Memories in progress

I’m not entirely sure why we decided to drive from Toronto to Edmonton and back. This was during a time I was working full time in Scarborough. For me, extra money and vacation time were scarce. It was important for my dad and me to pay a visit to my grandmother at the time. She was in her nineties. I suppose we both thought we could enjoy ourselves while saving money, which is something my father and I would have agreed on.

As I recall, I left work packed and ready for the trip, then picked up my dad from the sidewalk on Victoria Park Avenue and we were on our way. To save time, he had made his way north from his home on Kingston Road to meet me. We would be far from the city not long after. 

Most of the drive north and west over the Great Lakes was spent in the dark of night. Around 2:00 am we stopped for a slice of pie in Nipigon, I think it was. We would take turns driving. We wanted to complete the journey without stopping, if possible. We listened to a small selection of tapes I brought along. Stevie Ray Vaughn and Stompin Tom Conners were the main selections. 

By daybreak we passed by the outskirts of Winnipeg and kept moving. It was late in the day when we made Saskatoon, where we stayed overnight in a motel. The last leg to Edmonton could wait until the morning. 

Even though I brought my camera and film, taking photos was not on my mind until a few days later when all the visiting was done. We had spent time with my grandmother and my extended family that lived in the area. After starting the journey home, we stopped in several places of significance to my family history, known to my dad but not me. 

Sometime between leaving Irma and stopping in Wainwright, or Hardisty perhaps, in Alberta, we came across what was left of a house where a childhood friend of my dad’s grew up with his many siblings. I was drawn to the tumbledown wooden structures, crumbling equipment, and decaying cars. A few memorable shots were taken here in black and white.

That evening, in search for a place to stay, we found ourselves in Sibbald, Alberta. The hamlet consists of a grain elevator, and tiny hotel, a few houses, and little more. The sunset was deep red. I did my best to capture some of the spectacular scenes in Kodachrome. 

Little did I know until later on, that the hotel hosted live entertainment. While I was sound asleep, I’m told the place came alive as people made their way from miles around to enjoy a strip show. The details were not revealed to me right away, except some relief that my car, bearing Ontario plates, was unharmed come the morning.

After crossing into Saskatchewan, we stopped in Flaxcombe, and the nearby Buffalo Rubbing Stone. One of many, I have learned, but fascinating nonetheless. We moved onward to Kindersley to pay Carlene a visit, where we also met up with cousin Lowell and Johnny Worthing. The four of us drove to a wide open river valley not far away, where there were “buffalo heads” to be found, according to the legend of their 1950s youth. We did come across the partial skeleton of a horse, completely clean and bleached white. 

Well on our way back east we stopped in Marquis, Saskatchewan, just north of Moosejaw. This was the last of the locations we visited, each of which were significant milestones on the westward migration of my grandparents and their young family. Months or years thry spent in various attempts to establish themselves, including with a general store, before settling the family farm in Irma. 

There’s a limit to how much I retained of the personal and family history that was shared with me then. I felt I understood it well enough at the time. The past would not change, I thought. Now, thirty years later, I wonder if I missed an opportunity to record some of the details. 

Only certain scenes did I bother to photograph. Taking more pictures would have been sensible. For example, photos of my dad and me, relatives, old friends of his, the places they lived, and more of the travelling itself, would add some clarity to my recollections. Whether despite, or because of taking so few photos, occasional efforts were kindled since then to reconstruct the memory of our western road trip and the stories we connected with.