At The Edge of the World

Hello Gentle Reader

It’s never been much of a secret that I came from a small hamlet in the Canadian prairies. My hometown was nestled on the wind bare prairies, but also just over seven kilometers from a river valley, complete with a wooded campground and the frightening river itself. Just shy of five kilometers south sat the weir, complete with roaring damn and marsh like woodland.  My hometown was nothing out of the ordinary or special. There was a store, liquor store, restaurant/lounge; a post office and fire hall; as well as a bar (also known as the local watering hole), and the community hall, which was never used; and a slapstick/slapdash trailer cum church. There is also a school, which has educated students and children from pre-school to grade six; who in the previous year had just released its 25 year old time capsule. It also houses two four large baseball fields and adjacent soccer field, though both are not maintained and grow a seasonal crop of thistles, clover and dandelions every summer. For a child there were two parks located in the confines of its borders: the school park—which was the more extensive of the two—it had swings, jungle gym, seahorses, spinning attractions, monkey cages/bars, among numerous other playground allures. The other park was colloquially called: ‘The Tot-Lot,’ at one point it may have been a baseball diamond—for some reason the hamlet had been obsessed with the sport in some way or another—despite the fact that I never witnessed one adult play the sport, and the youth league was a motley crew of limited talent but eager spirits, which died off early. The ‘Tot-Lot,’ was minimalist in compared to the school park; it only housed an ancient wood crafted jungle gym, complete with two rusted slides, the blue paint casually peeling away in the long summer days, the old acrobat rings hanging on the north side above a permanent barren dirt trench, scrapped by years of tiny feet and shoes; in the west set the monkey cage, equally as old and ancient as the rest of the lot, but climbed on with great certainty and vigor. In the east on gallows like structures sat the old swings. The rest of the lot was nothing but scant grass and of course a crop of the usual weeds which sprung and bloomed all over these public spaces. Back then you didn’t have to scurry home until the street lights came on, or your parent would come grab you. Some had watches and had specific times to back at the house for dinner. Generally when one left the pack everyone else followed suit—and so the day would come to its close.

Despite coming from a hamlet, whose recent population (according to the census) is just over five hundred people; the saving grace was the close proximity to a more urban centre—specifically the city. Going to the city was a mundane event, but also a thrill. Of course every trip had its usual agendas: clothes shopping, grocery shopping, and specialty shopping—or on occasion visiting relatives. The city—despite our monotonous reasons—was always a wonder. The malls were cracked full of people, and of course I was more interested in people shopping (or complaining I was bored) then to be bothered with new clothes; or sit on a sofa to see if I thought it was comfortable (not that my opinion held any more water in the decision then a spoon). Being in the city saw the hustle and bustle, but it was also a strange world. Here no one knew who you were or who you belonged to; you were just an aimless face in a crowd, who was expected to make it to their own destination. When we would leave the city at the end of the day, I loved to watch the lights whiz by in the window, and marvel at the streets and at the people. I wondered about the office buildings and the people who worked there; I enjoyed driving through the industrial park, and seeing how deserted and quiet the area was. Yet, I often felt envious of the children of the city. They knew life, they knew the rules of crossing the street, using the lights, how to get around, and the basic street smarts they picked up by experience, or handed down to them by their older siblings or by hearing it. They knew the dos and they knew the don’ts. In comparison, where I came from there was no regimented logic; we crossed the road when no cars were presenting or coming, we jaywalked with ignorance, we loitered in ignorance, we were positively anarchic in comparison to the civil city life. Yet, I envied it. I envied the vastness, the beauty, the uniqueness of it all.

Both of my grandparents lived extremely far away. One set lived six hundred and twenty three kilometers in the mountains, lakes and greenery. The other set lived six hundred and fifty six kilometers away, in the flat and hilled world of the prairies under the protection of a Saint; or so I thought. Visiting my grandparents was a lesson of obscurity and sparsity. The one set that lived in the mountains valleys on a large piece of land on lake front property had created a heavenly landscape. Flower beds, bloomed a variety of different flowers, in a spectrum that rivaled the rainbow. There was always the buzz of bees within the beds, which was treated with fear and distance. The docks were old and rickety, which bopped and swayed in the water. The lake itself was cold and chilled you straight to the bone upon touching it—after all it was glacial fed. The trees were massive and offered shade everywhere; these weren’t your average prairie trees, which comprised of poplars or sickly evergreens, no these trees were massive and unique, there was the cedar trees and the beautiful magnolia; maple trees, and thick spruce trees. Beyond the flora and vegetation of the property, the fauna was in abundance; there was never shortage of some unique bird to be seen from osprey to blue jay, crow to finch and swallow, to black starlings, and of course hummingbirds. However, the property was remote in many ways. As a child, one lacks agency, autonomy, and freedom; and so we were often confined to this patch of green mountain and lake heaven, which after a while grew boring. When every flowerbed has been inspected, every tree admired, all birds observed and every bee run from, one grows bored and desires a bit of wanderlust. To this day if imagine heaven, I imagine a pristine landscape, but overall a gilded prison, whose charm wears off quickly.

My other grandparents lived on what I once thought was: “The Edge of The World.” They lived on the barren terror of the prairies—far worst then we did. When we traveled on the six hour drive out there, we passed through numerous small communities; many of these communities looked like they were ghost towns; completely abandoned and waiting to be blown away. I often wondered who could live here. Why would someone want to live here? Or in some cases: does anyone live here? When we would stop for gas and take a short recess, we noted the gas stations were employed or run by the elderly or the dissatisfied young. The elderly looked lost and foreign, as if waiting for their life to just come to them, or worst riding it out now until its eventual end. The youth were dreamy and airy, dissatisfied with their current predicament, but dreaming and contemplating how to get out of it. After purchasing it was time to go, again. The roads were rough and the closer we got to their place, the more abandoned and forlorn the landscape became.

Everything was flat and covered in farmland. Here and there, old farm buildings stood guard with windowless eyes. Over there: a bare popular on the verge of its end. Then: nothing, just prairie, sky and cloud.

The flatness would later be usurped the closer we came to our destination. As we neared closer to my grandparents place, we dipped into coulees and over them, and skirted around hills, only to come upon this unique little oasis in the an otherwise rolling but treeless landscape. As we reach their home, we passed beneath the shadow of its cross on a hill. At last check the population of this small little hamlet was forty-two people. It is nestled and perhaps protected by the hills and surrounding coulees. The main trek of road runs straight through, and the town is divided on either side. The infrastructure or buildings of the town speak of better days and nostalgic times. There’s an old office building—which I would later learn used to be the headquarters of a nationwide insurance company—is the most imposing building in the community. It’s stoic and static with its red brick face. However, I often found it eerie as a child to walk by that building. When passing by its pebbled mason fence I could only wonder about ghosts living in its abandoned recess. Thankfully there are no ghostly residents in the building, as it has been converted into apartments. Yet, it remains a strange building in this desolate little world; miniature in its minutia, anything related to commerce or business would always be strikingly out of place—even the post office, the federal outpost and symbol of federalism, is located outside of the community, at the beginning (or the end) of a hill on a farm. To the right of the office building turned apartments, there is a swimming hole—literally a swimming hole. Throughout my years of visits I never saw the hole or its baby blue admissions office open. The gate always locked closed, to the point where one thought the key was lost. From the chain link fence all I could observe was the forgotten slide rushing down to the water, which had over time been covered in a thick sludge of algae, under the shade of the framing poplar trees. 

Across the main road (and my grandparents home) sits an old white catholic church, shielded by poplars, but has certainly seen better days, where its pews were filled, mass was held, and its cathedral ceiling rung with the chorus of its Sunday worship. Now it’s locked up and boarded shut. The paint is peeling off its siding. The steeple shingles are weathered and blowing away, along with the rest of the roof. The transom windows—round and gothic—are caked with a cellophane of dust and age. The bell in the steeple has never rung its iron gong. The Virgin Mary remains in her alcove above the gothic transom window and doors, but beneath the bell itself. She’s aged and yellow, but resilient still; her hands and arms open wide and welcoming, quick to forgive and save the sinners of such an earthly mortal realm. The grounds are scabby with patches of different and turfs of grass pimpled about. Loathsome weeds grow lazily by the church: common tansies, wild parsnip (dangerous), dandelions, and quack grass. Here and there are uninspired but hardy crocuses. All around, however, on the borders of homes are untamed bushes and old trees. I remember probing the grounds, wondering if there was a hole or a forgotten door to slip inside. But everything was accounted for, and everything locked, boarded and nailed shut. All that remains in the church now are its secrets, whispers and sermons. I often imagined mice sitting in the church, dutiful, solemn, and pious praying in the pews, giving thanks for the meals, and asking for forgiveness for their transgressions and trespasses. There is no sanctuary to be found here.

Behind the church, through some unkempt hedges, with twisted branches, is the parish cemetery. It too has seen more forgiving and kinder times. The gate when was I younger was rusted and old. It would best be described as a wired farm fence, with an ancient cattle gate complete with rusted padlock and chain as the entrance into the cemetery; which of course you had to climb in order to get over. When I was a child, I did not have a conceivable concept of what the cemetery was. There were statues of angels: weeping, praying, trumpeting; monuments, stone crosses, and other memorial plaques and headstones. I admired them all. However, the cemetery was old; many of the older graves had lost their markings, while others had poorly constructed wooden crosses which through time and weather had been reduced to twigs and splinters nailed together. The grounds themselves had fallen into mismanagement. The grounds were barren, the grass flippant between patches of burned and brown, to a small verdure of green, while dirt and baked earth crept along like a slow infection. The graves were mostly overrun in weeds, just like the church. A few had been weeded and manicured, but many had fallen into disrepair. There were a few grave liners, whose initial encasement had been chipped or worst vandalized. Other graves looked like they were sinking. I used to play the cemetery, talk to the angel statues, and seen beneath the variety of crosses. I told myself stories, and tried to imagine somewhere else where I could be. When I looked south, I saw the imposing and unwavering black metal cross on the churches steeple. I couldn’t help but day dream of what or who lurked inside. I never paid any mind to the people I stood on or sat upon, as I had no clue there were people beneath me, in which I stood or sat on. That is until a relative older then my childhood-self came along and informed of where I was sitting and what exactly this ‘statue park,’ was. I was mortified, I was surrounded by the dead—and many of whom were lost and nameless.

When I think back to that small little hamlet complete with is tree lined main road, it’s boarded up church, and of course the white cross on the hill entering town, I always imagine it being on the very edge of the world.  The place was so remote, that walking out of its hamlet or parish boundaries, one was immediately entering the void of the prairies, the large expanse of space which would go on until the hills evaporated, the clouds dissipated and the grasslands just petered off into nothingness or rather into a bottomless canyon. The vastness and emptiness of the space was alienating and frightening. When I was older I often wondered through the hills and coulees, scrounging and scavenging cattle bones which had been picked and pecked clean, as well as bleached by the sun. The openness and endless space is still frightening, despite being so free and on the verge of being flat, one can’t help but feel like they were always on the verge of being consumed and lost in the world where all there was, was sky, clouds, and grass.

Returning home always felt like a return to comfort, but also a return to civilization. There seemed to be more life brimming and scuttling about. The roads had vehicles zipping by; lights were on in houses, people were out and about, everything seemed less silent, open, and empty. If that tiny hamlet split by a road, complete with its abandoned church, and commerce building turned apartments, and cross on the hill, was the edge of the world, then home was certainly the centre of the world.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary