Chapter Eleven

Married Life on a Farm

On September 28th, 1924, Charles Henry Lockhart and I were married by Rev. Niel Morrison at the farmhouse of my sister and brother-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. George Churchill. Only the immediate relatives living nearby were there. Charles’ relatives had all gone back to Ontario by then, so just my parents, the Churchill family, sister Helena, brother Cyril, and his wife Florence were able to attend. One neighbour woman, Mrs. Mumby, came to help Nora prepare, and she took a picture of the family after we had eaten our meal. Then Charles and I drove “home”. This home, though actually quite humble and modest, was considered modern and even luxurious by the rest of the community. It had two bedrooms, one very small, a good-sized living-room, and kitchen. But the brick chimney, with nice china cupboard underneath it, was a great improvement over the average home where the stove-pipes ran right up through the roof, and were a fire-hazard. However, I soon found out that creosote gathered, coating the inside of the chimney with a smooth, hard coating which at times caught on fire, and gave off a roar like a train going by. It happened once when Charles was not there. I grabbed a pail, filled it with water from the tank outside the door, climbed the ladder which stood ready, and was up on that roof in a flash. The pail of water doused the fire, but I sat on the roof trembling, too afraid to climb down. My niece, Irene, a little girl, stood below looking up and calling, “What’s the matter, Auntie?” until I mustered up the strength to descend. Actually, it was better to let it burn out as being the only way to get it clean. Some people deliberately set fire to a chimney in order to clean it, [50] but there was always the danger of it getting out of hand, and setting the whole house ablaze with no way to fight it. I lived in dread of being “burned out”, especially in the wintertime.

But to return to September 1924, there was no question of a honeymoon trip. The harvesting was completed, but not the threshing. One field was cleared of oats for “green feed” so Charles started fall-plowing. We had a full month of lovely bright, warm weather. We enjoyed being together, and getting to really know one another. Towards the end of October, the threshing gang arrived at last, and just as they finished, the weather broke with a dreadful electrical storm which struck the home of Mr. Hadley Willis. It burned it to the ground along with Mr. and Mrs. Willis and their two infant twin daughters who were all upstairs, and asleep, when lightning struck. It was a tragedy which brought terror and sorrow to the community of Invermay-Rama. Mr. and Mrs. Chesley Willis (Hadley’s brother) who lived a mile or two south, were spared, and Chesley lived to be well over ninety. His wife, Edna, is still alive as I write this on December 30th, 1978. (Note: Mrs. Chesley Willis passed away in December l979, one of the last of the old-timers of the Invermay district. 0.0.L. March, 1980).

After that notable storm, we settled down in our cosy home for the winter. It think it was that first fall that we heard of an auction sale to be held near Newburn Lake; in fact, on a poor farm on the alkali flats. There was a piano listed among the other household effects so we drove over to see it, and it was knocked down to us for seventy-five dollars. An uncle of Charles had sent us fifty-dollars for a wedding present, so we added twenty five, and came home very proudly with what proved to be a very fine piano. It did not even need tuning until twenty-two years later when we lived in Mar go. When we moved away in 1950, it was sold to the Invermay Community Hall, and is probably still there. So we had music in our home. Charles had a cabinet Victrola, and a large collection of records, mostly classical music, some by Enrico Caruso, John McCormick, tenor, Kathleen Parlow, violinist, and many, many others. How I wish we had brought them with us. Those old records would be worth a fortune now.

[51] We were very, very happy. We had similar tastes and ideals so were good companions. My father-in-law sent us the Toronto Star-Weekly each week as long as he was alive. In the summertime, we did not always have time to read them, but caught up when the weather was bad. Father was in charge of a travelling library from the Saskatchewan government so we had plenty of good reading. We had a small Monarch kitchen stove — behind it a galvanized iron tank, which Charles kept filled with snow, then heated a kettle of water to pour over it. This was our water supply, used for all purposes. In the living room a small, tin air-tight heater. When the fire was burning well, and we closed the dampers, the lid would blow off with a loud “bang” which scared me constantly. Before long, we were even more happy as we expected an addition to the family. We had a name chosen for a son — “Charles Ross”, after his father and grandfather. But, to our great sorrow, the baby, “Jean Louise”, was born prematurely in May 1925, lived only nine days, and quietly slipped away. She had just started feeding in a natural way, and we were so hopeful all would be well; but it was not to be. This, and subsequently the loss of two more infants, only served to draw us closer together. We were all in all to each other until death parted us — for the time being. I still feel a closeness and a communion with my dear husband, especially in dreams or moments of half-waking.

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Just before our marriage, Charles had sent to Quebec for several pure-bred Ayrshire cows, already in calf. Charles Clifford and Robert McArthur also ordered one or two. They all came together by freight car. At this time, Charles had his boarded out at McArthur’s, so we had to go to the neighbour’s each day to buy milk. This did not suit me. I was used to having a cow right there to milk, so Bob brought them back to us right after threshing-time, four nice Ayrshires, all milking, and from then on we were dairy farmers. Presently, we were milking as many as twenty-two cows, separating the milk, and shipping the cream to Wadena or Canora by train. Ayrshire milk [52] is exceptionally rich in butterfat, and we had the separator set to take out most of the milk. Therefore our cream was very thick. When cold, it was as thick as whipped cream so we were given the highest grade. In spite of this, cheques were very small. The Depression was upon us. For five gallons of this rich, pure cream, we might receive three or four dollars. The first six years were not TOO bad, then we were into the “dirty thirties” with all that implied.

As we were in the “Park Belt”, we did not experience the exceptionally bad dust storms such as the open prairies had to cope with, but things were bad enough. The large slough in our pasture dried up until there was nothing but evil-smelling mud, then hard-baked clay. Charles drilled test holes all over the half section, trying to find water, but to no avail. He dug a well on a road allowance about three miles away. One or two other men had done the same, and all put padlocks on the covers. In spite of that, sometimes we arrived there with the big tank to find the padlock broken, and water all taken. It would take a few hours for the well to fill again from the deep underground river. Sometimes the men would wait there. More often, come home with empty tank to hear the cattle bellowing for water. One summer, hearing of a man, Dan Rundle, who had a good well and only a few cattle of his own, Charles made arrangements with him to pasture our young stock for which we paid him so much per head. Many people had to send their cattle to market, and this caused the price to drop even lower — too much beef at the packing plants. This was fine for city people. They could purchase all the meat they wanted cheaply, but it was disastrous for the farmers.

We experienced so many different kinds of trouble in growing crops. It could be a late spring with the fields too wet to get the seed in, or a very early frost in the fall. One year, we had frost in EVERY month of the year. Another summer, a fine stand of wheat, one hundred and twenty-five acres, was infected with rust. This attacked the stems just below the heads, and no moisture could get through to fill out the kernels. It just dried off as it stood. It had to be taken off in order to rework the land. Some people burned it off, then had nothing. Charles bought binder twine and harvested the wheat, poor as it was. [53] He paid to have it threshed. There was no sale for it, but we had a lot of it crushed, and fed it to the cows. This was unheard of, to feed the cows wheat, but they seemed to like it, and their milk was richer than ever. The sale of cream was the only thing that kept us going. We had to have a hired man to help us in the summer, and he had to be paid and fed. Taxes must be paid. School taxes were the worst to bear. Though the teachers were getting low wages, they seemed rich to us, and so did the station-agent; yet they would say, “How nice to be on a farm, and have all the cream and butter you want!” Little did they realize how we had to scrimp, and do without, in order to carry on at all.

My husband was one of the better farmers, a hard-worker and a good manager. Many were much worse off. Some left the farm, and went to a city to try and find work. My brother, Cyril, was among these. George Churchill could not make payments on his mortgage, and lost his farm to the loan company. He moved to a little place in Rama, and worked out at odd jobs. On the farm we always had something to eat. We crushed wheat for porridge, and it was good. I also roasted wheat in the oven to make a sort of coffee. We butchered a steer in late autumn when it was cold enough to keep frozen. When spring came, and the beef thawed, I canned it in sealers, often did one hundred and seventy-five quarts, or more. We grew a garden always, and I canned peas, beans, beets, and learned to dry corn, not waiting for it to be old and dry on the cob, but picked it young, ground it up after cooking, and dried it in the oven. It was a real treat when soaked, and creamed, equal to commercially canned corn, perhaps better.

On the farm, we had to be able to do almost everything. I mended my own shoes until coming to Victoria. One had to be a mechanic, a veterinarian – one of the cows had twin calves and both were coming the wrong way. She had been in labour for hours before we realized there must be something wrong. And we spent several more hours trying to turn the calf, and get it out. When at last we succeeded, to our astonishment, a second head appeared! She was a small young cow, and must have been in agony. Another cow was having great trouble. She was too small, or the calf too large. Charles was nearly exhausted with pulling when we decided to hitch a horse on to it. That [54] accomplished the purpose, but the cow was so badly injured that it took months for her to recover. When she did, we fattened her, and sold her for a cent a pound which was all they would offer for "canners and cutters", or "bologna bulls". Some people like bologna, but we never fancied it, knowing it is made of old bulls. We would rather do without meat than eat that.

On my sewing machine, I mended grain bags, patched binder canvases (a hard job), patched overalls, and other clothes until one could scarcely tell clothes from patches. The sewing machine was one Mother brought from England, a Singer hand-machine. Although we sold it when we left Saskatchewan, we were able to find its twin in the auction rooms here. I wish there was a date on it; but I know it is at least ninety-four years old, and may be more. It is hard for me to think that it is not the same machine as it is identical. It still sews perfectly. I served as barber for my husband for nearly fifty years as well as trimming hair for brothers, sisters, teachers, and others. There were no real barbers within reach. My husband taught me how to do it, and I carried on after coming to Victoria, and was able to use electric clippers. I worked with my husband at many and varied jobs about the farm, too many to mention here. We loved being together, and working together, and anyway I was always happier in the outdoors than doing housework.

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