The Million Dollar Rain

It’s raining, it’s pouring
The old man is snoring.
He went to bed
And he bumped his head
And couldn’t get up in the morning.

We awake to wind and rain. Rain pouring down, gusting down, sheeting down. Hammering against the walls and windows.

Dad comes in from the barn on a gust of wetness, hangs his coat on the hook, declares, “It’s socked in for the day.” Mom yells, “Take off your muddy boots!”

After breakfast, Richard and I put on our coats and rubber boots and walk the quarter-mile to town and school, bracing ourselves against the gusting west wind and the driving rain.

Dampness seeps through the school. It smells of damp coats, damp hats, damp text books, damp hair, damps socks, damp notebooks. At recess, we head down to the basement, play pump-pump-pull-away, or stand around in knots and talk and giggle.

At noon, we tromp home for dinner. Richard pulls off his rubber boots and examines a wet sock. “My boot has a leak.” Dad examines it. “There’s a crack above the sole. I’ll take it into town and get it vulcanized. Wear your overshoes this afternoon.”

After school, the rain takes a breather – it’s only drizzling. The dog bounds toward us, drops a stick at our feet. Richard tosses it and she streaks off after it, mindless of mud and water. A cat delicately picks its way around puddles, flicks a contaminating bit of mud from a paw and scurries into the barn.

That night, we go to sleep with the sound of rain thrumming against the roof, splattering against the window.

Rain, rain, go away
Come again some other day.

The yard is a morass of mud and slop. Dad comes in, hangs his sopping wet slicker on the hook, declares, “Raining too hard. We might as well go Moose Jaw.” Mom yells, “Take off your muddy boots! I don’t want to have to wash the floor again.”

We snarf down breakfast and head out in the ‘53 Ford. We fishtail out of the yard and down the road to the highway which, itself, is only gravel, so we fishtail some more. Mom gasps, “Careful!” and grabs the door handle. She white-knuckles all the way to Assiniboia and Highway 2 which is paved. An easy drive then, with the requisite stops at Mitchelton for gas and Conn’s Corner for a bite to eat.

First stop in Moose Jaw: Joyner’s Department Store. New shoes for Richard and me. Fabric for Mom. A new tie for Dad. The clerk puts the bill and our money into the carriage and onto the track that whisks it away to the central cashier who empties the carriage, puts the bill and change back into it and onto the track to be returned to our clerk. How does it know where to go? we wonder.

Next stop, the Exchange Café on the corner of Manitoba and Main, across from the CPR station. We always eat there, we always order the same thing – fish and chips, because it’s exotic (yes, really!). The Chinese brothers who run the place always give Richard and me lollipops when we leave.

Off to Eaton’s, the upper class shopping establishment. Next to Kresge’s, not so upper class but they have little sugar-coated doughnuts to satisfy our sweet tooth.

Back to the car. Parcels in the trunk, we head for home, yawning all the way. Richard and I are soon asleep. So is Mom. It’s still raining when we get home. We go up to bed with the sound of rain thrumming against the roof, splattering against the window.

Sunshine and Shower
Won’t last an hour.

We awake to sunshine and glimpses of blue sky. A stiff breeze chases away the ragged remnants of rain clouds. We jump out of bed. So much to do – puddles to jump in, rivulets to divert and dam, mud pies to make.

Dad comes in from the barn, hangs his jacket on the hook, declares, “That was a million dollar rain! And kids, don’t forget, chickens need to be fed and eggs picked up right after you eat.”

Chores. Bummer!

Note #1: Until the Joyner’s building burned down in 2004, it had the only remaining operating Lamson Cash Carrying System in North America. Read more about it here, and see it in operation here.

Note #2: There were no “million dollar rains” during the Dirty Thirties. Addie tells how farmers and others survived those terrible drought years in “Our Bull’s Loose in Town!” Tales from the Homestead.

#Rain #ChildhoodMemories #MooseJaw #JoynersDepartmentStore #MargaretGHanna #ExchangeCafe #FarmLife #RuralLife

Dogs and other farm animals

Almost all of Abe’s diary entries are terse, impassive, descriptive statements: “did this,” “did that,” “so-and-so visited,” etc. From time to time, though, his humanity shines through, no more so than when he is writing about certain of the farm animals.

Jack the dog
Every farm has at least one dog. They are as likely to be a mutt of uncertain and unknown parentage as they are a pedigreed purebred. They are companion and work dog combined. They guard the yard and house, herd cattle, and catch rodents. They chase cars and get into scraps with skunks and badgers. They follow you in the yard and in the field, play catch, and plop down beside you when you pause to rest. They nudge you with their muzzle when you need cheering up, listen attentively to everything you say, and demand nothing more than a scratch behind the ears or a pat on the head. They eat table scraps, chew up old bones and dig holes to bury their “treasures.” They howl at the moon and bark in response to other dogs’ barking. They live outside; they sleep in the barn when it’s cold or, if they’re lucky, on an old mat in a dog house. Some die of old age, some meet tragic ends. When they die, we mourn the passing of a dear friend.

The Bonspiel

Team Canada delivers a stone, 2010 Winter Olympics, Vancouver BC

You hear it as soon as you open the rink door: men shouting “Draw!”, “Guard!”, “Take-out!” and “Good shot!”; the growl of rocks sliding down the ice; the slap-slap-slap of corn brooms; the crack as rock hits rock. We stand in the cold along the sides, stomping our feet to keep them warm, watching the men plot and play. A hip flask passes from hand to hand, then disappears into a pocket. On the far sheet where the draw has already ended, little kids push rocks to the far hog line and give a good heave-ho; their rocks barely make it to the 8-foot circle. The draw ends, the chamois man cleans the ice, closely followed by the tank man sprinkling a new layer of pebble. We head to the kitchen, fingers and toes tingling with cold, noses red and runny. We open the door and walk into a wall of blast furnace heat. Coal-fueled cook stoves roar full blast. Women, sweating, red-faced, hustle hamburgers, hot dogs, slices of pie, pots of coffee. Men and kids sit elbow to elbow along the L-shaped counter, soaking up the food and heat. The men talk about the thaw that cut short last week’s bonspiel, the snow cover, the potential for this year’s crop, the cost of machinery and repairs and gas, the latest government shenanigans, the wheat quota just opened. Food devoured, we head back out for the next draw. We watch some names advance across the board while others come to a dead stop. Will it be a local rink or one from the town down the highway that wins the trophy this year?

(Anyone who grew up in a small Canadian prairie town knows about curling. If you didn’t and don’t know what I’m writing about, this site is a good primer.)

#Curling #ChildhoodMemories #RuralLife #WinterSports #Saskatchewan #HannaFamilyMemories #MargaretGHanna

Mitigating the Dirty Thirties – Relief

The rains stopped in 1929.

No one panicked. Dry years were not unknown – there had been the occasional one or two every decade so far. Everyone knew the rains would come again “next year.” Abe certainly believed so, for in the fall of 1929, he purchased a new Rumley combine.

The new Rumley combine, 1929; Abe on the combine, Garnet and Addie standing in front of the tractor

But the rains didn’t come “next year,” or for several years after. Crops struggled. What little grew was quickly devoured by grasshoppers, that is, if it wasn’t blown away first. Abe recorded annual yields between 2 and 9 bushels per acre. In 1937, the year of no rain, it plummeted to 1/3 bushel per acre, a “total crop failure.”

Setting the stage for disaster in the Palliser Triangle

The Dirty Thirties was the result of a “perfect storm” of two factors: a severe, multi-year drought and farming techniques inappropriate for dry-land farming in the Palliser Triangle.

The mixed-grass prairie of the Palliser Triangle appeared, at first glance, to be a fertile and productive land. And it was – for grass. It had adapted over thousands of millennia to the mid-continental regimen of periodic droughts, short but intense over-grazing by bison herds, and fires that raged across the landscape. They survived and flourished because their roots went deep into the ground, soaking up moisture and holding the soil intact in spite of the weather above ground.

The Sleepover (Part 4)

Thump, step. Thump, step. Thump, step.

The sound slowly invaded Mike’s consciousness. He struggled awake to see a boy about his age standing in the door, leaning on crutches. Mike rubbed his eyes, looked around. Same bedroom, different furniture, different-looking furniture. Before, it had been dark and mismatched. This furniture was all the same style and a light, almost white colour. He looked back at the boy, who raised his eyebrows, but before he could speak, Mike blurted out, “I’m Mike, and I don’t know how I got here, but I’m here. Okay?”

Stocking the Prairie Pantry, Part 1: What to do with all those vegetables?

Gardening season on the northern plains is short. The rule of thumb is: don’t plant before Victoria Day (May 24) and pray the first frosts don’t come until mid-September, preferably later. Assuming the garden isn’t eaten by various bugs or frozen out or dried out or rained out, then comes the task of preserving all that bounty for the coming winter.