Bertie Gillmor, Goodfare Stories.

Some time ago, I wrote a few blogs about my great uncle Herbert Charles Gillmor. These earlier stories tell of his family near Dromahair in County Leitrim, of his injuries in WW1, his emigration to Canada as a European pioneer, and of his untimely death in 1960. His Goodfare neighbours sent me some of their memories of Bert. One is printed here and there is a link to the others.  In Ireland, he was called Bertie and Bert when he emigrated to Goodfare in Alberta, Canada.

I heard my grandmother, Annie Davis, refer to him a number of times as ‘poor Bertie’.  As the eldest, she may have carried some sense of responsibility towards him, and indeed Annie and Richard called their first son after him. If Bert’s experiences in the Great War left him damaged or dislocated, he appeared to have lived a full life for over thirty years in his small rural community.

In Goodfare those who remember him described a successful hard-working farmer, tall and muscular, and a good friend to his neighbours. He never married and didn’t like to spend money, though he knew how to have fun, one said. He was also generous to the local school and community. As one of the first wave of European settlers, he was given two sections of virgin forest and scrub on lands taken from native peoples. He cleared these for agriculture and kept cattle and horses. For many years, he used a horse or horse and buggy to get around and was the first to have a motorised truck. One neighbour said he would take off for days at a time and no one knew for sure where he had gone. One woman speculated that he went to town and that as a single man, he had needs that had to be satisfied. However, it was also said that no such rumour had ever circulated in their small community. The nearest town to the rural settlement of Goodfare was Beaverlodge, twenty one kilometres away and there was a First Nations reserve near Horse Lake some six km north of his farm.

What drove Bert to his tragic decision was never clear. In May 1960 he was found in his truck a few days after taking his own life. Raymond Wardill, whose father bought Bert’s place after his death, says they thought that Bert had never paid any tax, and when the tax man finally caught up with him, it drove him to his sad end. Bert, he said, always worked in cash, and as children, they believed there were hoards hidden around the farm. They would often go looking but found nothing.

I recall my grandmother saying that Bertie had accumulated significant lands over his farming lifetime. But when his estate was distributed, the nephews and nieces were surprised that there was so little. The final accounts give no indication of where the bulk of the estate went. She said this could only be explained by the actions of a native woman and her family, which she must have heard about from his letters. But ‘the tax man’ collecting his dues is perhaps a simpler explanation.  Interestingly, all these recollections are filtered through the ears of children two generations after Bert.

The following story about moving Bert’s horses is one on a number sent to me by Eileen Hommy and her daughter Svea. Eileen’s father was a Norwegian pioneer whose land sections were next to Bert’s. Other stories from Eileen and her sister Evylen can be read here: they include, Bert’s Cattle, Christmas Dinner, Stealing Bert’s Tobacco and Warming up at Bert’s. First, a photograph of Eileen, sister and other characters in the story below, at Southwell School.

A Daring Adventure with Bert’s Horses

It was June, and my older brother Arthur was still going to Southwell school along with my younger sister, Evelyn and myself. I would have been 8 years old, almost 9, so that would make it 1949.

The only teacher at our one-room log school was Mrs Park. The school was about ½ mile from Bert’s homestead. That day Bert stopped by the school to ask Mrs Park about taking Arthur, who had just turned 12, to come and help him move his horses from one pasture to another. He had 14 or 15 head of horses if my memory serves me correctly.  These were wild, unbroken horses. Unfortunately, Arthur had stayed home to help Daddy that day.

Bert, a tallish, muscular man who wore blue overalls and a cap, asked Mrs Park if she thought “The Girl” was up to it. He told Mrs Park that it wouldn’t be too difficult as the horses were up by his house, and she would just need to go around and bring up the rear, to drive them into the gate, which he would close behind them. So, it was decided that I would go.

Bert’s farmhouse was a log cabin of some sixteen feet by fourteen, larger than most, and with a wood stove that kept it cosy even when winter temperatures dropped to 30 below. Sometimes, when it was very cold, Bert brought us in to warm ourselves on our way to school. That was very nice.

By the time I got my horse Betty, out of the barn at the school, Bert was already on his way. I rode Betty bareback. Arriving there I turned sharply left to get around behind his horses. When Betty whinnied Bert’s horses started kicking, biting and rearing up. They were trying to get at Betty who was unfamiliar to them. Then they started to stampede. Instead of going towards the gate, they galloped in the opposite direction towards the creek. Betty raced in hot pursuit. There was no way I could hold her back. I can still see and hear Bert waving his hat and yelling “Girl! Come back!”

In June, the snow is melting in the Rocky Mountains, and our creeks and rivers are swollen. Raging torrents with deadwood and many uprooted green trees are taken downstream. Bert’s horses plunged into the roaring creek and my horse followed. There was nothing I could do. The opposite bank was too steep so the horses swam downstream to a low spot about 200 yards on the far side. I was half sitting, half laying across Betty’s back, holding onto her mane with my right hand and pushing the logs and trees away from us with my left. Betty was panicking and blowing loudly. Her nostrils were flared and I knew as soon as we got to the bank that she would race off again, trying to catch Bert’s horses.  They had climbed out of the creek and galloped away.

By the time we got out to the river bank Bert’s horses were out of sight. Betty was running hard and I had to let her go.  I figured she would find them. Not that I could have stopped her even if I had wanted to. She ran for about ½ a mile, going through some big poplars, heading towards Eddie Schweitzer’s place to the south. Before I knew it, Betty had turned and was heading back towards the creek. We were now much further downstream. I could see the tracks in the mud where Bert’s horses had crossed. Betty plunged into the creek again.  It was a good crossing spot, not so terrifying this time. 

When we got back up on the bank Betty galloped towards Bert’s house.  His horses had run back into the meadow where they came from, and on out through the gate into the new grass. Bert had been looking for me and Betty and was somewhat panicked. I am sure he had visions of telling my Dad, a big Norwegian and a good neighbour, that his daughter had drowned in the creek, helping him move horses. When he first saw me, he banged his fists on his knees, shouting, “Good job, girl! You’re still on your horse! My God, what am I going to tell your Dad.” 

After that, I went back to school because I had to get Evelyn. Bert came with me to explain to Mrs Park why I was soaking wet. Then I guess Bert headed to our farm to explain to Daddy what had happened. When Evelyn and I arrived home he had already been and gone. He had given Daddy $5 saying, “The girl had earned it.” That was an enormous amount of money at that time.  With it, I remember getting new shoes and new pants, and I am pretty sure Evelyn did, too. On my Mom’s advice, I told Daddy to keep the rest to buy something for someone else. We were a large family.

In the end, Bert got his horses moved, and I was $5 richer.  At school, Mrs Park commended me on a job well done. At home, my Dad told me never to do it again.  And I have never had such an exciting afternoon.

End

By Eileen Hommy with minor edits from SMcW.

Eileen and Evelyn’s full set of stories are here. Click.

Print pdf version here.

Notes

Thanks to Eileen (nee Tollefsrud) Hommy and her sister Evelyn Harding, in Beaverlodge for the bulk of the stories. And Eileen’s daughter, Svea Isherwood for recording and sending me the stories.

Also thanks to Raymond Wardill for his recollections. Raymond’s father purchased Bert’s farm after his death.

And to Walter and Thelma Pfau, neighbours whose family regularly sold stock to Bert and who clearly had an affection for him.

Finally, thanks to all in the Goodfare community who helped me collect these stories.