Wildwood. Elinor Florence

       August 6, 1924

      We are in our new home at last, and it is simply heaven to tread on carpet once again. Our wee log cabin will always be dear to me, as it is where we enjoyed the first happy weeks of our wedded life, but I am secretly relieved not to be spending the winter there. George claims it would have been quite snug once the cracks were chinked with mud, and snow banked up around the foundation, but I remain doubtful!

      George built the cabin himself in 1919, the first structure on his new homestead. He is a very accomplished man, exactly the sort of husband one desires. He also constructed a log barn for the livestock, but then, since it was necessary to turn his attention to clearing the land, little else was done in the way of accommodation.

      When we left Juniper, I felt so eager to begin my new life that I wanted the horses to gallop, yet I quailed when I first caught sight of this humble abode, and it was all I could do to force a smile to my lips. My husband, ever sensitive to my mood, handed me a catalogue and bade me choose my new home from a Canadian company called the T. Eaton Company Limited.

      The price of $1,577 seems tremendous, but George received a small inheritance from his uncle that paid for it entirely. We are very fortunate, for settlers who bring money from the outside have a “leg up,” although even those with funds may fail to thrive unless they are careful managers.

      Within weeks the entire house arrived in pieces at the station in Juniper. The railway reached the town in 1916, but only after a mighty battle with the wilderness. The tracks stagger drunkenly around the landscape, and when they pass over muskeg one can see the cars rising and sinking in a most alarming fashion.

      From the station, the materials were brought here on seven wagons pulled by oxen. The wagoners unloaded a great quantity of milled lumber (almost unheard of in these parts, where there is as yet no sawmill), glass-paned windows, shingles, and everything down to the last nail: all arrived as promised. T. Eaton offers a one-dollar rebate for every knothole, so I inspected the lumber diligently in hopes of catching them out, but eventually waved the white flag as the boards are as flawless as satin.

      Our home is the Eastbourne model, one that will last several lifetimes. I feel blessed to have such a grand house and made only two changes to the original plan — the addition of a spacious back kitchen, and the elimination of one dividing wall upstairs to create a double-sized main bedroom.

      We even have a separate bathroom although the water must be carried up and down the stairs. Unfortunately, plumbing and pioneering are at the opposite ends of the spectrum! At least we don’t have to haul water from the creek like some poor souls. We have our own well water, and both colour and taste are excellent.

      George ordered a double brass bed and a chest of drawers from Edmonton, along with a table and four chairs. How I appreciate sitting in a chair, after the stumps we used in the cabin, and sleeping on a real mattress after the contraption that George strapped together from poplar poles!

      Happily, my “settler’s effects” arrived as the house was being finished. Ma made short work of shipping my books and china, as well as my Oriental carpet and my dressing table, and we will add to these furnishings as our purse allows.

      My carpet looks handsome on the gleaming fir floor, and I’m especially fond of the glass-fronted cupboards on each side of the fireplace. I polished my silver tea set and placed it on the top shelf, while our small collection of books lines the lower shelves. So far I have had very little time for reading! The fireplace is constructed of stones that I selected myself and carried, one by one, from the creek bed.

      George and I had our first disagreement over his stuffed moose head, which he was resolved to hang over the mantel. Looking into the creature’s dark, wicked eyes makes my blood run cold. George says they are indeed dangerous, and if I am charged by one, I must run in circles around a tree, as they are too ungainly to catch me and will eventually tire of this sport and wander away! The grotesque head has been stored in the attic “for now,” as George puts it.

      For our protection, George brought home a pup from the nearby Indian reserve, a cross between a northern husky and the saints know what. He is a dear wee creature with blue eyes and a tail that curls over his back. I have named him Riley. Sure, and isn’t he living the life of Riley here — wide open spaces and all the rabbits he can catch!

      Now that the house is complete, we must begin to work and save in earnest, and I am resolved to do everything in my power to create a home in this beautiful savage land.

      When George came back from the trenches in 1919, as a “returned man,” the Soldier Settlement Act allowed him to stake his claim on two quarters of land. (Plus the government gave him a handout of long underwear!)

      Although a great distance from town, the presence of a good well makes this property appealing. For the past five years George has worked like a slave to clear the required number of ten acres per year, and “prove up” his claim. He is now master of his domain, with 320 acres to call his own, although only fifty are yet broken.

      This part of the country is called “The Last Best West,” the only area left in Canada for those wishing to homestead. The fertile prairie land has been taken up, but George says he prefers the north because of the plentiful trees for firewood and buildings. The trees here are very tall and straight and good for construction. Everything is made of logs, from toilets to chicken coops.

      The setting is truly majestic. We are situated in a slight hollow, not far from the creek where the livestock drink. On both the east and west sides of the yard, George planted a double row of poplars and spruce, appropriately called a windbreak, to provide “our shelter from the stormy blast.” The southern aspect is open to a view of our own fields and the far-off blue hills.

      George says he departed from the practice of most newly arrived Englishmen, who long to be “kings of all they survey” and build on the highest hilltop. The old-timers know enough to build in a low spot where the howling winds cannot reach them.

      I will name my house Wildwood. It is not fashionable to name houses in this country, but I took one look at the dark forest behind us and determined that this place is a Wildwood if ever there was one!

      George says ’twas fate that brought me to the “moochigan” in Juniper, as a man with a wife is more likely to succeed. (The word moochigan, which is taken from the Cree language, is the local name for a dance.) This sounds rather prosaic, but George hastened to tell me he was only joking. He claims that when he first looked into my blue Irish eyes, he felt as if he were drowning. He is nine years older than I, twenty-seven years of age, but he says that I make him feel like a schoolboy. I told him he must have kissed the Blarney Stone!

      Our wedding was all that I wished, in spite of the absence of my dear parents. We were married at the Church of England Mission in Juniper. I wore my good brown travelling suit and my brown velvet hat with the pheasant feather cockade. Luckily a photographer was visiting Juniper for the purpose of taking an official picture of the new Hudson’s Bay chief factor and he made our wedding portrait as well.

      The O’Neills waited to see me