Fancy new car, a paved highway and ice cream were highlights of a trip that felt like floating straight toward paradise
The first bumper crop in years had just been sold and my parents and I were about to embark on the longest trip I had ever taken — almost 500 kilometres.
Mom made arrangements with the new school teacher about my impending leave of absence, and because my marks in Grade 5 had all been good, she smiled and wished me an enjoyable trip. I could catch up on lessons later.
Waiting in the driveway was a brand new 1949 Austin sedan, beige in colour, the interior upholstered in tan leather.
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I thought the most intriguing part of the whole car was its lighted turn signals. They folded out from the centre doorposts on either side of the car like little flippers. The day we drove down the lane and the right signal pointed south, I never even looked back at our farmhouse dwarfed by the elm trees in the front yard.
My teenage brother and sister, who were staying at home to take care of chores, would look after my dog, Tubby. Except for him, I was eager to leave everything else behind.
We bumped along about 25 km of dirt road before reaching the paved highway. The contrast between the two was so striking that when Dad turned toward Brandon, I felt I was floating straight toward paradise.
When we stopped at Treherne for a dish of ice cream, I thought I had arrived.
Visiting along the way at the homes of various aunts and uncles, I enjoyed more treats and toys and attention than I had ever experienced. There were new stores to explore, quarters to spend, and meals and beds fit for a princess.
There was a big poodle to befriend at one place, and at another, a farm collie that amused me by carrying the pails out to the barn at milking time, the handles hooked over its bottom fangs. A jolly fat aunt told me funny little jokes. We were driven up to a high hill in the dark so I could see the Brandon city lights twinkling down below.
Another aunt presented my mother with a piggy bank so large I figured it was impossible to fill — about like those hogs back on the farm.
Until that moment, I never once thought of home. And caught up in the pleasures I was experiencing, I never thought of it again until two weeks later, when we turned in at our lane and I came face to face with reality.
When we left, the house had been obscured by a canopy of autumn leaves. Now the trees stood bare and stark against grey clouds, exposing the farm buildings to a raw northeast wind.
Nobody came out to greet us, not even my dog. The fire was out in the cook stove, dirty dishes littered the table and the cupboards were bare of groceries.
I cried, not with the loud sobs of a toddler stripped of her amusement, but with the quivering lip and brimming eyes of a 10-year-old girl bereft of hope. I was cold and lonely and hungry and I felt I had come home to nothing but despair. For a fleeting moment I thought I saw the same emotion reflected in my mother’s eyes.
She consoled me, then told me to bundle up in a blanket until she got the fire going.
She bustled about, brought in wood, lit the kindling, pumped water to do dishes, jotted down a list of groceries for Dad to get from town.
As Dad opened the door, in bounded my dog Tubby, who jumped up and licked my face in an exuberant greeting.
Life would soon be back to normal.
Memories of that bleak October day still surface and along with them, the importance of restoring a cold, empty house into a warm, caring refuge for folks who have been away.
Years later, a friend who was keeping an eye on my own house while I took a trip in winter thoughtfully turned up the thermostat and bought a small bouquet of flowers for the kitchen table just before my arrival. Little did she know how much I appreciated those little gestures of welcome home.
