By Mildred McDonald
Once upon a time, in those days (almost) beyond recall, each year when spring arrived, the Alberta prairie seemed to magically burst forth into life. Meadowlarks atop pasture fence posts, warbled in the morning sunshine; and bluebirds artfully maneuvered twigs and bits of nesting material through the small holes in the twine box of silent binders. Evening hours vibrated with an endless chorus of exuberant frogs in shallow sloughs.
Farmers with the discomforts of cold winters behind them, peeled off their long johns from beneath denim overalls, and sitting around the kitchen table by flickering lamplight, they pored over colorful seed catalogues. Soon they’d be ready to plow and harrow their gardens, and with hope forever in their hearts, plant seeds and set out their tiny seedlings that had sprouted and grown on kitchen window sills since May.
Times in the early years of this century were tough! And it was the custom of one of our neighbors to plant an even larger garden than most. Mr. Meier was an enterprising family man with many irons in the fire. He was a trader of renown and a dealer of anything: small calves, large hogs, horse hair, garden produce and junk! Even so, there seemed barely enough cash for the necessities of life. His livestock suffered most from lack of hay and oats; but perhaps it was not a priority that his animals be well fed.
His children sometimes drove to school in the wintertime with a team of pitifully thin horses. That was probably when I first noticed Spike, (which was a fitting name to be sure). He was a jet black rangy sort, large of frame and bony structure; and of indeterminate age. Mr. Meier’s several offspring drove Spike and his mate Sparky mercilessly, pounding them on their bony rumps, caring not a whit that they seemed about to collapse.
One fall day, after a bountiful harvest, Mr. Meier hitched his team to the wagon, which he had loaded to overflowing with cabbages and turnips. Bundling himself warmly into his threadbare mackinaw, he headed southward towards the coal mining town of Drumheller to peddle his produce. Thirty miles being a major journey, he planned to be on the road for at least a couple days.
Late the following afternoon, his goods all sold (or traded), he turned his gaunt horses homeward. Slowly and patiently they plodded along the narrow gravel highway long into the night. Mr. Meier was cold and his bones were weary as he sheltered in the empty wagon box against the weather. Suddenly his eyes caught the gleam of a faint light ahead in the distance. It rapidly grew nearer, and soon enough he realized it was an automobile that was bearing down upon him at an erratic speed.
As I’ve mentioned, the road was narrow, the night was starless and Spike was as invisible as a ghost in the blackness of the hour. He and Sparky continued to plod mechanically down the centre of the road towards their warm barn. The driver of the car, not expecting to meet any one, especially a team and wagon on the highway at such a late hour, charged along down the middle of the thoroughfare, as was custom of the day (and night).
With a resounding crash of fender, the hiss of steam from the radiator and a muffled thud of horseflesh, the Model A farm vehicle rammed old Spike amidship; instantly crumpling him to the ground in a bony heap; to rise no more. The two drivers surveyed the mayhem with the aid of a kerosene lantern and one headlight; and made every effort to blame one another for the mishap. Mr. Meier argued loudly and successfully that his horse had been worth ten dollars; and he collected the money on the spot. He then untangled Sparky, climbed aboard his rangy back and rode on into the crisp dawn.
Following a hearty breakfast that his wife Rosie had cooked up for him Mr. Meier returned to the abandoned wagon with a team of fresh horses. Tucked safely into his knapsack, he also carried his hunting knife. He, being a dealer of renown, planned to skin old Spike, and sell his black hide for a few more dollars.
But alas! When he at last hove into sight of last night’s disaster, he was horrified to find that some other enterprising person had already skinned the animal. With heart wrenching disappointment, he hitched the horses to the wagon and returned homeward. . . perhaps to see if there were any more cabbages in the garden that he might peddle, a little closer to home.