The Kitchen Window Mildred McDonald
By Mildred McDonald
Once upon a time in the nostalgic days of yore, I had of necessity become a ‘Jill of all trades’ on a farm near the town of Drumheller, Alberta. It had been in the late fall of the mid 1940’s that I had gathered together my three small sons one morning, and abandoned the two-roomed shack where we had resided a week or two with the Son of a Pioneer (SOP), my nomadic husband.
Several days earlier, an observant (and concerned) uncle, who had kept a wary eye out for me from afar, had appeared at my door to offer an option to the predicament into which I had slipped. He had explained that a long-time friend of his was in need of a housekeeper for his workaday farm, and suggested I consider taking advantage of the opportunity for a change of lifestyle.
The very idea of such a monstrous challenge momentarily overwhelmed me, but in my heart I realized that a move was the only possible prospect of survival available for my small dependents and myself. A plan was hastily set into motion, and in a short space of time we had been transported into a seemingly different world.
In our new environment I had quickly became accustomed to numerous new chores and schedules. Verne Dresser, my new employer, proved to be a fine fatherly figure and had accepted me as I was – small boys and all. There we had found refuge in a rambling, comfortable old farmhouse, plenty of food for the table – and an eccentric gasoline-powered Maytag washing machine for laundering the long lines of bedding and work clothes for numerous children and hired men.
I thought I had been busy during the spring and summer months with the preparation of meals, lunches, gardening, mending and child rearing, but they did not compare with the long days and evenings at harvest time. I recall one night when I had waited up until eleven o’clock for the last grain-hauler to return from the field for his bedtime snack. He had confessed to falling asleep in his truck, and having an hour’s snooze. It had been a very long day for us all.
One fall day a letter had arrived from my mother, saying she would like to come to the farm for a visit and I thought that a capital idea. In due time she had arrived and was greeted with great enthusiasm. She had settled right into the work routine and lent a capable hand at every turn; so much so that I began to feel that I was having a holiday.
Then one morning at breakfast, Verne Dresser had announced that it was time to move the cattle to winter pasture, eight or ten miles from where they had spent the summer months. How I wanted to go along on that ride! I asked my mother if she would ride herd on my offspring and manage supper that day. She would. Verne was glad to have an extra rider as well, and said he would throw a saddle on Sadie, the short-coupled bay mare that had been lazing around the barn all summer. I was not at all anxious to board the little critter, as I’d ridden her once or twice for short distances and found that she had but one gait: no pacing or single-footing – just a bone racking, jolting stride.
The ponies were soon loaded onto the truck, and we had headed out over the prairie landscape to our destination. I was handed the reins of my mount, and as I’d climbed aboard, it was instantly obvious to me that the stirrups were two or three inches beyond my reach except when I stretched and stood on tip toe. (Ah, ha! Ray had been using this saddle again). By that time the men had all galloped off to scout the coulees and locate the scattered herd, and no one had given a thought to check the stirrups on my saddle. There being no alternative to the dilemma, I had set the nag in motion and crow-hopped off in hot pursuit of the other riders.
For several hours the sweating, whooping cow-punchers had sped up hill and down dale, flushing fat, lazy bovines from shady retreats among hidden draws and hollows. Sadie jounced along, shying at shadows, vaulting over rocks and skirting gopher holes with finesse, and with every step my muscles were shrieking in misery at the unaccustomed jarring of my anatomy.
By the time the herd with their calves had been routed out of coulees and brush patches, and driven out onto the road allowance for the drive towards home pasture, the saddle horses had settled to a steady walk, all except Sadie. She seemed not to understand the meaning of ‘walk’, but had persisted in jog-trotting every step of the long road home. Near supper time we had rounded the last bend and reached the end of our trek. My entire body seemed so battered and bruised by that time I could scarcely dismount. Some thoughtful person had relieved me of the pony, and I had gingerly and very painfully hobbled up the farmhouse steps, to be greeted by three exuberant little boys.
Thankfully, my mother had a splendid supper of ham and hot biscuits on the table, ready for the return of the weary cowboys. However, I could scarcely enjoy the meal, as my total being had been wracked with major throes of agony as I took my place at the table; but was in worse pain when I attempted to rise when the meal was finished.
For several days following the adventure with that terrible horse and the misfitted stirrups, I had shuffled about the kitchen in dire distress, but by the time my mother was ready to return to the Okanagan, I had been fit enough to again function on my own.
Never again have I had any hankering for another trail ride.