LIFE IS SHORT
DRINK IN
THE ADVENTURE
While there’s a little of the adventurer to be found in us all, what constitutes adventure is different for all. It could be skydiving, dirt-bike racing,
mountain climbing, travelling to exotic destinations, or simply following a life pattern of pushing the envelope of safety in different experiences. Perhaps it’s
why I hike alone, why my brother hunts, hikes & guides others or why my husband raced & rides dirt bikes. It’s no surprise the itch for adventure struck my
th
paternal grandfather Fred & his brother Bernard, both circus performers travelling Sweden & parts of Europe in the latter 19 & early 20th centuries.
Grampa Fred (Frithiof in Swedish) was a high wire & trapeze artist & Uncle Bernard an acrobatic clown who were both drawn by stories of the “Old Wild
West” & immigrated to “America” to experience it themselves.
The “Old Wild West” they dreamed about was gone but the new frontier found north of the 49th parallel in Canada piqued their interest.
Following a circuitous route beginning in New York City, they purchased for about ten bucks each (a sizeable investment at the time) unbroken land 200 km
northeast of Edmonton at Owlseye, Alberta. Legend has it that settlers arriving at an un-named lake discovered they were not alone; a young first
nation man from the Kihiwin, frightened by the Caucasians he’d never before seen, dug a hole laterally under the grass into the side of the lake bed so he
could watch the newcomers unobserved; a single eye peaking over the edge. After settlers named him Owlseye, the name stuck both to the lake & the
tiny community where my grandparents lived when they could no longer work the land.
On her own separate adventure, my teenaged grandmother Theckla worked as a coffee shop barista in Brooklyn NY, where my treasured photo of her
in her workplace proves Starbucks could learn much about ambiance. Her adventure began when her Swedish immigrant parents who resided in New
York, succumbed to tuberculosis. She spent many difficult years in the care of violent, abusive & alcoholic foster parents before becoming of age &
marrying. Sadly tuberculosis again robbed her of her first husband while they lived on a Baltic Sea island but her strong spirit prevailed & she returned to
Brooklyn, met & married my grandfather & over time they made their way to an unblemished homestead on the shores of Snail Lake near Owlseye. I
measure my own life’s progress against Theckla whose strong will & spirit overcame much adversity in life.
I have stood with my father among the fallen logs that comprise his childhood home, where Teckla gave birth to her only child 97 years ago.
Standing in the rubble of your family’s history provides an ethereal connection with the past. I imagined myself toiling in Gramma’s shoes within the tiny 6 X
6 meter home, dug a meter deep into the ground to insulate from extreme winter cold, with log walls & simple straw thatch roofs to protect them; the only
heat source a double burner cook stove. The Canadian & World Encyclopaedia quotes “life was tough in those first years on the homestead.
Sometimes food was scarce. Winter clothing was hard to come by. They had no overshoes or winter boots so strips of gunny sack were rolled around
their feet and tied with binder twine. One winter there was a shortage of feed for the livestock. The horses were so hungry that they came and stood on
their hind legs and ate the straw thatch from the roof of the farmhouse.” My own mom grew up in the same area & spoke of her Russian immigrant family
of nine protecting their feet with sacks & twine. Simply surviving these conditions was a daily adventure.
Over time “palsy”, a Parkinson’s disease-like condition ravaged Grampa’s athletic body leaving him bed-ridden, necessitating regular “catching up
on chores” family trips to Owlseye. While Mom & Dad were busy with chores my brother (2 years senior) & I were left to our own devices…...rarely a
good thing. We “hunted” in thick woods with Dad’s 22g rifle; handcrafted to match a slight frame it was the perfect size for two skinny kids to “adventure”
with (!!!!) but we developed great respect for firearms & the power they wield. In the excitement of new-found accuracy I one day lined up on a sparrow
perched high in a tree. The successful shot pinged in my ears but my stomach rapidly dropped when I claimed the limp body in my hand; horrified as bird
lice fled the quickly cooling corpse onto my warm flesh. Sickened, I had taken a life.
Running rough on our own provided adventures children rarely experience. Today’s parents, including myself would be aghast at the thought of their
6, 7 or 8 yr olds lying invisible on their stomachs among the tall weeds, within arm’s reach of the tracks, waiting silently for the 3 o’clock train to thunder by
& crush the pennies, can’s & rocks my brother & I lined up on the top edge of the track. No amusement park ride can ever top our exhilaration as the
ground trembled violently beneath us; the train cars towered over our young bodies, swaying with a cacophony of sound; the creaks & groans of wood-slatwalled rail cars, brakes & joints between cars squealing & the wind alternately flattening then whipping our hair wildly in the wake of the train’s passing.
We’d gather up our crushed treasures into lidded jars & secret our trophy’s back home to Lethbridge.
With the great good fortune of viewing my family’s history through this portal in time, I am struck by changes around us but realize that one gift
comes with passage of time; our ability to increasingly place our life adventures into perspective. Experiences that once shocked or embarrassed us,
become stories told with relish while laughing heartily & provide personal pride that we surpassed the challenge of that day.
We’ve heard people relate “after-life” or “near-death” experiences where a “bright white light” beckoned them; who knows what to think about the
claims. Recently I had a “didn’t know what hit her” experience. Camping out of cell range in May, at any time over a 3 day period I could have dropped
dead in front of my family from bubble-sized blood clots which now carpet both lungs. Ecstatic to be here whining about it all, I will be just fine but that
particular adventure changed my perspective & pointed out how much I love my life, my husband, our sons & close friends & family. I don’t need to slow
down. I need to do things I’ve always meant to do; simple goals & accomplishments that bring me joy; like staining the fence, planting the vines, writing
a book or simply taking Dad for walks in his wheelchair so I can “shake his guts out” as he complains loudly while grinning with delight. And I’m
laughing heartily as I look forward to the future when the vines are full & green & reaching for their own goals.
Till next month we wish you happy safe driving.
Beverly Kaltenbruner