Then gates were noted for lifting, and old buggies or waggons that could be taken apart and put up on somebody’s veranda roof. Wood-piles to be pushed over, garden gates to be hung on telephone poles. No real damage, just something to make adults work the next day, and to remind them that kids weren’t altogether helpless.
The thing that made Hallowe’en night worthwhile, however, were the little buildings that stood at the rear of the lots. Some people called them “privies”, others “toilets”, still others “outhouses”. But to the kids they were always “shithouses”, and it was their bounded duty, as kids, to see that not one shithouse was left standing anywhere in town on Hallowe’en night.
Every house had one. They ranged in rows along either side of the back lanes, all the same shape, and varying only slightly as to size and colour. Some were built into the corner of the fence so as to be harder to topple; some were anchored with wire attached to long iron stakes; some even had cement foundations. But over they all went, one after the other, right on their faces with a deep satisfying crunch.
Most people accepted the Hallowe’en raids as an upsetting fact of life, but not serious. They got up on the frosty November First morning, heaved the structure back into place, made the appropriate remarks about the younger generation, and let it go at that. The little house might need a few minor repairs, but still, things a lot worse than that could happen on Hallowe’en.
A few, however, never gave up the fight. Each year they planned and contrived how to beat the kids, and each year they lost. Larger stakes were driven into the ground, barbed wire was strung about, complicated warning devices laid out. Some even stood shivering in the shadows until midnight or beyond, waiting for kids who never came. Then no sooner were they back in the house than they’d hear the familiar creaking thump that told them the kids had out-smarted them again.
To a very few, the feud with the kids became an obsession, and the most seriously afflicted of these was old Bones McGuire.
Old Bones was the nearest equivalent to a junk dealer that the town had. Nobody knew where he came from or why he’d come to this new town all alone, but he’d had enough money to build himself a neat little shack on the outskirts, behind which he kept an enormous garden. He did odd jobs in the town, and took home any metal junk that nobody wanted. He collected his junk in an old two-wheel cart, pulled by a horse that looked as ancient as himself.
Much of his time he spent in the nuisance grounds, where he stuffed old bottles and bits of metal into a gunny sack and carted them home. Old Bones was even known to pay a few cents for disused articles, like metal buggy rims that would make good hoops, or old baby carriage wheels that could be converted into cars, bent hoes and rakes and rusty old horseshoes; such objects as are useless to grown-ups, but for which kids always have great need.
Perhaps this was the basis for the hatred that grew between Old Bones and the kids of the town. Or perhaps it was rooted in nothing more significant than that he lived alone and communicated with no one. Whatever the reason, the hatred grew, and Old Bones became the prime target for the Hallowe’en gangs. His toilet was a small, neat affair that stood anchored firmly by the high, whitewashed board fence that surrounded his back yard. So securely was it anchored that I’m sure that in the stark light of day the combined efforts of every kid in town couldn’t have budged it. But on Hallowe’en night, when the devil lent muscles to their arms, half-a-dozen could have carried it out to the nuisance grounds.
In fact one night they did. The warped mind of Old Bones had produced fiendish schemes to beat the kids. One Hallowe’en, for instance, he went to the great trouble (working at night so none would know) of moving both outhouse and fence two feet forward. Since his was the pit type of convenience, this left a foul-smelling hole right where the kids would stand to push. This he covered with gunny sacks sprinkled with ashes to resemble the surface of the back lane. It worked. The first kids to dash up behind his structure fell headlong into the pit, and weren’t fit company for anyone for the rest of the night.
The kids did nothing in retaliation except plan for the next Hallowe’en. Old Bones knew the same trick would never work again and frantically racked his brain for another. Finally, in desperation, he made a very ridiculous mistake. He determined to ambush the kids, catch the little buggers in the act. Then he’d show them. Where to hide? Not in the shadow of the house, that was too far from the privy. The corner of the fence wouldn’t do, either. Inside the privy itself? Of course. The kids would never think of that.
To make sure that he wouldn’t be taken unawares, he rigged up an elaborate system of signals consisting of binder-twine stretched ankle-high across the lane, tied to pegs and attached to a knocker that would bang on the side of the building. No kid could get past without warning the lurking Bones.
But, as happens to so many well-laid plans, everything went wrong. Compelled by some special instinct nature provides for Hallowe’en, the kids didn’t come along the back lane at all. Came in through Old Bones front gate, in fact, and banged politely on his door to ask for apples. When there was no answer, they slid like shadows along the cinder path past his house and down to the privy. Soundlessly they went, pushed the wooden latch on the door that locked it from the outside, threw a rope around the top of the structure and pulled it forward on its face.
Then the bunch of them picked up the house with Old Bones inside and carried it across to the nuisance grounds where they left it. Nobody stuck around to see how Old Bones got out of the privy, but there was only one exit route–and, revolting as it was, the old man must have used it.
It was the next Hallowe’en after this incident that I first went out with the big kids. I was six, and going to school, so it was my due. My older brothers showed a singular lack of enthusiasm about taking me. “If you get caught it’s your own fault,” one warned.
“And don’t tell anybody any names,” the other added.
I don’t know why Mother and Dad let me go out that night. Perhaps they were going to a Hallowe’en party themselves, and didn’t pay much attention to what I was doing. At any rate, I remember my feeling when, dressed in a long coat and mittens with a toque pulled low over my ears, I ventured out in that frightful night.
It was pitch-dark, to begin with. No moon, clouds covering all the stars. The only light was the thin, yellow glow of coal-oil lamps that seeped through closely-drawn blinds. A raw north-west wind drove small white flakes of snow, and picked up old pieces of paper, whisking them about like ghosts in the dark. Far away across town came the occasional thump of a privy going over, the angry yapping of a dog, and running feet mixed with muted laughter. I waddled along on my short legs, never quite able to keep up with the gang, which continually grew in size until it numbered about twenty kids. Nor was I able to catch the whispered instructions that came from the gang leaders, so I tagged along, afraid of what was going to happen, but more afraid to go home by myself.
One of the kids in particular fascinated me. He carried a twenty-foot length of clothes-line rope which he’d made into a lasso. With this he practised endlessly, twirling it, throwing it over the shoulders of fleeing kids, even roping horses. He carried it everywhere, and had gained the name of “Rope” Parsons.
Down the dark back lanes we went. Past Bill Rath’s barn. Rath was the drayman, and as this was nearing the time when he’d switch from wheels to runners, he’d left a waggon sitting behind the barn. Somebody picked up the tongue while the rest pushed and the waggon went down the lane with the gang. There was a hurried consultation about what to do with it. Somebody whispered, “Let’s take it apart and put it up in the school!” But this had been done before, and besides it was too much work. So they shoved it into Mrs. Henry’s garden and left it there.
Further along, an outhouse was pushed over, a gate taken from its hinges and hung high up on a telephone pole, a garden plough lifted from beside a barn and carried up on the Presbyterian minister’s veranda. All warm-up stuff, really. Everybody kn
ew who the real quarry was and very slowly, like migrating caribou, all the activities of the gang took us closer and closer to the backhouse of Bones McGuire.
As for me, I was tiring rapidly. My legs had never carried me so far so fast, and each time the gang spurted off after a prank I fell further behind. I didn’t go home, though, partly because by now I wasn’t sure of finding my way in the dark, and partly because of a compulsion to see the finish.
Finally, about midnight, the gang reached the lane behind McGuire’s house. All talking stopped now; each member felt a hole in his stomach and a shakiness of the knees. Alone, none would have been capable of facing up to the task ahead; as a gang they moved with a compulsion beyond each member’s volition.
Just as the first members of the gang came within fifty feet of the outhouse, a light appeared on top of it, shining down on the dirty faces in the lane. And a hollow voice, quivering with hatred, commanded, “You kids stop right there! I been waiting for you, see!”
Dead silence. Nobody moved. The faces stared as the pale glare of the flashlight glinted off the unmistakable shape of his shotgun.
“Go on, now, beat it,” the voice from behind the light commanded, “or I’ll use this gun on you.” He probably intended to send a shot far over our heads, as others had been known to do, to scare the pants off us, but with Bones nobody was sure.
All the high-jinks and good humour poured out of the situation like clear water from a pail, to be replaced by the slops of hate. The old man stared down and the young stared back. Something very bad was happening. A voice of reason was needed. Somebody to laugh and say, “Okay, I guess the old boy got the best of us this time!” Billy Wilson almost did it, but he didn’t have time.
Rope Parsons had faded back to the edge of the crowd, out of range of the light, had sneaked along the lane, climbed the board fence and dropped noiselessly into McGuire’s garden. Nobody on either side twigged to what he was doing. And just as Billy Wilson stepped forward to say something that might have saved the situation, the clothes-line rope snaked out, settled over Old Bones’ shoulders, and jerked tight. Involuntarily the old man’s fingers closed on the trigger. The full blast of two twelve-gauge shells roared into the night, and Billy Wilson fell forward on his face.
Nobody ran another step. Nobody moved. We just stood and stared. We could hear the old man’s voice in the dark.
“What happened? I didn’t mean to shoot. Oh God, nobody hurt, are they?”
“Billy’s on the ground,” somebody croaked into the night. “He ain’t moving.”
The old man slid off the outhouse and shone his flashlight down on the still figure. He began to sob and wail. “You kids saw it. I was caught from behind with that blasted rope. You saw it–didn’t you?”
Nobody spoke.
“Oh Lordy,” the old man wailed. “What did I go and do a thing like that for? Help me turn him over, will you?”
Nobody moved.
I edged my way forward until I could see Billy Wilson lying twisted on his face. Was that blood I saw beside him? Blood!
Old Bones had completely gone to pieces. “Ohhh, I’m done for,” he wailed. “Done for now!” He gave the flashlight to a boy and tentatively put a hand out to touch Billy.
Then Billy was on his feet–laughing fit to kill–and all the other kids yelled and laughed, too. The lane was full of their laughter.
Everyone had a great time except Old Bones. He didn’t laugh at all. The kids sure got the best of him that night.
6 No Road Maps, No Road Signs, No Roads
When I was seven years old we moved from the town of Nokomis to the city of Prince Albert. Before this move I had never been in a city. In fact, apart from my London-bridge-is-failing-down association with London, I hadn’t even heard of a city. So we moved into a new world and in a sense into a new century–the world and century of running water, flush toilets and electricity. This is heady stuff for a seven-year-old, and the events of that move were forever etched in my memory.
Nineteen-nineteen was a pretty big year for us. That’s the year Dad became mayor of Nokomis, beating out his arch rival Dr. Harding, and the year we got the Russell. The Russell was the first six-cylinder car in Nokomis. It may have been the first six-cylinder car in Saskatchewan for all I know, or in Canada for that matter. Perhaps in the world. At any rate that’s the way we thought of her, because the Murphy’s across the street owned only a model-T Ford, with a brass front and acetylene headlamps that had to be lighted with a match. Apart from a few other model-T’s in town, I can’t remember any other kinds of cars.
The Russell had many advanced features. A self-starter, for instance, by means of which you could turn the motor over with the push of a button instead of having to crank it–as you did with the Fords. There was a crank for it, of course, inserted through a hole just below the radiator, and used when the self-starter wouldn’t work, which was often.
She was called a “touring car”, and was in some ways like the modern convertible. That is, you could put the top up when it rained, but not by pressing a button. You had to get out and remove the cover from the top, which was folded up at the back, and then heave the whole thing forward and attach it to the windshield. There were no windows concealed in the doors to be rolled up when the weather was bad. You dug into the tool box and got out the side-curtains, which were also made of canvas with little isinglass windows in them. These domed onto the sides of the top. When everything was in place it was almost pitch-dark inside the car.
Every time we went out in the car it rained. And one would think that perhaps we might have developed some sort of drill for putting up the top and side curtains. Something like sailors have for battening down the hatches, or manning action stations, so that the whole operation could be executed with the maximum of speed and efficiency.
But we didn’t. Instead, the action would develop something like this: we’d be driving along a dirt road over the prairie, on the way to Last Mountain Lake or Watrous, when Mother would say, “Listen, Warner, isn’t that thunder?”
Dad would open his mouth to say something but before he got a chance a kid would say, “No, it’s not going to rain. Just a couple of clouds.”
Doris: “But if it does rain I’ll get my hat all wet.”
Hub: “That hat. I’ve seen better.”
Phyllis: “I don’t see why we should all suffocate just because somebody has a new hat.”
This would go on until the rain began to pelt down. Then we’d all start to yell, Dad would stop the car, and we’d jump out and rush about getting the top up and the side-curtains in place, with Patsy yapping about and getting in everybody’s way. By the time we got them buttoned on, and had climbed back into the dark dungeon of the car and started off down the road, with Dad trying to see out of the wet windshield (wipers hadn’t been invented yet), a good half-hour would be gone. The car would splash along through the muddy ruts, throwing us about inside like hogs in a truck. Then we would get stuck.
There were three standard hazards to motoring in those days that have since disappeared. No, four. No, five. Besides having to put up tops and side-curtains, you also had to stop periodically and fill the radiator with water from a slough. In addition, there was always a good chance of getting stuck, getting lost, and having flat tires.
Take the matter of getting stuck. The roads of Saskatchewan were terrible. Nothing more than dirt trails, really. And the heavy soil of much of Saskatchewan is renowned for its moisture-holding qualities. It’s called gumbo soil. It is extremely heavy and sticky, and it packs between the tire and fender of a car so tightly that the wheel can’t turn. Then you have to get out, and with a sharp stick or a hoe or something, usually in the pouring rain, you dig the muck out.
Besides this, the roads were full of pot-holes. Low places, where the water would run and sit for days. Approaching one of these was always the same routine. Dad would stop the car and say, “Whups–what’s this?”
Mother would say, “It l
ooks deep, Warner.”
One of the kids would say, “Heck, it’s okay. Just give ‘er the gun, Pop, and roar right through.”
One of the girls would say, “We’ll get stuck, I know we will.”
Since there was no place to turn around, and no way of getting past the mud-hole, Dad would shift the Russell into low and proceed slowly into the middle of it, where we would sink quietly and serenely down to the axles. Then we’d fight over who was going to walk back to the nearest farm and get somebody to pull us out.
Finally somebody would walk back the mile–or two–or three–to the farm, and the farmer would hitch up his team and, whistling a merry tune, carrying the whiffle-trees in one hand and holding the reins in the other, he would come jangling down the road. He’d grin at us and say, “Still can’t get along without the horse, eh?” and pull us out. The charge was always five dollars. There was some talk that farmers saw to it that the mud-holes near their farms never did completely dry up, but I’m not about to repeat that libel.
Getting lost was the next hazard. We were all right so long as we were driving only to Watrous Lake or to a sports day at Humboldt, say, but on longer trips we were hopeless. And for some reason, Dad decided that the best way to move the family from Nokomis to Prince Albert was to drive there in the Russell.
It beat travelling by Red River Cart, but that is exactly all you could say for it. There were no all-weather roads, gravelling was unknown. No highways of any kind, just roads a mile or so apart running each way. There were no signs on these roads, and no road maps to give direction. No motels dotted the sides of the road, and if you had to stay overnight you found a hotel in a town, or you went to a horrible thing called an “auto camp”. Before we ever got near Prince Albert, we weren’t at all sure that it mightn’t have been easier, cheaper and probably more comfortable to have gone by Red River Cart.
We started out on a fine day near the end of June. All the household goods had been shipped in a railway car, which also contained Old Rosie, with enough feed and water to last her three days, a half-dozen bags of potatoes, and all of Mother’s preserved peaches, pears, crab-apples, Saskatoon berries, and pickles. Doris wanted to ride in the car to protect her piano from falling over. We could only persuade her not to by pointing out that if it started to fall she couldn’t stop it anyway.
Never Sleep Three in a Bed Page 6
