The Rural Voice, 1999-02, Page 22Istand on the top of
a snow-covered
hill. It is crisp and
clear and very cold.
The sky is a brilliant
blue and the sunlight
glitters on the frosty
expanse of snow,
unmarred by footprint
or ski track. I rejoice
in the sheer beauty of
the day and remember
another winter day
long ago.
We lived on a farm
in southern Ontario. A
sign at the entrance to
a village not far from
us proclaimed it as
"The Heart of
Ontario", and so 1
suppose it was. It was
an area given over to
what is known as
"mixed farming". We
grew hay and grain,
and kept milk cows.
We separated the
cream and the skim
milk and the cream
was picked up to go
to the local butter
maker. The skim milk
we fed to the pigs. We
also kept chickens
and the eggs were sold to the grocery store in the village.
It was a good life in many ways, but cash flow was
difficult. The farm provided the greater part of the food but
there was not much money for extras. When cash was
scarce in the winter months my father would send somc
pigs or a steer to market so that there would be money
coming in.
There was certainly not much money available for toys
for four children. Each purchase had to be carefully
planned. That winter my father went to a handyman in the
village who did all sorts of repairs and odd jobs in his shop.
He asked Lloyd to make two pairs of wooden skis, one for
each of my older brother and sister who were nine and ten.
I knew there were no skis for me, since I was only six. I
was disappointed, but 1 supposed it was fair since they
were older. I didn't say anything, but my father must have
seen the disappointment on my face.
One winter afternoon he arrived home from a trip to
town with a pair of wooden skis, blonde wood with the tips
painted bright red. I was not able to believe they were for
me until my Dad asked if I wanted to try them. The skis
buckled on over top of my galoshes and my first attempt
was down the slope of the gangway that led into the upper
part of the barn. After that I spent many hours on those
small skis, exploring the fields around our farmhouse,
alone or with my brother and sister.
Sometimes we stayed out too long, so that the cold
Nk\ 1.111
WINTER
GIFTS
There were times when we didn't
have much but we had fun
By Barbara Weiler
18 THE RURAL VOICE
hands gave way to a
numbness. When we
came inside, the
numbness would
become excruciating
pain as we warmed
by the fire. Mother
put my hands in
warm water, and the
tears ran down my
cheeks from the pain
of the thawing
process, though I
tried not to cry.
Later, I loved to
stand by the
woodstove, with my
back to the fire to
enjoy the warmth.
Sometimes the smell
of scorching fabric
warned that I was a
little too close to the
fire.
Dad also asked the
same village
handyman to build us
a sleigh. It was
constructed from
wide boards and the
runners were made
from old car
bumpers. We took
the sleigh to school
where it was used
daily on the great hill behind the schoolhouse. It was called
"The Big Sleigh" and its size is legendary. It seems we
could pile most of the school population of 18 on the Big
Sleigh and slide joyfully down, holding on for dear life
while screaming at the top of our lungs. Our lunch hours
were spent this way as long as there was snow. Ownership
of the sleigh and therefore the right to regulate who should
be allowed to ride on it also granted a sort of status not to
be taken lightly. The pressure was subtle rather than overt,
but still highly effective.
Our teacher, Mrs. McDonald, rang the bell five minutes
early to allow us time to race for the one -room brick
schoolhouse to shed our woolen coats, mitts and ski pants.
The girls' coat hooks were behind the huge wood furnace,
and the air was soon full of the smell peculiar to drying
wool. My ribbed stockings were often uncomfortably
soggy and they sagged limply around my ankles where the
snow had crept in under the bottom of my heavy wool ski
pants.
The winter of 1947 was especially dedicated to the joys
of winter.Thcre was a great blizzard one January morning.
My brothers and I stayed home from school, scraping the
swirls of heavy frost patterns from the windows, so we
could press our noses against the glass to watch the thick
curtain of flakes and watch for our 12 year old big sister
who had braved the storm on her skis to attend classes at
the Continuation School in the village. We were relieved,