JOURNEY of the PICKLED EGGS

"Everything  I was I carry with me, everything I will be lies on the road ahead.." -Ma Jian

 1950 Nichol Street , Nanaimo

Late in  1950, they left  Saskatchewan, never to return. They left the farm they founded in 1904, or thereabouts. My parents drove out there  to pick them up  in their  new Dodge, before it developed rust and before  small creatures lived in the engine. It was 1785 kilometres  from Bethune  to Nanaimo,B.C. In this day and age it would take about 18 hours. Back then  my mother told me it took them a week. She had bought my grandparents a little house in Nanaimo. It was  covered in vines and moss. Along the way, they were going to camp. Oh fun. Camping! "Yes, let's camp on the side road in the gravel and the bushes. It will be fun" , said my mother. (Yee Ha would have been my response.)

Bethune Homestead, Saskatchewan

So they packed up all their worldly belongings leaving my Uncle Bill the farm. He stayed on the farm till the day e died many years later. He loved that place and it loved him. They filled the car with pots and pans, stuff and more stuff, sweaters,  bread and bread knives, canned cherries, canned salmon, bags of potatoes,  crackers and and my grandmother's pickled eggs. About three large jars worth.

on the road

My father  did most of the driving . He dealt with the set up and take down. My mother cooked on their 1938 Coleman stove, wherever they stopped.  They had brought water from the slough on the farm and they topped up the car with that. It tended to overheat. My mother boiled the water for drinking. Along the way, she  handed out pickled eggs as a snack. 

setting up

My grandmother, who was blind , would take a bite and hand the rest to my granfather. He would  toss the remains out into the long grass. The car stank of vinegar and pickling juice. Those eggs were indestructible. They bobbled about in their jar like big eyes.

side of the road

At night my grandparents slept in the car. My parents  slept on the hard ground with canvas tarps and  big coats wrapped around them. In the morning the dew  stuck to everything. But somehow my mother managed to fry up eggs and bacon with my grandmother's scones and jam. And off they would  go, pickled eggs sloshing about on the back seat.

camping

 Days and days they went over the Rockies, through the passage, onto the Island. Over the old highways they trundled finally making it to the Nichol Street house, with it's vines and moss. When they finally arrived, my father  reached for a cigarette, my grandfather his pipe. My grandparents thought often about their farm. My mother thought about how to pawn off the rest of the pickled eggs. 

A break

For a couple of years, my grandparents lived in that little house on Nichol Street, with the vines and moss.  That jar of pickled eggs sat on their kitchen counter for weeks.

early Malahat drive, Vancouver Island

On one of their visits upisland, my father solved the problem one day. He took that jar of eggs and chucked them, one by one into the  vine laden trees, in the back yard,  till they were gone. My grandfather  approved.

1940's my mother Nessie

In a couple of years, my grandparents moved in 1425 Farfield to live with my parents. They all wonderd what to do with the little house on Nichol Street. My father decided to get renters. A LOT of renters over the years. My parents had never been landlords before.  Every month they'd toodle up island to gather the rent. Well,that was the idea.  Most of the time they couldn't find the renters. They took along a can of salmon and crackers to munch on in the car . Rent was about 200$ a month. For some reason no one was ever available to pay it. 

at Nichols street yard

Grandmother died in 1956. My Grandfather made it to 1965. He was glad to not see another pickled egg. The days were long for him. And one day he slipped away. 

1425 Fairfield

He had missed my grandmother. He missed the farm.  I remember standing in his suite in the house, when I was very little. He had the tv on. I remember staring at it while he tried to tell me a story. It was about pickled eggs.  He was funny.  I was four when he died. He left me his tv.  

Davy 1940's

My parents continued to  drive up to the little house covered with vines and moss.  Always hopeful  on getting rent.  I was old enough to go with them. There would be a can of salmon for each of us, a thermos of tea, and coffee. I preferred the coffee. I still do.  They'd leave me in the old Dodge with my tin of greasy salmon and crackers, while they went in to see the renters.  I sat in the car, eating  canned salmon, and humming to myself.  

Nessie and Davy. 

A rare holiday 1936 on the Kathleen

 One time they found there had been a kitchen fire and the renters  put it out and not reported it.  I think that time we just sat in silence in the car and ate our salmon. I think I spilled mine on the seat, cause for years later the cushion smelled of salmon juice. 

1950's 

My father died a couple of years after my granfather, and my mother kept that little house with the vines and moss. We  drove up there once a month to get rent. One time I got to the front door. I met  the current  tenants. They were quite far out. Dressed in hip clothes and long hair. There were a ton of them. A weird smell wafted out the door.  My mother sent me back to the car. She told me to go  eat my salmon and crackers.

1950's Back yard of Nichol Street

By 1974 she'd had enough of the  little house with the vines and moss. The passing of an era, that's what she said. That was the day we found another  jar of pickled eggs in the trunk of the car, behind an old  canvas tarp.

                                              At Nichol Street 1950
I think she only got about 800$ from that little house with the vines and moss. Just enough for my mother to cash the cheque and pay a few bills.  But not much else. 

1940  My dad and friend

We kept that last jar of pickled eggs, down in the cellar in 1425  Fairfield, with the canned cherries from the farm. They just  sat there on the shelves,  as a reminder of days gone by. When I was clearing the house, years later, I found the eggs and opened them. The vinegar had turned to  slime. So I donned rubber gloves, gathered up those eggs and chucked them into the forest behind the house. My father would have approved, I think.......

 Fairfeld

Photographs Vintage 2023

1955