You may be aware of this, but I wasn’t until recently. The vast majority of cemeteries and church graveyards have one thing in common. Aside from the blindingly obvious, that is. The burial plots are all oriented in an east-westerly direction. Dunvegan’s Margaret MacLeod, former keeper of the Kenyon Presbyterian Church’s cemetery records for eighteen years, recently brought this to my attention.
The customary practice, with Christian burials at least, the coffin is placed six feet below the sod, face up, with the body’s head to the west and feet to the east. Where that isn’t possible, the next best option is with the body laid on its side, head to the north and facing east. The reasoning behind this practice comes from the belief that placing the body facing east will allow the dead to see the Second Coming of Jesus.
Of course, many older graveyards are not perfectly aligned with true east on a compass, as these implements were not all that common in pioneer settlements. Instead, “east” was determined by the position of the rising sun at the time of year when the first graves were dug. As one article I read pointed out, “It was the perception of east that set the direction, not the compass.”
Another interesting point Margaret mentioned was that this same Christian thinking on the Big Sleep can often be found reflected in the design of farmhouse bedrooms from the late 1800s and early 1900s. They typically are laid out so the most logical place for the bedstead is with the headboard against a west wall, so one’s toes point east. If you have or know an old house from the period, take a look. The bedrooms in the old Dewar farmhouse on our property follow this pattern to the letter.
Margaret admits that she was a bit wet behind the ears when she took on the burial records job. “I didn’t even know which end of the coffin went in first,” she told me. Luckily, Dale Munro, a principal of Maxville’s Munro & Morris Funeral Home at the time, showed her the ropes… in the form of a riddle. “When you lay down to sleep at night, which part of you hits the bed last,” he asked. The answer is typically one’s head. And apparently this hold true when we’re lowered for our final rest.
Farm Excursions (II)
Last week, we looked at what were known in these parts as “farm excursions.” These were the annual exoduses of young men from the Dunvegan area (and no doubt farmhands from other parts of Eastern Canada) to help with the harvest on the Canadian prairies. Jim Fletcher of Kanata, formerly from Dunvegan, vividly remembers following in the footsteps of his father and grandfather.
The year was 1957, when Jimmy as he was known back then, piled into a second-hand car with his brother Warner and three of their chums — Claude Mainville from Dunvegan and Billy McCuaig and Art Buchanan from Moose Creek — to find their fortune in Western Canada. As they headed west towards the setting sun, the prevailing sentiments seemed to be blowing this bloody town, getting some action and ceasing to waste their lives. “All seems too funny now,” Jim told me upon reflection.
Each night they’d stop at a motor lodge along the way and squeeze into one room. After three or four days, they landed in Swift Current, Saskatchewan and were told there were lots of jobs up river. So the next day they followed the South Saskatchewan River and, by that evening, all five had found jobs on wheat farms in places like Cabri, Abbey, Shackleton and Leader.
Once in Saskatchewan, the chums had little contact with each other. “No cell phones in those days,” Jim reminisced, “and we were working on different farms, maybe 30 or 40 miles apart.” Jim Fletcher ended up working for a guy who did custom work. He had two or three swathers and combines going all the time. Jim drove a large three- or four-ton dump truck hauling grain to the elevators from the combines in the fields and farmers’ granaries. “On occasion, he would loan me out to other farmers who needed help,” Jim recalled. “Never a dull moment.” Working for a customer operator, Jim also lived pretty high on the hog… with a room in the Cabri hotel and meals in the local restaurant.
The days were long, from maybe 6:00 in the morning to until 9:00 or 10:00 at night. But the boys from Dunvegan were used to tough slogs. The only thing Jim really struggled with was the culture shock of working on Sunday. Harvest time out west was a seven-days-a-week operation. “I was raised with my religious Grandfather,” Jim told me. “He did not allow man or beast to work on Sunday.” His employer told him it was God’s will that His crops be reaped before bad weather struck. That seemed to make sense to Jim, so he worked on the Sabbath. But he had misgivings. “I never really told anyone about this Sunday thing,” Jim said. “I still think a day of rest is a good thing.”
By mid September, the harvest was coming to an end, Jim’s brother and the two lads from Moose Creek headed back to Ontario. However, Jim and Claude opted to stay for a while longer. They talked a young rancher named Widdifield into taking them on as a package deal. The boys were kept busy doing chores around the ranch house… like milking the two cows for the family’s milk, feeding chickens and dogs and feeding the steers that wandered near the barn.
They were also put to work mending fences on a ranch that was about 28 thousand acres in total… with the South Saskatchewan River on one side and the fences on the other. “It was basically all bad land with rolling hills,” Jim wrote me in an email. “We could see deer and antelope playing in the coulees.”
Mr. Widdifield had 250 to 300 head of cattle to feed over the winter. So the two boys also moved thousands of bales of hay and straw from farms in the area back to the ranch. They could shift around 400 or 450 on one load and made two to three loads a day. “You’ve never seen so many bales in all your life.” Jim told me.
This done, it was roundup time, when the whole herd had to be moved into the corral area. There, Jim, Claude and local cowboys and cowgirls would brand the small calves (or doggies) that had been born during the summer. Luckily, the mounts they rode were cutting horses, trained to edge the wee ones out from the herd. This allowed Jim and Claude to lasso and brand them. Not surprisingly, the two lads fell or were bucked off the horses many times. “Never had so many bruises… or so much fun… in all my life,” Jim admitted. “It was a marvellous experience and one I’ve never forgotten.”
Looking back, little did Jim and his chums know that their ‘harvest excursion’ would be one of the last. Horses, mowers and binders were things of the past. It was now trucks, tractors and combines. “I honestly don’t know of any others who went west after 1957,” said Jim, “at least not from our area.”
Up your chimney
Thanks to Omicron, it looks like another muted Robbie Burns supper is in store for us on January 25th this year. Known as Burns Night, the event is traditionally held on or near the poet’s birthday, and is an annual celebration of the life and work of the Scottish poet Robert Burns. Thanks to reader Ken McEwen for reminding me to wish members of the local Scottish and Scottish-adjacent community a Happy Burns Night.
For other folks who might say they have no familiarity with the bard’s poetry, Ken asks if they have ever linked arms at the stroke of midnight on New Years Eve and sang Auld Lang Syne? Pure Robbie Burns. Ken also sent along a traditional Gaelic toast: Lang may yer lum reek or “long may your chimney smoke.” In other words, may you enjoy a long and healthy life.
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