Village Squire, 1976-10, Page 16More Blessed to Give
By Dorothy L. Thornton
14, VILLAGE SQUIRE/OCTOBER 1976
I do not recall, during the bleak years of the
depression and hungry 30's, as I approached
my teens, any feelings of being deprived or
depressed.
Crowing up on a farm in the rich
agriculture area of south-western Ontario,
had its many advantages. We always had.
plenty of plain food, grown on our farm; an
abundance of firewood to keep us warm, from
our own bush and wood lot; and an endless
supply of imagination and self-made fun and
games that made each day an interesting
experience.
However, I soon became aware that not all
Canada nor the world was this fortunate. We
heard about continued crop failures in the
western provinces. This plight plus low prices
brought forth shocking stories of starving
families who were in dire need. Ontario
communities responded with railway cars
loaded with food and used clothing, shipped
to the western stations in long, special trains.
That autumn, our neighbours, a dear,
elderly sister and brother were joined by
another bachelor brother from Saskatchewan,
who had belonged to these almost -wiped -out
farmers. After successiJe crop failures he had
given up to return to the old homestead in
Ontario.
During many chilly autumn evenings by the
warm fireside in our kitchen, we listened to
Lyon's stories of the struggles families had to
survive and try to outwit the plagues and
cruel western elements and weather, only to
fail. He had been lucky to live alone and be
able to pick up and leave so easily.
On one evening early in December, as we
were all talking, Lyon' said, "It will be
Christmas before we know it and I'm
wondering about the Mucalysk family. They
were my nearest neighbours -- lost their old
home by fire and were living in two converted
granaries when I left last summer."
As the wind howled outside and I sat beside
the warm fire, doing my homework, I felt a
deep pang of pity for this unknown family.
asked, "How many children are there, Lyon?
What are their names and ages? Perhaps we
could find some gifts and send out a box."
I had also remembered picking apples,
potatoes and turnips and helping my father
deliver them to the local station to be shipped
in the late fall.
That Saturday we got a box and began
looking. There was at least one warm item of
clothing, in good condition, outgrown by my
sister, or one of my three brothers, that would
fit each of the eight Mucalysk children. But
we wanted to give more -- a book, a game, a
string of beads, a new jack-knife. I knew the
kind of gifts we liked to get Christmas
morning and these children could be no
different.