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We Speak The Same Language ?
Something Odd Aboat the Way It Comes “Oat” 

The conglomerate crew that arrived in Red Deer that November day in 1947 consisted of the three D’Cote, (pronounced Duh Cody ) cousins, of  Acadian decent who grew up in the Cajun culture of Southern Louisiana and had heavy traces of that dialect in their every-day speech, and Mr. and Mrs. Lynch who were from Mississippi, but definitely sounded more like Georgians, also some West Texans, whose drawl stressed many syllables, replacing short vowels with the long vowel sound, and some Okies, the only ones who sounded normal to me, recently from Mississippi and  West Texas, and Mr. Kendrick, who spoke like the man on the 6:00 O’clock news, in case we needed an interpreter. We managed to communicate and understand one another very well, but I hardly think we were justified in saying that Canadians “talked funny”; the quality that was most often attributed to us!. Mrs. Lynch, a refined Southern lady, was the most difficult to understand, and had the most trouble understanding our hosts. She would say something in her “Jahw-juh-like’ accent, and when she was asked to repeat herself, she would reply. “Ah beg yoah pahwdon?” On a very cold, but clear and sunny day, the first we had seen since we left Oklahoma, we were helping them get moved into their quarters, a really nice upstairs suite in a local tourist lodge, and the furnace had not started working. She had called to the landlord who was busy with maintenance nearby. Everything came to a standstill as we listened to the brief exchange between these two English-speaking parties as he finally helped her understand that the pilot had simply gone “oat”.

No one had to tell Dorothy what she told Toto; it was obvious to her they weren’t in Kansas any more. We could tell by looking out our window from the breakfast table that we were  not in “the States” anymore. We could see preschool youngsters, some just learning to walk, wearing skates as they played outside. They were called “bob skates”. and had pairs of blades, front and back, similar to the placement of the wheels on a pair of sidewalk roller skates. They need to learn sometime; why not early, and often? We could watch the milk-wagon, a horse-drawn sleigh in the configuration of the turn-of-the-century delivery trucks, make its way through the neighborhood. We could see across the highway to the road up “hospital hill”, steep and winding, and packed with snow and ice. One morning as Mom was getting breakfast ready, she began shouting, ”Runaway, runaway!”, and we all ran to the window in time to see the white horse, at a gallop, zig-zaging down the hill, trying to stay ahead of the sleigh. The milkman was doing all he could to handle the out-of-control situation. At the bottom of the hill, he had regained his composure and control of his rig. We never heard if there was any crying over spilled milk. If you didn’t have your milk delivered, you went to the creamery to purchase it, along with other dairy products. Mother was able to save the cream from our bottles of milk, and churn it into butter. By the time we brought the milk in off the doorstep, the freezing had pushed the solidified cream past the top of the bottle, taking the paper cap and lid with it. For bread and baked goods you went to the bakery, but do not expect to find any sliced bread; you took the loaf home and sliced it yourself. The grocery store had a meat counter with a showcase, and a butcher to provide cuts to order. Ours was not very friendly and would overcharge you if he could. Some fresh vegetables were in short supply, and a really good head of lettuce was rare. Some pricey items, like fresh fruit, we mostly did without, except for oranges: Mom thought we needed them, and they made a good “chaser” for our Cod liver oil. One thing that quickly became a favorite was the big metal can of Empress strawberry jam. It came out of the cupboard each time Mom arrived home with a fresh loaf of bread, still warm enough to melt butter. Dad liked a thick end cut. It didn’t matter to me; it was basically an excuse to get into the jam!

Some of the items I brought in my school lunch made me the target of mild envy. The two most coveted items were my peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich and my orange. One girl always had a moose-meat sandwich that was up for grabs, and I was curious and tempted, but the fact that she never had any takers had me leery, so I had to live with my curiosity. Many times I would share my orange after peeling it and separating the sections, depending upon how many there were around the table, I would usually have to give a section to be shared between two kids. They were large oranges, so it made for a generous morsel that seemed to be a real treat for the kids, and spared me the scrutiny of so many pairs of eyes had I eaten the whole thing myself. Mother had instructed me that the PB&J was to be eaten last, so I would be sure to give due diligence to the ham and cheese, so I usually had little appetite left and would eat the pbj simply because it was there, and it was sweet. I had no problem trading half for something that looked good, usually a homemade cookie or piece of cake or candy. That half would be divided and traded half again a little farther down the table. I think the lunch table was as much fun as the playground, and where real friends were made.

My second grade teacher was a special lady. She took a genuine interest in making sure that if I brought  any deficiencies or disparities with me from Texas, they would be addressed as a priority. And there was one. The class had been learning to tell time and were moving on by the time I arrived. When she learned this was something I could not do, she suggested that if I would be willing to give up my morning recess period, she would have me stay in on the “buddy system” and learn, since I had a wristwatch and couldn’t read it. I don’t know how she got a buddy to forfeit a playground period each day to teach the Texas kid the time of day, but when recess rolled around, she introduced us: my buddy was a Beverly! She scooted right into the desk bench beside me and asked where we should start. I assured her that beyond knowing the big hand from the little hand, I was completely in the dark. I had received a workbook with lots of blanks to fill in. She turned to the pages with lots of clock faces, and we were on our way. That Beverly was one smart kid, and a phenomenal teacher. She didn’t wear cowboy boots, but her freckles were awfully cute!

We arrived in Red Deer about two weeks before Thanksgiving and there was a lot of conversation being bandied about that someone should steal a pig for a big family-style dinner. Our three “resident chefs” were a playful lot and loved a good practical joke, but no one seemed to think that their joking would cross the line between “practical” and “criminal” and the three young men had no patronizing family around who would see the humor in a missing pig. Then suddenly, the rumor mill fell silent, except the order was given for everyone to show up at the Lynch’s place about noon on Thanksgiving day. The ladies began to suspect something, and knew a meal was involved, and wanted to contribute, but the word from the D’Cote boys was. “Just show up!” Mrs. Lynch said, “If it’s going to be at my house, I’m going to make my ambrosia!” Mom decided a few more pies couldn’t hurt, and the White Rose store had just received a generous stock of pecans with their Christmas nuts. They didn’t know what they were or how to pronounce them, so they had asked Mother. They would enjoy a pecan pie, and what is one more, while she was rolling dough anyway.

Finally the big day arrived for this American holiday. Canada had already celebrated in October. No one knew what to expect, but we all suspected that Mrs. Lynch had been made party to the plot. Our hostess greeted everyone upon their arrival and welcomed them to a truly sumptuous sight. Her dining room table looked like a set from a Cecil B. DeMille movie. There was the pig, in all its splendor, lying adorned in a bed of garnish, and grinning almost ear to ear with a bright red apple in its mouth! We may never know if the main course was purloined pork, or a purchased pig, but those who wanted to keep their conscience clear could opt for, and enjoy, the poultry, the ambrosia, and pecan pie!. My dad’s version was that they bought the pig from a local farmer, but where’s the fun in telling that?

Then there was the miniature cultural exchange between the aunt and my mother. The near-iconic feature of the Southern banquet, the pecan pie, would at least give the local natives an idea of why this species of nut was an American favorite, and let them start discarding the Carpathian walnut when they discover what the pecan can do for a home-made cinnamon roll, or a chewy chocolate “Turtle”. The Canadian offering would be an introduction to their national sport of ice hockey. The local arena was in a metal enclosure that looked as if it would serve in the summer months for storing hay. It was natural ice, so warm dress was essential to an enjoyable evening! My mom loved sports, so watching hockey every Thursday night was a natural acquisition. With the aunt, it was an addiction. She had been admitted to the hospital at one time and when Thursday rolled around, she demanded to be let out for that night's game, and won her case; she attended the game, helped cheer her team to victory, then went back to the hospital! That’s fanatical.

Below: This is Wes and me clowning on New Year's Day, 1948, in front of Mr. and Mrs. Lynch's place with a wine jug and a Canadian whiskey bottle, (lids tightly intact), one of the three Jeep pickups and the Dodge Power Wagon that were essential equipment for the Canadian contract.