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Returning to a Little Prairie Town

by Audrey Pihulyk

I remember one particular afternoon well. It was spring, the purple crocuses dotted the prairie landscape, and the breeze blew softly from the east. The town was buzzing with excitement as the children left the only schoolhouse for a weekend of fun. Most of the inhabitants were about their daily chores. This town was Hilda, Alberta, where I spent part of my childhood.

Hilda, located northeast of Medicine Hat, just this side of the Saskatchewan border, was many of the hundreds of small towns that dotted the prairie landscape across western Canada, whose main purpose was to serve the farming community.

Services in this community of 296 inhabitants included a blacksmith shop, a garage, one hotel, a nurse’s house, two grocery stores, and a school. I vividly remember the schoolhouse standing like a prairie sentinel dedicated to the task of learning.

Like the thousands of students in similar prairie towns, each day we waited in anticipation for the recess and lunch bells signaling a reprieve from our studies. Then, like a small army of ants, we poured out of our classes onto the playing field with our best friend in tow.

The playgrounds were sparse in comparison with those of today – no climbing apparatus, sliding chutes and swinging tires, only swings, a teeter-totter, and a baseball diamond. Nevertheless, games such as tag, red rover, and drop the hanky kept some of us occupied until the dreaded bell called us back into class.

Hilda, being in southern Alberta, had its share of large insects. The memory of enormous spiders is one I would rather forget. In a child's eyes these insects were nothing short of gigantic as they watched the entire goings-on from their lofty position in the rafters of our outhouse.

Garter snakes were plentiful on the prairie, and it was great sport for us to catch them as they slithered through the wheat stubble, with the bravest of us letting the reptiles crawl over our bodies, while the meeker looked on with admiration. Garter snakes and mothers, though, were not a good mix. There was the day that a snake escaped captivity and managed to get lost in our house. Immediately the entire family was gathered to recapture the slippery intruder. We looked everywhere, but no snake. Early the next day a shriek was heard coming from the kitchen. There was Mother standing by the stove, stirring our oatmeal and looking wide eyed at the landing to the basement while the intruder slithered up the stairs. After spending a quiet night among the coal and potatoes, he was probably wondering what all the commotion was about.

Saturday night was always a special evening as preparations were afoot for church on Sunday. Baths needed to be taken, shoes polished, and Sunday clothes ironed and laid out crisp for the morning trek across the yard to church, where my father preached.

One of the special events that occurred on Saturday was viewed with joy and the other with apprehension. Early Saturday afternoon Mother cut up the fruit and prepared the dough for the baking of the pies – a much anticipated event. Finally the pies were in the oven and the pungent smell of cinnamon and sugar permeated the house. Three hungry faces watched intently as the pans were taken from the oven and three pairs of hands eagerly reached out for their share.

Then came the less-anticipated event of Saturday night – the weekly bath. Father lifted the large galvanized tub from its hook on the wall and on cold winter nights set it in close proximity to the hot kitchen stove. Buckets of warm water were poured into the tub and everyone was given strict orders to stay out of the kitchen until it was their turn.

In those days it was the railroad that was the link to the larger communities, and the means by which goods, especially grain, was transported. The rail gangs went from town to town maintaining the tracks while living on the trains. The part of the train that interested us children the most was the caboose, mainly because this is where the kitchen housed the friendly cook. I remember mother warning us to stay away from the caboose and not to bother the cook, but the temptation was too great and the cookies she offered, too tasty.

A few years ago my desire to return to Hilda became a reality. Would the old town still look the same? Approaching the town, I smiled with satisfaction as to my right I saw the same grain elevators standing stark against the prairie sky, empty now; and to my left, a vacant lot where our house once stood.

To my surprise, the general store we had often frequented was still open for business. With great anticipation I opened the door and entered. My senses took me back to the days of my childhood – the smell of the oiled floor and the leather goods brought back pleasant memories. Upon the shelves were the canned goods, overalls, boots, gloves, shirts, and candies, all in the place as I had remembered them. Looking around, I saw the original cash register, and there behind the counter was the owner I had known years before. I introduced myself to him, and we reminisced about the old days, talking of the times he and my father had gone duck hunting. We also talked how the little town had changed. I said goodbye to him and wandered down streets that were almost deserted, feeling a sense of loss, but also experiencing a type of closure.

As I neared the edge of town, I found myself in front of the old school, now empty and sadly unkempt. Fortunately, I found someone with a key, and was able to enter the school. The smell of the oiled wood floors, the chalk dust, and the musty, stale air took me back to the days of my childhood. Then wandering outside, I could almost hear the sounds of the happy voices of my old friends out on the playground.

This little town, like so many that dot the prairies, no longer echoes with the happy voices of children playing; the ringing of the school bell calling them back to classes; the beating of the blacksmith's hammer; the nostalgic ring of the cash register; and the lonely, haunting whistle of passing trains. All is stilled. Just a few families remain. The school, the hotel, the blacksmith shop, the garage, and the trains have long since gone. Even the new recreation centre built recently to attract residents stands empty, another silent witness to a dying town.

The ringing of the old-fashioned cash register in the only grocery store is one of the few sounds that can yet be heard. And that too will be silenced when everyone has moved away and the little prairie town is deserted.

Nurse Audrey is the “Stress Strategist,” who brings to your audience cutting-edge strategies and thought-provoking ideas, always with a touch of humour. Her motivating keynote and interactive breakouts are described as inspiring and energizing.

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