Sand, mud and worries about bears all made life interesting when navigating the rural roads of the author’s childhood
John Denver’s song, Take Me Home, Country Roads recently did just that — in memory.
On our farm, leading through the bush to the field beyond was an abandoned lane. It was the path my mother and I walked when taking lunch to Dad when he was combining.
Compared to the scratchy hot stubble teeming with grasshoppers under the blazing sun, the old road lined with trees and shrubs offered refreshing shade as we made our way home.
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Sometimes a rabbit hopped along through the trees, or a partridge would take flight, startling us both.
When in season, the old road gave easy access to saskatoon bushes, chokecherries or high bush cranberries, and being an avid berry picker, Mom always took advantage of wild fruit, carrying it home in a gallon-sized Rogers syrup pail. I took my share home in my stomach.
The other road I remember walking on as a toddler was not a road, but the railway tracks that dissected our small farm. My mother and I made many trips down those tracks to the village a mile distant.
In spring, there were pussy willows along the way, pincherries in summer and tiger lilies in fall.
With Mom holding my hand for balance, I walked along a rail, one foot in front of the other, careful not to fall and skin my knees on the cinders left behind by the old steam locomotive.
Counting railway ties was probably my first introduction to arithmetic, and my first-grade teacher was mightily impressed that I could already count to 100 on day one, courtesy of the Canadian National Railway.
At the end of our farm lane was a municipal road with a rickety bridge that crossed a small river. Beyond that was a huge wild grape vine that hung over the ditch.
I always imagined a bear might be hiding under there. It didn’t help that my older sister claimed she saw one in that vicinity when riding her bike. She rode home down our lane faster than ever before that day.
On the way to the village, about 12 miles north of us, was a stretch of road with sand so deep that cars frequently got stuck. Banks of wild roses bloomed on either side and in early summer the air was laden with their perfume. Maybe that’s why I love the delicate scent of roses to this day.
Going in the opposite direction took us to my aunt and uncle’s farm, where despite the high, graded road, heavy rain would leave the surface a greasy, slippery mess.
Rather than contemplate the deep ditches on either side, filled to the brim with water, I would cower down in the back seat of our car while Dad negotiated the challenging stretch of road. Cautiously peeking out the rear window from time to time, I could see the ruts our tires were making as the car snaked through the slithery mud.
Much more pleasant was the ride to my grandparents’ house about three miles distant. If I was lucky, my uncle would let me ride in the rumble seat of his roadster.
The lane was just two paths with grass growing in the middle and I liked watching the marks of the tire treads unravel in the damp sand as we sped along.
Not quite so pleasant was the trip to the town east of us, where between a stretch of sand and a mud hole, the 15 miles of loose gravel had washboard bad enough to loosen your false teeth.
A driver going too fast was in danger of losing control of his car, so we slowly rattled along to our destination and home again.
Coping with all those various road conditions, I can still remember the very first time, in 1949, when Dad pulled onto a paved highway. It felt like our car was floating. Would this be, could this be, the future of travel?
It took decades, but those country roads that took me home back then have been much improved over the years.
