I was about five years old when, in the middle of winter one year, Mom and I undertook the challenge of making an urgent trip to visit my Aunt Nellie in Brandon.
Although it was only about 120 kilometres away, rural roads were blocked, so alternative travel arrangements had to be made. Mom was given to understand that by boarding the local Canadian National Railway passenger train and chugging almost to the end of the line, we could catch a Greyhound bus into Brandon just a half an hour later. But there were potential problems, like what if a blizzard blew up and the train got bogged down in a snowbank? We might miss the bus.
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As it happened, the train pulled in on time and we huffed and puffed through deep snowbanks to the town with the bus depot.
The bus depot was actually the front room of a ramshackle house, owned by one of the most inhospitable old ladies I have ever met.
She didn’t sell tickets, she parted with them — begrudgingly.
“Where ya goin’? Are ya comin’ back? That’ll be $1 for you and half that much for the kid. And the bus ain’t due till four in the morning. Donna why ya came so early.”
Four in the morning. That meant waiting 12 hours in this deserted, drafty room.
“My mother explained apologetically that we just arrived on the train.
“If we have to wait so long, would there be a place in town where we could eat supper?”
“The cafe might be open, but then again, it’s Monday.”
With that, she slammed the door to her living quarters and we were left to fend for ourselves.
Well, not quite. As an afterthought the old lady opened her door again and a huge German Shepherd took up guard duty in one corner of the room. He eyed us suspiciously. I did not, ordinarily, find it difficult to befriend a dog, but I could tell this one was going to be a challenge.
We went for supper, walking briskly down the snowplowed main street of the little town in the early dusk of the cold January night.
The warmth of the Chinese cafe felt good after the chilliness of the makeshift bus depot. Mom and I lingered over our meal of pork sausage and mashed potatoes until the 7 p.m. closing time.
A brisk north wind bit into our cheeks as we retraced our steps back to the bus depot. As the door creaked open, the huge watchdog lunged toward us, his deep barks alerting his owner.
She opened her door a crack and said, “oh, it’s you again,” and then slammed the door shut. The dog resumed his guard duty.
We sat there in the dark depot for a while, debating whether to ask the old lady to light the coal oil lamp. We waited awhile longer.
Mom was going to knock on the door, but as she approached it, the dog growled more viciously.
The fire in the potbellied stove in the middle of the room was slowly dying down and I could feel the cold starting to penetrate my winter boots.
About 11 p.m. the old lady shuffled out and stuck a few puny sticks of wood into the stove.
“Excuse me,” Mom said, “but do you think we could have some light?”
“Costs too much,” the old lady snapped.
She slammed the door and we could hear her climb the stairs to her nice warm bed.
At that point, Mom encouraged me to curl up on the one and only bench seat and try to sleep, while she sat upright in a rickety chair.
I no sooner lay down than the German Shepherd came ambling over and challenged me for my bed.
He didn’t say anything. He just stood there with his nose about two inches from mine and tried to stare me down. I closed my eyes. Every time he licked his chops my mother thought he was preparing to eat me alive, but after an hour or so, the dog and I developed a strange kind of rapport. I let him up on the bench to sleep, and he let me lie beside him.
For a time, we were both warmer that way, but as the long wearisome night in that dark lonely room dragged on and on, the cold began to penetrate my thick winter clothing more and more. The feeble orange flames in the potbellied stove dwindled to faint red embers, and then to gray ash.
In the dim light of the silver moon shining through the frosted windowpane, I could see Mom huddled in her chair, her scarf wound several times around her head.
I felt guilty that there was no room on the bench for her to lie down with me and the dog. Off and on throughout the night I offered to trade places with her but she always refused.
Toward morning the dog suddenly perked up his ears. Soon I could hear it too — the distant hum of a motor. As it grew louder, we decided it must be the bus approaching. At 4 a.m. it rumbled to a stop out front.
We rose to leave, stiff, cold and hungry, and as we did, the German shepherd escorted us to the door, his tail wagging a slow farewell. I was glad the unexpected delay had given me time to break down our mutual mistrust and turn us into friends.
I was sorry I could not say the same for the unsociable old lady who cranked out our bus tickets.
