From the mighty (and rather cool in temperature) Rockies, we descended into the plains of Alberta and the homestead of my Aunt Sharon (mother’s sister) in Lethbridge. My cousin Kelsey and his family also live in this neck of the woods – a flatish grid-work of a city with a penchant for traffic lights and big box malls on the outskirts of town. On one entry point leading to our eventual refuge, there was a traffic light for each city block. From one end it appeared almost Christmas-like as the series of lights changed from green to ochre to red. The town is divided almost down the middle by depressions of greenery referred to as the ‘coolies’ – reflective of ancient days when a river likely flowed through the area. Our first day saw us visiting my cousin Kelsey’s emerging bio-fuel plant near the Lethbridge airport. He’s been slaving for the past 4 years on this project, aiming to successfully convert animal talo (refuse from abattoirs) into bio-diesel in the most environmentally-efficient and effective manner possible. Like the typical second-born son, he seems determined to change the world and make it a better place and in 2 months, when the plant is operational, his efforts will hopefully come to fruition. As he was giving us an intro to the plant and business plan behind its design and purpose, an F-18 fighter jet was practicing aerial manoeuvres in preparation for the air show scheduled the next day. Being only a few kilometres or so from the air field and almost in direct line with the runway, the bio-fuel plant’s boardroom was an ideal place from which to observe the jet reach incredible speeds and perform various twists and turns. On its final approach though it seemed to be moving uncannily slow and as my attention drifted to it from the talk at hand, it seemed to gradually float towards the airfield eventually dipping a wing, ejecting its pilot and crashing in one massive fireball and smoke – unbelievable! None of us had witnessed an airplane crash in our lifetimes and it was almost surreal to see it first hand. Needless to say, it gave pause to the bio-fuel plant discussions. We eventually had a tour around the facility and felt rather diminutive in contrast to the achievements of this incredibly complex and sophisticated enterprise my cousin and his cohorts had put together. Our afternoon was spent hitting the most unpopular ‘journals’ and then visiting with second cousins and my cousin-in-law (wife to Kelsey).
Our final morning in Lethbridge involved some touring of the town, visiting the university grounds and other prominent sights before forging onward to a wonderfully named Unesco Heritage sight called ‘Head-Smashed-In-Buffalo-Jump’ on the outskirts of Fort Macleod. It is essentially a museum built into a cliff which reflects upon the former glory days of the Blackfoot Indians or first nations that used to inhabit the area. In late fall every year for almost 6000 years they would create a foliage-enhanced human funnel leading to a cliff edge and surreptitiously, through donning pelts of wolves and buffalo calves, fuel up the buffalo herd into a stampede, which would then careen over the cliff. The natives would then skin, gut and butcher the beasts, drying the meat and mixing it with berries to form pemmican, their primary source of sustenance over the ensuing winter months. Over the years the bones of the buffalo would gradually stack up under these cliffs owing to the numbers that would be killed and archaeological digs have proceeded in some of these areas uncovering numerous tools, arrow heads and other remnants of previous Blackfoot tribes. It was a wonderful intro to the aboriginal cultures of Canada and set us in good stead for venturing further afield – next stop - Drumheller and Canada’s dinosaur trail!
I’ve travelled to these parts on numerous occasions with my parents in years gone by but as a passenger never fully paid attention to where I was going or coming from. After 39 years I’m finally getting a sense of where I am in these parts and developing an appreciation for where my parents and much of my extended family owe their heritage. Growing up in the shoulder provinces, one often becomes ignorantly jaded about the ‘prairies’, fearing or gesticulating about their vastness, plainness and apparently flat (and perceived boring) appearance. Nothing could be further from the truth though. The roads although often long and horizons distant, exude an incredibly scenic and inherently beautiful aesthetic with green (and oft yellowish) rolling hills, seemingly strategically placed rolls of hay bales dotting the immense and never-ending fields, and massive skies, sometimes dominated by almost unimaginably large cumulo-nimbus ‘thunder’ clouds. I’ve been nothing but impressed since entering these parts and thankful that I finally get to take the steering wheel – a venture that helps one to actually understand and make sense of the area.
Moose Jaw derives its name from an apparently historical situation in which a family or perhaps a group of families were making their way across the prairies by ox-cart and ran into some difficulty when one of their wheels fell apart. In true MacGyver-style and ingenuity they were able to utilize a moose-jaw that they found in a local waterway to fix the wheel and continue their journey (or so the story goes). Our first day here followed a quick lunch and game of mini-golf at the South Saskatchewan Landing Provincial Park. I’ve likened this day our ‘free-day’ as entry to the park was granted free of charge owing to my father’s age and birth in the province of Saskatchewan. Later in the day we were granted a free entry to the ‘Natatorium’ or swimming complex (complete with 10 and 15 meter diving platforms) owing to the lateness of our arrival (only 40 minutes left in the session) and finally, we inadvertently skipped paying for entry to the indoor water slides and pool harboured in the caravan park – thinking it was a free facility for any residents or visitors in the park - naivety sometimes pays dividends!
Day two was one of re-acquainting and introducing the kids and ourselves to the roots of my side of the family. South-west of Moose Jaw sits the small town of Assiniboia – where my mother was born and raised. My grandfather died a couple years ago and bequeathed the family farm to his four daughters. I have numerous fond memories of visiting the family homestead in times past but never realized how close it was to town or how small 640 acres actually appears in the prairies. The house where my mother grew up is essentially derelict now as are most of the farm buildings on the site. It was like visiting a museum of one’s own family in some ways and the kids were in their element exploring the relics of a former existence. A visit to the local cemetery to pay respects to my grandfather was somewhat of a reminder of our inherent mortality. It was the first time in my life that someone I knew and had spent not an insignificant amount of time with, lay buried before me. It struck me with a relevance I’d previously ignored or been unaware of and seemed to enunciate the precarious division of life and death – a soul-twigging experience to say the least. On the way back to the ‘Jaw’ we had chance to visit my father’s old homestead as well as my paternal grandfather’s grave which sits just outside of the city. I’d never inquired before but now had the need to know how and why it all came to be. My grandfather was the product of a marriage in which my great grandmother became widowed one evening when my great grandfather was lost in a blizzard and couldn’t find his way back to the house. She found work as a house-cleaner with a bachelor farmer outside of Moose Jaw and eventually married her employer, taking her three children (one being my grandfather) with her. Upon the death of my great step-grandfather, my grandfather was given the farm and the rest is history. My grandmother (at a ripe young age of 90-odd years) joined us for dinner and although she is rather stooped from the ravages of osteoporosis, she is sharp as a tack and had Piper tagged as a ‘devil’ child as soon as she met her. I’m not entirely sure this is wholly accurate although there have been times of late….Today we’ll hit the tunnels of Moose Jaw – remnants of the age of prohibition when Al Capone and his cronies made use of the railroad facilities of the area to cart booze across the border into the US. Should be enlightening in a dark, underhanded sort of way.
No comments:
Post a Comment