I just came back from a family reunion in Hodgeville Saskatchewan – population 150ish. One day my Uncle Felix and Aunt Hilda began telling stories about grandma and grandpa (that’s my great grandparents) who homesteaded there in the 1920s.
If you’re never been to southern Saskatchewan then picture bald prairie. The only trees were planted by hand and carefully watered with buckets carried from the wells. And the trees were needed to protect the houses (no R2000) from the winter winds.
It was the Depression and they were poor. Aunt Hilda spoke about grandma holding blankets over the windows during hail storms to protect them from the hail. She remembers the kids all crying because they knew what hail meant – no food. As a mother, my heart clenched at the thought of listening to the hail and knowing it meant not enough food for my kids.
And having no backup. No social services. No food banks. No credit cards. Just hungry kids.
Then Uncle Felix started telling a story about one Christmas when there was no money. So little money that they thought they might lose the farm. And would have if grandma’s parents hadn’t loaned them the money to keep going.
In the weeks leading up to Christmas, grandpa wanted to make sure the kids (about seven at this point) all had gifts under the tree. With no money, he scrounged around town for scrap wood. He then stayed up late each night carving and building. The older girls got hope chests, the younger ones got toy kitchens (I still have my grandmother’s) and the boys got horse and wagons (Uncle Felix still has his).
The determination and love grandpa showed: not knowing if they were going to have a home and yet giving up sleep to give the children a good Christmas seems quietly heroic to me. No one is going to make a movie or write a book about grandpa. And I’m sure most prairie families have similar stories in their family history.
But it got me thinking about my life and my business. It’s easy to get scared about taking risks and trying new things. It’s easy to feel a sense of foreboding when I look at what’s happening with the economy.
And then I think about Aunt Hilda crying as grandma holds up a blanket to keep the hail out. I think of grandpa working late into the night with scrounged wood even as he wondered where they’d be living next summer.
Suddenly the things that seemed scary and overwhelming don’t look so bad. Suddenly I’m thinking if my family can go from wondering if they’ll have a home and food to hosting a family reunion with over 75 in attendance in less than a century, what can I do?
The next time I worry about taking a risk or wondering if I can succeed at something new, I’m going to think of grandma and grandpa out on the bald prairie. I come from hardy stock. I can succeed too.
Andrea J. Stenberg
