At the far side of the bottom shelf, I spotted a slender, unmarked volume covered with heavy, black-textured cloth. I drew it out and opened the first page. The paper was cream-coloured with blue lines, filled with my great-aunt’s ornate handwriting in black ink. Gently I moved aside a few fragile dried flowers that carried the faint odour of wild roses and began to read.
August 6, 1924
We are in our new home at last, and it is simply heaven to tread on carpet once again. Our wee log cabin will always be dear to me, as it is where we enjoyed the first happy weeks of our wedded life, but I am secretly relieved not to be spending the winter there. George claims it would have been quite snug once the cracks were chinked with mud, and snow banked up around the foundation, but I remain doubtful!
George built the cabin himself in 1919, the first structure on his new homestead. He is a very accomplished man, exactly the sort of husband one desires. He also constructed a log barn for the livestock, but then, since it was necessary to turn his attention to clearing the land, little else was done in the way of accommodation.
When we left Juniper, I felt so eager to begin my new life that I wanted the horses to gallop, yet I quailed when I first caught sight of this humble abode, and it was all I could do to force a smile to my lips. My husband, ever sensitive to my mood, handed me a catalogue and bade me choose my new home from a Canadian company called the T. Eaton Company Limited.
The price of $1,577 seems tremendous, but George received a small inheritance from his uncle that paid for it entirely. We are very fortunate, for settlers who bring money from the outside have a “leg up,” although even those with funds may fail to thrive unless they are careful managers.
Within weeks the entire house arrived in pieces at the station in Juniper. The railway reached the town in 1916, but only after a mighty battle with the wilderness. The tracks stagger drunkenly around the landscape, and when they pass over muskeg one can see the cars rising and sinking in a most alarming fashion.
From the station, the materials were brought here on seven wagons pulled by oxen. The wagoners unloaded a great quantity of milled lumber (almost unheard of in these parts, where there is as yet no sawmill), glass-paned windows, shingles, and everything down to the last nail: all arrived as promised. T. Eaton offers a one-dollar rebate for every knothole, so I inspected the lumber diligently in hopes of catching them out, but eventually waved the white flag as the boards are as flawless as satin.
Our home is the Eastbourne model, one that will last several lifetimes. I feel blessed to have such a grand house and made only two changes to the original plan — the addition of a spacious back kitchen, and the elimination of one dividing wall upstairs to create a double-sized main bedroom.
We even have a separate bathroom although the water must be carried up and down the stairs. Unfortunately, plumbing and pioneering are at the opposite ends of the spectrum! At least we don’t have to haul water from the creek like some poor souls. We have our own well water, and both colour and taste are excellent.
George ordered a double brass bed and a chest of drawers from Edmonton, along with a table and four chairs. How I appreciate sitting in a chair, after the stumps we used in the cabin, and sleeping on a real mattress after the contraption that George strapped together from poplar poles!
Happily, my “settler’s effects” arrived as the house was being finished. Ma made short work of shipping my books and china, as well as my Oriental carpet and my dressing table, and we will add to these furnishings as our purse allows.
My carpet looks handsome on the gleaming fir floor, and I’m especially fond of the glass-fronted cupboards on each side of the fireplace. I polished my silver tea set and placed it on the top shelf, while our small collection of books lines the lower shelves. So far I have had very little time for reading! The fireplace is constructed of stones that I selected myself and carried, one by one, from the creek bed.
George and I had our first disagreement over his stuffed moose head, which he was resolved to hang over the mantel. Looking into the creature’s dark, wicked eyes makes my blood run cold. George says they are indeed dangerous, and if I am charged by one, I must run in circles around a tree, as they are too ungainly to catch me and will eventually tire of this sport and wander away! The grotesque head has been stored in the attic “for now,” as George puts it.
For our protection, George brought home a pup from the nearby Indian reserve, a cross between a northern husky and the saints know what. He is a dear wee creature with blue eyes and a tail that curls over his back. I have named him Riley. Sure, and isn’t he living the life of Riley here — wide open spaces and all the rabbits he can catch!
Now that the house is complete, we must begin to work and save in earnest, and I am resolved to do everything in my power to create a home in this beautiful savage land.
When George came back from the trenches in 1919, as a “returned man,” the Soldier Settlement Act allowed him to stake his claim on two quarters of land. (Plus the government gave him a handout of long underwear!)
Although a great distance from town, the presence of a good well makes this property appealing. For the past five years George has worked like a slave to clear the required number of ten acres per year, and “prove up” his claim. He is now master of his domain, with 320 acres to call his own, although only fifty are yet broken.
This part of the country is called “The Last Best West,” the only area left in Canada for those wishing to homestead. The fertile prairie land has been taken up, but George says he prefers the north because of the plentiful trees for firewood and buildings. The trees here are very tall and straight and good for construction. Everything is made of logs, from toilets to chicken coops.
The setting is truly majestic. We are situated in a slight hollow, not far from the creek where the livestock drink. On both the east and west sides of the yard, George planted a double row of poplars and spruce, appropriately called a windbreak, to provide “our shelter from the stormy blast.” The southern aspect is open to a view of our own fields and the far-off blue hills.
George says he departed from the practice of most newly arrived Englishmen, who long to be “kings of all they survey” and build on the highest hilltop. The old-timers know enough to build in a low spot where the howling winds cannot reach them.
I will name my house Wildwood. It is not fashionable to name houses in this country, but I took one look at the dark forest behind us and determined that this place is a Wildwood if ever there was one!
George says ’twas fate that brought me to the “moochigan” in Juniper, as a man with a wife is more likely to succeed. (The word moochigan, which is taken from the Cree language, is the local name for a dance.) This sounds rather prosaic, but George hastened to tell me he was only joking. He claims that when he first looked into my blue Irish eyes, he felt as if he were drowning. He is nine years older than I, twenty-seven years of age, but he says that I make him feel like a schoolboy. I told him he must have kissed the Blarney Stone!
Our wedding was all that I wished, in spite of the absence of my dear parents. We were married at the Church of England Mission in Juniper. I wore my good brown travelling suit and my brown velvet hat with the pheasant feather cockade. Luckily a photographer was visiting Juniper for the purpose of taking an official picture of the new Hudson’s Bay chief factor and he made our wedding portrait as well.
The O’Neills waited to see me safely wed before beginning the long trip back to Killarney. I still shed bitter tears at the dreadful thought of leaving Ma and Da forever, but perhaps we can make a visit to the land of my birth once the farm has begun to prosper.
My dear husband was worried half to death about bringing me here, so far from civilization, but I assured him that this is exactly what I want, a husband and house of my own, and the adventure of a new life in a new land. Sure, and I must be the happiest girl in the world!
I lifted my eyes from the page and gazed around the room, feeling a
s if I had been transported through a wormhole back in time. So my great-aunt had chosen this house herself, and everything in it. I could almost hear the Irish lilt in her voice and feel her joyful presence all around me like a warm glow.
I closed the book reverently and replaced it on the shelf. Just as one resisted the temptation to eat an entire box of chocolates at once, I would put this diary away and savour every word.
And that was Day One.
Three hundred and sixty-four days to go.
7
August
As I reached over my head to place the last china bowl on the top shelf, I winced. Every muscle in my body was throbbing, but the house was now as clean as soap, water, vinegar, lemon juice, and elbow grease could make it.
I had cleaned only the rooms we would use: the main floor, staircase, upstairs hallway, and master bedroom. I had decided never to use the upstairs bathroom for bathing, since that would involve carrying buckets of water up and down the stairs.
In the past three weeks I had wiped all the wooden furniture repeatedly with damp rags and washed the wooden floors three times. I staggered back and forth with pail after pail of muddy water, the bottom thick with silt. I dragged the heavy Oriental carpet outside and hung it over the clothesline, beating it with a broom until my shoulders ached. Bridget had tried to help me, too, whacking the carpet with a wooden spoon.
Most of the time she amused herself. That was one advantage of being an only child with a solitary soul. She sat on the back steps and played with Fizzy while I kept an eye on her. Once I looked up to see the steps empty and ran outside to find her around the corner. “I’m right here, Mama. I’m watching Fizzy trying to catch a grasshopper.”
An hour later, as I walked across the yard to use the toilet, I heard her calling me in a frantic voice.
“I’m here, Bridget!” I assured her.
She followed me and waited outside the toilet door. We were still nervous about being out of each other’s sight.
And no wonder. Every time I glanced outside, my heart quailed. There wasn’t a sign of civilization, not so much as a telephone pole in sight. I tried to focus on my housework to avoid the panic that rose whenever I recalled our complete isolation.
Now I poured myself a cup of steeped tea from the Old English teapot on the stove and collapsed into the rocking chair. My arms and legs were as weak as sock puppets because I hadn’t done any real exercise since Bridget was born. Still, the pain was worth the gain. I surveyed the kitchen with satisfaction.
I had scrubbed the kitchen floor on my hands and knees, delighted to see an attractive checkerboard of light and dark green squares emerge, wreathed with a border of red, yellow, and blue flowers. Old Joe had referred to it as battleship linoleum and I could see why. It was as hard and shiny as steel.
Next I scoured every square inch of the fir cabinets, which had been darkened by years of smoke. I found an old tin of Brasso polish in the pantry and made the knobs and hinges shine like the buttons on a general’s uniform.
When Bridget grew tired of sitting on the steps, she came inside and helped me arrange the bone-handled cutlery in the kitchen drawers, now lined with crisp new shelf paper from Canadian Tire.
Curiously, we found a chased silver baby spoon with a curved handle, engraved with an M. It must have belonged to my great-aunt when she was a child.
As I sipped my tea, I gazed with satisfaction at the sparkling kitchen windows. After removing the top layer of grime with soapy water, I had scraped off the hardened insect spots with a kitchen knife and finished by polishing the windows with vinegar and newspapers. The rippling effect of the old glass gave the landscape outside an otherworldly appearance.
The lace curtains had been stiff with dirt until I boiled them on the stove with a capful of bleach and hung them from the clothesline that ran between two poplars. They dried quickly in the afternoon breeze. As I took down the armfuls of snowy fabric, I remembered the term “lace curtain Irish,” a derogatory term used by the English to denote the working class. I wondered why they would criticize anything so beautiful.
With the windows cleaned and the curtains washed, the kitchen was lighter and even a couple of degrees warmer. The bright afternoon sunlight turned the creamy walls the colour of unsalted butter. The lace curtains cast a faint pattern of fairy flower shadows. The windows were propped open with stones, allowing the fresh air to fill the room. From the yard came a chorus of melodic twittering and cheeping.
A piercing scream from the dining room shattered my sense of peace. I leaped to my feet, a muffled exclamation of pain escaping as my sore muscles contracted, and rushed through the door. Bridget was crouched on the floor below the windowsill, her face contorted with terror.
Gazing curiously through the window were three adult deer and a small spotted fawn. Their big ears, twitching back and forth, were larger than their dainty, pointed faces.
“Oh, look at the deer!” I had never seen animals in the wild, never imagined that they would be so tame. “Those are deer, like the ones in the movie Bambi! You remember Bambi, don’t you?”
She raised her eyes above the windowsill. Together we stared at the deer, and they stared back at us, their eyes deep and liquid and mysterious.
“I thought Bambi was just a cartoon,” Bridget said tearfully. “You never told me deers were real people.”
After the deer wandered away, I returned to the kitchen and finished my tea. There was still one last chore. I had cleaned the cream enamel and silver chrome on the stove, and now I was going to black the surface using a bottle from the back kitchen with a red-and-white label reading “Black Silk Stove Polish.” I set to work, rubbing the surface of the stove with a damp rag, admiring the way the black metal gleamed like ebony.
Not counting the shabby duplex belonging to the Sampsons, I had lived in only one real house before, sold after my parents died. I vaguely remembered a pleasant adobe bungalow surrounded by palm trees, with colourful Navajo rugs and a grand piano. This house couldn’t be more different — yet there was some deep sense of comfort that felt the same.
As I polished, I heard the unfamiliar sound of an engine. It grew louder every minute, a deep roaring accompanied by the sound of swishing, like a giant broom sweeping a giant floor. I ran to the back door and looked out.
On the edge of the grain field across the creek, a red monster rolled past. I had never seen a combine harvester, but obviously this was one of them — a large, square machine with a rotating paddlewheel on the front, sailing down the field like a Mississippi riverboat. The wheel pulled the plants toward it, feeding them into a line of sharp cutting blades underneath. The rear of the machine spewed out a shower of stalks that fell to the ground like a trail left by a huge golden slug.
“Bridget, come and see!”
She came to the doorway and slipped her hand into mine, fearfully.
“That machine is called a combine. It cuts down the grain and separates the seeds from the straw. The seeds go into a big hopper, and the straw falls out behind.” I hoped that was correct. “Let’s walk over to the field so we can see how it works.”
We picked our way through the long grass, crossed the creek at a narrow place where someone had helpfully placed three flat stepping stones, and walked to the edge of the grain field. The combine shrank into the distance as it went around the far side, then it circled back. As it approached, the noise grew louder. Bridget squeezed my hand.
A green truck appeared at the end of the field, tearing across the stubble. Drawing closer to the combine, it drove underneath the long pipe that stuck out from the side like the spout on a teapot. With a rush of sound, a thick stream of golden kernels burst from the spout and cascaded into the truck box. The combine and the truck moved in tandem, travelling at the same speed. The combine continued to suck up the standing grain as eagerly as Fizzy lapping milk from her bowl, pulling the plants into its hungry mouth.
The rush of grain from the spout slowed to a trickle and th
en stopped. The truck angled away from the combine toward us, and with surprise I saw that the driver was a grey-haired woman. She waved at us before the truck picked up speed and raced away.
The combine was approaching now, and we could see a man sitting at the controls, high in a glass box that surrounded him on three sides and extended to his feet. When it came up beside us, the combine drew to a shuddering stop. The door of the glass cab opened and the driver climbed backwards down the metal steps, holding the railings on each side. Astonishingly, the sound of classical music emerged from the open door.
He strode rapidly across the stubble, unsmiling. Bridget shrank behind me and even I felt rather intimidated by this tall, broad-shouldered man in dirty jeans and a ragged denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, unbuttoned to reveal a hairy chest. There were sweat circles under his arms. Since he was wearing dark glasses, one arm held on with a piece of duct tape, I could see only the glint of his eyes. His bony jaw was covered with scruffy golden whiskers that glittered like the stubble under our feet.
On his head was a beat-up green cap bearing a logo that read “Alberta Wheat Pool.” When he pulled this off, his dark blond hair, matted into something that resembled a mullet, was plastered to his forehead with sweat and dust. His dark eyebrows were drawn together in a distinctly unfriendly expression.
“You must be the new owner. I’m Colin McKay.” He held out his hand and I couldn’t help flinching when I saw how black it was.
Still, I gritted my teeth and extended my own hand. Much to my dismay, I saw that my hands were even grimier than his, covered as they were with soot and Black Silk polish. We shook hands, dirt meeting dirt.
Wildwood Page 7
