A Prairie as Wide as the Sea

by Sarah Ellis

  Please be mine.

  Think you’re swell.

  Else I’ll push you.

  Down the well.

  There was one lovey-dovey one that said “From Derek.” At first I was astonished. Then I realized Elizabeth had done it as a joke.

  When I got home Mother told me a story about my valentines when I was three years old. I got valentines in the mail but the flu epidemic was on and all the mail had to be put in the oven to sterilize it, so any germs would be killed. And the oven was too hot and my valentines burnt up. Mother said I cried and cried. But I don’t remember this.

  February 16

  Nostrils

  This might be a short write. I’m minding the twins whilst Mother is at Homemaker’s Club. They are playing cats and dogs.

  I nearly got kept in at school today. Thank goodness I didn’t. I got in trouble with Miss Hutchinson because I was showing Elizabeth about smelling through one nostril and then the other. If you sniff something through your right nostril it usually smells better than if you sniff it through your left nostril. I was using my pencil. Left nostril it smelled okay, but right nostril it smelled terribly nice, all cedar.

  Elizabeth tried it and it worked for her too. But then Nellie asked what we were doing and then she tried it but her left nostril did a kind of whistle, which gave us all the giggles. Then Miss Hutchinson came over and asked were we doing our spelling drill and of course we weren’t. Then Nellie said we were smelling through our nostrils. Then Miss Hutchinson asked who started it so I confessed. She said I had to stay in after school and write lines.

  After school Miss Hutchinson asked me what I thought I should write. I tried to make it as short as possible so I said, “I will not practise smelling through my nostrils in school.” She was sort of smiling and told me to go ahead.

  But I only wrote it three times before she started to giggle. Then she messed my hair and said, “What they don’t teach you in normal school.” Then she told me to go home.

  On the way out, though, she said that because it was after school we could try it one more time. Then she took a little bottle of perfume out of her handbag and dabbed some on my wrist. Then she tried sniffing. But it didn’t work for her. Now I smell like Miss Hutchinson. I like it.

  Oh-oh. I don’t hear any cats or dogs. It is usually bad news when the twins are quiet.

  February 17

  The Twins Get Another Idea

  It was bad news. They had taken all the coal out of the coal pail and spread it all around the kitchen and Harry was sitting with the coal scuttle over his head.

  I think when they play cats and dogs they stop being human and turn into animals.

  February 24

  The Unmentionable

  William and Dad have a new job. It isn’t very nice. At night they go and shovel out outhouses. They move the outhouse then they shovel out the … I’ve stopped for a minute because I can’t write that word down. Even though this diary is absolutely and totally and completely private it would still be vulgar. Mother says that the use of vulgar words is the mark of an impoverished mind. What I don’t understand is that everybody knows the words and doesn’t everybody use them inside their heads? Is it possible to be vulgar on the inside and not vulgar on the outside? Maybe not everybody uses them inside their heads. Probably Nyla Muir doesn’t. But it is hard not to think of this word, especially as it goes so well with “shovel.”

  That was a digression.

  Then they shovel out the contents of the hole and put it on a sledge and take it out of town to the dumping ground. (They call the sledge a stone boat here. Another funny Canadian word.) Dad is funny about it. He calls the outhouses the Houses of Parliament and the sledge his coach and four. He also says, “The work is dirty but the money is clean.” But William is quiet and a bit miserable looking. I think he must hate it because he is the cleanest boy I know. Fingernails and that.

  I just looked at my own fingernails. They are not models of good grooming.

  February 26

  Check and Mate

  Mr. Ambrose is teaching William to play chess. He tried to teach me but I can’t be bothered. Here’s what you have to think like when you play chess:

  “If I do this then he might do that and then I could do this. But what if he doesn’t do that?” By the second “he might, so I could” I find myself thinking about lunch, or why my big toe is so itchy.

  But William seems to love it. He gets this dreamy look on his face and he isn’t blinking so much.

  March 1

  No Skates

  March. Three days until my birthday. In this family our birthdays are all bunched up in the spring. (Except March isn’t spring in Saskatchewan, it is still blinking cold.) I’m first. Then the twins on April 2nd. Then William at the end of April. I like having my birthday in a month that is a word.

  Mother and Dad say there is no money for birthday presents this year. There isn’t any work for Dad at the blacksmith’s. And we only have Mr. Ambrose staying in the hotel. Dad says it will be better soon because there will be work for him, and William will have finished paying off Uncle Alf’s debts. Mother says there is a chance that the Chautauqua talent will board with us when they come in June. Mother says that would really put us on our feet. But until we’re on our feet, no birthday presents. I was hoping for skates.

  I wonder why we’re not like the man who came to Canada with 27 cents and ended up with 200 cows. Or even like the family with the fat baby with a carrot as big as his head. Dad has all those things they said in the book: health, industry and good habits. So do William and Mother. Uncle Alf didn’t make a go of it, but I guess he didn’t have good habits or industry. Maybe it is just that we haven’t been here a year yet. Dad says our ship is bound to come in any day now. When he says that Mother flicks him on the skull and says, “And where is a ship supposed to dock in Saskatchewan?”

  But then she says to count our blessings because at least we’re not hungry and we have a roof over our heads. When she says that I think of walking around with this little roof over my head, like an umbrella.

  When I imagine skates I think I wouldn’t mind being a bit hungry.

  March 2

  A Good Idea

  Dad says that he has been giving birthdays another thought and we can have anything we want as long as it doesn’t cost money. Harry said did he mean anything? Dad said anything that wouldn’t land us in jail or in the hospital.

  A brilliant idea has come to me:

  It doesn’t cost anything.

  It is not against the law.

  It is not dangerous.

  I’m going to tell William and the twins. I hope the twins can keep a secret.

  I tried folding my hair up but it didn’t look short. It just looked folded.

  March 3

  Enter the Flapper

  I am a new person. I am twelve years old and …

  I HAVE A BOB!

  I love it. The air blows around my neck and ears. I can do anything I want, even stand on my head, and no hair gets in my eyes. My head feels lighter than a hot-air balloon. The sun shone in my ears and I felt like it was shining into my brain.

  I gave all my hair ribbons to Gladys. She wore three at the same time and said she felt like it was her birthday.

  Mrs. Muller did it. I went over yesterday and I told her about the birthday treat and the rules and she agreed to do it. She put me on a chair in the kitchen and snipped away. The sound of scissors cutting into hair is a delicious sound. When I saw my hair falling to the floor I did get a bit scared. What if it was a mistake? But it wasn’t. When I look in the mirror I almost don’t know myself.

  When I got home I walked into the kitchen. Mother was washing up and William and the twins were there. The twins got big eyes and Harry nearly said something but Gladys put her hand over his mouth. When Mother turned around she screamed. (Not a really loud scream – more like “Eeeeek.”) And I said, right quick, that it was my birthday treat. And William said,
“It didn’t cost anything.” And Gladys said, “It’s not a crime.” And Harry said, “It’s not bad for you.” Then Mother started to laugh and she had to dry her eyes on her apron. Then she came over and spun me around a few times and then she knocked all our heads together and said we were cheeky monkeys.

  When Dad came home he said that I looked so grown up that he felt like an old man. Then he walked around all stooped over and talking in a quavery voice about his flapper daughter.

  I can’t wait for tomorrow to show everyone at school.

  Mother made a scrumptious chocolate cake. It had candles. I made a wish. Does it spoil your wish if you tell it to your diary? Probably.

  March 4

  Everybody likes my hair. Except Nyla who is pretending she hasn’t noticed.

  March 7

  Coming Event

  Elizabeth told me that there is going to be a box social at the school on Saturday. Here’s what it is: All the ladies and girls make a lunch for two and they put them in boxes. They decorate the boxes. Then all the men come to an auction where the box lunches are auctioned off. Whatever lunch box you buy, you get to have lunch with that lady. But nobody is supposed to know who made which box. The money is to buy a piano for the school. I asked Mother if I could make a box lunch and she said it sounded daft but yes I could. I looked in the United Farm Women Cookbook for ideas and I am going to make jumbles biscuits and black-eyed Susan sandwiches. For the sandwiches you cut a piece of brown bread in a circle. Then you spread it with grated cheese with a little butter mixed in. Then you cut a smaller piece of white bread into a doughnut shape and put it on top. Then you fill the hole with raisins. You stick them into the cheese. I think they will look swell.

  March 11

  Elizabeth came over this afternoon after school and we made our boxes for the box social. Elizabeth made paper flowers for hers. I had some dark blue paper from a roll of cotton batting so I got the idea to decorate mine like the sky, with yellow suns and moons and stars on blue. They look very fine.

  March 12

  Mortified

  I am mortified. It is all the fault of that dratted box social.

  It started out well. I made my jumbles and my black-eyed Susan sandwiches and they turned out fine.

  But I rue the day, the hour and the minute I got the idea to decorate my box like the sky.

  My box was the third to be auctioned. The first fetched ten cents. It was made by Mrs. Shepherd and bought by Mr. Quigley. The second fetched seventeen cents. It was made by Nyla, and her Dad bought it. Then mine. All the single fellows started bidding and they went daft. They wouldn’t stop. Everyone started whooping and stamping their feet. Elizabeth grabbed my hand and nearly squeezed it to death. I couldn’t figure it out. Finally the auction man said, “Going once, going twice, SOLD, to Lars Thorson for ten dollars.” Ten dollars! Then Mr. Thorson went up to get the lunch and the auction man said, “A lovely lunch made by young Ivy Weatherall.” And Mr. Thorson stopped dead in his tracks, stunned. He looked like he had been hit by a baseball bat. And everybody laughed.

  Later another box with stars came up for auction. And the auction man said how it was a coincidence, another starry box. And everyone laughed again. And then there was the bidding and we found out it was Miss Hutchinson’s box.

  And finally I understood. All the bachelors must have found out somehow that Miss Hutchinson’s box was going to have stars on it and they are all sweet on her. So they thought my box was hers. I wanted to die or disappear. But I couldn’t. I had to have lunch with Mr. Thorson.

  He was very nice and asked me about school and said he liked the sandwiches. But it was MORTIFYING. He’s a grown-up man. Some of the lads came by and ribbed him. There was a dance after but I said I didn’t feel well and I came home. I think I’ll stay here forever.

  March 13

  Yesterday is Gone

  I am going to draw a veil over the box social. I thought about tearing out that page in the diary so I will never read about it by mistake again, but I don’t want to spoil the book.

  Disappeared, erased, gone, vanished. That’s all the words I know for that.

  Today in church it was the story of the Prodigal Son. Afterwards Elizabeth was sad because she said it sounded just like her family except with a different ending. If Gerhard came home, Mr. Muller wouldn’t kill the fatted calf for him. Gerhard is playing with a band in Calgary now, in a big hotel. He writes, but Mr. Muller doesn’t read the letters.

  March 15

  Springtime in Saskatchewan

  Today Miss Hutchinson has announced a contest. She said that we should write a descriptive piece about spring. The prize is going to be a little carved windmill. Mr. Gilmour made it. It is very cunning and I would like to win it.

  Not much sign of spring. It is still blinking cold and the ground is frozen solid but Miss Hutch-inson says we live in hope and console ourselves with literature. She said we had to use a lot of descriptive words. Today we got to work on our pieces. Here’s mine:

  The bright purple crocuses

  are blooming merrily in the pasture.

  The merry musical meadowlark

  sings her lovely song to the azure welkin.

  The curious winsome gopher wakes up

  from his long winter’s sleep

  and pops up his little furry head.

  Spring has come to Saskatchewan.

  Welkin means sky. I found it in a poem in our reader. It is a very poetic word. I’ll bet it gets me extra points.

  Abel Butt showed me his piece. It is called “Gumbo.” (Gumbo is Canadian for mud.) It talked about pigweed and ragweed and stinkweed and how the road has turned to greasy gumbo. He said that the crows cawing sounded like Mr. Willis who sits in front of the livery stable, coughing before he spits. He said that you know it is spring when Nyla Muir finally takes off her long underwear.

  I don’t think Abel will win because he doesn’t have many descriptive words. (But it is true about Mr. Willis.)

  March 16

  Another Use for the Eaton’s Catalogue

  Today Elizabeth and I played a game she invented, called point. You open to a page in the catalogue and then you say 1, 2, 3 and then you both point to your favourite thing. Then I taught her pinbook. You hold a pin in one hand and you flip through the catalogue with the other and you stab something. Then you have to make up a story about the thing that you stabbed. One trick is to flip quickly through the farm implements sections because there aren’t that many stories you can make up about a cream separator. But today Elizabeth got a really good one, a size 44 Stylish Stout Figure corset with what the catalogue called coiled comfort boning. She made up a story about a really fat lady called the Roly Poly Lady and she got me laughing so hard I snorted my milk up my nose.

  Another good thing about Canada: Elizabeth.

  Nyla is acting all know-it-all about the spring description contest. Miss Hutchinson announces the winner tomorrow.

  March 17

  Nyla Triumphs

  Nyla won the contest. Rats. It pains me to say this but her piece was very clever. It was a poem and it was like a famous poem that is in our reader, “I must go down to the sea again,” except it was, “I must go down to the farm again.” She acted all surprised and humble. Nyla acting humble is a truly horrid sight.

  March 18

  Abel Sad

  Something is wrong with Abel. Today at recess the boys were practising walking on their hands and Abel didn’t even want to try. Maybe he is sad that he didn’t win the poetry contest. But usually he is a very bounce-back kind of person.

  March 20

  Warning

  If you are reading this diary then you are a lowlife. But if you read this part you are worse. You deserve to crawl on your belly like a worm. If you read this may your sorrows be long and your days short, may your stewpot never be full and your tankard always empty. This is the curse of the fairies that Grandad taught me. (As student janitor I have another Canadian bit to add: Ma
y your coal scuttle always be empty and your ashpan always full.)

  The secret is that Nyla Muir copied her toffee-nosed prize-winning poem. Here’s how I found out: On Friday Harry was in the hayloft of the school barn and he brought home some papers from there. They have old Leaders piled up there. Last night I was sitting reading one and THERE IT WAS. “I must go down to the farm again.” It is by some fourteen-year-old in Grenfell, Saskatchewan. Word for word!

  Nyla Muir is a liar and a sneak and a … what’s that word for poem-copyer? Polygamist? (What good is a dictionary if you don’t know the word to begin with?)

  I have two questions:

  1. What should I do?

  2. What was Nyla doing in the hayloft of the school barn?

  March 21

  Brain Rack

  I told Elizabeth. I had to. Keeping a secret like that to yourself is like holding your breath. You have to breathe out or you would die or burst. We can’t tell Miss Hutchinson because that would be telling. But it is NOT FAIR if Nyla gets to keep that nice windmill and all the glory.

  Today I stared at the back of her head, beaming the words “I know what you did” at her. But she didn’t notice.

  I am racking my brains thinking what to do.

  P.S. This is NOT just because I want to win the prize myself, even though Elizabeth says I should have because of my many descriptive words. This is about justice.

  March 25

  Injustice