I have tried to write a story for Dad before now, but couldn't manage it. But now, 40 days since he passed on, I want to make a first attempt. But what to write? There is so much, as any daughter would find when writing about her dad.

I remember when I was young, and thought occasionally about the possibility of losing one of my parents. I could sort of picture losing Mom, and in spite of my love for her, I figured I could go on and make adjustments. But the thought of losing Dad was absolutely terrible, unbearable and unimaginable. This "horror" has faded in intensity through the years. When the time came, and Mom was gone, it was an ache that very slowly has eased (in five years' time). When Dad passed away, it was surprisingly easy and natural. I think that was because he had so patiently waited these last five years, slowly losing more and more of his energy and abilities, and always with a positive spin on things (conversation: "How are you today, Dad?"  -- Òh, pretty good.`-- when I knew he was hurting, weak, and bored`with his inactivity.) 

But that`s not much of a story.

My childhood memories are almost completely dominated by snatches of visual, auditory, and even olfactory (smells!) vignettes of the Dunes Ranch. Squeaking leather as we rode on trail rides; a branch whapping me in the face when I went around a corner through the trees on the gallop; horses looming out of the dark when we went to feed them at a pasture on a cold winter night -- after Dad whistled for them; Dad cutting wedges in a stick of wood to start a fire in one of the wood stoves for a group of people who had come for a sleigh ride; pulling up pails of water from the well, with that cool damp air wafting up from the dark deep; riding the horses bareback to pasture, and then walking back through the moonless black night, singing in case there was a bear in the area (That was when I was by myself; if it was Dad and I walking, we just talked, and I wasn`t feeling that uncertainty!)

I remember the winter times the best. We`d go out to do chores after supper, and it would be so cold. I knew Dad just wanted the company, so I`d go; and he wouldn`t expect me to do much -- maybe go and get a pail of  oats from the granary while he threw out some hay. But if he had to do anything extra -- a bit of repair on a gate, or loading up some hay to take to another group of horses at a pasture -- I would get so cold. He`d say, ``Just stamp your feet.`` or ``Put your hands in your armpits. You`ll feel warmer. I`m almost done.`` Sometimes I`d be crying before he finished, and he`d take off his mitts and put his hands around mine to try and make them feel warmer. It wasn`t until maybe five years ago that he said how much he hated winter. It was a shock to me. He had never said a negative word about it all those growing-up years.

Going to do chores, he`d often sing as we drove home in the truck. I learned such a range of songs during those years, from the `Big Rock Candy Mountain to his own compositions like ``On the Trail.`` I was married and gone by the time he and Mom started the square dances in the little hall, but I heard many accounts of the fun that was had by a range of ages that attended those dances, with the Dalen brothers and Ron Stojan and an assortment of other local musicians providing the music. He`d sing during trail rides too; and once in a while, a dude would ask me if Dad was a `professional singer.`` I always had a chuckle about that.

The Dunes was like a dream. An unbelievable way to grow up. But it was all real and tangible for me, and has stayed within me through all the years since I left there. I was amazed when Dad sold the ranch and moved to the Kootenay valley where Bob and I had settled; but for Dad, even the ranch was less important than family. And he had a brand new grand-daughter. He packed up three or four horses, an assortment of saddles and other gear, and with seeming ease (I wonder how hard it REALLY was) he sold the rest. He started over, in a way: taking people on hikes and short trail rides up the side of the mountain behind their new place. He was 61. Being that age now, I have a keen appreciation of how difficult that would be.

The Dunes Ranch has disappeared -- replaced by a golf course and a string of homes on acreages, with gates and privacy. Still beautiful, but not shared in the same way by an abundance of people from all social spheres, in all seasons. I drove through the neighbourhood a year or two ago, and got out on the water line to smell the Wapiti Valley smell. It was still there, that sweet, gentle hard-to-pin-down fragrance. But my old home -- the trails, the ranch yard, the pastures -- were completely unrecognizable. Perhaps it`s just as well. I don`t think Dad or I really wanted to go back.
 

Letter for Uncle Hugh

So many wonderful memories flood my mind -- you are such a very special Irish uncle.  I have one vivid memory of riding through the country with you as a small child in your half -ton truck.  You were smoking a cigar that had a plastic tip and   wearing horn-rimmed glasses.  It was a country road - dusty; in summer.  Your strong deep singing voice, belted out the song "Tumbling tumbleweeds."  Oh yes...we were just rolling along like tumbling tumbleweeds.  I remember this because it was such a contrast to dad; who would never understand what a tumbleweed  was...and couldn't carry a tune to save his soul.  I was so impressed.

You were an avid Grande Prairie Athletics hockey fan and shared your enthusiastic zest for the sport but fetching us from the farm to take us to the occasional game.  That really outrated bending over our radio at the farm with sometimes dying radio batteries to discern what the score was - and just what Charlie Turner might have up some talented legs and stick.  At the games, little Dan sitting beside you shouting "Go CHAW-LEE Go.!! 

And how could any farm kid forget an uncle coming to the farm and walking all over the yard with legs elevated and hands feeling for smooth ground.  And summer afternoons at Saskatoon Lake  Park- with its prestigious band shell and my very own uncle making music.  Carving whistles out of a piece of willow was another fascination. 

I could go on and on and I will.  This is to be considered Chapter 1.

With much love

Your niece Norma

How well I remember arriving in Grande Prairie from Calgary back in September 1967, not knowing a soul. I had taken a few "riding lessons" in Calgary so when I found out about the Dunes , I headed down there to check it out.

To this day I really don't know why Hugh put up with me , but I would go with him after work in the fall and winter to help with the chores.

One snowy day he , Scout and I were going down to do chores. I met him in my dress slacks and shoes and climbed into the truck. We hadn't gone very far when Hugh looked at what I was wearing and remarked that I would be "bloody useless" if anything (such as getting stuck in the snow ) should happen. After that , I always had appropriate clothing in my car I could change into before heading out.

1967 was my first Christmas away from home. I was sitting alone in my rented room. The phone rang and bless their souls , Hugh and Jean were inviting me over to their house for Christmas.

So many fond memories , such as sipping "Alberta Ranchman" whiskey as we drove to the Dunes , riding down the NAR right of way (before the tracks were laid) in the winter herding the horses to winter pasture , sleigh rides in the winter.

Another special memory is Hugh and I staying overnight in a cabin to keep guard over their new double wide that had yet to be been set on its foundation. It was a cool night and a crackling fire in  stove kept us toasty warm.

I know I've rambled , but they were such an influence in my life. It was though them I met my beloved wife (his niece Sharon) and we'll be celebrating our 40th anniversary this year .

It was though them I met Hughs brother Len and his lovely wife Alice , and fell in love with Lens "Sleepy Hollow" acreage , that  was to eventually become our home.

I unfortunately lost touch with them after their move to Creston but a few years ago , when they had relocated to Langley to live with Jary and Bob , I did manage to drop in and see Hugh and Jean one last time , for which I will be forever grateful.

To this day , I still look fondly at the pictures I took that magic fall of  '67 and remember all the good times.

So sadly I bid Hugh and Jean a fond farewell. Rest in Peace my friend.

    When I was just a wee lad, 5 or 6 yrs old, we lived 2 doors over from Hugh & Jean & Jary & Dan Byrnes. Dan and I became fast friends, but looking back I often wonder how the rest of the family put up with me. I was always knocking on the rear door, asking if Dan could come outside to play - More often that not, I was invited inside, treated like one of the Clan. Over the years I was really blessed with a 'second family'. Hugh always encouraged us young fellas to do creative things - like our 4 story treehouse with attached sky walkway over to the barn. These days parents would never allow such a project to go unsupervised, and I would have lost such an amazing part of my youth - But Hugh would give us construction advice, nails, and even lumber. Years later that same encouragement evolved into a wonderful cabin up in the hills. That time in our young lives was magical. And it couldn't have been easy for Hugh & Jean to manage all that they did at the ranch, while we young folk took so much for granted. I know that now, having matured (somewhat). It's a real debt I can never repay, and I count myself a lucky man to have known this fiery, gentle soul.
     As the years past, Hugh and I began to share a bit of music and song. He wrote quite a bit of song - poetry combined with melodies. I would try an work them out on the guitar, sometimes Hugh would try some fiddle or trumpet. OK - we weren't quite good enough for Ed Sullivan, but we sure had some fun. Hugh's song "The Wapiti Foxtrot" was Top10 with the Swan City Swell Fellas, and I must have played that song a hundred times over the years.
    "When the sun sinks low, and the golden moon swings high - I'll be swingin' along and a-singin' a song On The Trail".
Every single line was a vivid picture - and it was always so much fun to sing. So I'll keep singing and remembering the unforgettable days in the Dunes, and the sharp wit and infectious chuckle of Hugh, the last of the Real Horsemen and a Singin' Pioneer Extraordinaire.
   Your friend, and carpentry/songster apprentice, Ron Stojan