Prairie Grass

by Joan Soggie

  The biting air froze tears on his eyelashes.

  He pulled his cap closer over his ears and plodded homeward.

  Chapter Nine

  Grasses generally dominate native prairie landscapes. However, a closer look reveals hundreds of different species besides grasses: shrubs and cacti and wildflowers. Gabriellas’ Prairie Notes

  Gabby (2012)

  What I did next day was not very professional of me.

  But then, I suck at professionalism. My Dad liked to call me a professional student, because I took five years to complete a four-year degree and still don’t have permanent employment. He didn’t count my present year-long contract as much better than a summer job. I knew he worried about what he saw as my immaturity. He would have beamed with pleasure if I had come home with news of a position with an important business firm or in the civil service, something with security and a good pension plan. I wished he could see that my goals were different from his. Although, if he had asked me to define those goals, I would have had to admit that mine were pretty much in the embryonic stage.

  Diane had emphasized the importance of verifying stories, where possible, with external sources. She had never suggested we could share that research with our centenarians. On the contrary, she warned us against contaminating their memories. But what harm could there possibly be in telling this old man that some of the stories he had carried in his head since his youth were validated by historical records? As I’d listened to his account of the legendary story told him by the old Metis during their strange day and night in the snowstorm, I’d heard sadness. Something that I believed reflected a deep longing for the truth.

  So, I didn’t think twice about whether my boss would approve. I put together an excerpt from Jeff Relleter’s book and prepared to share what I’d learned about the Cree chief with Eric Tollerud.

  He hadn’t told me the hero’s name, when he recounted the story told him long ago by old Laprairie. Possibly both the Cree name, Maskepetoon, and the French version, Bra-Casse, had sounded too foreign to register with him at the time. But the circumstances and the character were too much like the account I had been reading to be coincidental. I was convinced they were one and the same person.

  The character and the story of the peacemaker stayed with him, embedded in his brain, for over 80 years. The story must have represented something important to him. I thought, that character, that Cree leader, embodied his ideal of heroism and integrity. And, I realized, that was something strong and unchanging that he connected back to the land.

  As I wrote a synopsis of the story, I added notes to tell Eric where I had found my information. He would be insulted by a fairy tale version. I would tell him about Jeff Relleter, his credentials as an historian and a writer. I would tell him how Palliser himself recorded one incident when Maskepetoon negotiated peace with the Blackfeet. And another historian had written that the ‘the war between the Cree and the Blackfoot confederacy ceased between 1857 and 1860, due to Maskepetoon’s efforts.’

  The peace must have been a welcome reprieve for all but the most macho warriors. The elders, even those who had never travelled beyond the Saskatchewan, must have seen that bison herds grew smaller each year, starvation loomed larger. The women had watched helpless as their children died of strange and deadly epidemics. It is possible that only Maskepetoon saw the whole dreadful picture. But knowledge is one thing, conviction another. What could one person do? What did he do?

  He simply walked, alone and unarmed, across the open prairie, towards the area where a Blackfoot war party was known to be camping. They saw him coming, one solitary figure trotting across miles of open grassland. They may have been baffled, curious, suspicious.

  Maybe the scouts recognized the man. They knew him as Monogebenou, ‘the young chief’ of the Cree. So Maskepetoon walked into the Blackfoot camp.

  The Blackfoot leaders listened to Maskepetoon speak of his vision of peace between the tribes. Peace to turn away from old rivalries. Peace to build strength in their children going into an unknown future. Peace to which Maskepetoon had committed himself. The Blackfoot must either smoke the pipe with him or kill him.

  Strange people, these plains tribes. They played a deadly game but played it by their own rules. The pipe was passed solemnly around the circle. The chief spoke, and his son stepped into his tent, returning with a fine buckskin shirt which was ceremoniously offered to Maskepetoon. That night he sat talking with them around the campfire and slept soundly in the chief’s tipi. Before he left the next morning, three ponies were presented to him, probably with some jibes about the Crees’ chronic lack of good horses.

  Maskepetoon returned to his people with news of the peace treaty. Some rejoiced. Others were angry.

  And so, the peace would last a while, and then fail.

  Chapter Ten

  Scarlet mallow. Alternate grey-green leaves on low erect or spreading stem. Orange-red five-petal saucer-shaped flowers in clusters of four to six. Blooms in spring through early summer. Grows in dry, open prairie and disturbed areas. Woody base often forms patches from spreading root. Gabriellas’ Prairie Notes

  Gabby (2012)

  What? Friday already?

  Said no one, ever.

  But much as I looked forward to the weekend, my work seemed destined to follow me. A few loose threads in Eric’s life story might be soon knit together, or at least woven into other stories I had stumbled upon while looking into background material. Some linked together by proximity of place and time, others connected through generations, touching and overlapping. And this great big beautiful land seemingly the one constant, pulling them all together.

  I think Eric felt, as I did, that we had reclaimed a piece of history that had been ignored, if not lost. He asked me to read him the Maskepetoon story twice, nodding his head and saying, “Yes, that is the how it must have been. But there has to be more. You will tell me if you find more, won’t you? That is a story worth telling.”

  Implying that his own life story did not have quite the same value.

  I promised him whatever I unearthed that touched on anything he had told me I would share with him. I felt sure there would be more to tell.

  Last night, I finally called the number Monica had given me. Monica had obviously given Madeline Hirondelle, daughter and closest relative of a Metis centenarian, a heads up that I would be contacting her. No awkward explanations were needed. Madeline already knew about the Centenarian Project, who I was and what I wanted, and, although she promised nothing, she agreed to meet me face to face that weekend. She would be attending the sixty-year reunion of her class from Saskatchewan Normal School. I had to ask her to repeat that. Apparently, Normal School is what they used to call Teacher’s College. I didn’t dare ask why.

  So, as luck would have it, she would be in Moose Jaw Friday night, and so would I. My parents were over the moon that I would be coming to see them for the weekend. The fact that I had invited a stranger to meet me at their place, on top of having invited my boyfriend for the weekend, did not phase them one bit.

  Andy suggested it. There was a music in the park event in Regina and a popular group called North of Williston would be playing. Andy seemed excited to hear them, and I was looking forward to going to a concert with Andy. A date, an excuse to dress up, take a break from adulting. And to spend a weekend with my folks. Well, part of the weekend, anyway. Since Moose Jaw was on the way to Regina, Andy could pick me up at their place Saturday. My parents would no doubt be thrilled to meet a boyfriend who had a real job, as opposed to the students they were accustomed to seeing me date.

  But, before the weekend, a long Friday loomed, culminating with meeting Ms. Hirondelle. First things first. Another trip to the nursing home this morning, this time to meet Eric’s daughter, Carol.

  Carol was a regal lady, calm and composed and well put together, from her silvered hair to her sandaled toes. She was waiting for me beside Mr. Tollerud’s recliner, which he preferred to his wheelchai
r most mornings. An old photo album lay open on his lap.

  Eric smiled at me as Carol introduced herself. She was the eldest of Eric’s children, had married a local rancher and raised her family in the same community where she’d grown up. She had grandchildren my age. Both Eric and Carol seemed pleased to see me and I wondered if they had been discussing me and the Centenarian Project. Almost the first words from Carol were, “Dad asked me to bring this album. He would like me to tell you about Mom.”

  Surprised, I stuttered, “Well, sure, that would be great. I guess your wife was a pretty important part of your life, Mr. Tollerud. Shall we talk here, or go into that little family sitting-room?”

  Eric raised his hand dismissively. “Carol can tell you everything you need to know for your report.”

  I sighed. Even after reading him the Peacemaker story I had brought yesterday, which made his eyes shine, Eric still seemed convinced that my only reason for interviewing him was to glean facts regarding the history of the land. He did not see his life as anything more than a side-story, hardly worth preserving.

  Carol and I settled into two armchairs in a quiet corner and I set up my iPad to record our conversation. Carol opened the old album and showed me a wedding photo. Sepia tones on a black page displayed a young bride in a simple gown, seated, holding an armful of roses, her husband standing straight and proud behind her. Eric’s smile was instantly recognizable.

  “How did your Mom and Dad meet?” I asked.

  “Oh, the two families got to know each other quite early on. Dad and Mom knew each other most of their lives, though as children they lived fifty miles apart.

  In fact, that was one of the stories Mom loved to tell us kids – how Dad was nicknamed Fifty-Mile Eric.”

  Eric (1931-1935)

  Catherine ran down the steps of the girls’ dorm and hurried along the sidewalk to the classroom building, her thoughts lingering over yesterday. She had always known Eric as a serious-minded person. You could count on him to mean what he said, and to think it through before he said it. That was one of the qualities that she admired in him.

  And at the same time, the one she found most annoying.

  Can’t he see that most people do not weigh every word they say? That we need to laugh and joke and have fun? Especially with all of us living in such close quarters at this little college?

  Of course, she was friendly with everyone. Naturally, there would be lots of teasing and flirting and silly talk. Even the teachers got in on it, like young Mr. Beislee calling his all-girl biology class, “Mr. Bee and his Honeys.”

  But, Catherine reminded herself, not every family was like hers. She had grown up nourished by equal parts food and laughter. Almost any embarrassing or unusual event was fodder for story-telling that could set her sisters and brothers off into rounds of knee-slapping, stomach-hugging, eye-watering howls. It seemed her younger brothers spent most of their waking hours thinking up ridiculous pranks that dissolved even their father’s Norwegian reserve.

  Catherine thought back to her first impression of the Tollerud family. Her mother had met Mrs. Tollerud years earlier, on the long slow train ride to Saskatoon when the two homemakers bonded over the difficulties of raising young children and turkeys. They exchanged recipes, rhubarb roots and remedies, and had decided their young daughters should become pen pals. The first letter from Elise contained a gift Catherine still treasured, a handmade pink-bead necklace. The girls’ friendship flourished following their first face-to-face meeting when Mrs. Tollerud allowed Elise to make the two-hour train trip to visit Catherine’s family. What a pale thin sprig she had looked as she climbed down the sooty steps of the passenger-car! But she had caught their mood quickly and joined in the fun of Catherine’s giggling, light-hearted sisters.

  When Catherine returned the visit a month or two later, met at the train station by Eric and Elise for the wagon ride out to the farm, the mood was friendly and cheerful but restrained. No careless banter, no exaggerated tall tales. They had a pleasant time, playing games and making cookies. But Catherine realized the Tollerud household — even Mr. Tollerud — adjusted their behaviour to Abigail’s exacting standard.

  “Hi, Cat,” called a breathless girl catching up to Catherine as they climbed the stairs to the classroom. “Who was that Valentino you brought to supper last night? An old boyfriend?”

  “Oh, Edna, he’s just a good friend. I’ve known Eric since I was a kid, he’s almost like a brother to me.”

  “Some brother. Charley said he rode fifty miles to see you.”

  Catherine grinned. “Made a nice little jaunt for him, he said it was a good day for a horseback ride.”

  But as she slipped into her seat across from Edna and pulled her notebook out of the bag slung over her shoulder, she felt a warm glow that her friends assumed a relationship that she herself had hardly dared acknowledge.

  He was so quiet, so serious. He meant what he said, but sometimes it took him a long time to say it. Like last night, for instance. He tried so hard to seem casual when he asked her if the stories he’d heard were true, that she was practically engaged to one of the young teachers. And he looked so happy when she laughed at the notion.

  “Anyway, Auntie Kari would kill me,” she had added,” if I should drop out after all she has done for me. And remember, she is Dean of Women here!”

  “But that wouldn’t stop you from quitting college and getting married, would it?” he had asked. “Not if you really cared for someone? In that way?”

  Her laughing reply had been stilled on her lips by his steady, inquiring gaze. He looked so … well, so Eric! And then he had kissed her.

  And when they walked down by the river after supper, he had taken her hand in his to help her down the steep path and seemed to forget to let go. Not that she minded. She liked the warm strength of his fingers around hers. It felt right.

  And although he didn’t seem too interested in hearing about her classes or her classmates, she had enjoyed hearing his animated description of the improvements he had made on the farm since she had last been there. It seemed that he ran the homestead completely on his own now and had worked out an arrangement with his dad and mother for sharing the machinery in exchange for field work.

  He made no mention of it, but she guessed he had given up his plan to become an electrician. He had studied at this same small-town college one short winter term a few years earlier to get the math classes required for the electrical course. Considering all the time he spent working on the farm instead of in school, it was wonderful he had managed to get that far. And now times were bad, and money was tight.

  “Too bad he can’t be here at college with me,” thought Catherine with a pang of guilt. When her aunt offered to cover tuition so Catherine could attend the junior college, she felt like the luckiest girl in the world. Her folks’ farm barely provided food and shelter for the children still at home, since the depression had driven down the price of grain. Adding insult to injury, grasshoppers and drought had made it impossible to grow much of anything last year. Catherine had always thought she would go to the city and get a job to pay for college when she finished high school. The reality was that now both jobs and money were scarce as hen’s teeth. The low-paying jobs available for a young woman would hardly pay for an education.

  “It’s not fair,” she blurted out as she and Edna left class arm in arm. “Eric works so hard, and he’s so smart. He could do a lot with a college education. And here I am, just lapping it up to no purpose.”

  “What?” Edna rolled her eyes in exaggerated horror. “You mean you are NOT going to follow in your auntie’s footsteps and be an old maid English teacher?”

  Catherine laughed and shook her head. The shiny brown waves of her fashionable bob swung across her face.

  “I do want to get married someday. And that will be the end of any career I might have.”

  Edna nodded. Everyone knew that no married woman should hold a job while there were able-bodied men unemplo
yed. They both knew how the system worked and accepted that it was better for families to have one breadwinner and one homemaker. If a female schoolteacher married, even in the middle of the school year, she immediately resigned or was fired. It was the same for most other jobs, especially now that jobs were so few. It was the man’s responsibility to provide the income for his family, and the woman’s job to make do with whatever income that was.

  “So,” Catherine continued, bravely carrying her thought to its logical conclusion, “If I am going to marry someday anyway, maybe I should do it soon, before I waste more of my time and my auntie’s money on an education.”

  Her friend’s amazement was not feigned this time.

  “Cat! You wouldn’t really give up your chance for getting something more out of life, would you? All the books to read, places to see, people to meet … tell me you don’t mean it!”

  Catherine laughed at her chagrin. “Life is what you make of it, my dear. And if the right man asked me to give up all this,” she gestured grandly around the treeless campus with its few brick buildings “for love and a family, I would do it.”

  “Well,” responded her friend, “I devoutly hope that Eric does not get wind of that, or I suppose we will be shopping for china for you within the year.”

  Hillview, Saskatchewan

  September 20, 1935

  Dear Elise,

  The Big Day is only a matter of five weeks away, and now that harvest is just about finished the wedding is very much on my mind. Catherine is still cooking for the threshers and staying with her folks. She has put everything she is earning into dishes, etc. for our new home. She is a good sport about all the scrimping and saving, but I don’t want her to feel like she is marrying a pauper, either. Please use the cheque enclosed to do some shopping for me. I need a new hat, one of those snappy numbers like the one Elmer wore to the Chataqua would be fine, if you can find one. And I want you to arrange for flowers to be sent out by train from Saskatoon to Macrorie the day before the wedding. That might be hard to manage in late October, but I think they will still ship flowers for special occasions. Red roses would be best, enough to make a nice bouquet. I counted the roses in the bouquet in Helen and Jim’s wedding photo, and there were two dozen. Get more if you think that is not enough.