This afternoon, at the stable where I keep my horse, some women were reminiscing about things they’d done back in their twenties. One recounted buying a farm with her husband and another couple. She went on at length about the hardships and dreariness of farming in the winter: the trials of deep snow, the tribulations of mucking out and feeding cattle.
I grew up on a dairy farm. As I drove home that night I began to reflect on the bleakness of dairy farming in mid-winter. The mornings always began in the darkness. Windows had to be left open because of the coal furnace, so I used to jump out of bed and run down and stand in front of the wood stove while Mom put my clothes on. Of course Dad had been out the door two hours earlier to do the milking. Frozen pipes, empty cisterns, wet woollen mittens, rubber boots with no linings, dinners of macaroni and cheese or potato soup—all were facts of existence, never questioned or thought about.
But then, of course, not all of winter was adversity. We could ride on the toboggan behind the work horses, not even noticing the manure. Or, when we did, just the warm fresh scent—all sweet and leathery. There were forts and tunnels in the snowbanks, and quick, hard snowballs thrown when Mom and Dad weren’t watching.
Most special of all were the afternoons when we trekked down to Stainton’s pond, built a fire, and skated, slapping pucks between the boots we set up as nets. I learned how to skate while Ken Stainton held me between his arms in hockey skates handed down from my brother (toes stuffed with newspaper so they’d fit). For those few hours the boys were Frank Mahovlich, Rocket Richard, the Pocket Rocket, Davey Keon, Gordie Howe, and Boom Boom Geoffrion.
While my brothers were dreaming their way to Maple Leaf Gardens, Mom frequently sent me to take a bag of apples to Mrs. Mabel Wright. Mrs. Wright was confined to a wheelchair, but she still had to bake her weekly pies. I didn’t mind the walk north up the hill because it led me into the steamy warm kitchen of Mrs. Stainton. Lean, tough, and no doubt exhausted, she always greeted me with a delighted smile and an insistence that I come in and sit. It was one of those kitchens that seemed to go on forever. I would slip into a wooden chair and watch in wonder as she reached up to the shelf on the top of her Quaker stove and pulled down trays of hot cinnamon buns. Of course I had to have one, and I had to have it with butter. I often wished I could stay there, in that room wafting with rich and effusive aromas. She always took the time to wipe her hands on her apron and ask me how I was. She was concerned if I had a cold or had lost weight after suffering from the mumps.
She was what I imagined a grandmother might be, except that she wasn’t old. As a child I could only think that she must be the perfect mother. Why did mine always have something for me to do—another chore? More piano?
Mildred Stainton, in my childhood mind, was forever in her kitchen, kneading dough, pulling magical culinary wonders out of her oven, and inviting me in.
Of course as an adult, I know that Mrs. Stainton was a mother too, and as a mother she would have made the same demands on her three sons that our mother made on us. Both struggled with the poverty of farm life and both tried to lead their children to easier lives. Their foundation of unrelenting support gave all of us confidence and an undeniable reassurance that we could become whatever we wanted. And, yes, my life is easier than my mother’s. Yet as “dreary” as farm life may seem to some, without a doubt, what makes my life so satisfying as an adult are the memories of those winter mornings, the snow drifts, the pond, and the cinnamon buns.
Toronto, Ontario