Tag Archives: gratitude

happiness

The Story of Grandma’s Colt “Kitchener”

Grandma loved horses at least as much as I love horses, so it brings me a lot of joy when I read her stories about how much she loved riding or being around horses. I had never heard the story of Kitchener before, and I’m not sure what club she was part of for this story/photo – perhaps 4H or something like that. I also have no idea why the person marking this story gave her such a low grade, personally I thought the story was great – who knows what the actual assignment was though.

My Colt

In the first week of my colt’s life, there’s s not much to write about but head and legs. If his body would have been a little bigger, his head wouldn’t have looked so big, for it was a really dainty, innocent looking little head. He had a little yellowish, white nose, with wide nostrils and small mouth. His eyes were large and brown with a good width between them. He seemed to be proud of them because he was always rolling them and showing the whites of them. He had very smooth, sharp pointed ears and their size was in right proportion to his head. With the slightest sound, he would turn an ear to hear it and when the flies bothered him, for he was born the first of July 1923, he would lay both his ears down flat on his head, showing he was angry. As he gets older, his head gets more beautiful. He had a long, long neck this first week and a little fuzzy fringe of mane. His body was long and thin and a gold colour, for he is an English thoroughbred. He had very long, thin legs and a little curly tail that he was always switching.

The mother of my colt is my own and favourite pony. She is very high lifed and frisky or I could ride her to school. However, I can ride her in the fair and she has taken first prize every time she was put in. I kept my pony and colt in a little field all by themselves where the grass was tall and green. Every morning and evening I feed my pony oats or a bran mash and when my colt was old enough, I fed him oats. Every day I put a little halter on my colt and tied him up and cleaned him. In the cool evening I would coax and lead my little colt around until he would follow me anywhere. I soon began to make him trot and lope as well as walk. To do this, I had to take the long buggy whip and touch him just hard enough to make him trot or lope. I never bothered my colt much in the heat of the day when the flies were bad because he was always in a bad temper and sometimes would try to kick or bite me. It was very hard to pick a suitable name for him, but at last I decided to call him Kitchener.

As the fall was drawing near and school opening, I thought it would be alright to put him and his mother out in a field with the other horses where there was two or three straw stacks. I did this and they kept fat and frisky all winter. About the middle of February, I put a halter on my colt and put it in the stable by itself. The first week it was very lonesome for its mother, but it soon forgot her. During the winter it had grown more shapely but it had long, shaggy hair. Morning and night I fed it linseed and oats. Every Saturday I would brush and clean him and lead him out. When he’d first come out he’d buck and jump around me in a circle. After he had raced around me for a while, he would come up to me and I would give him a little salt or brown sugar.

One day after he had taken exercise, I tied him up and put a saddle blanket on him. He took no notice of it, so I put on a little saddle that weighed about five pounds. He drew away from me, and seemed a little nervous of the saddle, but I petted and talked to him and he soon took no notice of it either. Nearly every night when I was going to feed him I would step outside of the stable door and call him. He soon started to answer my call by his ringing whinnies and I could hear him paw the stable floor with his iron like hooves. When I would first go in, he would nibble and bite at my coat sleeve while I fed him. And when i would be getting his oats ready he would toss his head with a conceded little whinny.

On the first of May, my colt was shiny with a satin like coat and was well shaped. He would roll his eyes and always held his neck in a bow and would toss his head and let out a fierce, ringing neigh. He had strong muscular legs and a long body and neck. He was very easily trained. When I would tell him to get over, he would move to the other side of his stall and when I told him to back up, he would back up. All together he seemed a very intelligent little colt and I hope he will someday be a good racehorse.

Teacher note: your story is a good one, but the booklet is not well prepared 4/10

Additional note: took cold Dec 20, 1924. took sick Dec 24, 1924. Died March 8 1925

Poor little Kitchener, poor Grandma.

Here’s a poem that she wrote that I found in a stack of papers that is about this beloved little colt.

Kitchener

You want me to write of my favourite horse

Oh, you don’t understand I know of course.

You don’t know how deep in my heart

Had sunk the love from which I had to part.

I’ve had many playmates and many a chum

But their affections couldn’t equal this dear one.

He would play whenever I’d want to play

No person so agreeable as he was always.

I guess you have never played games with a horse

Perhaps you will think I am fibbing or worse.

But it’s the truth; oh, I know how true

How clever and playful, I can’t tell you.

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happiness

A convocation of eagles

We were driving to town yesterday and looked at the slough on the way by to see if the swans were still here.

As an aside, a couple of weeks ago the girl and I were out in the yard when we heard what we thought was the strangest sounding clown car going by on the road. Turns out it was the honking of a flock of swans. Much different than the honking of a flock of geese these guys were – an elegant looking, but clown car sounding flock flying overhead. We are still laughing about it.

Anyway, we looked over and to our surprise and delight, instead of
swans there was a convocation of eagles. Is 4 enough for a convocation? Either way, they were magnificent! I love eagles and have been blessed with several eagle sightings this year. There are many interpretations of the significance of seeing eagles – to me they represent courage, strength, power, bravery, independence, and a connection to the divine. Added bonus is how amazingly beautiful they are.

How amazing is this???
God’s love and beauty
When I looked at this photo, I couldn’t figure out for the life of me what the eagle on the far right was doing.
The funky chicken???? What on earth??
Oh, never mind, it was just a crow flying in front of him.

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happiness

Give all to love

One of my favourite poems – maybe my absolute favourite one – is Give All To Love by Emerson. As with Thoreau, I first discovered my love for him as a young adult in university English class. Actually, I not only discovered Thoreau and Emerson, but I discovered transcendentalism and with that a kind of “home” that I have danced in and out of over the years. In reality, I didn’t discover transcendentalism so much as it found me and pulled me towards it.

According to vocabulary.com, transcendentalism is “a philosophy started in the early 19th century that promotes intuitive, spiritual thinking instead of scientific thinking based on material things.

There are three main principals – individualism, idealism, and the divinity of nature. I think one of the main components that drew me to these transcendental writers was their belief that nature is sacred and is a powerful source of both spiritual and moral wisdom that we as humans are to connect and live in harmony with.

Their writings make me feel happy and connected to the Divine in any case.

I have to say, the one visit I made to Concord years ago has left me wanting to go back and spend much more time there exploring and sitting in the space where thinkers I have admired for years spent their time. I loved New England.

There’s a big part of me that wants to love poetry, there’s another part of me that often gets bored really quickly with a poem and I often struggle with wanting to enjoy what I’m reading and wanting to poke my eyes out so I don’t have to read anymore (a bit drastic, closing the book is probably more accurate.) When I find a poem that grabs me, it becomes part of my soul and I carry it with me. As I do with this one.

From the first time I read it, the last stanza has been imprinted on me. I’ve thought about it on and off throughout the years, and it helps hold me steady. I love it.

Give All to Love

 

BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON

Obey thy heart; 

Friends, kindred, days, 

Estate, good-fame, 

Plans, credit and the Muse,— 

Nothing refuse. 

’T is a brave master; 

Let it have scope: 

Follow it utterly, 

Hope beyond hope: 

High and more high 

It dives into noon, 

With wing unspent, 

Untold intent: 

But it is a god, 

Knows its own path 

And the outlets of the sky. 

It was never for the mean; 

It requireth courage stout. 

Souls above doubt, 

Valor unbending, 

It will reward,— 

They shall return 

More than they were, 

And ever ascending. 

Leave all for love; 

Yet, hear me, yet, 

One word more thy heart behoved, 

One pulse more of firm endeavor,— 

Keep thee to-day, 

To-morrow, forever, 

Free as an Arab 

Of thy beloved. 

Cling with life to the maid; 

But when the surprise, 

First vague shadow of surmise 

Flits across her bosom young, 

Of a joy apart from thee, 

Free be she, fancy-free; 

Nor thou detain her vesture’s hem, 

Nor the palest rose she flung 

From her summer diadem. 

Though thou loved her as thyself, 

As a self of purer clay, 

Though her parting dims the day, 

Stealing grace from all alive; 

Heartily know, 

When half-gods go,   

The gods arrive.

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happiness

The Accident (A poem)

I found a poetry book Grandma wrote when she was a teenager – along with a few school friends from what I can tell. Most of the poems in this book are written by her, but there are several written by other girls – I assume classmates of hers.

I had previously found a written copy of her poem “The Accident” that didn’t have the explanatory story at the beginning of the poem. I was left wondering what had indeed happened to poor Jean, although I knew by how history had played itself out that she had in fact lived through this accident and gone on to live a long and hopefully happy and fulfilling life.

There are some really beautiful poems in Grandma’s book, about the landscape, the snow, the mountains, even about the passing of my great grandfather – her father in law. But this poem about her best friend eating dirt on the way home made me smile. This friendship clearly was incredibly important to Grandma. There are letters spanning her entire life from her good friend. It seems very “Anne of Green Gables” with her bosom buddy Diana – the type of friendship I have always aspired to have.

The Accident – by Edna Brown, 1924 (Grandma would have been 16 at the time)

One Day Ruth and Jean rode to town and coming home, Jean’s pony fell and threw her off, she was unhurt except for the gravel taking the skin off her elbow. While she was lying on the road, Ruth shouted at her “Are you killed yet Jean?”

There once was a dark eyed cowgirl

And her name was Jean Russell

She used to ride a roan pony

When she wasn’t in a hustle

But one day a storm rose from the west

And both speed and steadiness were needed

Maybe I’d better not tell the rest

Because in supplying these things that pony

Never succeeded

However Jean was home before the storm

And how she did it I for one with wonder was filled

One place from the road they have torn

And there Jean was supposed to have been killed

They took the top off a rise in the gravelly trail

But when they reached hone we were glad to find

Jean alive and telling the tale

With a few grains of gravel from her elbow to be mined

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The Prairie fire that drove us from school

I was digging through our archives (aka long abandoned boxes) and found an article written about the 1936 fire Grandma spoke of (If you’re not sure what I’m talking about you can find her-story about the fire here, and photos of the fire here). Grandma makes a cameo appearance in this account of the fire.

This is an article written in Grainews from June of 1995, written by Ronald Wallace:

The Prairie fire that drove us from school

It was Nov. 20, 1936, when the Brushy Ridge School house burned down. It was in the path of a Prairie fire.

I was nine years old at the time. My two sisters were 11. We were party f a group of a dozen kids who had braved the wind, the smoke and the smell of fire to attend classes at this school.

The fire got its start away to the West, in what is now known as Kananaskis Country. Probably the day before. Sometime during the night, the wind picked up.

Coming home from cousin Kass’s birthday party that night, the air was full of the smell of smoke. We kids paid scant attention to it, however. We were too full of cake and ice cream and the fun of the party.

The next morning, the wind had become strong enough to blow the soil off summerfallow, as it had done off and on all fall – ‘36 was a dry year. A lot of crops didn’t make it that year. The Depression was working its hardships on many people.

The acrid stench of the smoke was even stronger than last night, I thought as I bridled and saddled Queenie for school. The wind and the dirt had us ribbing our eyes already. We weren’t looking forward to the five minute ride. In fact, it was so dark we were a bit scared.

As we pulled into the school yard, the wind gusts ripped and tore at us with an awful frenzy. It took two of us to wrestle the barn door open enough for the third to get Queenie in.

We ran for the school. The giddiness I felt as the wind snatched my breath and smoke and dirt swirled around was scary.

About 10 o’clock the schoolroom got so dark we couldn’t see the blackboard. No electricity in those days.

Miss Davis was the teacher. The school sat directly across the road from the Callaway farm.

The school vacated

At 11 o’clock, Mr. Callaway came over to the school to talk to Miss Davis – out in the cloak room. When she came back in she asked Carl Wilson, who would have been 13 or 14 at the time, to run up the road about half a mile to the Messer place to warn them of the approaching fire. She told the rest of us to get our coats and run across the road to the Callaways. The noise of the wind had me totally spooked. Once we cleared the school, the same giddiness and panic took hold of me as I gulped and sucked for air.

My sister Doreen had hold of my hand, and if it wasn’t for her, I don’t know how I would have got across the road and into the Callaway’s house.

Their house was protected on the west by Spruce trees. The smoke and the wind billowed and screamed through the branches. The front and the back doors of the house were open as people rushed in and out.

It was dark in the kitchen. Mrs. Callaway was heating up porridge for Evelyn, the baby. It was burning. It took her a while to realize it. The smell of things burning was everywhere.

Some live coals blew in the back door. Joe, the hired man, stamped them out and tried to shut the door. The wind was such it forced him to put his shoulder to it.

I can still see his neck bulging with the effort. My sister Eileen told me afterward that Joe had helped get us kids across the road. I often think of this because, at the time, most of us were a bit afraid of Joe. He was Czechoslovakian and had a strong foreign accent. He seemed to us to be a big boy with a gruff voice.

Rushed out of area

Ted Callaway had a big blue car – a Nash I think it was. He put as much of their belongings as he could in the front seat along with his wife Mamie, his young son Bob and Evelyn. In the back seat were nine of us, ranging from seven to 16.

The wind hit us broadside as we haded north to Cochrane. It did its best to upset us. The car would lift and settle as the gusts took hold of it.

Miss Davis, Carmen Barkley, Vernice Towers, and Carl Wilson were left behind. They ended up at hte Edges’ house, which was almost a mile east of the school. I can;t remember how they got there, but I think one of the Edge boys picked them up. For a period of time, they were reported missing.

Once we crossed the river coming into Cochrane, the visibility cleared some, the smell of smoke was not as overpowering and the wind-driven dirt didn’t hurt as much.

We went to the Cochrane Hotel and waited. After a while, a reporter from Calgary came along. He asked us a lot of questions and then lined us up and took some pictures. We were a sorry-looking lot! He asked us some more questions and then took us over to the cafe for doughnuts and hot chocolate.

People started to drift into town. Haggard, worried, desperate people. The Coelens milked cows a few miles west of the school. They lost everything.

The Arnell’s, also to the west, had pigs and chickens roasted as their buildings went up in flames. Their house and everything in it quickly burned. They escaped with little more than the clothes they wore.

Mrs. Towers came in looking for her daughter. When she found she wasn’t with the rest of us, tears ran down her face. I remember being somewhat sobered at this. I hadn’t seen too many adults cry. I remember saying “I wonder what our folks are thinking.”

School’s on fire

George Wilson lived a mile east and a mile south of the school. His oldest daughter, Muriel, was at home. She was a slim girl about 18 or 19 at the time. Somehow, through the smoke and dirt she saw the school on fire.

Although she wouldn’t have weighed 100 lbs, she ran with the wind a mile east to our place to sound the alarm. Then she turned around and ran back home again! Into the teeth of the gale that was later reported to have gusted up to 90 miles an hour.

Dad threw a shovel, an axe, an 8-gallon can of water and some sacks in to the old Ford car, picked up hose brother Bill and headed for the school. They went through the back pasture, got out on the road and had only gone a little way when they ran into a large obstacle across the road. It was on fire.

Through the smoke and dirt they saw it was a “slide” or hay stacker, commonly used in those days to build hay stacks in the field. They were big wooden structures made out of logs and planks. It took four horses to move them any distance.

The wind had blown this thing uphill, out of George Wilson’s hay field, through the fence, across the ditch, and onto the road. Imagine their dismay when they circled the thing and there, on the other side, was a car half in and half out of the stacker.

Mrs. Percy Copithorne had been driving back to their ranch from Cochrane. At the school, she had swung a mile east to avoid the oncoming fire. In the near-zero visibility, she didn’t see the stacker in time and before she could get stopped, the front wheels went over the log skid. She was stuck. She was a young woman. She had a young child with her and she was expecting another one.

Dad and uncle Bill beat out the fire and chopped her free. They took her back to our place and then made another run for the school. When they got there, the school was gone and so was the barn where we had put our horse. Harry Edge came along and told them us children were all in Cochrane, but that Queenie was in a bad way. Smoke inhalation. He said when he got to her, the barn was on fire but he got her out before it collapsed. We had to shoot her the next day.

About 5:00 pm., Mr. Wellington Barkley came into Cochrane and took us all home. The wind had died down and a light rain started to fall.

It was an eerie sight driving home through a blackened and smouldering countryside. Hay stacks were still burning and so were telephone poles. Downed wires were strewn along the sides of the road.

Many stories have been told over the years by those who were caught in this fire. Stories of danger and courage and heartbreak. This one is written through the eyes of a schoolboy.

Fifty-eight years later, I can still smell the smoke, hear the shriek of the wind and feel the sting of the dirt in the air. It was quite an adventure.

There was no loss of human life, although a considerable number of animals died. It’s amazing took how the resourcefulness and ingenuity of people who are faced with disaster can still muster the will to rebuild and overcome their losses. In the ‘30s this was no mean feat!

Written by Ronald Wallace

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happiness

Aunt Agnes

As I’ve been sifting through things I’ve discovered a couple of books of Aunt Agnes’s poems, as well as an article that was written about her in the Calgary Herald not long after she died (the paper is dated Feb. 2 1992).

I was always fascinated by Aunt Agnes and Uncle Harry’s house. The outside was surrounded by beautiful paintings on the fence, the inside with weird pieces of clock strewn about (I think I must have been in the work space Uncle Harry used to build his grandfather clocks).

Because she keeps popping up I thought I’d share the article written about her, as well as one of her poems.

Homesteader never forgot her rustic roots – by Brian Brennan

If southern Alberta had been hit recently with a prolonged utilizes failure, Agnes Copithorne would have remembered how to make do. She began her married life in a homesteader’s log cabin west of Calgary in 1927, and always kept kerosene lamps and Franklin stove around as reminders.

“Habit is strong,” she said. “Nothing new is purchased if the old will do.”

The old was good enough when she and husband Harry built their kitchen out of scrap lumber and rusty nails salvaged from an old granary near Cochrane.

It was good enough when they bought their first radio, their first car, their first pieces of farm machinery.

“We like to think that our homesteader’s cabin had not forgotten the past entirely,” said Agnes.

The cabin, near Jumping Pound Creek on the south side of the Trans-Canada Highway, belonged originally to Harry’s Uncle Sam, and Irishman who homesteader in the area during the 1880s with his brother John, Harry’s father.

Harry was born in 1902, moved to Victoria with his parents at age 10, and returned at 16 to work on his uncle’s ranch. Nine years later, he met and married Agnes.

She was Agnes Rollefstad, born June, 1906 in Hopple, N.D. and raised in Schuyler, Alta. In 1925 she took the train to Cochrane to take a job as a ranch cook on the Copithorne spread. Harry met her at the station and their destinies were sealed.

“We’ve only had one fight,” Harry told a reporter 50 years later, “and it’s not over yet.”

Home renovations became their life’s work. The cabin was cold as an outhouse when they moved in. Harry became carpenter, plumber, and electrician. Agnes played carpenter’s helper. A new kitchen emerged from an old back porch and woodshed. A new dining room emerged from the old kitchen. To put bread on the table, they grew grain, and raised Herefords and sheep.

They recycled before the word was invented. They built their kitchen window with wood from an abandoned chicken house. They electrified kerosene lamps, and enclosed a deck with windows salvaged from a demolished greenhouse.

Their doors were never locked. Travellers on the highway were forever breaking down nearby, running out of gas, looking to use the Copithorne phone. Agnes invited them in for tea and home-made biscuits, and filled up their tanks from a canister kept permanently filled in the shed outside. Nobody was ever turned away. Tourists, truckers, and escaped convicts all received the same friendly welcome.

For recreation, Agnes sewed, wrote poetry, short stories, and plays, and painted with the Calgary Sketch Club. In 1967, as a Centennial project, she invited members of the club to help her decorate the fence around her home. They filled the panels with mountain scenes, ranch scenes, bucking horses, and red-eyed bulls, and created a local landmark. Twenty years later, Agnes redid the 24 panels herself as a Winter Olympics project. She was then 81.

Harry retired from ranching in 1967, turned the business over to son Jim, and started building grandfather clocks as a hobby. Agnes continued to paint, and published three books of poetry.

She was diagnosed with cancer last March, moved into the Bethany Care Centre with Harry in August, and died four weeks ago. Harry, now 90, remains at the Bethany. Their youngest grandson has become the fourth generation Copithorne to occupy the old homestead.

Agnes Copithorne is survived by husband Harry, son Jim, two grandsons, and two great-granddaughters.

Remembering Yesterday – Agnes Copithorne

It seems like only yesterday

We broke the land with two oxen

And a walking plow.

Picked stones off the field

Hauling them away to a rock pile,

Readying the earth for planting.

Winters were long, the snow deep

Mother knitted our mitts and socks.

The long black wool stockings

Itched unbearably until

They had been through several washings.

In felt boots and four-buckle overshoes

We trudged through the drifts to school.

Thawed out around the pot-bellied stove

Before starting on the hated arithmetic

Problems laboriously scratched out

On a slate.

In the evenings, by the light of

A coal oil lamp we played Old Maid,

Checkers or Dominoes.

Bedtime came early.

And there were chores, always reminded

That idle hands were the devil’s tools.

No hockey, no basketball

Or any of that nonsense

Life was uncluttered, uncomplicated.

Stress unknown.

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Love is…

I was thinking the other day about “happiness” and how I started this blog seeking happiness in a time where I wasn’t seeing or feeling very happy.

Over the last 10 years there have been so many ups and downs in my life journey, moments of happiness, moments of despair, times of fear, feelings of freedom, times where the pain has cut so deeply I wasn’t sure I’d survive, and times where the sun shone brightly in my world.

I think what I was really searching for, what I really have been searching for wasn’t happiness (I mean, to some extent it was), but instead I was searching for love and the feeling of peace that comes with love.

For me, often (usually) love hasn’t brought a lot of peace. I’ve realized over time that is because I was trying to make things/relationships/people/situations that weren’t love into love. And this became confusing for me over my life. You can’t find love where love is not. It’s been hard to realize that many, many times in my life what I have thought was love was not love at all.

I think we all misuse love to some extent as humans. We can try to manipulate people into loving us, or into putting up with things that cause them pain because they love us, or by using each other in an attempt to relieve our own pain of not feeling loved.

I have realized I need to redefine what love is for myself. What does it mean to love? What does it mean to be loved? What does it mean to be a loving presence on the planet?

The best real-life examples I could come up with was how I have felt with my animals. Thank goodness for the connection humans have with animals, thank God for how animals put up with us and teach us love. Once I could take that as a baseline for love I could apply it to my human relationships and see things more clearly. Some relationships I have with people have been called love but weren’t and some were filled with love that went unrecognized. Lots of learning.

As I was thinking about love and trying to define love for myself I realized that of course there’s a place where I could go and find a definition of love that I could use with faith and confidence that it was, in fact, what love is:

1 Corinthians 13:4-7

4 Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 5 It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.6 Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7 It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

I have realized how important it is for me to follow this definition if I want to be a loving person, but I am realizing that it is equally important that I look at how others are treating me, and how they treat other people.

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A little story about the Hall

Yesterday I was standing in our community hall waiting to meet someone and I started reading the poster that hangs on the west end that tells some of the history of how the hall came to be. It’s really something I should know since that building has been part of my life, part of our community, for almost 100 years now. And yet, somehow I’ve never made it all the way through reading it.

I love that old hall. We’ve had parties there, dances, Santa has come and given presents to generations of children, we’ve had Stampede breakfasts, and of course there have been family gatherings. Some of my family gathered there over the weekend to celebrate Thanksgiving and I’m grateful to have been able to attend and catch up with people I rarely get to see.

So, here’s the story of the Hall that hangs up high on the wall that I had never taken the time to read, but finally did so. I’m so glad I did too, it’s like a little love story about our Hall:

Jumping Pound Hall

By Margaret Bateman

The Hall sits on a hill visible from the Trans Canada Highway and was built in the year 1927. It has an excellent hardwood floor, its walls and ceilings are finished in “V” joint. Benches have been built along both sides of the hall with shelves built above the benches. There are electric lights since the year 1947 and in the year 1967 a propane stove and furnace were installed. It is a frame building sitting on sand stone blocks reinforced with cement. It is painted grey with white trim and the roof is covered with red asphalt shingles.

However, it wasn’t always like this. Before World War I, Arthur Cope, Leonard Hutt and the Bacon Boys planned to build a hall and the site was to be on Section 14 near the Pile of Bones Hill. The logs were hauled out but when the war broke out the idea was abandoned because some of the men did not return. The logs remained for some time and then Stanley Cope decided to make use of them and designed a corral in the shape of a cross and his cattle were able to seek shelter from cold winds in all four sections. About the year 1926, the district decided they needed a hall. Prior to that time nearly all social events such as card parties, masquerades, box socials, and dances had been held in private homes around the district. Some of the hosts for these parties were J.W. Copithorne, Hugh Robinson, Frank Sibbald, L.D.and E.E. Nicholl, Dave Lawson, Dick Copithorne, and John Bateman. The school and the post office were used for social events too. I heard of one event which took place in the Jumping Pound Post Office – a box social to make money for Red Cross during the first war when Grannie Bateman played the mouth organ for dancing.

When plans were completed for the Hall – John Copithorne donated an acre of land to be the site of the Hall. The lumber was obtained from Syd Chester in Cochrane and was hauled by team and wagon by some of the local boys, namely Percy and Harry Copithorne, Clarence Sibbald, Dave Lawson, Norman Edge, and Bill Bateman. The total cost of the Hall lumber was $1,479.35, hardware and furniture $654.75, labour $477.90, making a grand total of $2,612.00. Dan Fenton was chief carpenter and all the men in the district did the volunteer work. Charlie Cooley was responsible for the sandstone blocks and since the ground was frozen he used some dynamite to loosen the earth where the blocks were to be set in. As a result, a fair sized hole and considerable cussing but the job got done.

The hall was heated with a coal and wood heater – a bog one donated by McLynn; Coleman lamp lighted the hall.

About the same time as the hall was built the Ghost Dam was being constructed and the workers prioritized the hall – as did all the local people of the district. The opening night of the Hall was a gala affair – the walls were decorated with bear, wolf, and deer hides loaned by Mr. Frank Sibbald. A huge crowd attended and Mr. Sibbald was floored manager. Over the years the hall has been decorated in different ways, at one time Kleenex flowers were attached to shutters painted green and adorned the windows. These took a long time to make and was a project for the local ladies whenever they met to make flowers. Another time decorations of autumn leaves and foliage and Christmas decorations were obtained courtesy of Hudson Bay Co. Another time gay Chinese lanterns were hung from the ceiling to decorate the hall.

Card parties too were popular and the Xmas concert put on by the school children was looked forward to by all the community. Plays were preformed by people from Springbank and there was a popular minstrel show from Cochrane – Mr Brodie and Sam Allan.

In those days if one chose to have a nip or two the bottle was cached behind a willow bush or down a gopher hole. The police sometimes came out and checked on the dances. A few times there was a fight or two, no one was seriously hurt just their dignity. Lunch was served at midnight – a good one, sandwiches, home made cake and real good coffee made by Archie Maclean. He was a good coffee maker, but was very possessive with the kitchen, he liked it to himself.

Do you remember dancing to the music of some of these names? Does Henry Bolter ring a bell? What about the times we danced when Margy Buckley played the piano, Percy Copithorne the violin and Jack Copithorne on the drums. Other bands came from Calgary such as Vi Hopkins, “Ma” Trainor, “Blind Mac”, Jerry Cooke, Lee Lewis, Mrs. Foster, and more recently Lamberts from Cochrane.

The dances now are more modern living, rock and roll – not so many square dances or even waltzes. Supper is still served and there is often a Barr. The price to attend dances has greatly increased as has the cost of the bands.

Showers and special anniversaries are well attended and looked forward to. Turkey shoots are also popular.

Our hall has been our meeting place, events looked forward to and been a source of enjoyment to all of us who reside in the district.

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happiness

Dancing Skies

Last night I was actually organized enough to get myself to bed early. I’ve been exhausted and not sleeping well, so figured if I was going to wake up early I’d trick myself by going to bed early.

When we went outside at 8 to grab the last running dog, my daughter gave a little squeal and told me to look up in the sky. The whole sky was dancing and it was absolutely amazing. It was just settling into darkness, so you could still see some actual sky and clouds – but also colours bouncing everywhere.

We ran out of the yard and into the field so we could stand amongst the beauty of the universe and enjoy the light show. God really gave us something to appreciate last night, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen one quite like this – and the girl has never seen northern lights that you didn’t have to look through the phone camera to properly see.

It was a real honour to be able to stand outside for an hour or so taking in the beauty and wonder of the moment that nature was providing for us. Stop and be still, listen and hear, see and be seen, love and be loved.

By the way, I went to bed much later than intended and slept like a log. God is Good.

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happiness

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately….

Thoreau has always been one of my favourite writers. I fell in love with Walden when I was 18 or so in a university English class and my life has never been the same again.

Back then, as a teenager living in Alberta, going to Concord, MA where Thoreau lived and wrote seemed like an impossibility. It’s a good thing that through God, the impossible becomes possible – because 20 years later I was walking around Walden Pond after a short drive from the home where I was living. Life is definitely like a box of chocolates – you never know what you’re going to get!

My photo memories showed me that today, 14 years ago on 10/10/10 we did a forced family fun trip to Walden Pond, and through Concord to take a peek at some of the great American writers.

I think of Thoreau often as I am seeking the peace and quiet of my own woods to clear and calm my mind. The insights and wisdom I get when I unplug from the chaos of electronics and life and plug into the sounds and space of nature is about as close to God as I can get (bonus if there’s a horse around).

The writings of the transcendentalists – many of whom lived in the Concord area – are some of my favourite things to read. Especially when I need a bit of inspiration or need to feel closer to God. Emerson is another one of my favourites. His poem “Give All to Love” is the poem that made me like poetry.

But Walden Pond itself was also a spectacular place. There were people who had made rituals of swimming in the lake, walking the path around the pond, and just being quietly in nature. It was really inspirational and peaceful.

So now I walk my woods with my dogs, working at living more deliberately myself, seeing if I can learn what my woods have to teach.

Walden Pond
The foundation of Thoreau’s cabin

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