Prairie Grass

by Joan Soggie

  With Catherine gone and the farm James’, those connections could no longer be taken for granted. One afternoon he took the Co-op calendar and, using a birthday book Catherine had kept, carefully marked in all the family’s birthdays. After that he never missed calling to wish each one a happy birthday. Those phone calls led to others, and his grandchildren’s affection, formerly so entwined with their love for Catherine, anchored on him.

  But how to maintain a connection with the land? Until this past year, it had been his habit to drive the country roads for miles around. He remembered who farmed every acre, kept track of the rainfall and estimated the hay-crop of every slough bottom in the municipality.

  Now that he had to rely on someone else to take him wherever he wanted to go, that was impossible.

  This fine spring day, Jo arrived at the Retirement Home just after lunch and suggested a drive in the country to check on the progress of seeding and to look over the spring calves.

  “I’ll be your chauffeur. You just tell me where to go.”

  “Let’s drive to the farm. Check the crops. And the calves.”

  Massive fields greening with young crops drifted by on each side of the road, monotonous in their sameness. Eric shifted in his seat, turned towards Jo and spoke again in a voice that sounded crabby, almost petulant. “How can a farmer know his land when he’s cultivating half the country?”

  He waved at the baby canola leaves poking up through the dirt in the field on their right.

  “Look at that, not a weed in sight, a nice even crop, but it costs a fortune to grow. First, you need to buy the seed, which only gives you the right to grow it one season, you can’t save any from your own crop to grow next year. And then you gotta buy the right fertilizer to force it to grow and herbicides to kill the volunteer wheat, but not your canola crop. And with all the land they farm, they haven’t time to get off of their tractors.”

  A pickup truck pulled out around them and passed with a friendly wave from the driver. Jo returned the wave, asking “Wasn’t that the Floden boy, Dad?”

  “Mmhm. Harold’s grandson. Took over the old place two years ago. Heard a real estate agent was out there last winter to see him, offering a good price. Didn’t say who the buyer was, but there’s been an Alberta land agent sniffing around. He told her he wasn’t interested in selling right now.”

  They were moving along the road at less than 30 mph, the maximum speed, according to Eric, for crop-watching, but now he spoke sharply. “Slow down!”

  Jo complied, asking “What is it, Dad?”

  “Stop!” he ordered, excitement in his voice. “Back up!”

  He pointed to an object a short distance off the road, just visible in the stubble field. “Look at that. Is it one of those little owls? I haven’t seen one in years!”

  “A burrowing owl? I’ve never seen one in the wild.”

  Jo pulled off the road and got out. She scrambled through the ditch and walked into the field, returned with the object in her hand. “Just a beer can.”

  Eric snorted, and reverted to studying the fields in silence as they drove the remaining miles out to the farm. He looked towards the hills and remembered the sweetness of all the springs he had seen.

  “Used to be, I’d see those little owls popping up every now and then out in the pasture.”

  “Well, that’s probably why we don’t see many of them anymore, Dad. There isn’t much of that original pasture left. With all the land being worked every year, there are only a few places left where a burrowing owl can find a burrow.”

  “Everything is changing, it seems,” he said. “Do you know, I haven’t even heard a meadowlark this spring. Wonder if it’s my ears.”

  “I haven’t heard many either. It seems there aren’t as many around as there used to be,” Jo agreed. “I brought a tape recording of birdsongs to school one day and asked my grade threes to identify them. Most of the kids could pick out the sound of a crow, but not one of them knew what a meadowlark sounded like. That was my favourite bird when I was a kid.”

  “They need grassland for their nests, too.” His memory went back to a sunny morning long ago and a small boy crawling through the grass. A wave of sadness washed over him. What was the use of all this fancy machinery and smart farming methods if the end result was a world without meadowlark songs?

  Jo drove past the farmyard. “They’ll all be at work now, no point in stopping at the house.”

  The road became a trail that followed the fence-line to the pasture below the hills. Years ago, Eric recalled, it had been made by his riding horse and the horse-drawn hay wagon. Now the trail was marked by the boys’ quads and their pickup trucks. But the purpose was the same. To check on the cattle, see the condition of the pasture, make sure their fence was intact.

  A group of white-faced cows grazed along the fence-line beside the dam. The willows gleamed golden-green with new leaves. I planted those willows over fifty years ago. And we built that dam a few years before that.

  “Stop over there.” He pointed to a low hill overlooking the dam. From there, they had a good view of the cattle and the big hills, the western hills that had always meant home to him. Jo lowered her window and he did the same. She reached into the back seat for the thermos and poured them each a cup of coffee, then opened a tin of cookies.

  The calves frolicked around their mothers. Eric counted them, noting how much the herd had increased. Calving season was over for another year. A few of the older calves came up to the fence near the car and stared at them with serious brown eyes. A cool breeze carried the scent of wolf willow. The hills sprawled in the sunshine, light and shadow accentuating their sinuous curves, like huge prehistoric beasts warming themselves.

  “Those hills haven’t changed much since the first time I saw them, nearly ninety years ago,” he remarked. “Seems funny, with all the changes to the country, they should stay the same.”

  “Did you hear that, Dad?” Jo straightened up suddenly and looked out the side window. “A meadowlark! Singing right over there, on that fencepost. Can you hear him?”

  “Yes, I hear him,” lied Eric. He smiled.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  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

  Gabby (2012)

  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.<
br />
  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.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Easter daisy (Hooker’s Townsendia) A dwarf plant, woody stem, taproot, lance-shaped grey-green leaves. White ray flower clusters close to the ground. Grows on dry embankments, eroded slopes, dry hilltops. Earliest flowering plant. Rarity status, threatened. Gabriella’s Prairie Notes

  Eric (2012)

  “Mr. Tollerud? Eric? Are you awake?”

  Eric opens his eyes, squinting at the face floating above him. Long dark hair brushes his cheek as she bends over him, concerned hazel eyes meet his gaze. A young face, a girl’s face. He struggles to orient himself. Where is he? Who is this person?

  His mind gropes for something solid and real, but his surroundings remain elusive, a flimsy, uncertain world.

  Vague images swim through his brain. Then light and shadow resolve themselves and he remembers. The Home. What his daughters call the Special Care Unit. His friend. The girl Gabriella. His lips frame her name.

  “That’s right, Mr. Tollerud. Gabriella. I want to tell you I’ve been to your old farm. Jo took me to the hills, we walked around in the pasture a bit. I saw the places you told me about.”

  Eric looks at her but cannot respond.

  Gabby turns to speak to the nurse standing inside the door. “He seems pretty tired. I won’t stay long. I will just sit here beside him and read the story I promised him.”

  Eric stretches out his hand to touch her arm. Her strong warm fingers close around his. His mind feels clearer now, his eyes take in the room. Gabriella must not leave until he makes sure she understands. It is important that she understand – what? That life is short? That all life is connected? That nothing is ever over?

  Eric’s chin sinks to his chest. His head is heavy, his eyes full of sleep.

  Gabby (2012)

  I sat beside Mr. Tollerud’s bed. His hand still held one of mine as with the other I slid my IPad from my shoulder bag, opened it, and began reading. I didn’t explain this was a story of the land and the people who had lived there. If he could hear me and understand anything, he would understand that.

  His grip tightened but his breathing slowed and relaxed. I think he liked what he heard.

  Every square foot of native prairie is home to dozens, maybe hundreds, of life forms.

  Prairie grass is not just grass. It includes all the plant life that has adapted over thousands of years to the many varied microclimates created by sun and wind, heat and cold, drought and flood, throughout the hills and valleys and flatland that make up the northern plains. Prairie grass is made up of grasses like blue grama and needle-and-thread. It also consists of forbs like pussy-foot and pasture sage. It includes flowering plants like golden bean and scarlet mallow. Its survival is inter-reliant upon the many varieties of lichens and fungi and mysterious multitudinous bacteria and tiny organisms that inhabit the soil, transforming death into life.

  Seeds and roots might lie dormant for years. Then a spring rain or an autumn fire will awaken them into an explosion of life. Some species grow everywhere and are staples upon which animals large and small depend. Others are so rare that botanists celebrate when they find one.

  All link together in a seamless eternal web. The crocus cannot bloom without the complex community nourishing its roots. The monarch butterfly’s caterpillars must feed on milkweed to make their epic journey south. The meadowlark, the prairie curlew, the burrowing owl, the prairie falcon, each nests only in its special place. The sharp tailed grouse needs its lek, its own private dancing ground. Coyotes feed on gophers and voles, which in turn feed on the grass. The land provides for all of them.

  The balance is stable and resilient only so long as the web remains unbroken. If sloughs are drained and planted, mallards and pintails have no home. If coyotes are poisoned, deer-mice and voles over-run the land. If pesticides kill all the mosquitoes, dragonflies and bees die too, and cliff swallows go hungry. If the diversity of the prairie is replaced with acres of canola or wheat, a few creatures will adapt and even thrive, but the web has been shattered.

  There are no monocultures in nature.

  Not in the soil, not among the plants, not in the varied insect and bird and mammalian life of the land. Not in human life, either.

  In ancient times, trading networks crisscrossed the land. The Mandan village people traded their corn and tobacco for the pemmican and the robes provided by the buffalo hunters. The Cree adapted ceremonies from other tribes and made them their own.

  When European traders arrived, they put on leather moccasins when their own boots wore out, accepted shelter in teepees with their hosts, met girls who became their companions, their lovers and their helpers. And their children grew up belonging completely to this big sky and wide land. Some of them used Cree nouns and French verbs and English muskets.

  There are no monocultures in nature. Nor in prairie grass.

  I continued reading to the end, telling about the early Indigenous people and the middle people, the Metis, and the newcomers. I told a brief story of the Laprairies and the Tolleruds, how they had changed the land and how the land had changed them.

  His grip tightened and relaxed, his breathing slowed. I was not aware of when exactly it stopped.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Prairie Lily, western red lily. Grows in moist meadows across the prairies. Single upright stem, carrying one to six flowers. Flaming orange-red blossoms. Bulbs are edible. A protected species. Gabriella’s Prairie Notes

  Jean-Jacques (1915)

  The visit was not going at all the way he had expected. Jean-Jacques decided to try another approach.

  “Your blessed mama must look down from heaven and weep to see how you boys live.”

  His sons glared at him across the bottle-strewn table

  “You dare speak of our mother?” growled Jacques, “You, who could not wait two years before you brought another woman into your bed?” Jacques’ voice broke.

  “And not some widow-woman to share your old age … but a girl as young as our own mother was when you first marrie
d her. You, an old man, older than her father.”

  Jean-Jacques stared in silence at the two glowering men. What had they to complain of? They could have married, too, if they wanted to. He had even imagined at one time that Pierre fancied young Marie himself, and he had waited a whole season before speaking. When his son had made no move, he, Jean-Jacques, approached the girl’s parents on his own behalf.

  Of course, she might have turned him down, or her mother might have protested he was too old, but that possibility had barely crossed his mind. Once he made up his mind to marry again, it seemed inevitable she should agree. After all, his house was as good a dwelling as theirs, and her parents knew him by reputation as a hardworking but easy-tempered man who provided well for his own. She looked so much like his first beloved Marie had when she was young, he had loved her from the first moment he set eyes on her. That her name should be the same seemed a sacred blessing. “Marie” rolled off his lips with such sweet sadness, bringing memories and comfort at one and the same time. It honoured his first wife, he believed, that her name echoed through the house and in his thoughts.

  So why should these great hulking sons of his carry this foolish grudge that he had taken another wife when their mother, his first dear Marie, had been carried off by a lingering winter cough? No one else, least of all his young wife, complained to him. He was still a strong, virile man. Three children in the past six years proved that.