The Clan McLeod

As with most people, Dad (picture at left) was proud of his ethnic heritage. He loved being of Scottish descent, could quote Robbie Burns at length and even professed to enjoy the bagpipes.

Great Grandfather Alexander McLeod crossed the Atlantic with his parents in 1865 when he was eight years old. The 3,000-mile trip was no luxury cruise. Little thought was given to the comfort of the passengers and the trip could take from four to six weeks, depending on the caprice of wind and weather. Due to unsanitary conditions and lack of proper food, fever and dysentery were common and typhus took its toll. Although he wasn’t on one of the so-called “famine ships,” the following paragraph fairly describes the perilous conditions aboard most of the ships of the day.

“In reasonable weather groups of 20 or 30 passengers at a time would be allowed on deck to breathe fresh air for a change, wash their clothing and clean themselves, and to cook whatever rations were still intact and fit to eat. In bad weather they would be forced to remain below, in complete darkness if the seas were really rough, the heaving waves bringing all kinds of discomfort as well as the inevitable seasickness for poor travellers. Most of the time they stayed on their bunks; despite the lack of space, it was usually more comfortable there than on deck.” Taken from: The Famine Ships, Edward Laxton, Bloomsbury Publishing Pic, London 1996

The trip apparently did no lasting harm to Alexander as he later fathered eleven children (with a little help from his wife Sarah Algar): William (my grandfather, the eldest), Mary, Edward, John, Sarah, Hugh, Agnes, Charles, Alexander, Margaret, and Elizabeth. Unfortunately, John and Margaret died in infancy, but losing two out of eleven in those days was not a bad record.

Grandfather William was born in Cornwall, Ontario but the family moved to Meaford when he was a year old. William was educated at Meaford and Collingwood and became a schoolteacher. He taught school in St. Vincent, Ontario before moving his family to a homestead south of Okotoks, Alberta in 1889. William was 32, married to Elizabeth Algar, who may have been a distant relative of his mother, Sarah Algar.

By the time William and Elizabeth moved to Alberta they had four children:
Mary, William, Edward and Charles, my father, who had been born in St. Vincent. Three more children would be born in Alberta: Angus, Oliver and Jack. We were a fairly prolific family.

After having seven children Elizabeth became pregnant with twins, but there were complications during the birth and medical science being what it was at that time, she and the twins died.

With the death of his wife William lost interest in the farm and, to some extent, the family. As well as a homestead, Grandfather had a real estate and insurance business in the town of Okotoks. He decided to move his business to Calgary and leave the farm to the children. They managed somehow to run the farm, keep house, and raise the youngest child, Jack. It was a tough, no-frills life and Dad never forgot the lessons he learned. When he had his own family he made sure we had a good home, plenty of food, and a father who was always, always there for us.

On the farm Dad and Mary did most of the housework and cooking, with Dad becoming quite adept at baking. When I was growing up Dad would make delicious biscuits and sugar cookies, usually on Sunday, his one day off. I remember climbing the back steps and before I reached the screen door I could smell those cookies—big, round, golden concoctions liberally dusted with sugar—and my saliva glands kicked into action like a rocket from the launching pad. Dad did all his baking without, to my amazement, any recipes. Since I can’t make Campbell’s Tomato Soup without the directions, I am a great admirer of those who wing it.

After a few years Dad left the farm to attend the University of Alberta in Edmonton but he missed, not the farm, but the cute little girl on a neighboring homestead so he came back for her. He was twenty-eight when he and Brooxie Nell Argo were married on New Year’s Eve, 1916. Mother was sixteen.

The Prescription

I owe my life to a pack of medieval doctors. Before you call in troops from the Canadian Medical Association, let me explain: My parents, Charles and Brooxie McLeod, were living in Drumheller, Alberta in 1926, the parents of two young daughters aged nine and seven. With both girls in school, Mother was at loose ends. Drumheller was a town of about 2,500 people, with limited resources for anyone yearning for a taste of Life. Mother was a woman of high intellect and wide mood swings and she soon became restless and unhappy. She began complaining of various aches and pains and fell into a deep depression.

Their doctor—a personal friend—talked with her, tapped her knees, listened to her heart, took tests and x-rays but could find nothing wrong. Dad didn’t know what to do. He was used to solving problems with a command or a chequebook and neither seemed appropriate here. He decided her symptoms were “all in her mind” and tried to cajole her into becoming her old self again. Nothing worked and it drove him mad. Desperate, he took Mother to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester. I know he was desperate because a trip to Calgary, 90 miles away, was akin to NASA’s flight to the moon and one that the family made about as often. Otherwise the little town of Drumheller was our world. The other indication of desperation was that Dad was a frugal Scot and expenditures outside of food and clothing were considered frivolous if not downright criminal. As the Canadian National Railway agent in Drumheller, my father could obtain passes for the entire family to travel at no expense except for a berth and food but, as he often pointed out: “The minute you step foot outside your door, it costs money.” The depression had taught him that while money might be the root of all evil, it was also the root of all security.

Doctors at the Mayo Clinic put Mother through rigorous testing but nothing turned up. They probably hadn’t seen such a healthy specimen since Schwarzenegger had his last checkup. Medical personnel from all over the hospital came to have a look, ponder, shake their stethoscopes and leave. They all agreed there was nothing physically wrong with this dainty little woman from some obscure town in the frozen north.

After a few days there was a consultation with three of the great men and the consensus was: What your wife needs is another baby! Oh the wonders of modern science. These men had gone through high school, university and seven or eight years of medical school and in the end it was all up to a railway station agent! Nevertheless, Dad was quite pleased. Here was a plan that would take some time and expertise to carry out, but if it would cure his wife’s malaise he was more than willing to make the sacrifice. I have no idea what Mother thought, but I arrive approximately 10 months later so I guess she didn’t object too strongly.

I was born on June 19, 1927. It was years before I knew I was just what the doctors ordered. My parents named me Myrtle Bernice, for which I will always be ungrateful.

Whether or not they, too, had been made to order, Neil Simon, Fidel Castro, and George C. Scott were born that same year. My baby cup runneth over. Nevertheless, it was a year to remember. Lindbergh completed his trans-Atlantic flight in the Spirit of St. Louis, Canada was elected to the League of Nations, and Babe Ruth hit a record 60 home runs.

Meanwhile, back at the little brick hospital in Drumheller, dirty work was afoot. One of the nurses, who knew my family, decided to play a trick on Dad. Presenting him with an olive-skinned baby with masses of dark hair, she said, “Here’s your new daughter, Mr. McLeod.”

Dad took one look and remembered his other girls who were born fat, fair and bald. “That’s a nice baby,” he said with a smile, “but it’s not mine.” And so I was rescued from the nursery. I looked at him through murky, unfocused eyes and thought: This is my father. I’ll wrap him around my little finger and he’ll wrap me around his. And we did.

Mother seemed better while she kept busy looking after me—although I was an adorable child and never any trouble—however, she was not cured. As the years went by we all learned to gauge her moods. When she was feeling well she had an abundance of energy and loved to have a good time, but she was cursed with bouts of depression. In part, I think she was looking for something more out of life and didn’t know what. In today’s jargon: She never really ‘found’ herself. Perhaps she should have had more children, although I raised five and never had time to find myself. I’m still out there somewhere.

YOU'RE FROM WHERE?

by Myrle McLeod

Dedication

To my parents who thrust me into life, and to my children who made it all worthwhile.

Forward

When I hear that someone has written a memoir, I shy away like a Republican from a welfare mother. I have learned from experience that one may not die from boredom, but one sickens. I therefore hasten to assure the reader that this is not a memoir, but the gentle resurrection of a life so filled with excitement and purpose that it would be a crime not to have it told.

And if you buy that, you will be interested to learn that I have exclusive rights to Howdie Doodie's life story as an undercover transvestite working for the CIA, the KGB and possibly the NRA. Involvement with the latter has not been proven, but an independent counsel has been appointed and we should be hearing from him in about the year 2025.

Not only is this not--I repeat--not a memoir, it is more in the form of an expose. I live in British Columbia, Canada. It is generally believed that there are only two provinces in Canada: British Columbia and Ontario. Writers especially are all too easy to convince of this because these are the areas where the Canadian publishers are located. People talk about the "prairie provinces" and it is true there are dark murmurings about lucrative oil wells and waving seas of grain, but these are purported to be pure imaginings by malcontents.

In general, politicians would have us believe the middle of our country is vast wasteland where no living thing dwells. Unfortunately, this belief is reinforced by those of us who have flown a number of times from Vancouver to Toronto and have never seen anything but cumulus cloud formations.

The fact that there are people living in the middle of Canada is closely-guarded secret known only to the Mounties, the FBI and k.d. lang. Mind you, my mother told me I was born in Alberta but then she also told me there was a tooth fairy and virgins didn't have acne.

If I am never heard of again, i.e. never write another book, you may be sure I was hunted down for my part in exposing this hoax and am living out what is left of my life in limbo above mythical Medicine Hat.