I have a memory of time and place where I am young and on the prairies. I can smell the dust as I kick the dry earth, then crushing the sage with my heels, my feet also dodging gopher holes. We lived on the cusp of where the prairies meet the foothills really. Small rolling hills, the grass yellow and dry in the summer, the sound of Richardson ground squirrel, that sound being the cue to find their heads as they popped up out of holes in the prairie. The boys would spend time laying down strings and then trying to lasso the head of the gopher when it would pop out of the hold.
We had to walking to school over a foot path through the grasses from 16 A street to 13th Street. Oh, there was one paved sidewalk and then an alley, but mostly we were walking on the prairie. Only 5 blocks now that I count them, but over hill and down into the dale through which a healthy rivulet ran during the spring run off. The water would be mid-calf on our rubber boots one day and then next day, enough water that when I got to school my boots were filled with water and the hem of my dress soaked. The principal installed a bridge of wooden slats over which we could walk. Still, some liked to take their chances, to see how close to the top of the boots they could come , so not everyone from the west side of the school got to their classroom dry. Long brown stockings made of ribbed cotton were hung to dry on the heat of the school radiators. When the bell ran, we put those socks on, only to get them wet on the way home.
I loved going to school in the spring when the hills were dotted with crocuses. I used to take my mother’s canning jars full of water and then pour it on those plants hoping to extend their life into the summer.
No matter how many jars of water I brought I couldn’t keep that flowering cycle going.
I would leave my glass mason jar there on the prairie, thinking I would take it home in the evening, but my mind wasn’t on doing that on the way home.
I have no idea how many canning jars my mother lost that way.
I remember her telling me to stop doing that, but having the crocuses flower seemed to be a higher priority than obeying my mother.
Arta
We had to walking to school over a foot path through the grasses from 16 A street to 13th Street. Oh, there was one paved sidewalk and then an alley, but mostly we were walking on the prairie. Only 5 blocks now that I count them, but over hill and down into the dale through which a healthy rivulet ran during the spring run off. The water would be mid-calf on our rubber boots one day and then next day, enough water that when I got to school my boots were filled with water and the hem of my dress soaked. The principal installed a bridge of wooden slats over which we could walk. Still, some liked to take their chances, to see how close to the top of the boots they could come , so not everyone from the west side of the school got to their classroom dry. Long brown stockings made of ribbed cotton were hung to dry on the heat of the school radiators. When the bell ran, we put those socks on, only to get them wet on the way home.
No matter how many jars of water I brought I couldn’t keep that flowering cycle going.
I would leave my glass mason jar there on the prairie, thinking I would take it home in the evening, but my mind wasn’t on doing that on the way home.
I have no idea how many canning jars my mother lost that way.
I remember her telling me to stop doing that, but having the crocuses flower seemed to be a higher priority than obeying my mother.
Arta
Starting at 10, not sure why, looking forward to reading back and forward. The beginning of this post took me right back to living in the closest I have been to the prairies, four years in Calgary, and the memory of the smell of dust when it rains. Uniquest smell for this west coast girl. And yay for all the crocus love. xo
ReplyDeleteThis is beautiful.
ReplyDeleteI look forward to reading more!
John, when I got the idea in my head to write 80 memories for 80 years, I couldn't get it out. That is the curse of someone who likes to type and nail down a thought or two. But the task has been like opening the junk drawer in my kitchen -- I shouldn't call it a junk drawer because I like what I keep there. But everything is in there in no order -- I just know it is there and go for the drawer when I need to use it. So there my metaphor is. I keep drawing out these random memories and am often unable to nail down why that single word or idea is so important to me or if not important, at least speaks to my past. But I seemed to need to pull these ideas out, given that I I am approaching a new decade. In this specific case, the prairies are where I grew up. It is not hard to imagine the feel of the wind as it bends the grasses and I can also see the hawks circling overhead. All of this seems to be embedded in "the prairies".
ReplyDeleteYes. The phrase, "the prairies," carries much for those of us raised there. Being raised in Calgary in the 70s, I didn't feel I was a prairie girl at all. In my 20s I read "Who has seen the Wind," by W. O. Mitchell. I was living in Kansas and homesick, which motivated my first read of this book. A book I am sure was on some assigned reading list in middle school, high school, or university, but never got opened by me. I had even seen the author introduce the story before watching part of it as a play. Nevertheless, it was in my 20s, more than 2000 miles away from Alberta, that I read his words about "the prairies" and knew that was where I came from.
DeleteGillian, you made me laugh so hard. That is because I had to reach for the dictionary. Uniquest indeed. Now I know what it means. A new word every day. I haven't thought about that smell for a long time -- the rain when it hits the dust. I think there is a whole essay there. Thanks for being willing to weave your way backward and forward in the messiness of blogging.
ReplyDeleteCanning jars on the prairie. A wonderful image. I visited my cousin Amanda in Arizona one year when I was living in the United States. She and I discussed how we had both been saving all glass jars in our cupboards for years, pickle jars, jam jars, anything you might can in. When her mother discovered her stash she asked Amanda if she every planned to can fruit or vegetables. The answer for both of us was no -- and so advice was given to get recycling those glass jars. I have at least seven above my fridge here in Salmon Arm. They are too pretty to recycle. I shall store them for another three years.
ReplyDeleteThank you for keeping the beautiful bottles. I know that feeling of them being too gorgeous to recycle. Sometimes it is the exquisite shape of the bottle for me, or the decorative glass, or I might be intrigued by the size of the bottle -- its capacity which sometimes might be small and at other times -- it just seems like the right size of a single serving of soup, or the size to hold a large bag of red lentils. Yes, I love bottles. I hope Amanda is hanging onto some of hers as well -- just for old times sake.
ReplyDeleteAnd Bonnie, maybe next year you might grow enough tomatoes that we could can a few bottles. I would be willing to show you how, if we can just get a bounteous crop. Last year the deer ate all of my tomatoes. That is just one of the downsizes having a home amongst other living creatures, all of us competing for the same food.
"No matter how many jars of water I brought I couldn’t keep that flowering cycle going." Lessons in the seasonality of life.
ReplyDelete"I remember her telling me to stop doing that, but having the crocuses flower seemed to be a higher priority than obeying my mother." The determination and curiosity of a child.
What beautiful writing. Happy 80th Arta!!!
Thank you for reading.
DeleteThank you for the warm words.
And yes, I will be having a fabulous birthday. Ice cream with my grandchildren -- the perfect party. I just purchased 5 long handled spoons with small bowls on them, so that we can dig to the bottom of the dishes we are using and lick up every last drop.
Nothing like celebrating a new decade.
Interesting to see where your true allegiance was.
ReplyDeleteNow that I am older I have some shame about being more committed to the environment, than to observing the commandment to honour my mother ... (by doing what she said). I
Deletecan't even think of a commandment to preserve the earth, though I might think of one by tomorrow morning.