Recently WordPress sent out a writing prompt to revisit a post that was blogged back in January and repost it, or rewrite and repost, or something to that effect. I don’t usually use the prompts (no reason other than I just do my own thing) but this morning for some reason the prompt came to mind. So I checked back to my January postings and for starters, realized that I wrote some pretty good pieces back then, and second, the irony of reposting from January! You see, January is when we moved into this lovely apartment that we are now moving out of. The photos that were used in the following post could have been taken yesterday! It is because of this irony, and bringing the story full circle, that I am reprinting “A Matter of Perspective.”
This past week has been hectic, harried and crazy. We are finally in our new apartment, albeit up to our ears in boxes. It will be a while before we create order. My classes are back in full swing and Richard has to go to work everyday. But at least we are here, achy muscles, fried nerves, testy dispositions and all. Every part of my body aches and I tell myself that I am too old for this kind of stuff. As usual with a move, there were many trips to the nearby super market to get the necessary items we could not put our hands on once our belongings were in the apartment. Normally I would walk, but there were too many things to carry, too many trips to the market, too many times up and down three flights of stairs, so I drove each time. This is too hard, too strenuous, too demanding—physically, mentally and spiritually. I kvetch without shame, at least for a while, until I think of the lives others have lived. My discomfort with this move is for a while, then life will settle into a norm again. I’ve moved often enough to know that this type of chaos and stress is for a short time only. For others though, my experience is a mere walk in the park.
I am reminded of a story I read in my grandfather’s memoir. This is one of the many stories from his homesteading days while a youth in western Canada, not too far from Entwistle. At the time of these events, Grandpa was a teenager. I decided that for this post I would share what a trip to the market was like for homesteaders in the wilds of Canada in the early part of the twentieth century, a time when one bought provisions enough to get through an entire winter:
Our last trip to Entwistle in 1916 (early winter) I shall never forget. We butchered a steer and loaded it on our wagon to sell in Entwistle. In places the ground was not frozen deep enough to keep us from breaking through the crust occasionally. When we came to the crossing of the Pimbine River (about 150’ wide) we tested the ice and thought it would hold us (the team of oxen, a loaded wagon, and my brother and I.) A little past halfway across we broke through in about 3 feet of water. We uncoupled the oxen from the wagon and after breaking through the ice several times we finally got them to shore where we built a large fire to get warm by. Then we went back to prepare to pull the wagon out. We had about 100 feet of pinch rope but the big task was to get the wagon pole out of the 3 feet of water so we could attach the rope to it. Jesse jumped in the freezing water and attached the rope to the wagon tongue and then by stages of a few feet at a time we finally got it on the bank of the river. We were exhausted after all this. We built a large fire in a nearby log shack, brought the oxen inside where it was warm and then curled up in our blankets on top of some old hay in a corner. We slept little but did get a good six hours rest at least. By the light of our fire we cooked our breakfast of rabbit that we had killed the day before and with a loaf of bread and gravy we were ready to be on our way.
The oxen were quite comfortable during the night and after getting their fill of hay, they also were ready to hit the trail, none the worse for the rough day before. Coming back home the next day was the roughest part of our entire round trip. When we arrived back on the Pimbine River, we carried about 2200 pounds of groceries across the river on our shoulders then pushed the wagon across the ice. Then we hooked the 40 feet of leather strap to each oxen in the ring in their nose. While Jesse pulled on the leather strap, I followed using a long black-snake whip to make each ox move along across the ice. The ice was frozen thick enough to hold each ox, but it was a slow progress getting each one across. Then we had to load everything we had carried across the ice and by that time it was late in the night. I might add here that the crossing on the Pimbine was about 4 to 6 miles down the river from Entwistle. During the day before the sky was clear and during the middle of the day, about 4 hours, the sun came out bright and warm and thawed the snow on the road going up a steep hill. Thus we could not get the oxen up the hill, so we spent about 16 hours cutting a trail through the woods around the hill then coming back by the road about sunup or about 9 A.M. Yes we were exhausted, so after a breakfast of oatmeal and bacon cooked over our improvised camp fire, we rolled up in our blanket and slept for several hours.
There were 2 other short hills that were coated with ice and we had to pack part of our load on our backs and reload again at the top. The team of oxen could not get solid, safe footing with too big or heavy a load. We were two days going to Entwistle and 3 days going back home. The last night we stopped over at Jim McKinley’s Stopping Place as those places of night lodging were called in those days.
Never did home look so good to two young men and we slept about 14 hours after we unloaded our provisions and put everything in their place.
When I think of Grandpa, and then I look around this apartment and the mess herein, I am thankful for the comforts that I take for granted every day. The fact of the matter is that there are many people in the world today who live lives very similar to the life Grandpa lived in his youth. There is a lot that could be said about the privileges we have, but I will
leave that to another blog. For now though, my hope is that I shall never forget that no matter how tired, achy, irritable I am, my life is very easy and I have much to be thankful for.
Just as the title reads, moving ~ and how one feels about it and deals with it ~ is a matter of perspective. I hope you enjoyed the “re-read” as much as I did. Have a wonderful day and remember to pay attention to those moments in life that remind us to keep the events and occurrences of our lives in perspective.