again as smooth as glass overnight. All we had to do was stand on the ice, raise our coattails over our heads, and fly across the steady. Another joyful activity was going scittering (sliding on the ice). I don’t know where that name came from, but that was what we called it. The trick was to run fast until you reached the patch of ice, then glide across it, getting as much distance as possible.
“Whee!” I squealed with glee as my sealskin boots slid effortlessly across the pond.
In the dead of winter it was usually too cold to snow. However, once March came the temperature warmed up enough to snow, and snow it did! Mounds of dense windblown snow created ideal conditions for digging snow houses and huge tunnels big enough to crawl through. We made playhouses with little shelves for our pieces of broken dishes.
Heavy snow was good for snowball fights, but they weren’t always fun because Sammy made the snowballs so hard it was like getting hit with a rock. Fluffy snow was good for making snow angels and especially fun for jumping into. We leaped from trees, from the cabin, from the scaffold — anywhere we could get some height.
We loved to go out in a snowstorm. And there were many times when we couldn’t see our hands in front of our faces. I’d get so involved in playing that I didn’t notice my fingers were freezing. After playing outdoors for hours, I’d run into the house with my skin tingling from the cold. As soon as I got inside, my fingers started thawing out and the pain was excruciating.
One of my favourite activities was ice fishing, not only for the lovely fresh smelts we would catch for supper but for the sheer joy of it. And we didn’t have to go far — just down to the steady.
“Pass me fish hook, Daddy,” I said. “Will ya bait it fer me?”
“Sammy’ll put it on fer ya.”
“Will ya, Sammy?”
“Oh, Jos, yer a bother,” he said, grabbing my hook and sticking a piece of salt pork on it.
“I wonder who’ll catch de firs one,” Marcie said.
“Betchya I will,” Sally piped up, still struggling to bait her hook.
“No siree!” I cried, never wanting to be left out. “I’m gonna catch de firs one.”
“I hope we catch some trout or a salmon or two,” Sammy interjected.
“Yeh,” I agreed. “I love salmon.”
The dead silence of the forest was interrupted by the tiny sounds of birds. I stood there, a little awed, absorbing the majesty of limitless forest. Suddenly, my dreamlike trance was broken. Chop, chop, chop went the axes. Snow and ice flew from the blades as Daddy and Sammy cut each of us a hole. I watched as the hole got bigger and deeper. Finally, gurgling water surged through and spilled onto the ice.
“Oh, goodie!” I shouted. “Can I have dat one, Daddy?”
“Awright, Jimmy. Ya can have dis one.”
I skimmed the slob (ice chips) away and dropped my hook into the hole. “I’m gonna catch de firs one I bet.”
In the late afternoon it got colder, and we gathered up our smelts. They glistened in the sunlight. We sauntered home, tired but happy. Mommy cleaned the smelts and started cooking some for supper. There were so many and they smelled so good fried in my mother’s special way. We could hardly wait for suppertime.
“Mmm, dey’s some good, hey, Sally?” I said, stuffing the fish into my mouth, bones and all.
Another source of food in the spring was snowbirds. They were so cute that it seemed a crime to kill them. But at that time they were food for us. To catch them, Daddy got an old window frame or made one from sticks tied together and filled it with window screen or mesh. Sometimes he strung it with line as he did his rackets. Then we got a stick and fastened a long piece of string to it, propped up the screen with a stick, and placed breadcrumbs under the screen. Holding on to the string, we hid and waited for the little birds to come for the food. As soon as we had a lot of birds underneath pecking at the crumbs, we pulled the stick and wham! They were trapped. I don’t ever remember killing them, but I do recall trying to pick the feathers off. It wasn’t easy because they were so small. But they were delicious.
I turned seven in January 1950. One warm March day I got the surprise of my life.
“Do ya want ta come wit me tomarra marnin, Jimmy?” Daddy asked suddenly. “I’m jus goin in de neck path ta haul out a load a wood.”
I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. “Yeh, yeh, Daddy,” I babbled. “Can we have a mug-up?”
“Sure, Jimmy. I’ll bring us a mug-up.”
I was so happy that I could hardly sleep. The next morning I woke up early to find Daddy already lashing the horn junks onto the komatik. Dressing quickly, I hauled on the dickie Mommy had made for me. She was busy getting the grub bag ready, and I was tempted to look inside, but I knew better than to get in her way. I ran outdoors, back inside, then back outside again, beside myself with excitement.
“Stop runnin in an out, Jos!” Mommy yelled. “The bloody youngsters is always runnin in and out.”
“But, Mommy, I’m so happy.”
Daddy was harnessing the dogs, attaching the traces to the bridle and taking the box off the komatik. He didn’t use it when he was hauling wood; it would be in the way. Finally, we were ready to go.
“Jump on, Jimmy, an hold on tight, cuz de dogs is gonna go fast,” he said.
I leaped onto the komatik and gripped the bars as tightly as I could.
“Is ya all sought?” Daddy asked.
“Yeh!” I cried over the yelping dogs.
He lifted the chain from the runner, and we were off. The dogs galloped at full speed over the path, and the komatik slid effortlessly through the newly fallen snow.
“Auch! Auch! Auch!” Daddy yelled in quick succession, and the dogs turned right.
When we came to a fork in the path, Daddy shouted, “Edder! Edder! Edder!” And the dogs turned left.
The huskies raced at a full run for a few minutes, then slowed to a comfortable trot. The path was familiar to them, so they knew where they were going. It was only when they reached a fork that Daddy had to shout directions. The leader, usually a female, knew where to go with very little guidance.
I looked to see if all the traces were taut, which meant that every dog was doing its share of the work. Pulling the komatik was serious business, and if one trace was consistently slack, it meant that a dog might be lazy, which wasn’t acceptable. All the dogs were all pulling with great enthusiasm, tails curled over their backs. That meant this was an easy run. On the way back they would be pulling a full load of wood and working harder, so their tails would be down.
When we reached the woodpile that Daddy had cut and stacked beside the path, I jumped off and tried to help him put the wood into the wood horse.
“Tis too hard fer ya,
