Three-flowered Aven. Bright green basal leaves. Hairy, toothed leaflets. Hairy reddish flowering stem. Nodding flowers in groups of three. Five purplish-red erect sepals and five pink to yellow petals. Flowers in spring, Thick rhizomes. Grows in moist open prairie. Other common names: Prairie smoke, Old man’s whiskers. No forage value. Gabriella’s Prairie Notes
After saying goodbye to Jo at the Tollerud farm, I spent a few minutes fiddling with my new GPS. Andy had kindly helped me set it up. Nice of him to do that, after I’d told him our relationship was going nowhere. Like my Dad, I realized, he had a kind of basic decency that made some of his more intolerant attitudes so hard for me to understand.
“It can be tricky to find a particular land location without this,” he’d explained. “I’ll program it to take you to the co-ordinates you gave me for the scrip location. But you’ll have to figure out for yourself whether you can drive there. Lots of grid road allowances have become part of a farmer’s field. Not much point in maintaining a road that goes nowhere. And you’ll get into big trouble if you try to make your own trail through someone’s lentils.”
Andy had glanced again at the numbers I’d copied from Madeline’s notes. “Okay, that’s entered. Now I’ll just give it a name …”
“Call it ‘Jack and Pete’s land’,” I said.
It was only seven or eight miles from the Tollerud homestead, but I took my time, not really expecting to find anything. From my carefully casual inquiries I’d learned only that no one here had heard anything of the Laprairie boys for over 70 years. They wouldn’t have been remembered at all if their reputation hadn’t become part of local western mythology, preserved in community pioneer histories. Old Jean-Jacques’s knowledge of the land, Pete’s shooting and Jacques’ jigging had become the stuff of legends.
Andy was partly right, as it turned out. Not about the lentil field – there was no longer one cultivated field in sight when, at the end of a long country trail, the GPS said, “Approaching Jack and Pete’s land, on the right.” The trail ended at a closed gate bearing a sign proclaiming, “No Hunting. No Trespassing.”
But grass-clad pastureland stretched as far as I could see. Someday, I promised myself, I would find the present land-holder. Once he or she saw I meant no harm, I could get permission to hike here.
Or maybe I should get myself a horse …
I checked my phone. No cell coverage out here, in the middle of nowhere. On the highway back to Mammoth, I pulled off onto an approach at the top of a long rise and checked again. Three bars. I rang Diane.
After assuring her I hadn’t dropped off the face of the earth, and that yes, I had prepared a timeline of each life for the Centenarian Project record book, one for Annabelle Dubois as well as for Eric Tollerud, I told her about Eric’s condition.
She responded with sympathy. “Gabriella, that’s too bad. You’ve made good progress getting to know him. And some of the story outlines you’ve sent me look excellent. Just do the best you can with what you have got, okay?”
I didn’t tell her I had no intention of stopping my visits to Eric, nor did I intend to flesh out the stories with further interviews with the family. I understood how Eric wanted his story told and that was how I would tell it.
Next, I called Madeline. There was no answer, but I left a message that I’d made some interesting discoveries and asked her to call me.
My last stop was at Mammoth Pioneer Home to check on Mr. Tollerud. I looked in on him briefly. His eyes were closed, his mouth open, his breathing shallow. It hurt to see him looking so feeble. And although I was not sure he was aware of me, or understood what I said, I whispered to him that I would be back tomorrow morning to read him the story that I hoped would go to the Centenarian Project’s final publication.