EN (AGG FO ale AEF oS Fe

PageM6 May 23,1990. This Week

PRIME TIM

There are no meadowlarks there now...

riving east on No. 5, I looked in vain for
something familiar. How long had it
D= Thirty years?

It was a summer’s morning, bright and
clear. Big fields lay on either side of the road, huge
expanses of land unbroken by bush, fence or
pastureland. I pulled over and got out for a better
view. There was no sound except that of distant
traffic and the dull thump of a battery pump
nearby. The summer mornings of my memory had
been full of the sound of singing birds, but their
habitat had been
lost to the ever-
increasing size
of the farmers’
fields.

I missed the
fence lines, cris-
scrossing the
land. With their
grasses and
small shrubs
they has provid-
ed shelter for a

=~Goldenrod=

ae myriad of wild
things. Birds
By IVY KENT nested there in

the spring, and
in my childhood, I would search around the bottom
of the fenceposts, parting the prairie wool with
care, to reveal small nests of silvery-furred crocus
buds.

Returning to the car, I drove as far as the next
village and turned north on the old road. There was
nothing to recognize here either, but memories
crowded in; memories of going to town by wagon in
the summertime, and by sleigh when snow covered
the ground.

Winter was the best time because we could run
behind and ride, standing on the runners, when we
got tired or Dad urged the team into a trot. I can
still hear the jingle of the traces, the squeak of the
runners over the frozen packed snow, and Dad’s
soft voice as he talked to his team. Dad always

talked to his animals. If, on the way home, we ran
into a blizzard, there were rugs to cover us in the
ee and an old cowhide to keep us out of the
wind.

In the summer, the wagon was equipped with a
high seat, spring-hung to break the jolting ride,
and I got far colder, sitting up there in the summer
rain, than I ever got huddled

more and more land to farm in order to maintain a
viable operation, bigger machinery must be used,
and bigger machinery requires space for maneuv-
erability, so all the fence lines with their precious
contents must be sacrificed on the altar of conven-
ience and gain. How can someone put a price on
something that’s priceless? pA
I stop once

beneath the cowhide on the
frostiest winter's day.

As I topped the first rise, I
looked to the west. A bachelor
by the name of Bonar Robb
lived there when I was small.
He used to come and visit us,
driving a beautiful little
mare. She was high-strung
and built for speed and I was
warned to stay well away
from her. But she intrigued
me, and I would go stealthily
to the barn after she had been
stabled, just to watch her and
talk to her. Once I even, in my
young innocence, went up be-
side her in her stall before
Dad and Mr. Robb, fearing
dire consequences, rescued
me. :
I loved that mare, and
maybe she knew it... maybe
that’s why they didn’t find me

again to get out,
stretch my legs
and listen. Noth-
ing, no birdsong,
no froggy voices
from the water-
filled ditch...only |
an old crow caw-
ing at me from a
powerpole.
“Caw,” I reply
and get back in
the car. There is
nothing here of
what used to be.
It’s as if our
small farms —@&
our lives — had
never been. I
wish I hadnt £
come.

I decide to
play the game.
It’s one I play

in a heap, mangled beyond
recognition.

The road I remembered was lined with poplar
bluffs, aspens, their coin like leaves whispering in
the wind, and dugouts to hold the rain. ;

There were sloughs along the road, sloughs
rimmed with red willow and full of bullrushes and
the song of the red-winged blackbirds. And to me
the most beautiful sound of all — the western
meadowlark sitting on a fencepost near its nest,
singing joy to the world. There are no meadowlarks
there now. Their habitat has been destroyed. With

with ease, hav-
ing played it since childhood. It is pure escapism,
and simple, as simple as changing directions. So
now, instead of driving north, I make believe I am |
driving south, and as the sun remains over my
right shoulder, it is now late in the afternoon or
early evening. Because I am now travelling in
another direction, over totally unfamiliar road, I
no longer feel the need to identify, and can be
objective about what I see. Suddenly I am in a
different place, a different time, a different mood #
and it’s a good day after all.

Buccaneer Days :

Open for lunch wednesday through Sunday,
dinner Tuesday through Sunday, and Sunday Brunch

DEEP COVE CHALET

FRENCH RESTAURANT

11190 Chalet Road
Reservations 656-3541 / 656-2601

Sidney

HEAL THE _ HEAL

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* recycled stationery and much more *

set for weekend _
in Esquimalt
e here’ll be lots of swash-
buckling when the 25th '

= annual Buccaneer Days
sail into Esquimalt on Friday,
May 25.

The weekend festivities be-
gin, at noon on Friday, with a
Seniors BBQ and conclude

‘

SPIRIT

with a Navy Gun Run at 5:30
hirt on Sunday. In between, resi-

* maps* ts j Ss dents will be able to browse 4
* books * prints x through a craft sale, wander

the midway, watch ethnic
dances and softball games,

Come in and browse or
Send $1.00 for our catalogue
WE NEED YOUR SUPPORT

take in fashion and magic
shows, and compete (for a San
Juan Islands cruise) in the
Buccaneer BBQ Cook-off.
The centre of activities will

(604) 388-9292

101 — 1002 Wharf Street, VICTORIA V8W 1714

be the Esquimalt arena,
where you can find satisfac-
tion for your buccaneering

soul.

This Week

An Island Publishers Newsmagazine

#30-727 Johnson Street,
Victoria, British Columbia
V8W 1M9

Tony Kant, Editor

381-3484
Jim Cunningham, Publisher

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