It was December 23, 1969, I believe, at our farm seven miles from Holden, Alberta. There had been a fair amount of snow, but the weather had cleared. It looked like we’d have a somewhat cold, but clear Christmas.
The family, Inez and I, Dale, age three, and Joyce, 15 months, would be going to Inez’s side of the family for Christmas. She was from a large family; it would be a happy event.
Our own calves, as well as the purchased steer and heifer calves, were settled in and well on to dry feed in the fairly new small feedlot—my Canadian Centennial project of 1967. The range cows were home and required twice-a-day chores, the same as the calves. At that time, we were using small square bales so the chores were all manual, but straightforward.
Two days before Christmas, I came in for lunch at noon. Inez had received a phone call from our nearest neighbour lady, Evelyn.
“Could Walter get us some water from Foster’s well, even today? Fred is coming home from the hospital tomorrow. I don’t want him going for water and lifting those cans right after getting out of the hospital.”
I don’t remember why Fred was in the hospital. It wasn’t too serious. At the time of this writing, 46 years later, both he and Evelyn are still alive.
All of the deep wells in our area had salty water. If you grew up with it, you were used to it and could drink it and even drink the coffee made with the salty water. But if you weren’t, like both Inez and Evelyn, you didn’t like to drink the salty water or have salt-water coffee.
There were a few farms in the area that had shallow wells with good, sweet water. Foster’s, one-and-a-half miles away, had a shallow well. Quite a few neighbours got their drinking water from Foster’s well.
I put two cream cans on the back of the one-ton grain truck. (We didn’t own a pick-up truck at the time.) Everyone used the steel, obsolete, five-gallon cream cans for hauling water. I got the water.
On the way to deliver the water to Fred and Evelyn (they lived exactly a half-mile south of our farm), I noticed some coyote hounds on the stubble field of our quarter section, just across the road from Fred and Evelyn’s home quarter and the driveway to their yard.
“Harry’s out hunting coyotes today,” I thought to myself. “It’s a nice, quiet day, some snow; it’s a perfect coyote-hunting day.”
Harry Taschuk was a slender sixties bachelor, former outstanding cowboy, stockman and farmer, who lived five-and-a-half miles west of us. Ukrainian-Canadian, his parents were early settlers, the neighbours and good friends of my early-settler grandparents. Harry was a coyote hunter during the winter; he raised and trained his own dogs. It was a hobby that likely paid, from the sale of the coyote pelts, the costs associated with keeping his dogs and the cost of gasoline for his truck, driving slowly around the neighbourhood looking for coyotes. If he had a good year, and the price of coyote pelts was high, it probably paid more than the expenses.
I unloaded the two cans of water. Evelyn thanked me, reassuring me that she had had no trouble doing the chores on her own. Fred was a carpenter as well as a farmer; he didn’t have too many cows.
Pulling out of their driveway, I was looking for Harry’s hounds that I had seen a few minutes earlier. I concentrated on our stubble field across the road as I was leaving their driveway and turning right on to the road.
There was a loud crash. Simultaneously, almost in slow motion, hound heads were looking at my face from the edge of the hood. I think there were four of them. One seemed to be smiling. I could have reached out and touched them.
I had run smack into the side of Harry’s truck loaded with hounds!
I stopped the truck. I ran towards Harry’s stopped truck. The hounds looked at me nonchalantly. I could see Harry’s face in the rear view mirror. He was smiling.
I opened the truck door.
“Harry!” I said. “Are you all right?”
“Didn’t even knock my hat off,” Harry said slowly, smiling. Harry wore the same, black, smaller cowboy hat summer or winter.
He got out and we examined the damage to his truck. It was bad enough, but it could have been worse.
The driver’s door of Harry’s truck hadn’t been touched; the damage started right after the door. The back part of the cab, under the gas tank filling cap, was caved in severely. The damage continued into the side of the box. A big dent slowly turned into a smaller, scraping dent, then a wide scrape that stopped just short of the tail-light, which wasn’t touched.
We walked back to the blue 1965 Ford 350 one-ton with the red grain box and hoist. My dad had purchased it new, in time for the 1965 harvest. It was the only new truck we ever had at the farm.
The driver’s side fender was bad. The headlight and signal light were gone. The fender was pushed back hard, halfway to the tire. Most of the grill was damaged, part of the hood as well. The almond-coloured bumper was fine.
Both vehicles were completely driveable. We soon discovered that both trucks were insured with the same company at the same office in our small town of Holden. We decided we would both drive to Holden, Harry would drop off the hounds at his place on the way to town. I’d stop at our place, tell Inez, and meet him at the insurance office.
The lady at the insurance office was pleasant. She listened to my story of the accident. Harry didn’t say much more than hello.
She came outside and looked at both trucks.
“Oh dear!” she said. “I think the damage to the trucks will be well over $300 each! You’ll have to go to Viking and report the accident to the RCMP.”
It was mid-afternoon. We decided to drive to Viking right away. “I’ll drive,” said Harry. “Leave the one-ton at your place and we’ll drive together in my truck.”
He picked me up and we drove towards Viking, 16 miles away.
Harry’s truck had a strong, unusual smell and an unusual assortment of things on the seat and on the floor. There was a single-shot .22 rifle with the butt close to Harry. The barrel was pushed in between the seat and the backrest behind me. There were two knives on the seat, for skinning a coyote. One had some blood and coyote hair on it. There was a length of rope on the seat, a towing chain and a pair of rubber boots on the floor. There was coyote hair and blood on the floor as well.
We had a good visit, driving to Viking. Harry didn’t seem upset about the accident, or even peeved. I knew it was entirely my fault.
We came into the RCMP office together. There was a small white house dog in the office. Right after we were inside, the dog began barking excitedly.
“Be quiet!” said the officer to the dog. “How can I help you fellows?”
Harry looked at me. His look said “You tell the story.” I did. The officer listened. The little dog was barking again.
“Shut up!” said the RCMP to the dog. “I’m going to give each of you a pen and paper and each of you will write your own version of the accident.”
He got the pens and two sheets of lined paper. He gave one of each to Harry and motioned me down the counter away from Harry. The dog was barking again.
“Damn it, dog! What’s got into you anyhow?” He glared down at the dog, who slunk back somewhat.
Near the end of the counter, he gave me the other page and the other pen. There wasn’t going to be any cheating or collaborating in this class.
Harry leaned against the counter. He rolled the pen around in his fingers and looked at the paper.
I started writing. The words flowed. I didn’t want to leave out important details. I started telling why I was coming out of Fred and Evelyn’s driveway. Maybe I could have left that part out.
The little white dog had finally stopped barking. He had made his way around the counter and was very cautiously pausing, then advancing towards Harry.
Then it hit me. That’s why the dog was barking. It was Harry. Harry smelled like his truck. Like coyotes and hounds and blood and hair—coyote hair—all from skinning coyotes in that pair of like-new, possibly never-yet-washed jeans. That shiny, glazed, varnished-looking pair of denim jeans.
The officer was busy at his desk. Harry was studying the office and the walls. I kept writing. The words were flowing. The little dog was edging closer to Harry’s pant leg. He paused or backed up whenever Harry moved, even slightly. Harry was oblivious. The officer was unaware. I kept writing. The dog was getting closer. Now he was sniffing Harry’s boots, carefully, cautiously. Now his pant leg, sniffing and analyzing every inch.
I was watching, but I kept on writing. I thought I saw Harry write a little. The dog was almost done examining Harry’s leg.
Suddenly I saw the dog take a solid step forward. He cocked his leg and urinated generously on Harry’s pants! It ran down the glazed pant leg like water off a duck’s back. It made a puddle on the linoleum floor. The dog turned and took a step or two. He scratched the floor, alternating his back feet. It made a little noise. Nobody noticed.
The RCMP officer looked at his watch.
“Excuse me,” I said, “I’m almost done. Should I finish on the back of this page or start a new one?”
He sighed. “Come and get another page!”
I walked past Harry. I cheated. I took a quick look. I read Harry’s accident report. It was one line, six words. It said “was going south tried to couldn’t.”
The officer gave me another page. I went back to my place, past Harry. The officer got up and walked over to Harry. He picked up Harry’s paper and read it. He stared at Harry. He crumpled up the paper while he continued looking at Harry. He threw the crumpled paper ball towards the waste basket by his desk. He was still looking at Harry.
The little white dog was frightened by the flying paper ball. He shot under the desk.
Harry was expressionless.
“Come over here!” he said to Harry, as he walked back to the desk. “Sit down on this chair and tell me what happened.”
He got out another piece of paper. Harry sat down and started talking slowly. The officer began to write.
I was writing too. I got about halfway down page two and I was done.
I took my papers around to the desk. The officer and Harry were finishing up. The officer told us to wait at the counter.
He read my detailed account. He thought for a minute. He got up and walked slowly, solidly to the counter. He cleared his throat. He spoke in a low, serious voice, looking directly at me.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t have a choice. I have to charge you with failing to yield the right of way to oncoming traffic.”
I looked at him and nodded.
“I’ll write up the summons. Wait here.” It only took a minute.
He came back with the summons, pointing out the date and time in January that I would have to appear in court in Vegreville.
“You boys can go home now,” he said. He looked at his watch. He seemed happy to see us leave. We had just caused him some extra paper work the day before Christmas Eve. He didn’t wish us a Merry Christmas.
We drove home. It was getting dark. I told Harry about the little dog’s actions and his dastardly deed.
Harry was unperturbed. “Some dogs do dat sometimes,” he said casually.
We had a good visit on the way home. I got to know Harry better than I did before. I liked him more, too.
He stopped at our farm to drop me off.
“Sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused you, Harry. Merry Christmas anyhow!”
“Kristos Razdayetsya! (Christ is born!)” Harry said in Ukrainian. He was smiling.
Epilogue
I appeared in court later in January 1970. The judge called my name and read the charge. He shuffled some papers. I could see they were our accident reports. He read them silently. It took a little time. I thought, just for a second, I saw the hint of a smile. He asked how I pled. “Guilty, your honour.”
Then he asked me if I was married. I was surprised. “Yes, sir.”
“Any kids?”
“Two sir.” I replied.
“That’s a good start.” He paused. “Thirty-five dollars and five dollars court costs.”
“Thank you,” I said. Why on earth did I say thank you?
We got the one-ton fixed at the body shop in Vegreville. It looked good. They used a lot of body filler on the fender. Every time that fender got a scratch, it was chalk white underneath. There were quite a few white lines going in various directions when it was sold at the farm auction sale in 1996. It was a good truck!
It was a very long time before Harry fixed his maroon Chev pick up. There was really no need to fix it—the door worked fine and so did the tail light. On second thought, I don’t think he fixed it at all. He eventually just got a new truck.
I wonder how many people, looking at the dented side of his truck, were told that Walter Lutz had run into him at Fred Steinwand’s driveway, while he was going south.