Why this is so is, perhaps, an "age-sensitive"
reflection. Motor travel,
rural or otherwise, is arguably less interesting today than it was sixty years
ago. The vehicles are more
dependable, the roads are wider, smoother and better engineered and the cell
phone keeps us moored to a familiar world. But, there was a time . . .
Discounting the improvements cited above, the 1950's might have been
the golden age for motoring. Major highways were being paved; motels and
"auto courts" proliferated, some with swimming pools and vibrating
beds; and a middle class was growing with higher paycheques and longer
vacations. Holidays to far away
places could be contemplated. It was an exciting time.
But it was a different kind of excitement in rural Alberta. In this still raw country, the narrow
secondary roads were gravel and dirt, well-rutted and notable for yawning mudholes
in the summer, treacherous ice in the winter. Cars, with no AC, were stifling in summer, and, with wonky
heaters, freezing in winter. Gas
lines froze quickly and windshield washer was a handful of snow thrown at the
window. Oil needed to be changed
to accommodate the lower temperatures but when it turned really cold, as in -30
F or lower, no oil could be coaxed to move. Volatile weather could alter the
driving conditions with startling speed. Albertans who traveled these roads to
socialize or earn a living were constantly urged to plan for contingencies and,
if they were smart, have a passenger with some knowledge of auto mechanics. Basic knowledge included changing
tires, changing fan belts, priming a stalled engine, starting a car with the "push
and pop the clutch" method, identifying and remedying electrical shorts, and
some experience driving in mud, snow and especially on ice, the latter a high art
form.
All this excitement was magnified for young people driving in winter. Socializing with sports or dances involved driving to another community,
sometimes a community that was considerable distance. This was never a deterrent.
As they have since Fred met Wilma, young people will travel great
distances to attend a dance. On
the Canadian prairies, country dances were very popular. I grew up (sort of) in Wainwright in
southeastern Alberta and some of the small hamlets and farming districts within
a 30 mile radius of town were:
Marsden, Heath, Greenshields, Fabyan, Irma, Kinsella, Gilt Edge,
Passchaendale, Ribstone, White Cloud, Ascot, Pelican (Odd, because Pelicans
were never seen this area), Rosedale, and Paradise Valley. They all had their own community hall.
A weekend with no dances was rare.
Easily the most popular event was the wedding dance. How word got out that a couple were to
be married was seldom advertised widely, but today's users of social media
would be impressed over how fast word got around. In one's social circle, there need to be only one person
with even a nodding acquaintance with either the bride or the groom or their
families to warrant a carload dropping in on the festivities. The newlyweds and their families never
knew they had so many friends. The
attraction, of course, was free admittance and free food, often the best food many
would eat that entire winter.
The protocol of country dances leaned toward the rigid: smiles, handhakes, and backslaps upon
entry; nervous shuffling as people worked out whether or not they should even
be there; three couples on the dance floor for whom dancing was life; covert drinking out in the
car; awkward approaches to members of the opposite sex after the alcohol loosened
the reserve; a break around ten for lunch, and constant male strutting displays
that often ended in a brawl, preferably outside. But, no brawling at a wedding dance. Fistfights at such a celebration were
considered bad form.
When midnight arrived, the last waltz was played, and the band began
packaging their equipment. Dreamy
couples slowly broke their embraces and dispersed for the long trip home. Everyone
agreed, it had been great.
Sometimes the trip home was interrupted. Sometimes, a little bad
luck, a nasty change in the weather, a mechanical breakdown, or an act of
colossal stupidity prevented a car from making it home directly.
When a car broke down or a ditch was driven into, or a snowstorm
halted any movement, or a gas tank coughed to say it was empty, a carload of young people was suddenly
immobilized out on the bald prairie. Cell phones were still 40 years in the
future so there was no calling for help or roadside assistance. They were on
their own. In winter, this
could be dangerous.
Once the severity of their situation was assessed, the
suddenly-sober car inhabitants would start walking. Staying with the car and hoping another would appear at that
hour of the morning was seldom a good idea. Depending upon how cold it was, the sense of urgency ranged
from "Oh, we'll find something"
to "There better be a light on over that next hill or we're in
trouble." Too often
the clothing was less than adequate for winter trekking. This was the great
winter-dance conundrum: Dress for
the worst OR look your best? The
former was such a distant second in this debate that emergency clothes were seldom
even considered. Trust to luck,
instead. The boys were likely in oxfords and the girls in mary janes.
Shivering would start immediately and everyone's eyes would strain to
discern a light.
By the late 1950's most farmers had a power supply and a party line
telephone. A few of the well off
farmers installed yard lights, a brilliantly luminous rebuttal to the long dark
winter nights.
But the real, warming beacon was seeing the light on in a farm house. The stranded youth would quicken
their pace and thin smiles might appear.
On the other hand, if no light was on, the shivering walkers had to
hope the owners could be rousted.
The prospect of trudging on to the next farm was almost unthinkable.
If a light was on, the sense of relief was substantial. Boys would then listen for the
dog. All farms had dogs and some
were dogs no stranger wanted to meet.
But in the cold of winter, most farmers let the dog sit by the hearth.
One boy would knock on the door. It was never a timid knock.
As a town person who never lived on a farm, I really can't
appreciate how shocking that knock on the door must have been. A loud interruption in the middle of a
dark winter's night out where the nearest neighbor is a half mile away? No sound of a vehicle entering the yard? Today, they'd make a TV special out of
it.
The dog would bark.
After what seemed a very long time, a man would come to the door. It always took him so long, a boy's
imagination could run amok. "What if he's going to get his shotgun?
Taking the leash off his dog . .
. Planning to lock the door and
turn out the light . . . Calling the police . . " But, no, the door was opened.
The heat from the house was magnificent. Initial thoughts ranged from "How can they keep a house this warm? Thank god the light was on. My
feet are frozen. What's that
smell? What could they possibly
eat that smelled like that? Are
those haloes over their heads?
Whatever you do, don't curse. They may be religious. Are we tracking up her nice clean floor?
Where are their kids? I think I
love farmhouses. Is that dog really gentle? What are they doing up at one o'clock in the morning?" The girls would check out
the kitchen, the worn linoleum floor; the oversized kitchen table with the
oilcloth covering; the water hand pump next to the sink, the old wood stove,
the faded paintings on the wall.
After an awkward silence the man would take over. He would invite the girls not to worry
about their shoes and go sit at the kitchen table. He let the boys tell him
what happened..
If the car had slid into the ditch, he would offer to fire up the
Massey-Ferguson and pull the car back onto the road. If it was a mechanical breakdown, he would be glad to
help them in the morning. After
all, it was bitterly cold and one o'clock. He would suggest using the phone to call for a ride,
although, he would note wryly, anyone answering at the other end wouldn't be
too thrilled, not to mention that, with the party line, his neighbours would
also be irritated. Or, he could drive everyone into town, assuming they didn't
live in Lloydminster or some place 70 miles away.
Sometimes an especially dense boy would urge the farmer to address
the mechanical problem, forgetting it was -15 F. outside, a north wind was
blowing and the car was a notoriously fickle Studebaker. At times like these, it was always
cheering to watch the farmer silently eye the boy as if he was from another
planet.
One way or another, the farm couple had provided sanctuary for a
group of young people and perhaps saved them from real harm. It's no wonder prairie people go
through life often looking back to those cold nights when they were helped by
two people who didn't know them, were likely to never see them again and who never
asked for thanks. Small
wonder that light in the farmhouse window generates such warm thoughts.
I'll end by telling of my own worst experience. Six of us, four boys and two girls were
driving home from somewhere near Ribstone, a small hamlet roughly 30 miles from Wainwright. I was
driving my dad's company car, a gorgeous hot 1958 Pontiac. I took a railway crossing at 50 miles
an hour. Given that the crossing
was a sudden rise three feet or so higher than the road, slowing down might
have been advisable. But what kid
wants to hear advice at 1 am?
When the car finally landed, it was still on the road but minus a
functioning read end. We rattled
to a stop and assessed the situation.
It was bitterly cold and a vicious north wind kept us from taking more
than a quick look at the damage. Seeing
a piece of the axle lying on the road more or less confirmed our
predicament. We weren't going
anywhere.
Eventually we found a farmhouse occupied by two warm and wonderful
people. The man offered to drive
us into town. But, we protested,
it's 30 miles. Are you sure? No matter, he replied. Let me get the truck.
TRUCK? Yes, the 2
girls in our group rode with him in the cab and we 4 boys huddled in the back of
a half-ton truck as it bumped and slid though the snow and ice for 30 miles.
Easily the worst ride of our young lives.
It was -20 and the wind was slicing us to ribbons. After what seemed like hours, we were
dropped off at the railway station. Our savior drove away without a word. We were very grateful,
but our limbs were too stiff to wave.
We could barely move our eyes and, like zombies, retired shakily to the
warmth of the station's beanery.
For your information, my father took it well.
Robert
Alan Davidson
December
2016.
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