No not the magic kind with wings and a wand but the kind that takes you across the river. In our days of spending the summers on the road, living in a bunkhouse as we accompanied my father on his work, we encountered ferries.  At this time, bridges didn’t cross the river at every town but there were cable ferries. Similar to this one from the site http://www.rta.nsw.gov.au/cgi-bin/index.cgi?action=heritage.show&id=4300311 (There is more information on how these ferries work on this igreat site)

The first time I rode on one (Okay many times when I rode on one) I was scared. We sat right down on the water while the ferry was pulled across by a cable.  But I remember lots of things associated with the river crossings.

Like the ferry men who lived nearby one. When you needed to cross, you rang a bell. One such man, Mr. O, lived in his little cabin year round with only his dog to keep him company. Being young and naive, I was truly impressed with this dog. He could TALK. That’s what Mr. O said. We would troop down the hill to have tea with him. The dog had his own chair and sat up to the table just like another kid. Then Mr. O would turn to the dog and ask him to say grace. We would bow our heads (while peaking out from half closed eyes to see what would happen.) The dog prayed. He mumbled a little so I couldn’t catch the words but nevertheless…. Okay, I probably knew it was a trick. Or maybe not. Maybe…just maybe…my mom had to explain it to me. (I was very young. LOL) I often wonder about Mr. O. I know he is long gone. But did he enjoy his life? Was he lonely? Was the dog adequate company? And yes, the dog who prayed has made it into my stories.

I’ve been sharing stories of what it was like to live an almost pioneer life when I was a child. Thinking about it brings back many memories. One day the three of us, myself and my two brothers, were wandering across the prairie and came upon a stream with a bridge over. I can’t remember where it was, how wide, nor whether the bridge was a foot bridge or meant for cars as well. But I do remember the fish. I know now they were minnows–little flashes of silver dashing through the water.

We rushed back to the bunkhouse and told Mom we wanted to go fishing.

Eagerly we waited while she fixed us each a fishing rod. She used a green switch from a tree, a length of string and a bent pin. Wow. We had never had fishing rods before and we ran back to the stream to catch fish. I guess we were pretty gullible or my mother pretty smart.

No way could we catch fish with that fishing rod. First, every time the minnows saw our shadow or anything flick across the water, the flashed away like falling rain drops. And then there was the hook. A ben pin is almost as big as a minnow. We were very young so it took us a few minutes to realize there was something wrong with that picture and decided to abandon fishing for chasing. We didn’t have much luck trying to catch them with our hands either but we discovered they liked to hide under the bridge in the cool shadows and by hanging over the side, we could send them swimming from one side to the other. It was as much fun as fishing.

Beside we concluded the minnows were too small to make much of a dinner anyway. Oh the innocence of childhood.

As kids, each summer, we lived a life free of restrictions. My Dad worked grading roads and was away from home all week so my mom packed up 3 or 4 kids (depending on when the older kids left home), and sometimes, neighboring kids who accompanied us. We joined my dad ‘on the road’. Sounds pretty much like camping, doesn’t it? Only we living in a wooden bunkhouse like these.

It was, to say the least, primitive. My mother didn’t even have a stove, just a two burner camp stove and a Dutch oven that she could bake things in. We carried water from near by farms. But for kids, it was ideal. We could run all day and still be in sight of the bunkhouse. We learned that you can’t step on cactus in canvas tennis shoes and not have to pick out the sharp thorns. We learned to watch gophers and hawks and observe baby birds. We captured garter snakes. I shudder at the idea now.

We returned to town Saturday about noon. My mother would have to do the laundry, look after a huge garden (a lot on either side of the house), get groceries, stock up on books at the library, prepare whatever she needed for the next week, go to church and again be out at camp Sunday night. Yeah. It must have been a lot of fun for her. Not really.

One of the things we enjoyed–as did she, I expect–was bringing back flowers and bugs for her to draw. Roses like this, black eyed Susans, butterflies, blue bells, etc. After she passed away, we shared her pictures among us and I think we all have framed them and hung them somewhere we can enjoy them.

I lived like a pioneer even though it wasn’t the 1800s. It’s given me a first-hand taste of the life. I hope my experience enables me to give my historic stories a real sense of having been there.

Technorati Tags: pioneer life,camping,prairies,childhood,writing stories.

I am well equipped in some ways to write historical. No. It’s not because I am a relic. It’s because I grew up with a rich history.

I grew up in a very dry area known as the Special Areas of eastern Alberta. It was settled in the early 1900s. The towns thrived. Towns that are now, for the most part, ghost towns, had 35 or more thriving businesses. Many had a weekly newspaper, a movie theater and were busy, busy.

Then the dirty 30s hit. Many parts of the country suffered from the Depression and unemployment but the area in eastern Alberta suffered extreme drought. Many packed up and moved away leaving empty houses. Years later, we still find cellar holes and evidence of the people who once lived there—rusted bed springs, the fabric and stuffing no doubt carried off by either the wind or wild animals who used it to line their own beds. Tin cans that looked to have been opened with a pocket knife. Broken lanterns. Broken dreams.

Eventually the government took over the unpaid mortgages and abandoned farms and allowed people to take possession for the cost of back taxes. My father-in-law got his farm that way and worked off the taxes by driving school bus.

My own father worked for the Special Areas. That’s similar to a county except it is under the provincial government. He drove a grader and built and maintained roads.

He taught us local history, showed us how to spot teepee circles, medicine wheels and Indian artifacts.  Here’s an Indian hammer head and an arrowhead collection that my husband has found on the wind swept fields.

We also learned to spot fossils.

I loved exploring the empty cellars, wandering around a bunch of rocks that indicated teepees had once stood there. My imagination would conjure up the people who inhabited those now empty places. Of course, I did not realize then how I was stocking my brain to create works of fiction. If I had, I’m sure I would have paid closer attention.