The Rural Voice, 2002-03, Page 14Tractor & Combine Parts
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Ontario
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RR #3 Markdale 519-986-2507
10 THE RURAL VOICE
Jeffrey Carter
The gear the drain came
Jeffrey
Carter is a
freelance
journalist
based in
Dresden,
Ontario.
When my dad told me a drain was
to be built on our farm it seemed a
huge event. I asked him where it
began and he told me but I didn't
really understand. For a little kid on
the farm, 100 square acres is a big
place all on its own.
The drain was built. It crossed
diagonally through our farm, along
the base of a gentle sloping field, and
entered a little creek on a neighbour's
property. It was, I think, part of a
larger scheme to better drain the
creek's small watershed which
empties into the north branch of the
Thames River. I once walked that
way to view the juncture. It seemed a
journey of monumental proportion.
I recall very little of the benefits
. from that drain. The ground along the
bottom of that sloping field may have
been a little drier in the spring and
I remember dad talking about running
a spike further up the slope to a wet
spot.
I remember more clearly a feeling
of violation for other impacts the
drain had, however. The little creek,
the haunt of the neighbourhood boys,
was dredged. Its meandering course
straightened.
In my mind, just a scar was left.
The water ran shallow. Gone were
the little pools and eddies. Gone was
the "bottomless" hole where one of
the neighbour boys nearly drowned.
Gone was the sandy stretch that was
good for wading. Gone too were the
pike further up at the bridge. Even the
amphibious song of spring was
muted.
The drain also emptied our swamp
of water. It could now be easily
explored in the height of summer but
it seemed an empty, barren place.
Brown grass in choked profusion had
replaced the pools of still, dark water.
The creatures that once inhabited that
mysterious place left.
Our swamp, before the drain,
served yet another purpose. When the
water had a chance to freeze in
December before the arrival of snow,
a small skating rink was created in its
midst and there was a maze of
skating paths around the bushes.
Families from the neighbourhood
gathered here on more than one
occasion. There was room enough for
a game of shinny. I remember the
men sipping homebrew, a knot of
women speaking quietly together,
and children at play. With a blue sky
above, it was, for a small while, a
perfect, sheltered, little world.
Things change — but not always
for the worst. I drove back down the
15th concession a couple years back.
I stopped at the old bridge where pike
once sheltered. I didn't see any pike
but there were panfish in the cool
shadow. A meander had returned to
the creek. I'm sure the frogs were
back as well and somewhere on a
rock a painted turtle was basking.
The water of any creek will strike
its own course, in time. As for the old
swamp, well, drains – like all works
of men – do eventually fail.
Will progress suffer if the circle
turns? Perhaps we should ask a
child.0
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