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Our stories
I had the opportunity last month to drive across a part of our country. From Prince Edward County to Slave Lake, Alberta and back, by way of Grasslands National Park in southernmost Saskatchewan, Banff and Jasper in Alberta. Each of these national treasures is accessible for free in this anniversary year celebrating the founding of Canada as a confederated nation.
In between points A and B and expanding far beyond our narrow path, was a rich tapestry of strange, beautiful and surprising panoramas begging to be noticed but for a moment. A flock of pelicans gliding just metres away, alongside our vehicle near the Quill Lakes—oddly interrupting a vast landscape of just-seeded wheat and canola fields—remains, weeks later, a stillvivid image. Pelicans. In Saskatchewan.
Slave Lake has been mostly rebuilt and recovered since three converging forest fires consumed much of the town in 2011. Survivors tell the story of confusing and conflicting messages from local officials after both routes out of town were blocked by walls of flames. Some officials urged residents to proceed to the top of a nearby hill and wait in the cemetery. For eight intense hours, they felt the heat draw nearer. They could see the flames destroy their homes below. There would have been no escape from this burial ground when, or if, the fire began licking up this hill. Only a favourable wind averted a far greater tragedy that day.
Remnants of those days exist both in the woodlands that surround the community and in the hearts of those who returned to start again. Their experience and expertise proved a valuable resource to Fort McMurray last year. Their resilience an inspiration.
But as fascinating a story as Slave Lake tells, it was the tiny hamlet of Kinuso about 50 kilometres west that I remember most. Kinuso—a Cree word for fish—is surrounded by the Swan River First Nation Reserve. It is, in many ways, a typical dusty, western Canadian town—existing almost exclusively to support the farms that spread out in this rugged northern Alberta landscape. The village gets few visitors. It is miles north of the main highway that runs between Athabasca and Jasper. But neither does it try too hard to improve its attractiveness to others.
Main Street Kinuso was likely paved only a few years ago. The wide streets seemed designed in anticipation of traffic that never came. Anchored at one end of the wee village is the standard issue ’40s era grain elevator situated hard by the single Northern Alberta Railway line that passes through between Edmonton and Dawson Creek. At the other end of the village limits is the arena, community centre, ball diamonds and fairground. On Saturdays, the rink hosts a farm market. The growing season at this latitude is measured in weeks, so the array of goods on offer in May consists mostly of crafts, butter tarts and wizards carved from poplar bark.
Certainly, the most compelling Kinuso landmark is situated a few kilometres outside the village on one of the range roads that subdivide this high desolate prairie. The Kinuso museum is housed in a modest wood frame structure. First impressions are deceptive, however. Inside, a guest book beckons the visitors to identify themselves. A set of old movie theatre seats rests loosely against the near wall. A young woman pokes her head out of a doorway from an office at the far end of the first room. She is pleasant and helpful in a way that reveals both a kind nature and eagerness for the company on this sleepy Saturday afternoon. Not many folks find Kinuso on their travels through the Peace Country in northern Alberta. Fewer find its museum. That is unfortunate.
It is a magnificent place. More a collection of old-thingswe- once-used rather than a proper curated museum. It is a museum the way your favourite storytelling aunt might imagine it. Built by the community, for the community. A place to tell their own stories.
One corner features a farmhouse kitchen teeming with artifacts covering the short history of settlement from homesteading in the 1800s to the recent past. Each item is numbered by hand on an irregular square of poster board. Posted nearby is a hand-written list of descriptions and dates. There are no footnotes or efforts to authenticate the veracity of the claims made here. These stories are presented without a bibliography. Without pretence.
As we pushed deeper—past displays offering glimpses into the history of the Indigenous people in this community, past implements of sod busting and agriculture, of culture (dusty movie house seats for example)—this modest facility seems to expand. Suddenly, we found ourselves in another large room populated by the beasts that once roamed the nearby hills, sparse woods and grasslands. Supreme among these is massive stuffed grizzly bear, towering more than nine feet perched on its hind legs, displayed safely inside a showcase. Wolves. A massive cougar. Wolverines. Eagles. Pigeons and starlings.
After an amiable 90 minutes, we wandered back the way we had arrived. The attendant reappeared to let us know that there were more exhibits out back, but in order to see them, she would have to close the main building.
“Yes, please,” we said eagerly. It wasn’t as though we were interrupting anyone else’s experience.
More farm implements. A few rusting tractors bearing wide steel wheels necessary for traversing the occasionally spongy soil—over land terrain where farmland regularly intersects with boreal muskeg. Life on this remote edge of agricultural subsistence is difficult today. It was unimaginably brutal for those who first decided to carve out a life for their families on this cruel terrain a century and a half ago.
Further back on the museum property, partially hidden amid a grove of trees, is a fully intact one-room school house. The desks and chairs sit waiting for the return of students. Faded school books line the shelves. The day’s lessons are scratched onto the chalkboard. A Union Jack is pinned over the board.
During this year in which we celebrate 150 years as a mostly peaceful nation—when we welcome the Prince of Wales and Duchess of Cornwall to our community—allow me to suggest that you seek out the grand and modest musuems—our storehouses of history, our storytellers, our diverse and majestic places across this brilliant country. Here in Prince Edward County, we boast five unique and precious museums—each one telling our story from unique perspectives. The Quakers. The Loyalists. The Hessians. Discover their stories all over again.
Canada is a product of our history—the sum of our stories. We are made a community by our willingness to share them and our eagerness to listen.
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