The Road Most Traveled

I know that’s not the way the famous lines from Robert Frost’s poem begins, but for me, it’s been a constant in my life: that road most traveled.

40 years ago this summer, we moved to Saskatoon, which is approximately, depending on conditions and traveling speed, about 4 hours north of where I grew up. Which is smack dab kind of in the middle of nowhere, but that matters not as we returned there often.

I would wager that it would average out to 6 times a year: there were years it was more like when my dad was failing. I should have been there more when my mom was failing.

There were certain occasions we went home for: spring calving, fair weekend, my mom’s birthday or Thanksgiving, and Christmas were the standards. Our children grew to know the names of each passing town, and now our 6 and 4 year old grandchildren also know the names. They know which old barns are Nan’s favourites and where we turn for the two different main routes.

I can fall asleep when my other half is driving and wake up to knowing exactly where I am as soon as my eyes open. It’s slightly, for me, too far for a one day trip but I have done it.

There have been a few memorable times on that road. -35 howling winds with 2 little kids and a vehicle that dies. Bloody roaring blizzard that actually forced us to abandon the trip and safely return home. The time it was fine until after a lenghty pit stop and then we hit glare ice: 4 kids, 4 bikes and my cousin who helped keep my sanity. My neck was like a vice for days after that. The amazing time when I drove for 20+ minutes and never once ran out of migrating geese in the sky. It was dark with how many there were. Or the time, eons ago, that the Snowbirds buzzed us on a road south of Moose Jaw. That was so cool. We’ve seen more deer and antelope, but fingers crossed, never hit one. We’ve watched seeding, spraying, haying, and harvest time after time after time. I’ve seen a lot of amazing sunsets but very few sunrises. We know where the cops hang out, so that helps with knowing when one can “make time” and when one hangs around the limit.

But this weekend’s road trip marks an end to a very big part of the rituals. This was the last calving season for my brother as he is hanging up his ranching hat. He’s had a rough year with his health and has decided enough is enough. No more baby calves to name or bottle feed, no more morning chores with Uncle.

I can confess that I choked up many times this weekend. It has been a constant in our lives. He and I started out on the 4-H beef cattle road many years ago, and he has always had a deep abiding love for his cattle. He quit dairy when my dad retired, and he quit grain farming shortly after that. He built up an outstanding pure breed herd and put his heart and soul into it. But his body just can’t handle it anymore, and so that ends our trips to the farm.

My sister and brother in law will now reside in my Mom’s house, and my brother will move to the lake with his wife. My Mom is settled in the long-term care home in the next town. So there will still be trips down the road most travelled, but they will have a different flavour to them at the end. No side trips with Uncle to check water in the pastures or driving him out to the swather or baler. No baby calves to watch being born. No herds to move to pasture or bring home.

The road stays the same, but somehow, this changes the destination. No matter though, as we are unlikely to forget which town comes next on the road most traveled.

This is my take on Terri’s s blog prompt for roads, paths, and streets. Which I had zero intention of posting about as i am trying to clean up a backlog of draft posts but the words kept writing themselves in my head.

Bernie