C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
The deepened wheel tracks of the capricious prairie trail gave way to a maintained bi-way the locals called the Sandhill Road. Milto lifted the whiskey coloured horse into a brisk trot upon reaching this confluence. Here, the path varied from the prairie trail only in that it had the ruts removed; over the years of machine grading and wind erosion, high sand ridges paralleled its course instead of the ditches of standard maintained roads in the area. Generally, the first good snow storm served to nullify all travel along this route as the inevitable drifting snow filled in the trough between the sand banks, leaving the trail impassable until spring. On rare occasions, however, a particularly mild winter or a prolonged Chinook would serve to dissipate the drifts.
Whiskey cantered along easily, the dull thudding of his hooves muffled by the layer of loose sand that partitioned the sage and wild rose choked banks along the roadside from the hardpan of the travelled central portion. A border collie erupted from a deer trail intersecting the Sandhill Road, falling in step with the horse.
“Did you catch that old jack rabbit, Chase?” the girl asked as the trio trotted down the trail.
The mid-sized black and mostly white dog grinned back at his best friend as if he understood the question. Chase had become a very appropriate name for this energetic cow dog due to his propensity to pursue the fleet and numerous jack rabbits of the area. The habit possessed the animal only during his leisure; when tending the livestock the four year old canine adhered strictly to the business at hand. The buckskin, the collie and the girl were the best of companions.
Topping the rise which supported an unobstructed view of the farming country, Milt slowed the gelding to a walk and studied the landscape. A mile northwest she could see a green tinge of new spring growth at her parents' ranch headquarters. Tall cotton poplars surrounded the farmyard and well kept buildings. A double row of prairie hardy caragannas served as wind break around the perimeter of the poplars, and the lane which stretched eastward from the yard for a quarter of a mile had tall and welcoming Manitoba maples down each side. In full leaf, these reached across the narrow path to form a tunnel-like canopy of green. Milt's mother referred to that portion as Lover's Lane.
Milt had moved here almost five and a half years previously when her father had acquired a large holding of deeded farmland and a substantial acreage of leased pasture. The normally friendly local people were reserved and a few were almost hostile when the Miltos moved in. This neighbourhood, and in fact all the neighbouring neighbourhoods, could not produce such obvious affluence in their agrarian world. Little was known of the new folk and though they soon demonstrated themselves excellent neighbours and, eventually, good friends, their history remained an unapproachable subject. Robert Milto proved to be an energetic and capable stockman; rumour held that he was well-connected with the Federal Government on issues of livestock production. Milto was particularly enthusiastic about urging his fellow stock growers to take advantage of the nascent artificial insemination program. The big rancher's purebred cattle herd was fast gaining acclaim throughout the industry in western Canada and his neighbours, once suspicious and envious, had started to consider his opinions more critically.
Brenda Yeast's parents' farm lay sprawled north and east of where Milt now rode. The Yeast's were hard working folks, not at all embittered by small return for their labours. Leonard Yeast seemed to understand and enjoy the philosophy of life on a mixed farm. He personified the adage, “Next year country.” Taking the numerous setbacks in stride, he always viewed the future from an optimistic angle. Milt's father said of Leonard Yeast that the fellow would live forever if stress was his only foe.
Straight east from Milt lay the Collins' ranch, their buildings not far from those of the Yeasts. The neighbours shared the same entrance trail for a mile before it forked to the individual spreads. Lou and Benny concentrated more on livestock than the farming end of their operation. Milt had visited the Collins' home many times with her father and noted how harmoniously Benny and his dad lived within their spartan and obviously bachelor style quarters. Mrs. Milto thought the place needed a woman's touch but Milt believed the father-son team to be doing quite well on their own.
Astride the gelding, Milt could see the white and green country school that she had attended during her first four years in the neighbourhood. During that tenure, the horse she now rode had been her chief means of transport. However, last spring marked the end of an era as Prairie Hills School, the last of the rural hold-outs, closed its doors for education. Milt's folks fought and won a bitter battle with the truant officer, school unit officials and the Department of Education as the rancher and his wife stolidly refused to have their daughter ride the school bus for a monotonous one and a half hours each morning and evening to travel the twenty-five miles to Stockton, the nearest town. While the school board argued that the Milto headquarters were situated within the required maximum distance of the urban facility, Mr. Milto had vowed to move the family to a line shack outside the boundary if necessary. The Board of Education learned more than they would have otherwise imagined during the heated political scuffle and Milt quite enjoyed furthering her education via correspondence.
Several other farm yards were visible from the high knoll on which Milt rested her horse but some activity nearer to hand interrupted her reverie. About a quarter of a mile up the trail the rider noted a familiar holly green '65 Ford pickup with tool storage box and side tanks; a reel of wire and two ladders perched on top of a steel rack mounted above the truck box. Belted in at the top of a telephone pole nearby was the owner of the vehicle. Milt urged Whiskey to a trot and jogged down the hill to meet Danny Reid, the telephone lineman for the rather large area served by Stockton telephone office.
The Rural Telephone Company of Stockton had placed an ad for a full time 'install and repair man' in 1965. Up until then the local board of directors, the patrons, and anybody who knew even a little about communication transmission, or more pointedly, building a barbed-wire fence, had pitched in to construct and maintain the local phone system. Danny Reid answered the request, fit the billing and was hired on the spot. The sturdy young lineman and his pretty wife, Val, had moved to the small town and settled in, easily adapting to their new surroundings. Val soon became employed as secretary for the local aluminium and glass merchant that supplied the district with automobile windshields and windows. The new couple had come from a large metropolis down east but since they didn't talk at length about their city life, the town's folk soon adopted them as their own.
“Hello Button!” Danny called from his perch as the teenager drew rein and slid the gelding to a stop beside the pickup. “Where did you find the old nag and that mangy mutt?”
“You looking for a 'bum wire' or a 'bad connection'?” Milt asked, ignoring the taunt from up the pole.
Danny grinned upon hearing the girl's question. A few weeks earlier the repairman had explained to Milt that the local farmers almost invariably offered their diagnosis of a faulty line as a “bad wire” or a “bum connection.” Or, “She must be short somewheres. Short somewheres b'cause she's plumb dead.”
“Maybe she's short somewheres,” Milt said.
“Well,” Danny said, “she was short but she's not short now.” He deftly unclipped the pole belt at his right side, passed the loose end around to his left and latched it in the 'D' ring on the body belt. Suddenly he kicked out both spurs and with two long jumps and a shower of splinters, the lineman slowly and deliberately took the last step cautiously on to solid ground.
“Show-off!” the girl accused from the back of her horse.
As the lineman unbuckled and tossed his climbing gear into the Ford's utility box, Milt asked whose phone was out of order.
Danny Reid looked at her and grinned. “Quite a few people were out of service on this loop.” Then he added, “The Milto family are the only folks with a private line in this area, you know.”
Milt looked away, slightly embarrassed by the statement. Well she knew of the difference money made in these depressed times. Danny changed the subject, saying, “They were playing my favourite song on the radio today.”
Milt smiled as she appraised the young telephone repairman. “Let me guess… It's Merle Haggard's 'The Legend Of Bonnie And Clyde'!”
Danny Reid said, “Nice try, but it's The First Edition's new hit, 'Just Dropped In To See What Condition My Condition Was In.'”
“Oh, I like that one! Mom and Dad sure do enjoy listening to these old… the songs that are coming out this year, too.”
Danny said, “Yes, maybe someday they will all be classics.”
“I suppose you've been plenty busy after that terrible wind storm on the weekend?” Milt asked.
“Yeah, there are still some folks up North who are without phones and power. I should be fixing their problems instead standing here jawing with a pretty little button astride a rack of bones.”
“My 'rack of bones' will out run that green tin can you rattle around in!” Milt challenged.
The lineman chuckled at the show of fire. “Ah now, Button, relax, you know I think Old Whiskey is the best… especially if you throw in a little water.”
Before the girl could retort he said, “Got to make a mile. You be a good girl and say, “Hi,” to your folks for me.”
As Danny opened the door of the line truck, Milt called to him “Don't work too hard, Mr. Reid, people can manage without phones for a few days.” She levelled her gaze at the telephone company employee. “It isn't like they're connecting to Internet.”
Danny Reid had travelled a few miles before the impact of the girl's parting statement dawned on him. He shook his head slowly as if trying to clear a foggy memory. “I must have misunderstood her. Did she say 'internet'?”
The lineman puzzled over Milt's words and reviewed their conversation; there had been another oddity in the girl's chatter, but Danny could not remember what it was. He shrugged it off as a sign of his being overextended with all the line work incurred from the storm. “I'll shut down a little earlier today,” he promised himself.
The unusual circumstance of violent spring storms accompanied with vicious lightning strikes kept the young lineman very busy for the ensuing weeks. Lightning blasted poles, downed lines and smoked carbons in the arrestor equipment seemed to have occurred in every corner of Danny's district. As the load stacked higher, the repairman found himself “putting out fires,” which meant quick fixes and temporary repairs with the intention of returning when time permitted.
The next time Danny Reid and Milt Milto crossed paths, they were both putting out fires.
…Nowadays, all the telephones are hooked up to underground cables but when we first started out, the lines were strung up on poles around the countryside. A fellow could find his way home in a bad ground drift or snowstorm by keeping an eye on them poles along the side of the road…
Submitted by Kent Miller
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