This story was published in Prairies North Magazine.
The use of the phrase "back in the day" to signal the start of a life lesson story is one of my favorite ways to encourage conversation. Those words cause my family's eyes to glaze over as they brace themselves for another cliff-hanger. Much to my delight, though, I can sense their minds being drawn back in time with me.
I have many cherished memories of growing up on the farm near Leask, Saskatchewan in the sixties and seventies and would love to reminisce a bit with you.
We had the proverbial big red barn with the large hayloft doors. When it was time to put the hay up, the men used a rope and pulley system to maneuver the hay through the doors into the loft. When the rope was not in use, it was slung across the hayloft and was an object of great fascination for my brother and me. We would perch precariously on the rope swinging back and forth across the loft.
Playing in the bale stacks was great fun, we would hide amongst the bales or walk around on the corral rails. Trying to milk a cow and squirt a drink of milk into the cats’ mouths was entertaining until you got whipped in the face with the cow’s tail, then it seemed less amusing.
The cats and dogs made great playmates. Hunting for a new batch of kittens was a big event. The mother cats often chose a manger in one of the barn stalls to have their kittens in, only to realize they would have to move them to get them away from us.
There was a balloon-tire bicycle from the 1950s that had been left behind by older siblings. We loved to ride it even though it was too big for us. The bike had a wire basket attached to the handlebars, and we would put our little sister in the basket. It was a rough ride, and we accidentally bounced her out on a couple of occasions, once onto the ground and once onto the cement step in front of the house. She recovered nicely, but basket rides ceased after those episodes.
Dad would take time out of his busy day to give us rides on the stone boat, hayrack or the tractor. Going with him on the five-mile journey to check the cattle at the summer pasture was one of our favourite things. Dad liked to pick wildflowers, hazelnuts or berries to bring home to Mom. We loved exploring the pasture woods. It was so remote and peaceful, not another soul around for miles. Dad would start honking his truck horn when he drove through the gate and then call the cattle with the "come boss" chant we so fondly remember. The cattle would begin to emerge from the trees from all directions.
Balloon-tired 1950s bicycle,
1942 Dodge truck
Dad would take time out of his busy day to give us rides on the stone boat, hayrack or the tractor. Going with him on the five-mile journey to check the cattle at the summer pasture was one of our favourite things. Dad liked to pick wildflowers, hazelnuts or berries to bring home to Mom. We loved exploring the pasture woods. It was so remote and peaceful, not another soul around for miles. Dad would start honking his truck horn when he drove through the gate and then call the cattle with the "come boss" chant we so fondly remember. The cattle would begin to emerge from the trees from all directions.
I must confess we did lick the cows’ salt block out of curiosity. Dad was kind and gentle with his cattle. Later in the season, when the cows came back to the farmyard, they would stand on the path to the corrals and wait until Dad patted them on the head, then they'd step off and leave him and his dog pass.
Trips to the pasture came with a face wash.
We spent hours building tree forts in the old maple trees my grandfather had planted as a shelterbelt around the garden. We made a raft to sail across a flooded field with our little sister sitting in a cardboard box we had nailed in the centre of the raft. Unfortunately, her makeshift chair was not waterproof, and she got a bit soggy. When the waters receded, our beloved raft was left marooned in the field and Dad unceremoniously hauled it away with the tractor. Sadly, our sailing days were over.
It was all fun and games until someone got hurt. Surviving crab apple fights was a right of passage on the farm. I remember the feeling of being hit in the back with a well-placed throw from my brother as I tried in vain to run for cover. Hide and seek was another favourite game we played on warm summer evenings. There were countless places to hide, especially if it was dark.
When I was reading through some scribbled notes of my farm memories, I laughed out loud when I saw that I had jotted down a list recalling injuries my siblings and I had received while roaming the farm back in the day. It read: sister's leg, brother's head and leg, my head, foot and face. Those were the best of times, and we have the scars to prove it.
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©️Copyright 2020 Norma Galambos
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