasing them. Boy oh boy, did they ever take off! Through the fences, across the field — didn’t stop running until they got hung up in a slough. They were so scared of that drill Dad thought the last one would drown herself before we could get her unhitched.”
“Guess you didn’t get any seeding done for a few days.” Ole laughs.
Pete grins sourly at him.
“Too bad there wasn’t a whole posse of cowboys there to cheer him on and enjoy the sight of him making a blamed fool of himself.”
Chapter Six
The prairie isn’t only grassland. It is interspersed with lakes, ponds, creeks, river valleys, groves of shrubs and trees. These diverse environments abound with plant and animal life, and, over the past ten thousand years, sustained many distinct populations of Indigenous people. Gabriella’s Prairie Notes
Gabby (2012)
When I’d finished organizing my notes from the afternoon with Eric Tollerud and his daughter, I felt I had collected ample information on The Rodeo Tradition, or Growing up Western, whichever title Diane chose for the story I would send her. Meanwhile, I wanted to move on. Time to do some digging into a more distant and shadowy past.
Growing up Western would have meant something vastly different in the days before settlement, when the land was filled with buffalo. Bison, that is. In those days, kids would have been tested not only by dangerous tasks and a harsh environment, but against their tribal enemies. And the only records of this era have been written by foreigners. Outsiders. Adventurers and colonial explorers, or traders looking out for their own, or their fur-trading company’s interests. How fair is that?
