If You’re Not From the Prairie

     There is a wonderful book written and illustrated about life on the prairie as seen through the eyes of a child and I have just rediscovered it.  It is titled:
“If You’re not from the prairie” by David Bouchard and illustrated by Henry Ripplinger     ISBN 0-9696097-4-4
     The poems and illustration evoke many memories, mostly good ones but occasionally bad.  I would like to share some of these with you. 

Drawn on my iPad

     Growing up on the prairie is a sensual delight if you let it be,  stimulating all of the senses – the sights, sounds, smells, taste, touch and maybe senses you don’t even know you possess.

Horseshoe Canyon - look at the horizon

     The prairies open my eyes to the blueness of the huge sky and the vastness of the land as I stand on a hill and see distant farms and ponds, rivers and towns that dot the landscape.  I feel a sense of wonder and freedom as we stand at my favourite lookout, Horseshoe Canyon, in the Cypress Hills, and gaze across to what seems like infinity.  You can see Medicine Hat, more than 60 kilometers away and the fields beyond.  If you look to the southwest you can see the Sweet Grass Hills in Montana, volcanic bumps forgotten by an ice age, covered with “sweet grass” and sacred to the Indians.  (By the way, sweet grass is not the kind of grass that folks purchase from furtive dealers lurking in the shadows of dark street corners).  From the southern slopes of the hills it is possible to see the purple silhouettes of the Bearpaw mountain range far away in the USA.

Milk River with Sweetgrass Hills in background 2011

     The prairies constantly change if you have the eye of an artist.  In the spring, the meadows are alive with thousands of flowers, some bright like the fiery blooms on the prickly pear cactus, to the more subtle tones of the dainty little bluebells or the daisies, the clover, sagebrush, wild roses and other flowers too numerous to name. Foxtails take on the colors of little rainbows in the right light conditions and you could hurl the speargrass stalks like tiny spears, hence the name.  After a rain, snowy white mushrooms often pop up through the soil and these are delicious if fried along with some bacon and eggs or even just served with toast, especially if the toast is made from home made bread and farm butter.      Looking across the prairie is like gazing at a giant artist’s palette with all of the colors you can imagine, from the umbers, ochre's and sienna's to all of the blues, reds, oranges, greens and yellows like the tubes on display in art shops.  There is nothing like prairie grasses or crops of wheat or canola blowing in the wind, with waves like a green or yellow ocean flowing across the enormous fields, and tumbleweeds rushing along only to be stopped by a distant fence.
     You can see thunderstorms a hundred miles away with the bright white windswept tops of the cumuli nimbus clouds billowing in the sun and highlighted against the sky with the anvil, thousands of feet up in the stratosphere, giving away their direction of travel.  Or, at night, the lightning erupting from the clouds in brilliant streaks or sheets of light like huge flashbulbs illuminating the land.  I have seen lightning strike in the distance followed by a slowly growing reddish glow as a prairie fire is born, then the flames etched across the horizon as the monster engulfs and destroys everything in its path, including wildlife, farms and livestock.  On one occasion, the adults from the village were all fighting the fire along the fire breaks in the country and we kids were herded into the schoolhouse, waiting to be evacuated and worrying about our parents as wild animals ran, hopped or slithered through the village toward the Red Deer River outrunning the approaching flames.

Prairie Flowers

     Lying on my back in the grass, I would watch a hawk, eagle or curlew, with its curlew, curlew song, soaring overhead and listen to the bees and the crackle of grasshoppers as they took flight or the distinctive melodic song of the meadowlarks as they proclaimed mastery over their territory.  Near the little ponds or sloughs the red wing blackbirds, or soldier birds, were surprisingly musical.
     There is nothing quite like a prairie sunrise or sunset, especially at harvest time when the farmer’s machines such as tractors, combines or thrashing machines, churn up dust that hangs high in the air deepening the reds, purples and oranges.  And what about the harvest moon rising orange and huge on the horizon?  Walking or skiing across a field in winter time, the colors of the sunset seemed to be amplified as they reflected in the glittering snow as I trudged home, not looking forward to the pain of a thawing toe, nose or ears – winter clothing is much improved these days.
     After a rainfall, the air is perfumed by the sagebrush, flowers and sweet grasses – of course not all the fragrances were sweet, especially if there were cows nearby!  After the first frost, we could eat the cactus berries that were part of the pincushion cacti plopped low to the ground.  You had to carefully pick the individual segments, lest your fingers were pricked, and then bite through the leathery skin and suck out the contents, which tasted very much like Kiwi fruit as I discovered many years later.  One problem was that cactus berries behaved as a cathartic, giving the unwary victims the “runs” or, as some like to call it, “seeping slickness.”  Since the one-room schoolhouse that I attended did not have indoor plumbing, there would be line-ups outside of the two white with green trim outhouses, one for the boys and the other for the girls, as the hapless pupils waited impatiently, squeezing their cheeks together and crossing their legs, as some other victims relieved themselves in the facilities.  Our teacher was not amused by these events – I suppose that is why one of the older boys put a bull snake in her desk drawer – for him, and for all of us, the shrieks of terror were worth the retribution meted out by the strapping administered by the red-faced teacher as we bit our tongues until they bled, trying desperately not to laugh out loud and, at the same time, squeezing our cheeks even harder.

Small Prickly Pear Cactus

     Here’s another sensation for you:  When I was about six years old, a couple of my “friends” coerced me into riding a cow.  Accepting their dare, I leapt up onto the back of the unsuspecting beast.  She was far from being amused at this intrusion and promptly began to buck.  Not having anything resembling a handhold, I flew through the air ending my trajectory by landing butt first in a stand of prickly pear cactus.  The spines in my hands were relatively easy to remove – but the ones in my backside were another matter.  My mother had me over her lap for about two hours removing these frightful little weapons one by one.  I think that this event ignited an interest in acupuncture as it completely cured me of one thing – I never again attempted to ride a cow!
     Our parents used to make  wine from the cactus berries and wines and jellies from other fruit, like chokecherries, Saskatoon berries, gooseberries and others that we, as a family, would gather along the river in the autumn.  Incidentally, there is now a winery between Maple Creek and Fort Walsh (a most worthwhile stop for sampling wines and having lunch) that uses the local berries to make absolutely delicious wines – a surprising oasis in the middle of nowhere on the Saskatchewan prairie. Chokecherries were also used to make a sweet syrup called “poverty slop,” perhaps named during the depression, as syrup would have been out of the financial reach of most country people. After picking we would sometimes build a fire on the sandy banks and fish for mud-pout (small fish) which we would wrap in clay and bake in the flames.
     Winter brought other things to see, do and feel.  It seems to me that there was a lot more snow back in the 40’s and 50’s and I don’t think that is just my imagination.  I clearly recall snow banks up to the second story windows of the farm house in Buffalo.  The fence posts would be buried under the drifting snow and sometimes entire trains would be trapped in the snow banks.  Taking advantage of the drifts, we would head off into the countryside on our wooden skis and freeze our butts off.  Or, on a nice sunny day, head down to the river where we would skate on the ice and freeze our butts off, then build a fire to roast wieners and marshmallows and thaw our toes.  When I lived with my grandparents in the ‘Hat, Papa Murphy would make a rink for me in the front yard so I could freeze my butt off there.  I am surprised that I have any body parts left and not surprised that skating is not one of my favorite sports, in fact one that is studiously avoided.
     It was sometimes so cold in the house in the country – no furnace, central heating or good insulation, or electricity – that my nostrils would be frostbitten in the morning.  My little black and white dog, Spot, who had a tail like the handle of a teapot, would snuggle down under the layers of blankets and wouldn’t move ‘til morning.  Because we didn’t have indoor plumbing, and it would be unbearable to run across to the outhouse which was a fair distance away from the house for reasons of summer fragrances and prevailing breezes, we had chamber-pots tucked under the beds.  Using one of these would require an enormous force of will to throw back the covers and kneel, shivering on the floor in the “chamber-pot position” in order to accomplish our mission, essential as it was.
     They say (whoever “they” are) that you can’t hear the northern lights.  But I have!!  On a crystal clear cold, cold night they would light up the darkness with dazzling colors casting shadows on the snow, sometimes the northern sky was blood red and, one memorable time, in the shape of a colorful rotating corkscrew, reminiscent of Christmas candy, you know, the twisted multicolor ribbon kind, and I swear that you could hear the aurora crackle as it danced around in the sky!  I guess that “they” are not from the prairie.

Waves - 2011

     Prairie people are a hardy lot, always friendly, generous and willing to lend a hand, even to strangers.  They have to be that way as the conditions are often severe and unforgiving where mere survival is an issue and yet there are so many duties to fulfill.  You couldn’t neglect feeding the livestock or milking the cows, bringing in firewood, making sure that there was enough food on the table, lighting the stoves and lamps and helping your next door neighbour, who may live several miles away, in times of need.

“If you’re not from the prairie, you don’t know me.  You just can’t know me”  David Bouchard