By Margaret Norquay
In 1949, Margaret Norquay moved along with her new husband, a minister with the United Church of Canada, to Mayerthorpe, in northern Alberta, a village within the centre of what used to be in these days a pioneer hinterland. extensive Is the way in which is a set of news from their seven years there. instructed with affection and mild humour, the tales disguise the demanding situations, heartaches, and delights of a tender neighborhood and a minister and his spouse in a truly new marriage. issues comprise the event of orphan childrens despatched to paintings on Western farms, manoeuvring for a restroom downtown for farmers’ other halves wanting a spot to alter their infants whereas their husbands did company, facing the RCMP over liquor present in the church basement, and the generosity of spirit proven by means of the neighborhood to the Norquays. during the ebook, Margaret Norquay’s indomitable spirit and resolution are glaring and illustrate her passionate trust in making optimistic switch and having enjoyable whereas doing it.
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Extra resources for Broad Is the Way: Stories from Mayerthorpe (Life Writing)
We chugged home and a few days later got a call asking me to register the next day at the Royal Alexandra Hospital. I wasn’t worried about the operation or the outcome. My mother had been a nurse and always treated illness with a businesslike calm. In those days, you relied entirely on what the doctor said, followed his orders, and got on with getting better, which in my experience you always did. So I was almost nonchalant as we took off: a few days, maybe a week, without a ringing phone or a knock at the door.
It was time to get the shovel. Jim stopped the engine and got out of the car. Unfortunately, he hadn’t yet changed his aluminum snow shovel for his garden spade, and the snow shovel crumpled on his first attempt to load it with wet mud. Nothing to do now but push. Jim put the engine back in gear, I got out, and we both pushed. In a few minutes the car started off by itself. We tried to run after it, but the exertions of pushing in the gumbo had mired our boots, and neither of us could lift a foot.
But I could tell by the woman’s face that I’d given the wrong answer. Afterwards, I kicked myself that I hadn’t caught on that coffee was the drink of choice in the community—at least among the women. I hadn’t taken in the significance of a percolating coffee pot on the back of the stove in every home in which I’d been since our arrival. I’d simply followed the practice in my parent’s home of serving tea in the evening—never coffee—lest you might not sleep well. While we were eating lunch, one woman commented that she’d never seen such large pictures in anyone’s parlour.