A Difficult Passage

A Difficult Passage

from prairie poverty

to heights beyond

Ray Wiseman

Smashwords Edition

A Difficult Passage - Copyright 2001 by Ray Wiseman

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Bible Publishers.

WordWise Associates - Fergus, Ontario

Dedicated to Anna who proofreads every line I write. Although she did not experience the life portrayed herein, she shares every moment in imagination.

Acknowledgements

Each time I sit down to write, I have the sensation of a crowd of people looking over my shoulder. Although that might sound a little scary, it really is a good thing. I refer to the people who read and comment on my material before it gets anywhere near a printing press. I owe special thanks to the following folks who read and reacted to every page of this book.

- Anna Wiseman, who read every page even more often than I did, applying her special proofreading skills. If you find a typo, I likely caused it by editing something following her last reading!

- Ellen Wheller, who has influenced and contributed to my life since the day I stepped off the train.

- Shirley Wood, who read with the care and concern one would expect from a sister.

- Richard and Merle Vincett. Rich, who appears in the story under an alias, has remained a lifelong friend.

- Nancy Lindquist, who took time to read and comment while in the midst of writing and promoting her own books.

- Donna Mann, who read with her heart, not just her eyes.

- Tina Baker, who tested some of the text by reading it to her husband, Jim.

- Mark Clayton who applied his artistic touch and graphics skills to the cover.

- Pauline Whyte who used similar talents and skills to complete the page layout for the printed version.

And that list doesn’t include all my readers and friends who encouraged me to complete this project!

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Introduction

This story has its genesis in the great migration of people who poured into Canada’s western provinces in the early years of the 20th century. They came from England, Scotland, Germany, Scandinavia, Ukraine, and a dozen other places including many States of the Union.

Although the primary account begins with the crystal-clear memories of a two-year-old arriving at the village of Gawain in April of 1936, flashbacks will transport you to earlier times. War in South Africa and Europe, followed by resettlement in a land of promise, shaped the parents who in turn influenced the life of the child - a child who would face a harsh prairie life with its own special terrors and temptations.

We have changed the name of the town and most of the people to protect the innocent - and those who merely think themselves innocent. The Stanley Stone you meet in Chapter 1, is, of course, Ray Wiseman. Now you know that, you can try to identify the others.

Foreword

They say everyone has a story to tell. Maybe so, but few can tell their story as well as Ray Wiseman. A Difficult Passage takes a fascinating look at life through the eyes of a child. The book quickly drew me in, with three things in particular catching my interest. The first is Ray's phenomenal memory of his childhood, which allows him to give us a vivid glimpse of life on the prairies during the depression. The second is the great difference between the boy who was and man who is--the one so vulnerable and sensitive, the other so confident and at peace. The third is the knowledge that the one became the other not so much in spite of the difficulties of his youth, but because of them. A Difficult Passage tells an engaging story of real life, with all its stings and scars, but with humour and liveliness as well, offering hope to all who face struggles.

N. J. Lindquist, author

Prologue

Fred Stone peered from the window of the gently rocking railway coach as it made its way from Edmonton, through Camrose and on toward Gawain. His athletic, wiry body sat stiffly upright in the seat like an eagle searching for prey from atop a cliff. Few men 40 years younger or a foot taller could match the strength or agility of his five-foot, two-inch frame. People who knew him well, called him Pop.

Pop contemplated the Alberta countryside, not seeing many visible changes since leaving it five years previously to retire in England. Yet he knew depression and terrible dust storms had greatly increased the hardships of prairie farmers. Indeed the long tentacles of depression had reached him in England. When income from the farm at Gawain ceased, he could see no other route but return to the prairie soil and start all over again. He must begin again at age 60 with a young wife, Harriet, and two preschool children, Fred Junior and Stan. Fortunately, he still had the farm - and six dollars in his pocket.

Start over again. He'd been doing that all his life! He leaned back on the seat and closed his eyes, hardly aware of Stan’s sleeping body sprawled across his knees. His mind moved back through dim hallways of time to the first occasion when he had started over.

Returning from the Anglo Boer War, he found his wife had abandoned him and their four children. Back in civilian life in England and facing economic hard times, he found it difficult but pulled his life back together. He remarried, returned to life as a shopkeeper, and rejoined his buddies at the cycling club. But two years in South Africa had stirred his imagination. He had visited enough of the world to want to see more. So he made major plans to start over again.

In 1907 they emigrated to Canada to homestead in the newly-formed province of Alberta. After two years apprenticeship with another farmer, he claimed his free land and moved into a tiny sod house with his wife and four kids. In another two years he built a house and outbuildings on the banks of a little valley that intersected his land - westerners call those steep-sided valleys coulees.

How often those early days had been a living hell! One day saw him looking over 100 acres of golden wheat - a crop that should produce 50 bushels to the acre. The next day he stood in the same place gazing at the same crop destroyed by hail. For weeks he had spent 12 hours a day preparing the land and putting in that crop. He had fended off black clouds of mosquitos that attacked any exposed flesh and drove the horses to distraction. And now, all for nothing!

Well he would get another chance the next year. But in years that hail didn’t get the crops, frost or lack of rain often did.

One winter the snow completely covered the tiny sod house. It took four hours to dig free. In summer they had carried water from a shallow well by a slough (rhymes with shoe) - a shallow natural pond that held water throughout the year. But when the slough froze solid in winter, they had to melt snow to get water for themselves and the animals.

In later years they had other problems. Dust storms blackened the heavens for hours and appeared intent on moving Alberta’s topsoil all the way to Ontario. But he defeated all the setbacks and challenges - he succeeded when many failed.

In the late 1920s Pop tired of farming, passed on to his family or otherwise disposed of all of his land except the original 160-acre homestead and an adjoining 160 acres. Then he prepared to enjoy the fruits of his labours.

He embarked on a year-long world tour, but on return, found nothing to do, so began farming again. By this time people had begun calling him Pop - although he really didn’t feel his age. Then his wife died suddenly. With his children grown and gone, he felt lost in an empty house. True to style, he started all over again.

In February 1931, he married Harriet after a whirlwind courtship by mail. Fred Junior arrived in November of that year. The next year Pop and Harriet put the farm into the hands of a daughter and son-in-law and retired to England. Their second son arrived in England.

But now a financial setback and gathering war clouds in Europe had forced him back to Gawain to start over once again. Surely this would be the last time!

The blast of a whistle, the squeak of steel brakes on steel wheels, and the attendant jolt brought Pop out of his reverie and awoke Stan. From their window on the right side of the train they could see Gawain spreading southwest from the tracks. Pop’s deep-set, dark eyes sparkled. He loved Gawain. It had little more than a post office when he first came here.

Now about 200 people lived in the village served by an assortment of establishments that included two general stores, a post office, a lumber yard, a John Deere dealership cum hardware, a service station with one pump, a Chinese restaurant, and a hotel with six rooms and a bar. Pop wondered how many businesses had changed hands in five years.

The grain elevators stood to the left of the tracks and not visible from the window. Pop had heard a new company had added a sixth during his time away.

He could easily see two two-story brick buildings standing out against the sketchy skyline - buildings that gave the village its importance in the greater farming community: the Gawain hospital, run by the Sisters of St. Joseph, and the Gawain Consolidated School. He had strongly supported building the bigger central school, even though it meant the removal of the one-room school that had stood on his property.

As the train slowed to walking speed, Pop got a good view of the tiny Mennonite church - his brother-in-law had served as its second pastor. At first it had seemed odd having a Mennonite church when he would have more readily supported the Methodists, but it and a Catholic church had quickly become important parts of the community.

Pop grinned when he noticed someone else taking a keen interest in Gawain. Stan had pressed his nose tightly to the window. As he watched Stan, he reflected, It’s been an exciting life, but a hard life. Dear God, one day let it get easier - it must get easier. If not for me, for my children, for my grandchildren.

Section One: Gawain

When I was a child,

I talked like a child,

I thought like a child,

I reasoned like a child. . . .

Chapter 1

A new life

A window on Gawain

I’m Stanley Stone - call me Stan. This is mostly my story, but I’ve invited you to join me just two months before my third birthday. You just met my dad - I, like everybody else, always called him Pop. Back then, Pop and I got along really well. Mother said that’s because I’m the youngest son of his old age. She also said that Fred Junior, my older brother, has got his nose out of joint because of it. I didn’t have a clue what that meant. Anyway, let’s get on with the story.

My first glimpse of Gawain came through the windows of an ancient wooden coach at the end of a mixed train towed by a puffing, belching black monster. Smoke clouded my view and ashes rattled against the soot-streaked pane as if trying to assault my nose as I pressed it against the inside of the glass. Memories from early childhood aren't the most reliable or complete, but some seem destined to cling with the permanence of a birthmark.

The Sandsend

Actually, my recall goes back even further to a rose garden behind a tiny cottage in Norfolk. While Junior and I played in the yard, our parents carefully packed boxes and suitcases in preparation for the move to Canada. Confused by the upheaval, I peeked in the back door and saw my blanket and rag doll disappear into a trunk. I began whimpering and tears ran down my cheeks and dropped off my chin.

Understanding my concern, Mother retrieved Rags from the trunk, squatted down before me, wiped away my tears, and put Rags in my arms. Don't worry Stan, she said. We'll have a bigger house in Canada with all our things in it. First we’ll get on a big boat and travel for two weeks across the ocean. You'll have a nice bed in a cabin and eat in a dining room with the captain. And you can keep Rags with you all the time.

Although my mind couldn’t comprehend or merge the disparate pictures of a boat, a cabin, and a dining room, I returned to the yard to play. But a knot slowly formed in my stomach - two weeks in a strange place without my blanket and toys sounded like eternity.

The next clear image out of my past reveals two little boys, their parents, and Aunt Dolly climbing into a rowboat to start the journey across the Atlantic. I’ll tell you more about Aunt Dolly later. Two men in blue uniforms began pulling at heavy oars. Water sloshed back and forth about our feet with each roll of the boat.

Terror bubbled to the surface as I imagined two weeks in this tiny boat. I began to blubber, Where’s my kip, and the potty, and the diming room?

The adults hushed me, not able to interpret my strange outpouring. But Junior, age four and smart in the ways of the world, knew how little kids thought - why just last year he’d been one himself. Don't cry, he pleaded, This baby boat is taking us to the big one out there. We're going to Canada on that great big boat.

The sailors pulled on the oars, moving us steadily forward. Pop said, Stan, these men are sailors from the ship.

I stared at them in admiration, my fears forgotten. Waving Rags at one of them, I announced, I gots a sailor suit too!

You’ll have to wear it sometime, he answered.

Although he spoke to me, he gazed at Aunt Dolly, giving her a long up and down look - much like I’d seen Pop give to a new model racing bike. Then I noticed Pop’s forehead wrinkle and his bushy eyebrows squeeze down close to his dark eyes as he glanced toward the sailor.

They rowed the boat right up to a steel wall rising straight out of the water. Mother, Junior, and Aunt Dolly scrambled up a rope ladder. I’m not sure how Pop did it, but suddenly I found myself flying up the ladder with Pop right behind me. As Aunt Dolly disappeared over the side, a seaman’s strong arms reached down to pull me over. Look out Aunt Dolly! Here I come, I yelled.

Then Pop vaulted over the rail, landing on the deck with a little bounce. We stood close together as a ship's officer approached and welcomed us.

Pop spoke, I'm Fred Stone. This is my wife Harriet, my niece Dolly, and my sons Fred Junior and Stanley.

The officer grinned broadly as he shook Pop’s hand. Welcome aboard. But you’re confusing me. You say these kids are your sons, and this lovely young lady is your niece, but I distinctly heard the little one call her Aunt Dolly.

Pop smiled back. "They are my sons and Dolly is my brother’s daughter coming to Canada for a year-long visit. But due to the age difference and because they are proper British boys, Junior and Stan call