WESTERN PRODUCER — It may have been small, but the surprise reveal of a box of wooden matches proved worthy of a giant celebration
A Saturday morning in November 1972 started like any other on our farm near Scott in west-central Saskatchewan.
Rise and shine at 8 a.m., hot porridge and toast, and then the Saturday chores. Clean the big barn with a stone boat, water the heifers and put bedding in the livestock pens.
It was one of those early winter days, cool but bright and sunny with magnificent hoarfrost on the trees. Though we had little snow, it was cold enough that ice on the dugouts and sloughs was at least a foot thick.
After a dinner of pancakes and sausage, Dad told us we had the afternoon off. Yahoo!
This was somewhat rare, and meant that our band of brothers could play hockey somewhere and Dad could stretch out on the chesterfield and rest after a long week of physical work.
With Dad asleep, we seven boys started to pester Mom for a ride to the big slough to skate and play hockey. Mom was heading into Wilkie for groceries in the big blue Ford station wagon and with a three-mile detour, she could drop us off at the slough.
Mom agreed. I think she was happy to get us out of her hair for a few hours.
In 15 minutes, skates, sticks, pucks, toques, mitts and tennis balls were thrown together and seven brothers piled into the car. Mom dropped us at the slough with the understanding that we would be picked up at 4:30.
My memories of that afternoon are typical of our outdoor games. A couple of fist fights, a few arguments about whether a goal was in or not, a lot of hooting and hollering, and rosy cheeks and sweaty hair underneath our toques.
At 4 p.m. we decided to take off our skates, in case Mom was early for our 4:30 pick up.
Well, 4:30 came and went and we were getting a little worried. There were no cellphones in those days so waiting was our only option. The bright red sun was getting lower in the western sky, and the wind was picking up. We were cold.
As the coyotes started to howl, my brothers multiplied my fears by telling me the coyotes were only about 100 yards away, when in fact they were at least a couple of miles away.
I was starting to think we would freeze to death and certainly get eaten by the coyotes, and muskrats too.
We decided to see if we could start a fire. But how? No smokers, no lighters, nothing.
Then, the turning point. One of my brothers pulled from his jacket pocket a small box of wooden matches. I had never seen anything so wonderful.
When pressed as to where he got them, he confessed that he stole (took without asking) from Grandma’s house the weekend before. We were so happy that we had a thief in our midst.
With kindling and leaves, we soon had a huge fire going to warm our toes and fingers.
But still, no ride. At about 5:15, with the sun slipping below the horizon, we made the corporate decision to walk the four miles home across the railway tracks, highway and fields.
I was wishing the coyotes would quiet down, but they were louder than ever. We made it back to the farm cold, tired and hungry.
For some reason, I expected a hero’s welcome, but boy, was I wrong. As we got out of our winter gear, my mom, who was busy mashing potatoes, said, ”oh, there you are. Hustle up and have your bath. Supper will be ready shortly.”
To be honest, in a family of 18 children, I can’t blame Mom for losing count and not knowing exactly where seven of us were at all times.
Apparently, Dad thought Mom was picking us up and Mom thought Dad was picking us up.
When we told our parents about our four-mile trek home, we got no sympathy, just a comment that it was probably good exercise.
I have to say the delicious supper of roasted chicken, mashed potatoes and creamed corn never tasted as wonderful as it did on that cold November Saturday.
And of course, when I see a small box of wooden matches, I am eternally grateful.
