North of America, South of Canada

By Gunnar Alutalu

These are the early years of the twentieth century.
Immigrants from many parts of the world take up the Canadian Government’s offer of free land on the prairies.
Among them are the Dustlanders and Kumbacks from Oklahoma and the Londoners from England.
This is a tale of their struggles, deceptions, discoveries and triumphs.
Romantic entanglements are unavoidable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jun 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9781365214509

Book preview

North of America, South of Canada

North of America, South of Canada

By

Gunnar Alutalu

About the Author

Gunnar Alutalu was born in 1933 in the small Baltic country of Estonia. Having become a refugee during the Second World War, he experienced first-hand the insecurities and deprivations that wartime conditions bring.

Nevertheless, he also had many agreeable and happy experiences and had the opportunity to travel, learn new languages and come to a greater appreciation of other cultures.

He landed as an immigrant to Canada in 1949.

He studied welding engineering and worked in this field.

He lives in Quebec City. 

About The Book

These are the early years of the twentieth century.

Immigrants from many parts of the world take up the Canadian Government’s offer of free land on the prairies.

Among them are the Dustlanders and Kumbacks from Oklahoma and the Londoners from England.

This is a tale of their struggles, deceptions, discoveries and triumphs.

Romantic entanglements are unavoidable.

CONTENTS

Preparing to Leave Oklahoma

On Our Way!

We Are There! ( Here, Actually)

The Irishman

The Interrupted Journey

The First Harvest

The Revelation

The Exploration

The Treasure

The Accident

Rachel’ Wise Advice

The Kumbacks

The Negotiations

Doctor Chaupoff

Darlene

The Next Day

The Conflagration

Cold, Colder and Coldest

The Twig

How Many Children?

A Return to Wheresitatte

Preparing to Leave Oklahoma.

There! I got it. I got the last bolt. Careful now! Lower it down slowly, slowly! We don’t want to break anything.

Such were the instructions that Jim Dustlander gave to his son Jack.

Jack did not really need to be told what to do. He was twenty-one, powerfully built, and some years ago, when he went to school, had been the best student in his class of seven. He was considered to be handsome. Not that it made any difference under the present circumstances. A handsome individual could slip and fall off the tiny platform he and his father were standing on, just as easily as a plain-looking one.

They worked carefully and deliberately. In addition to the occasional gust of westerly wind, oil slicks were a concern. They had had to lubricate in order to loosen the rusted, stubborn bolts.

That is why he did not object to his father’s keeping up the chatter as they systematically dismantled their windmill. Good communication was vital. Each had to know what the other was doing or was about to do.

Obediently he lowered the windmill blade down by rope to his waiting younger siblings, Dick and Fanny.

When all the blades had been lowered down, Jim suggested that they take a break before tackling the big job of loosening the heavy pump from its place and letting it down to the ground. He requested Fanny to go to the house and get some drinking water, which the workmen would pull up by the rope. They had some special beer in the house, which they liked to drink on hot days; --- beer that came from an oddly named place called Saskatoon, Saskatchewan--- but today was not the day for alcoholic beverage of any kind. Their work required a clear head.

Gingerly, they sat down on the small space and surveyed the landscape. As far as their eyes could see, sad desolation was evident. Mounds of dry, cement-like dust covered farm machinery, abandoned tractors and wagons that were no longer getting pulled anywhere. Even the large structures were in danger of being eventually buried. The land was taking unrelenting revenge on men who had so disrespectfully and carelessly abused it. A few years ago, glorious fields of golden wheat had delighted them. But now they could hardly believe such prosperous times had existed. 

The dust bowl had begun gradually enough. There was a bad year with scarce rainfall. That was to be expected. Farming was like that. Good years and bad. But the next year was no better. Nor the next. Nor the next after that. Instead of rain, strong, hot winds from the west kept blasting. With invisible grasping fingers these gales kept scratching the parched farmland and rolling its rich topsoil into billowing, suffocating, blinding, eroding clouds. There was no human way to stop it. There was no way to avoid the damage being done by these impersonal forces of nature. Belatedly, cultivators began to appreciate that they had been overly careless in their farming methods, that soil conservation could have and should have been practiced; but now it was too late.

For how long would the drought continue? Forever? Would the life-giving rains ever return? That was the question every previously prosperous farmer kept asking himself and his neighbours. There was no answer.

Jack remembered learning about the Sahara Desert when in school. A book had revealed that at one time that desert had supported luxuriant vegetation. Something had happened, and now it was a sand dune. Not dust like here in Oklahoma, but both regions had lost their vegetation. Were Oklahoma and some of its neighbours destined to become deserts also?

From where they were perched, they could not help seeing several windmill towers like theirs. Abandoned. Their owners had not dismantled them, since they had left for places where they expected to find abundant water. They had overloaded their motorized vehicles with their possessions, children and relatives and headed west to California. A practical and intelligent choice of a destination, Jim agreed. He should have been among the first to leave. Then he would have found a place to live and to earn a living. But he had tarried. Now it was too late. Over the old radio set, news had reached the Dustlander family that the refugees from the dust storm were being called Oakies, and having arrived in such unexpectedly great numbers, were overburdening local resources in California and were no longer welcome there.

The Dustlander family were taking their wind-operated water pump with them, since they were not going to California. They were going north, where, according to reports, land erosion had been less severe. There they planned to reassemble their expensive and useful tower and continue farming. But, in case this proved to be impossible, there were woods, streams, rivers and lakes up there. They would hunt, fish, raise livestock and cultivate gardens. There were many possibilities. They would survive. Here, long- term survival was not possible at the present time.

The Government of Canada was offering free land to settlers next to the railroad. The Dustlanders had money to buy their own land, but they would not mind taking a look at this free land offered. They did not expect much, but the prospect provided additional incentive to go to Canada.

It would be colder up there in Canada. Quite a bit colder, actually. But there were other people up there and surviving. Jim realized that his children would be called Canadians. What of it? Here they were called Americans. There were people in the world who gave other people names. That was their business. His business was to keep his family from starving to death. Whether they would be classified as Americans or Canadians was really not at issue here. The people there were the same; the language was the same. The desire for freedom of action was the same. An honest, hardworking man could make a success of his life under both governments.

What did he really know about Canada? What every other American knew. That they had Mounties up there instead of sheriffs. That they had a King and a Queen up there instead of a Congress and a President. There were laws in any civilized country, and he expected not to bother the Canadian politicians and expected not to be bothered by them in return.

And thus they kept dismantling their tower, pouring oil on the rusty bolts and forcefully turning their heavy wrenches. Lower and lower they descended until only the pipes that were deep in the ground remained. But they had spare lengths of pipe and these they would  take with them.

Fanny had wrapped the tower components in burlap bags and when the task was completed, she was surprised to see how little space it took. It had been an imposing structure with blades, motor, tail, pump, pipes and the steel tower, but now, in pieces, it did not take much room on the tool wagon. This wagon was one of four lined up in front of their paint-less, weather-beaten prairie homestead.

She remembered this house when it was quite new. She, her two sisters and three brothers had grown up in it. It had been a happy house, providing shelter and playing opportunities for their rambunctious family. Were all families as harmonious and close-knit as theirs? She had no way of knowing, since all close-by families had left for California. A boy that she liked had gone also. Come to think of it, two boys. One of them had hinted that he would look her up, once she also showed up in California.

She was seventeen already, almost past the ideal marriageable age, she thought, half in panic. Practically an old maid. Consequently, as much as she would miss leaving these old familiar surroundings, she was excited when the family began serious preparations form their long journey to Canada. With youthful enthusiasm, she was looking forward to the adventure. She had never been very far from home, but soon she would be seeing new places, new things; maybe even towns and cities! They would be leaving early tomorrow morning. Taking down that tower had been the last act before actually getting underway. That is why she had eagerly taken part in the work. They could not linger any longer, since they had no other way to get water. They had collected large containers of the precious liquid, and that would last for some time.

They would be going to Canada, the country famous for its gallant gentlemen, for its tall and romantic men. She imagined herself being married to a red-coated mounted policeman. They would be going to exotic places together. He, handsomely attired in his beribboned bright-red tunic, heroically astride his jet-black steed; she by his side on her snow-white obedient mare, also wearing something red, her favourite colour, matching his official attire. Together they would gallop over the open countryside, bringing law and order to wherever they went.

That was one possibility.

Another one would be her marrying a trapper. He would be tall and strong, brave and intelligent. And wealthy. He would understand the most intimate habits of the most expensive fur-bearing animals and know where their most secret hiding places are. But he would not be a brutal killer of defenceless cute furry things. He would kindly put to sleep only the suffering old creatures that would die within a week or two anyway. And he would carry her in his muscular arms over the fast-flowing rapids in order to get to the other side. And back again, should the circumstances thusly dictate.

A week before their wedding he would take his trusty axe into the woods and clear an acre of land for their garden and have a fresh-smelling log cabin waiting for her, where they would raise their dozen children.

Of the fact that she would get happily married, she had no doubt. Was not Canada known for its many, many men and very few women? Besides, she was pretty, with honey-blonde wavy hair and a pleasant figure. True, she had three broken nails and a rear tooth had been giving her a bit of trouble lately, but that was about all that was wrong with her. She doubted that these problems would actually disqualify a girl from marrying. As always, she looked on the bright side. Most of her fingernails were exemplary and most of her teeth were usable.

She doubted that she would be able to sleep tonight. She was anxious to see their convoy in motion. Nevertheless, being young and healthy, she had no trouble falling asleep and dreamed of being married to a prosperous gold miner.

Jim the father also was anxious about their convoy, but his anxiety was not of the same sort. He was concerned about the welfare of his family; of possible problems and dangers on the way. With his wife Jane by his side, they looked all the wagons over once more. They wanted to remember where everything was, so as to find things easily when needed. After all, theirs was a family of eight, each with his or her particular possessions and needs.

Jane was thirty-nine, a year younger than he was. She was still the prettiest girl in Oklahoma, as far as Jim was concerned. He had been very fortunate in having managed to persuade her to marry him. On the other hand, for some reason he did not quite understand, she had been more that willing to marry him. Why or whatever, did not really matter. They had been very happy together, and took all major decisions together.

And so, with the sun about to set in the direction of paradisal California, they went over the long convoy of wagons, starting with their powerful tractor aimed in the direction of Canada.

As on any other important occasion, King insisted on coming with them. They had got him when he was still only a puppy. But already he had displayed the regal bearing of a king. Hence the name. He knew his rights. He would never come when called, unless there was something in it for him. He would never roll over in dirt like normal dogs, when commanded to do so. And as for teaching him to beg, --- well, no member of the Dustlander family even thought of trying.

About a week ago, Margie, their fourteen-year-old, had come to the sudden realization that the family would be going to Canada and King would be coming with them.

We are going to Canada, and they have a King and a Queen up there. And I think they have a President whose name is King something. And our dog is called King. Would the Canadians not be offended if we called our dog King? she asked her mother.

Yes, they might, her mother agreed. Here is what you can do, Margie. Tell King that his new name is Rex. That is ‘king’ in Latin.

But that stupid dog decided that he did not want to learn Latin. When called by his new name Rex, he had pretended not to understand. The best that Margie could do was to change his name just a little. When she called him by the name of Kling, one of his ears perked up a little.

So, what was King’s official function as Jim and Jane checked the contents of each wagon? His job was to certify that every wagon belonged to the Dustlander family. He did this by sniffing the numerous wheels involved and by raising his hind leg as required in the performance of the identification procedure. 

They did not need to look at their tractor. Their sons Dick and Dan had completely overhauled it. Dick was eighteen and mechanically gifted. They had taken the McCormick Deering practically apart, oiled, greased and cleaned every part they had been able to get at. After they had put everything together again, the six-cylinder tractor sprang to roaring and rattling to life after only one quick turn of the crank.

The first wagon attached to the powerful tractor was the one where Jim and Jane would be sleeping, along with their three daughters. The boys would sleep in the second wagon. These two first wagons were carefully covered with canvas tarps, as dust storms were a constant threat. Every inch of space was utilized and packed with food, water and household items.

The third wagon held the tools, the Franklin stoves, pots, pans, washtubs and other heavy items. The fourth and last one was a flatbed. The whole family working together had managed to lift their trusty pickup truck onto it. There it was, wedged in between some disc-plows and other farm equipment. That truck represented their safety, their emergency lifeline to civilization. Should the tractor break down on the long journey, a member of the family could use the truck to go and get help or new parts for the tractor.

Everyone was on edge and most of them hardly slept during that last night in their beloved family home.

Morning came, but they did not leave that day. Instead, Jim the father made the following announcement: Your mother and I had a long discussion last night and came to the conclusion that by re-arranging our loads a little, we would have room for the best parts of our house. None of us wants to leave our fine dwelling behind, just to be buried under sand. So, why don’t we take our windows, our doors and the best lumber and use them when we build our new house up north? In that case we will not really have left our home behind. What do you say? Shall we get to work?

The response was enthusiastic. Everyone took part willingly in the dismantling work and by the evening most of that formerly cosy building had found a place on the wagons.

What is wrong with King? Margie, the fourteen-year old wondered. The dog kept sniffing his doghouse, going in and out of it, barking and whining. She went and looked into it carefully, expecting to find a badger in it, or some other wild animal. But everything was normal. There seemed to be no reason for King to be upset. But as soon as she left the doghouse, King began his complaining again. No one could understand what was wrong with him.

Finally, it dawned on Jim what the dog wanted.

Boys, go and throw King’s doghouse on top of the stuff that is in the tool wagon! he ordered.

As soon as this was done, King jumped onto the wagon and settled down happily in his own house. His people were taking their house with them to wherever they were going, and so was he.

*

Everybody go to the outhouse for the last time! someone was shouting. It sounded exactly like his father. You, too, King! The dog barked once in agreement. The dream was so real. Who was he and where was he? He stretched.

Quit poking me, or I’ll poke you one, Dick, his brother, informed him reasonably. Of course, Dick would never poke him seriously. They were as close as two brothers could reasonably be expected to be in a large family. No, he was not dreaming. He could hear other members of the family chattering. No one was complaining in spite of having been ordered awake while it was still nighttime. Well, actually he could see a faint hint of pink from the right side of the wagon where he and his brothers were bedded down. If dawn was breaking on his right side, it would mean that the wagon he was in pointed north, since the sun rose in the east.

He had accumulated quite a bit of scientific knowledge during the course of the twelve years of his life. From school, from the occasional newspaper, from old books and from the battery-operated radio that worked on days when there was not too much static interference. He knew most things there was to know and he was confident that he could handle any surprises that Canada would throw his way.

He was a somewhat hungry, but they would stop for breakfast a little later on, after they had gone a few miles. That had been agreed on last night before going to sleep.

His name was Dan. Were there other Dans in the world? Lots of Dans? Someday he would find out. Wasn’t it strange to think that everybody in the world had a name? Were there some people somewhere that did not have a name? Somewhere very far away like New York or Africa or China? When he got to be sixteen, and a man, he would travel to these places and find out for himself.

For the time being, however, he would do as he was told and visit the outhouse. He looked at King, who did not go to the outhouse. Being a dog, he had an advantage over humans when it came to bodily functions. The whole world was his outhouse. Dan envied him. There were other things, too. For instance, from his earliest years on, Dan had had chores to do. King the Dog followed no such slavish routine. The only work King did was to wag his tail, and even that, only when he felt like doing it. No one could force him to wag his tail. When younger, Dan had tried to make King wag his tail, and had actually managed to wave it around for him a little, but his mother had suggested that the animal was lazy enough already and if Dan did it for him, King would get into the habit of letting someone else do it for him. Dan began to seriously wonder whether he would have been better off if he had been born as a dog.

On Our Way.

Dan could feel the gentle tug. It was really happening. They were moving!

Hooray! We’re off! shouted Jack, the eldest.

No cheers came from the first wagon where their mother and sisters were sitting.

Jim, their father, though pleasantly excited at the prospect of a journey through new parts of the country, found no cause for cheering. Their picking up the pieces and leaving their familiar acres behind represented failure, defeat. When he and Jane first purchased this attractive piece of farmland, they had no intention of ever