Evasham, Saskatchewan June 25-27, 1978

Today was one of those days when you’re glad to be alive, when and where you are – in my case meandering along Saskatchewan roads, enjoying the quiet, slow pace of life here on the Canadian Prairies.  In my ten hours of driving, which took me less than 50 miles from where I’d started that morning, I saw less than a dozen other cars.  I guess it’s not too busy a time right now in this neck of the woods. Crops that were sown in April and May are now steadily, quietly ripening.  The wheat, rye and oats green-green against a blue-blue sky – the endless prairie sky, Mustard is blooming yellow seas of flowers, exuding an incomparable fragrance that permeates even the hard steel and glass body of my car. It's an arid smell – a dry fragrance with notes of wheat, grass and dust. Prairie farm perfume. Ah... 

In the early evening the sun’s golden rays highlighted the silver-white telephone poles marching down the green­gold-rust road-ribboned landscape.  I became lost in my thoughts – of nothing and everything.  I dub this ‘Prairie Mind’ – an opening up, a lifting off of the top of one’s head, freeing the mind to wander in the limitless expanse of the prairie sky.  Prairie-inspired meditation and levitation.  

 

Just as the sun was setting I pulled into a dirt road to snap a few photos of grain elevators.  I heard the clip clop of horses’ hooves and saw a couple of young girls riding over to see what the heck I was doing.  Why would anyone take a picture of a grain elevator?  But they came to the most obvious conclusion, and stated, more than asked: “Are you a Tourist?”  I admitted I was, and told them I was camping my way across Canada.  They thought this an amazing, almost heroic adventure.  I thought how wonderful it would be to ride a horse in this landscape.

 

They invited me to camp in the local school-grounds, and galloped on ahead to show me where to go.  As it turned out, the school is long since abandoned, the playground a dusty field.  The girls helped me set up, full of questions.  How old was I?  Where did I live?  How long would I be on my trip?  How long would I stay in their town?  They told me the town was called Evasham, and theirs was one of the only families that lived here.  They owned a farm here with all sorts of animals – horses, pigs, dogs, chickens, and cows – and now, lots of babies.  They also have a bigger farm about ten miles down the road, but they live here 'in town' where the co-op and grain elevators are.  Their father drives the school bus is also the unofficial ‘mayor’.  In the dying light we wandered through the ‘town’ of about a dozen older wooden homes.  The girls pointing out each one, said: “And this is my aunt’s place, and this my uncle’s, and this one is my grandparents’....”.   (Note, from an internet search in 2021: “In 2001, the community had a population of 40 people...”.)

 

As we were walking I learned a little more about the girls.  Cathy is the elder, in grade eight.  A real farm-girl, more tomboy than butch, a little shy, stealing glances at me from under the brim of her baseball cap.  Janice is eleven and in grade five.  Unlike her sister, she’s black haired and more vivacious – obviously a bright light.  Not surprisingly she was the source of most of the questions.

 

Once darkness fell it was time for the girls to head home for supper.  As they were leaving Cathy surprised me by saying “I’m goin’ to saddle up the grey for me tomorrow and we'll go for a ride.”  What a great invitation!  I play a little flute, then stretch out in a patch of grass to watch the stars, counting the lucky ones that brought me here, now.  And finally fall asleep to the sound of distant cows lowing, dogs barking and the wind sighing through the few trees around the field. 

 

The next morning Cathy and I went for a ride through endless fields, crossing through fences (she doesn’t have to dismount to open and close gates – a real cowgirl), along country lanes, and down to the creek where the dogs swam and we threw sticks. We were hoping to see beavers, but didn’t.  We chewed on dry-grass stalks and talked about life on the prairies. Cathy likes it here.  She guesses she'll just finish school and then work on the farm like her dad.  She says it's what she knows.  She doesn't want to travel or go to college. What's the point?  I guess that Janice may make other decisions, being more curious and outgoing.  

 

Later that afternoon we tour the farm, checking all the animals and their babies.  Filled a few water troughs and buckets.  Threw some ‘scratch’ for the hens.  Then headed on foot back down to the creek, obviously their favourite spot to go.  They showed me how to make grass spears, and really good grass whistles – ones that you can hear for miles.  How to properly play tag with dogs.  How to throw stones behind your back or under your leg and catch them.  We practiced throwing stones at bits of wood in the creek, seeing who got the most ‘hits’.  Of course they were both far better shots than I was.  In the course of my day with them I felt that I had learned more from them than they had from me.  What use is ‘book larnin’ here?   

   

 

The next morning, after an awkward good-bye, during which I made a hollow promise to return some time, I took off for Unity, where I stopped for a much needed coffee.  Then spent a few hours on my bike, riding the prairie landscape and collecting wildflowers.  And thinking again about the differences of lifestyle that I had already witnessed; the relationship between landscape and character.  And thinking about what it is that unites 'Canada'?  What is the glue? The fabric?