It was late fall 1945 that we left my first home. I have conflicting stories as to why. According to Uncle Cecil, he offered to sell the farm to my father. Dad was keen, but, says Uncle Cecil “Gladys was not.” I didn’t hear this version until Uncle Arthur published Pancake Ranch, a collection of writings by himself and his siblings.
What I heard from my mother is that Uncle Cecil misread a comment of hers. The Brunskill farm was the most distant stop from the school on the school bus route. I would be the first child on in the morning and the last off in the evening. She was concerned it would be a long day for me. But, as she recalls, she did not intend this concern to stand in the way of acquiring ownership of the farm.
There is no way of knowing now just why things fell out as they did. Mum had been born on a farm, raised on a farm, knew farm life well. Dad had lived on a farm since he was twelve. Except for the excursion to Hamilton in 1941 (see Almost an Ontarian) they had known no other life. So it was a big decision to leave. Our immediate destination was Winnipeg. And although we soon left the big city, we never returned to a farm.