After the recent wall of frigid weather that trapped us, I considered how the winter conditions of childhood shaped our lives. We had many harsh long-lasting months over the years but also a blessed rush of chinook winds. The respite gave us a breather: to shovel out, replenish the cupboards and to complete the daily chores.
We each recall a few wicked snowstorms with the accompanying dangerous wind chill and howling winds. We heated the house with an oil heater and a large wood-burning stove. On occasion we had to drag our blankets to the living room as the upstairs bedrooms had little heat, save for a small vent in the floor directly above the cookstove.
Years later dad spoke of the hazard of chimney fires. Apparently, we’d had one in the early years there. A passerby stopped; he had seen the flames from the road and rushed in to warn us. Dad used a chain to loosen the soot in the chimney and all was well. Had the neighbour not been observant the story could have ended differently.
Dad and my older brothers were always on the alert. Dad had a reliable tractor with an attachable blade. He kept our snow contained as well as much for the near neighbours. I was oblivious of the potential risks. We were protected, cocooned against danger, with our parents shouldering the weight that was winter. Their generation knew of the stories of becoming lost in a blizzard, of folks freezing and dying while actually close to home and safety.
I had a school friend in the area who also rode on our school bus. Joanne’s family became a part of our small church community for a few years. Their house was old, like ours, although it had an actual furnace. Her dad worked in the city and hadn’t yet taken the time to prepare the furnace for winter.
The first cold day when the furnace was lit, the house went up in flames. Joanne was at school and came home to the destruction. Her nearest neighbour arrived to pick her up as he had done for her mom and sister; the bus driver had refused to let her off but hadn’t yet decided what action to take.
They lost everything. Mom and dad had rented that house when we kids were small. They must have been shocked by its destruction as they had many memories of living there.
When we moved into Olds, dad purchased a small house on 51st Street, an older well-established neighbourhood. We had lots of kids in our community as well as many seniors. Dad equipped himself with a sturdy snow blower and proceeded to clear out the snow for the neighbours, as he had always done.
It seems that his past experience taught him this: if you can lend a hand, do so. If you see someone in need, be the answer.
Joyce Hoey is a longtime Mountain View Albertan columnist.
