By John Martens – Oliver, B.C.
The stubble fields in the farming area between Winnipegosis and Fork River, Man., were a sea of mud the spring of 1937. Dirty remnants of snowbanks remained in the shade of scattered poplar groves.
I’d walked with my mother to a neighbour’s place a couple of miles north of our home, where the ladies did some exchanging of clothing and fabrics. Mother was deft at repairing and creating garments, carding wool, spinning, and knitting. It was mid-afternoon, and she was in a hurry to get home before my four older siblings arrived back from school.
Due to the muddy condition of the shortcut trail across the fields, we had to walk along the gravelled highway. South to our crossroad first, then another mile and a half west to our farmhouse.
Hugging her precious bundle of clothing, mother walked head down at a rapid pace without so much as a glance back to see me struggling to keep up. My thin rubber slippers did little to shield my bare feet from the sharp stones. I stubbed my toe. I ran to catch up, holding up my hand for mother to grasp and steady me. No luck.
‘Time to figure things out’
I groaned, and would have howled, but knew it would just be a waste of more energy. After all, I was now four years old and it was time to figure things out for myself.
A car came hurtling towards us from the south, throwing a cloud of sand and pebbles against us, along with the stench of exhaust fumes. Disgusting!
It was then I remembered hearing my brothers talking about hitchhiking. I asked mother if it wouldn’t be fantastic if a car driver would see a thumb and stopped to give us a ride. “Nein! Das tuhen vir nicht” (No! We don’t do that.) was her sharp Mennonite response.
I considered rationalizing arguments with her, but now was not the time. Surely, if a vehicle stopped to offer us a lift she would not refuse? How was she to know if the vehicle had stopped because the driver had seen my uplifted thumb, or not? Maybe the driver already wondered if those two stragglers wouldn’t want a lift if only they would give a sign. Now was the time to try it.
A southbound vehicle approached. Keeping an eye on mother’s back, lest she turn and see it, I held up my left thumb. The truck slowed and came to a stop beside mother. I raced to catch up. The driver leaned over and swung open the passenger door. Mother just stood there, transfixed.
It had to remain a secret
I struggled to get my four-year-old frame up onto the running board, half expecting to be grasped by the neck and yanked back with another “Nein.”
The driver, smiling broadly, leaned over and helped pull me into the cab and up onto the smooth leather bench seat. Mother shyly followed. As a fairly recent immigrant from Russia, she was struggling to learn the English language and Canadian culture, mainly by reviewing her children’s school and library books.
The driver continued smiling at us and after a while, I relaxed and responded in kind. At our crossroad, I pointed and we were dropped off. Mother was already 10 paces up the lane by the time I got down off the running board.
Waving to the still smiling driver as he drove off, I soon raced to catch up to mother. I wanted to exclaim how exciting it was to have hitchhiked, but then it struck me: I couldn’t share this with her and I could not even share it with my siblings. I had defied her “Nein.”
She would be displeased, though she may have suspected all along that I had ‘thumbed’. No, the pleasant memory of a ride in that shiny new truck was one to be replayed only in detail in my mind over the years.
