Early in the 1950’s the largest RCAF Station ever constructed in Canada was taking shape in Alberta. The small, remote, communities of Cold Lake and Grande Centre, that grew ever so slowly over the first fifty years of the century, would be shaken to their foundations as they struggled to come to terms with a massive influx of workers and their families. Our family was one of the many seeking to find their way.

Chapter 2:  The Silent Generation
(Link to Chapter 2, Cold Lake High 1955 -1960)
Link Here for other Family Stories in this Series

THIS STORY IS CURRENTLY BEING PROOFED AND UPDATED

Dear Reader,

For the several months, I struggled with how to write this post about our return to Cold Lake. To this point, it was easy to tell the stories as they were all generally positive. Even though our family was constantly on the move over the twelve years until this story, everything was relatively stable on the home front. All that changed in 1953 after arriving in Cold Lake and it continued in one form or another until our Dad passed away suddenly in 1965. While I will not dwell on the ugly parts, and there were many, I felt compelled to

express the feelings that enveloped me during those tumultuous years as a means to better understand myself and, perhaps, as a message to others.

I rather expect at least a few of my school friends shared similar experiences and might even take solace in knowing they were not alone.  The background to this story is alcohol abuse, but it could easily have been any of a dozen other things that cause family units to fracture – drugs, infidelity, mental illness, etc.  Children and teenagers, in particular, are vulnerable when this happens and need to know they are never alone, that even when things get really bad, the future can still hold a great deal of promise.

Indeed, this will become evident in parts of this post and in subsequent posts through the High School years and beyond. A great many positive things can happen even if life on the home front has spiralled into periods of darkness.

Photo: If taken between October and December 1958, I was seventeen, Louise fourteen, and Dianne four.  Louise remembered our ages as she recognized the skirt as one she sewed in her Grade 9 Home Ec class. Look at Louise for a moment. For those who know her daughter Karena, can you see Karina’s sassy smile and eyes? Looking at clothes, I also remember the day those grey ‘flecked’ dress pants arrived by mail order from Sears.  They became my favourite dress up in High School.  And, as for that sweet, innocent little girl on the right, my heart aches for having completely missed knowing her when she was young. 

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Photo (Frog Lake Memorial):  One man who died was the John Delany, the Grandfather of my Aunt Hazel (wife of my mom’s brother Melvin Wheeler), all part of the interesting history of our family. Note, many of these historic signs still denote the event as a Massacre in the midst of the Northwest Rebellion. Little mention is made at these historic sites of the attempt by an “Indian Agent” follow the “letter” of the laws passed in Ottawa, to starve the local bands into full submission to his wishes.

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THIS STORY IS CURRENTLY BEING PROOFED AND UPDATED

Early Spring, 1949

While our home in Marie Lake, Alberta (20 miles north of Cold Lake), was nestled within the pristine beauty of the lakes and evergreen forests dotting Northwestern Alberta, Harlan District was spread out along fields and poplar forests that gently rose from the banks of the North Saskatchewan River. Situated just inside the Saskatchewan border with Alberta, the community was less than ninety miles south-southeast of Cold Lake. Today, it remains a small farming community. Most things remained the same when my sister, Louise, and I lived there for a few months over the spring and summer of 1949. Louise was six and I was nine when we moved in with Aunt Liz (Dewan-McNeill) and Uncle Warren Harwood lived on a farm property in an area that was home to many in the
extended Harwood Family.

During that spring and summer, our cousins Betty (10) and Stanley (7), explored the grassy fields and poplar woodlands around the farm. Of course, we were oblivious to a significant piece of Canadian History that played out just over sixty years earlier – The “Frog Lake Massacre of 1887”.

Calling it a massacre was wrong, as the more appropriate name should have been “Attempted Genocide at Frog Lake” or “The Frog Lake Uprising“.  While some changes slowly seeped into the historic narrative, much in the way of naming is yet to be addressed by the Federal and Provincial Governments in the naming of sights and events.

That ill-fated attempt at genocide might have succeeded if bands had not risen against the deliberate starvation through federal government policies designed to subjugate the original inhabitants of that area. While the Indian Agent in Frog Lake bore a substantial part of the blame, Sir John A. MacDonald and his government were the architects of a policy that decimated many local Indian bands across Canada. Some tried to justify what happened as part and parcel of the challenges of “taming this new land”, but that explanation falls far short in explaining the brutality of the government policy and particularly the actions taken by many “Indian Agents.” assigned the task of handing out food supplies.

At the time the four of us were playing in the fields, we now know a member of our own family, Aunt Hazel Wheeler (nee Martineau), the wife of Mom’s brother, Melvin Wheeler, traced her family history directly to those tragic events that played in the Harlan District over the fall of 1887.

The farm where we lived with Uncle Warren and Aunt Liz Harwood (nee McNeill) was twenty-five miles southeast of Frog Lake, thirteen miles from Onion Lake and five miles west of Fort Pitt. The district became the epicentre of a rebellion of which the charismatic Métis leader, Louis Riel, was the prime mover, who chaffed at the injustices heaped upon the Cree and other tribes by the Federal Government. Riel was able to weld the diverse Indian Nations together in common purpose.

In his book, The Frog Lake “Massacre”, Bill Gallaher writes: “Superintendent Crozier and a contingent of policemen aided by a small volunteer force from Prince Albert, had confronted Louis Riel and his rebels, some of them Cree, at a place called Duck Lake, a few miles east of Fort Carlton. After the ensuing battle, 14 men lay dead.” (p. 102).

News of the confrontation quickly spread to the tribes in the Frog and Onion Lake area, where activist leaders, including Wandering Spirit, Man Who Speaks Another Tongue, and others who, gained a substantial following. Much of their anger was focused on one man, Thomas Quinn,

the Ottawa-appointed Indian Agent at Frog Lake. The man was an arrogant, stingy Scotsman responsible for enforcing Federal Government policy regarding the distribution of food supplies. The bands were in desperate straits after being forced out of their traditional hunting grounds and left utterly dependent upon government handouts.

Quinn took his directions to heart by forcing the largely peaceful Indian bands to bow to his every whim before he would release any food and other supplies agreed upon in the treaties. As the tribes became increasingly desperate and as their land base continued to shrink under the onslaught of the white settlers, it was not long before their traditional food supplies all but disappeared. Pleas for relief emanating from moderate leaders, including Chief Big Bear, fell upon deaf ears at Fort Battleford and Ottawa.

Having heard of Louis Riel’s initial successes in confronting government forces, activist leaders convinced many warriors to stand and fight rather than bow to the dictatorial Indian Agent. To resolve the situation, a meeting with the local settlers and Indian Agent would occur at Frog Lake:

“The air in the room was hot and close, thick with pipe smoke and body odour. All of the whites in Frog Lake had gathered in John and Theresa Delaney’s house to discuss Dicken’s message (a message from Inspector Dickens of the North West Mounted Police suggesting all the white settlers at Frog Lake, evacuate the community immediately and head to Fort Pitt), viewed by some as an emergency. It was near midnight as Theresa served tea and coffee strong enough to make sleep a far off in the country.” (Gallaher, p. 103)

“I noticed, as I’m sure others did, that he didn’t mention the Indian’s dislike of Quinn – they always called him “Dog Agent” or “The Bully” behind his back – and that perhaps he should go too.” (Gallaher, p. 105)

“Early the following morning, the group was taken hostage by the rebels, then under the leadership of Wandering Spirit. While being forced back to the Cree village, Quinn suddenly stopped and refused to follow instructions. Wandering Spirit stepped in front of the belligerent man, “You have a hard head, and I wonder if there is anything in it? He raised his rifle and shot Quinn through a head not so hard that a bullet couldn’t split it open…” (Gallaher, p. 106)

The sudden, violent killing of the “Dog Agent”, Quinn, left the remaining hostages scrambling for their lives:

“My mind was churning madly. We hadn’t taken more than a few steps when John Delany cried, “I’m shot!” He reeled several feet away like a drunkard, then staggered back and collapsed at Theresa’s feet. Oh, my God! Theresa cried. “Father, Father!” As she called, one of the priests, Father Fafard, came running to her side and dropped to his knees. Delany lived only long enough to hear the priest administer consolation and say, “You are safe with God, my brother.” These words had just passed Fafard’s lips when Man Who Speaks Another Tongue shot him in the face. He fell across Delany’s corpse.” (p. 128)

The uprising had passed the point of no return as the rebellious leaders and their followers headed toward Fort Pitt to confront the government forces. Only a few days passed before miserable weather a lack of weapons, food, and other supplies led to the collapse of the resistance, but not before many more had died in skirmishes in the valleys and hills surrounding Harlan, Fort Pitt and Frenchmans Bute.

The eight Indians, considered ring leaders, were arrested, and taken to Fort Battleford for trial, the outcome of which was never in doubt. After being convicted, they were hanged on makeshift gallows within the Fort. Chief Big Bear, the moderate leader of the Cree, who was present for the hangings, was then put on trial believing that he, as the leader, was ultimately responsible for the rebellion. After being convicted, he spoke eloquently in defence of his people:

Photo (Web File): The eight Rebellious leaders were hanged in a public event at Fort Battleford barrack square on November 27, 1885. Their bodies were unceremoniously interred in a scrubby bush area below the Fort.  More photos and words follow near the end of this story. The men hanged—Kah-Paypamahchukways, Pahpah-Me-Kee-Sick, Manchoose, Kit-Ahwah-Ke-Ni, Nahpase, A-Pis-Chas-Koos, Itka, and Waywahnitch.

Following the hanging, Big Bear (Mistahimaskwa) was put on trial a sad end to a popular leader. In 1871 he was the leading chief of the Prairie People and by 1874, headed a camp of 65 lodges (approximately 520 people). His influence rose steadily in the following years, reaching its height in the late 1870s and early 1980s. Due to events leading to the Frog Lake Uprising, his power was slowly eroded by the more aggressive leaders for reasons outlined later in this story. Following is the full Chief Big Bears full speech to the court as translated from the original Cree.

I think I should have something to say about the occurrences which brought me here in chains! I knew little of the killing at Frog Lake beyond hearing shots fired. When any wrong was brewing, I did my best to stop it in the beginning. The turbulent ones of the band got beyond my control and shed the blood of those I would have protected. I was away from Frog Lake a part of the winter, hunting and fishing, and the rebellion had commenced before I got back. When white men were few in the country, I gave them the hand of brotherhood. I am sorry so few are here who can witness for my friendly acts.

Can anyone stand out and say that I ordered the death of a priest or an agent? You think I encouraged my people to take part in the trouble. I did not. I advised them against it. I felt sorry when they killed those men at Frog Lake, but the truth is when news of the fight at Duck Lake reached us, my band ignored my authority and despised me because I did not side with the half-breeds. I did not so much as take a white man’s horse. I always believed that by being a friend of the white man, I and my people would be helped those of them who had wealth. I always thought it paid to do all the good I could. Now my heart is on the ground.

I look around me in this room and see it crowded with handsome faces—faces far handsomer than my own. I have ruled my country for a long time. Now I am in chains (Photo Left on right arm) and will be sent to prison, but I have no doubt the handsome faces I admire about me will be competent to govern the land. At present, I am as dead to my people. Many of my band are hiding in the woods, paralyzed with terror. Cannot this court send them a pardon? My own children—perhaps they are starting and outcast, too, afraid to appear in the big light of the day. If the government does not come to them with help before the winter sets in, my band will surely perish.

But I have too much confidence in the Great Grandmother to fear that starvation will be allowed to overtake my people. The time will come when the Indians of the North-West will be of much service to the Great Grandmother. I plead again to you, the chiefs of the white man’s laws, for pity and help to the outcasts of my band!

I have only a few words more to say. Sometimes in the past, I have spoken stiffly to the Indian agents, but when I did so, it was only to obtain my rights. The North-West belonged to me, but I perhaps will not live to see it again. I ask the court to publish my speech and to scatter it among the white people. It is my defence.

I am old and ugly, but I have tried to do good. Pity the children of my tribe! Pity the old and the helpless of my people! I speak with a single tongue, and because Big Bear has always been the friend of the white man, send out and pardon and give them help! How! Aquisanee—I have spoken!

Big Bear was sentenced to three years of hard labour to be served at the Stoney Mountain Penitentiary in Manitoba. He was taken away in shackles and leg irons and put on a train heading to Stoney Mountain – a proud leader to the end. He died 1888.

Eighty years later, the following passage, written by our Aunt Hazel Wheeler (Martiniau) about her parents and Grandparents, appears in “The Treasured Scales of the Kinosoo“, a book of life stories of those who settled the Cold Lake area:

“Father (referring to her father) was transferred to Onion Lake in 1901 as a Hudson’s Bay Company Agent. He met and married Margaret Delaney. Margaret was the daughter of a native mother and an Irish father. Her father (Aunt Hazel’s Grandfather), John Delany, was killed in the Frog Lake Massacre, and she was raised by nuns at Onion Lake. Father was part French and part Scottish, and he used to tell us that we were a little bit of everything and not much of anything.” (p. 4)

Aunt Hazel was one of thirteen children in the Martineau family. It was a grand family that included five adopted children saved from the orphanage after the death of their parents. It is little wonder that Aunt Hazel’s mother was known as ‘Grandma Martineau’ to everyone in the Cold Lake area. She was well into her eighties when she passed away (reference picture of Grandma Martineau sitting on the logs at the Martineau Camp in Chapter 3 of that series).

Photo (Family Files). Aunt Hazel and Uncle Melvin Wheeler are sitting with their two sons, Timmy, and Randy, at their home in Cold Lake.

 The following quotes from Aunt Hazel are added as they relate to other events and people in those early years of our family travels throughout the Northwest.

“Johnny Cardinal operated the ferry on the North Saskatchewan River near Frog Lake at the time of the Massacre.” (p. 5). (The Cardinals were another well-known Cold Lake family).

“A group of surveyors worked north of Cold Lake before 1910, setting their base camp at an unnamed river that flowed into Cold Lake. They depended upon Adrian (Adrian Martineau, one of Aunt Hazel’s brothers) for their food supplies. On one occasion, the supply wagon bogged down due to heavy rains at Onion Lake. When the needed supplies finally arrived, the head surveyor announced that he named the river at their base camp Martineau to remind Adrian of when he and his men (the surveyors) almost starved.” (p. 5)

Adrian passed away in 1944, the year we moved to Cold Lake and lived on the banks of the Martineau River, very near the area where the surveyors almost starved in 1910. In the summer of 2010, our oldest son, Jay McNeill, and I visited many historic sites stretching from Frog Lake and Onion Lake to Fort Pitt and Fort Battleford. Our visit included a stop at the grave sites of the eight settlers killed and buried at Frog Lake and the eight Indian leaders hanged and then buried on a sidehill below Fort Battleford.  

Given that Fort Battleford is a National Historic site, it is a national disgrace that the hanged men, leaders of the day who attempted to help their people, have been relegated to weed-infested, rocky sidehill several hundred feet below the Fort. They were heroes, and their History is cast aside in favour of a different narrative of those times.

The graves below Fort Battleford are located no more than a few hundred yards from the spot where first our Grandparents McNeill and several of their children, including our Dad (two years old at the time), camped in 1910 as they were making their way by wagon train from South Dakota to Alberta to build a new life on the shores of Birch Lake. Birch Lake is some seventy miles north of Fort Battleford near Glaslyn, where Chapter 1 of this story began. 

One year later, in 1911, our future Great-Grandparents and Grandparents Wheeler and some of their children, immigrated from Michigan to Sibbald, Alberta. In 1924, due to serious drought conditionst, some of those same families (some now married and with children of their own), left Sibbald, Alberta. for Birch Lake, Saskatchewan. Included in that group was a child who would later become our mother, Laura Skarsen-McNeill (Wheeler). During that wagon-train trip, they made a five-day layover below Fort Battleford, before leaving for Birch Lake, where they would stake a land claim on quarter section of land very near the McNeill family.

The full story of both families travels from the United States to Canada in 1910, is now being written and will become the first half of a family book that follows our families for a hundred years from the 1860s – 1960s

Harold McNeill
July 2010 

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Link here to photo’s of Frog Lake adventure: LINK HERE

September 19, 2012.  The following information was plucked from a Genealogy site:

Also, a note by Phylis Wicker Glicker

Hazel Martineau [Wheeler] daughter of Adrien Louis Napoleon Martineau b. Oct. 18, 1875, St. Boniface, Manitoba, Canada, and Margaret Delaney b. Nov. 30, 1885, Frog Lake, Alberta, Canada. Adrien is the son of Herman Martineau b. Brittany France mar. (1) Annie Macbeth (2) Angeline LaBelle. Herman Martineau is the son of Ovit Martineau b. Brittany, France. I have just begun researching the Delaneys and Martineau”s so I don’t have much. But I would love to hear from you and share what I have. I was married once to Frank Martineau, grandson of Adrien Louis Napoleon Martineau and would love to learn about Margaret Delaney’s family for mine and my children’s sake.

Email: pwicker@telus.net

Harold Comment:  I am not sure if this is correct, but it seems to fit with the details I have previously researched.

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Family Photos via Mom’s Photo Keepsakes (July, 1948).  I always remembered this photo and by good fortune on January 2, 2016, it magically appeared in a photo album my sister Dianne McNeill had preserved.  It now stands as the lead photo in this story of this accident that nearly killed our father, Dave McNeill and injured several others.  The photo was taken in the Cold Lake Hospital just before Dad was transferred to Edmonton for emergency surgery.

Photo (by Mom): Auntie Marcia, Louise and I stand beside geese shot by Mr. Goodrich our trapper neighbour. Dad love eating fresh cooked goose, but would have a tough time savouring these birds.

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July, 1948

In mid-July, our family made a regular visit to Cold Lake to buy groceries and other supplies. Heading into town was a big event as it meant visiting family and a chance to play with other kids, not something we had a chance to do very often. There would also be a lively party at someone’s home and while the men didn’t drink much while working in the bush, they made up for lost time when they hit town.

It took men many decades for men to learn that when it came to getting home safely after over consuming at a party, horse drawn wagons or sleighs gave a much better bet of arriving in one piece.  Cars, in a hands of a drunk driver, were much more deadly.

Photo (mom’s files): Harold with guitar, u/k male and female, mom with frying pan, Louise in front of mom, not sure if the man is Uncle Emerson (Dewan) but also looks like Uncle Denny (Helen Pylypow’s dad), and dad with the violin.  All standing in from of our home on the West side of Marie Lake.

At 10:30 one evening, after drinking for several hours at the Grand Centre Hotel,  eight men pilled into old Chevy Coupe and headed to Cold Lake to catch the last call. Uncle Warren, man furthest to the left in the lead photo, was a front seat, right side passenger and as the car hurtled down the long hill leading into Cold Lake hollered: “Lee, for Christ sakes slow down, there’s a turn at the bottom of the hill.”  This bit of information came from Uncle Warren some time later as he had not been drinking as much as the others and had been watching the road closely as Lee (Hobbs?) always tended to drive far to fast particularly when drinking. 

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Photo (Saskatchewan Farm Life): In the early years of living on the farm in Saskatchewan, winter blizzards could arrive suddenly and last for days. Travelling in such such conditions could be a dangerous affair.

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Deep Winter, 1941: A Baby is Born

Just after ten in the morning, the pain struck, causing the expectant mother to double over. She grabbed the kitchen table to keep from falling, and as the pain eased, she lowered herself into an easy chair near the log fire. Home alone, two miles from the nearest neighbour, ten from the village of Glaslyn, and forty-five from the hospital in Edam, she was frightened. With no idea what time her husband might return, she considered walking to the nearest neighbour, something she did many times. But now, amid this January blizzard, with its bone-chilling cold, and drifting snow, that was out of the question.

The David and Laura McNeill Farm near Birch Lake, Saskatchewan
where the couple began their married life.

Map: It is not known exactly which route the McNeill’s travelled to
reach the hospital in Edam. All the roads in 1941 would have been far less
developed than today.

The high winds rolling off the southwest shore of Birch Lake, savagely pounded the log cabin even though it was partially sheltered by a thick Caragana hedge, and a small grove of Poplars. The wind treated these barriers as minor annoyances, as each time a gust hit, it felt as if their tiny home might be pushed from its foundation. The wind also created a forlorn howling sound as it whipped through the trees and around the house. Mixed with the fear of giving birth at home and alone, those sounds seemed the most lonesome in the world. What would she do if the baby could not wait?

While the temperature had remained steady near minus twenty in the early hours, by mid-morning, it had dropped, and was now nearing minus twenty-five. Over the past few winters, it was not uncommon to see the temperature drop to minus fifty or sixty during a cold snap. It was hard to tell the exact temperature, as their mercury thermometer would freeze at minus forty. Add to that, the wind chill, and exposed skin would freeze within seconds, and breathing that super cold air could damage your lungs in a few minutes.

Walking to a neighbouring farm would be a risky, perhaps deadly proposition. She knew of people who became lost in such storms, only to be later discovered frozen to death in a snowbank or in their stalled car. No, her best bet was to sit tight and wait for her husband. If the baby decided to come, she would just have to make do. It would be a January blizzard she would not soon forget.

Years later, when telling the story, Laura still shuddered at the memory:

Why on earth Dave would go out in such a storm to haul another load of logs when he knew the baby was due was beyond me? Then again, he was a man who just did those things, and while he was a loving person, he never let a little storm or a person – even a baby on the way – interfere with his plans.

 He was a hard worker, and that morning, as usual, he had been up early to stoke the fire and put on the coffee pot. During these cold snaps, and particularly during a blizzard, he would get up several times at night to add a log to the fire; otherwise, everything in the house would freeze solid. Even with the warmth provided by the fire, a water pail by the door often had a layer of ice in the morning.

After the fire was roaring, Dave went to the barn to feed the stock, and harness the horses. The barn always seemed warm due to the heat generated from the animals, as well as the warm, rotting manure. Some farmers kept livestock in a separate part of the home in order to capture some of that heat. The musty, sweet smell of the cow and horse manure was quite pleasant to those who lived around and worked with livestock. To help our animals fend off these winter storm, Dave always fed them in the shelter of a barn, haystack, or grove of trees. When out of the biting, cold and wind, the cattle weathered these storms very well, but for the horses, Dad’s favourite animal, they were privileged. They had a cozy stall in the barn. Laura continued:

Dave was a horseman first, last, and always. He took great care of his horses, and, in return, expected them to work just as hard as he did. Every animal was expected to earn their keep no matter whether it was in the form of labour, beef, eggs, or bacon.

 When he arrived back from the bard, breakfast was ready. Most mornings it consisted of crispy fried salted pork, along with milk gravy poured over homemade bread, a McNeill family favourite. When growing up, his sisters often teased him by calling him ‘Davie, Davie, bread, and gravy”. By seven-thirty, with the horses raring to go, Dave was off and running.

On his way out, I again reminded him the baby was due any day, and that I wanted to get to town, or to the hospital. He just smiled and told me in his usual calm, not to worry, that he’d be back about noon, and we would then head into Glaslyn. Tucked in his heavy winter parka and mitts, he disappeared into that howling blizzard.

From experience, Laura never knew whether Dave would return by noon or some time later. Late returns usually meant he had run into some buddies and the group decided to spend a little time socializing over a few swigs of moonshine. As the beverage of choice among the men, it was always in plentiful supply throughout the district.  Laura expanded:

Dave and his friends had well-hidden ‘Stills’ they rotated around the district, so it was almost impossible for the RCMP (the Revenuers) to catch them. The little shacks were well hidden in the bush and the trails to the sites, easily concealed. Distilling liquor was a serious offence, but Dave and his buddies never seemed worried as they were always several steps ahead of the law. I suppose they also enjoyed the challenge of winning that little game, as much as having some cheap liquor. It was easy to hide, and it certainly wouldn’t freeze. No country dance was complete without a few ‘little brown jugs’ that kept everyone in high spirits.

Once Dave had left, all Laura could do was wait and hope he would return early and that the baby would decide to wait for another few hours or a day. Her fear of being alone when the baby came was well-founded, as being the third born in a family of ten; she understood the challenges of childbirth. Growing up, she had been old enough to be present and help when three of her younger siblings were born (2)(3). She recounted some of the challenges faced as her mother gave birth:

The older five kids, Leonard, Evelyn, Kenneth, Melvin and I, were born at Grandma’s home, in Southern Alberta near Sibbald. The last five at our homestead at Birch Lake. Mom (Lillie) was pregnant with Clifford when moving from Sibbald to Glaslyn by wagon train. When Clifford was born, he had a distinctive birthmark, about the size of a quarter on his forehead which her mom said was caused by the scare she had when Kenneth (age 4) almost fell out of the wagon when crossing a river.

The younger children were born at home with the help of a midwife, all that is, except for my youngest sister, Shirley. She was the only one born at home without my mom having the help of the midwife. Again, Laura reminisced:

My Mother desperately wanted to get to the hospital in Edam, but Shirley decided to come early, so mom never made it. More than being in the hospital for the birth, mom wanted to get a few days to rest from the endless work of looking after our large family. In those days, women were often kept in the hospital for a week or ten days, so that the rest would make things somewhat easier when they arrived home”. As with most large farm families, as the kids grew older they were soon pressed into service to help feed, clothe and shelter the family.

While Laura had been present, and even helped with the home birth of the youngest of her siblings – Marcia, Helen, and Shirley – what she now faced was utterly different. If her husband did not show up, she would be home alone. Over the years, Laura heard many stories of others who had died, or nearly died, while giving birth. She tried to set aside these dark thoughts, but it was not easy. When the pain subsided, she busied herself making lunch while hoping that Dave would show up as promised.

Just before noon, she heard the horses and sleigh pulling into the yard. She looked out and saw it piled high with logs. Dave had done another full day’s work by noon. As was his usual practice, he unhitched the horses, took them to the barn, and gave them a good feed of oats and hay before coming to the house to eat and warm himself. When he came in, mom told him the baby was on its way, and she needed to get to the hospital:

In his off-handed way, Dave said they could leave right after the horses had eaten and he had loaded the caboose. He told me it would take about an hour, but drifted roads would make it slow going. At that moment, the pain hit again, and I doubled over. It wasn’t until that moment Dave seemed to realize he’d better ‘shake a leg’, or he would be delivering the baby on his own.

Less than half an hour later, Dave, had the caboose loaded, a fire built in the wood heater and they were on the road to Glaslyn. In those days, travelling in a caboose, even in the middle of a heavy winter blizzard, was comfortable. The heater kept the caboose toasty warm and there was always of a pot of hot coffee at hand. The caboose had a bunk, blankets, and table so everyone was comfortable.

Caboose: In this photo Grandpa and Grandma stand beside their
caboose on a sleigh. We don’t know which children are standing with them but likely two of their grandchildren.

Often family and friends travelled together, as there was room for eight or ten. It was a great way to travel to and from a dance or party. The horses were always ‘sober’ and knew the roads so well they were just left to saunter along at their own pace (1). Whoever supplied the caboose was the last in line and would pick up or drop people off at their homes along the way. After the dance or party was over, the happy crowd climbed aboard and let the horses follow the return route. At the destination, they would just pull up and stop. After the horses were fed and, in the barn, we would sometimes just settle down in the caboose for the rest of the night.

Today, as they continued toward Glaslyn, Dave and Laura sat at the table drinking coffee and playing crib. But as soon as they hit the first snowbank, Dave had to get out and clear a partial path as the horses could not drag the sleigh through. To Laura’s great relief, she experienced no further pains, and even had time for a short nap.

About three-thirty, they reached Glaslyn and Dave drove straight away to the home of his best friend, just outside the town. Although the roads were terrible, he hoped they could make the rest of the trip to the hospital by car.

Dad put his horses in the barn, fed them, and, along with his friend, managed to get the old Ford started. By four-thirty, they were on the road for the thirty-five-mile trip. I think the route they took was the shorter direct route as seen on a map. Also, an X marks the location of their farm on the western edge of Birch Lake.  In the 1990’s Lynn and I travelled around the area looking for old homestead sites. While we were able to find some ruins, we could not find anything near Mom and Dad’s first home was located on Birch Lake.

As they made their way to Edam, Laura was bundled up in blankets in the back seat, but at minus twenty-five, it was a far cry from the comfort of the caboose. Cars in those days only had rudimentary heaters and were not well sealed against the elements. In this car, a broken side window covered with some loose-fitting cardboard, didn’t stop much wind, so it was almost as cold inside as out.

Mom also worried that she would barely have room to move if she had a contraction in the back seat. While she feared having the baby at home alone, she now feared the baby would decide to come in the car. The thought of giving birth in the back seat in the middle of a raging blizzard was terrifying.

Ordinarily, the thirty-five-mile trip from Glaslyn to Edam might take an hour or so, but progress was painstakingly slow due to the current road and weather conditions. The two men often had to get out and shovel through the snowbanks, then take several runs to get through. To fend off the bitter cold, they had a couple of bottles of moonshine with which they liberally plied themselves.

After four hours of hard work and a half bottle of moonshine (it was strong stuff), they had barely travelled half the distance. It was dark, cold, and generally miserable. If they became stuck and unable to move, they would all be in serious trouble, as one of the men would have to leave to get help while the other stayed with Laura.

A few minutes after ten, while the men were again clearing a snowbank, Laura’s water broke, and the labour pains became more intense. While both men had, to this point at least, treated the trip as a bit of an adventure, they suddenly grasped the graveness of the situation – the baby might well decide to come before they reached the hospital. So, they put away the bottle, stopped chatting, and doubled their efforts to clear a path. They arrived at the hospital just before midnight. The nurses rushed Laura to the delivery room, and shortly after midnight on January 13th, 1941, Harold David McNeill, arrived.

Later that morning, the blizzard broke, temperatures moderated, and the skies cleared. After visiting with the new Mom and babe, the men returned home to look after their stock. A week later, dad returned to pick up his wife and baby, and took them back home to Birch Lake. Laura was happy as she would now have full-time company in her tiny log home.

Parksville, BC
May 2009

Photo:  David Benjamin McNeill and Laura Isabel Wheeler
Wedding Day,  Summer, 1940
Those photo appears to be taken outside Laura’s parents home.

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(1) While visiting Aunt Pat (dad’s youngest sister) in the Stoney Plain Hospital just outside of Edmonton in June 2010, she related the following story about dad’s horses finding their way home on their own:

“One particularly cold winter day while Laura was waiting for your Dad to come to their home she heard the sound of the horses arriving in the front yard.  She looked out the window and the horses were just standing there hitched to the sleigh. After a few minutes, when Dave did come in, she put on her coat, went outside, but he was nowhere to be found.

She led the horses over to the barn, gave them some hay then went back to the house to wait. After a half-hour, she became more worried as she felt something might have happened to Dave. She knew he most often worked alone and it was dangerous work falling trees and loading logs.

After an hour Dave came stomping into the house. He was steaming mad and cursing his horses. After he got his coffee he told Laura what had happened. While driving he became cold sitting on the logs so he got off and started to walk behind to get warmed up. The horses continued to walk on their own lead but, suddenly, they began to trot and he could not catch up. He hollered “whoa” several times but they just kept going. He was furious. When Dave issued a command to his horses, he expected them to obey. Pretty soon they were out of the site and he ended up walking all the way home, about an hour by foot.

Laura then asked him if he was going to go out and take the harnesses off the horse and feed them but he just said: “To hell with them, let them freeze for awhile, that will teach them to leave me behind.”

A little later, feeling sorry for the horses, Laura went out to unhitch them and put them in the barn, a job she had never done before as neither her dad nor Dave had ever taught the girls these jobs.  She managed to get them unhitched from the sleigh and into the barn but she had no idea how to get the harnesses off.  She worked away undoing buckles and straps until she was finally able to pull the harnesses off over their behinds. She dragged them into a corner and left them laying in a heap.

Now she could not figure out how to get the sweaty collars off not knowing they were buckled at the bottom under a flap. When undone this allowed the collars to split in two. Not willing to give up, she finally decided to just pull them off over the horse’s heads. She stood on the stall railing and started pulling. As the collars were fairly tight, the horses must have wondered what in hell this crazy woman was doing. They probably had sore ears for a couple of days.” 

I guess Dave never said another thing about the incident nor did he ask Laura why the many straps and hitches on the harness were undone, nor did he ask how she managed to get the collars off. I guess Dave was smart enough to know when to let sleeping dogs lie.

(2)  Laura McNeill — siblings

1914  Leonard
1916  Evelyn
1918  Mom, (Laura Isabel Skarsen (McNeill)(Wheeler)
1920  Kenneth
1922  Melvin

1924   The family, Bill and Lillie and above children, left Alsask and travelled to Birch Lake. Lillie was in the late stage of her pregnancy with Clifford.

1924  Clifford
1928  Tonnie
1932   Marcia (Laura assisted in the birth of the last three)
1934   Helen
1938   Shirley

1940  Their father, Bill, passed away before Laura was married in the spring of 1940. The widow was, Lillie, was left with six children ranging in age from tw0 years to their late teens.  The oldest brother Leonard drowned in 1938 while booming logs on the Shuswap in British Columbia.

(3) David McNeill – siblings

1893    Parents, James and Ellen married in Chamberlain, South Dakota
1910    Moved to Battleford from Chamberlain South Dakota
1911    To Birch Lake, SK

1894 – 1959     (Mac) James
1896 – 1974    Curtis (Clifford)
1898                 Ruby
1901 – 1964    Irene
1902 – 1990    Hazel
1905 – 1985     Elizabeth
1908 – 1965    Dad, David the last of children born in the USA. They entered Canada in Manitoba and travelled to North Battleford by train. In North Battleford they took all their life belongings and headed to Birch Lake to build a new home on the quarter section of land they had been assigned to settle.
1910 – 1982     Armina (twin) following children born in Saskatchewan
1910 – 1990     Almira (twin)
1914 – 1976      Floyd
1916 – 2013      Patricia 

A full list of grandparents, parents, and children is available by sending an email to Harold McNeill at lowerislandsoccer@shaw.ca

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