2nd Avenue High Noon Showdown
High Noon Show-Down on 2nd Ave
It was 1962 and my first visit to my grandparents who lived in Vibank, Saskatchewan. Two weeks was hardly enough time to experience anything except a whirlwind of experiences. There was so much packed into such a short time it's hard to unpack all the events in an orderly way. It was late August and the fields of wheat were so golden, reflecting the late summer sun as they gently swayed in the breeze. My dad was there to work, helping Grandpa bring in the harvest. That meant he was gone from dawn to dusk. It also meant I had to find things to entertain myself.
I had time on my hands. As much as I loved my grandma, a twelve-year-old boy is always looking for his next exploration. I wish I could turn back the clock now. I'd give anything to soak up every single moment of her presence. <sigh> - if only we knew in our youth what we learn is important as we age.
My second day found me contemplating options for adventure. What does one do for fun and excitement in a small Saskatchewan town? As I considered options, the prairie sun was already beating down mercilessly, turning Vibank into a veritable oven. As I stepped out onto the porch, the heat hit me like a warm, suffocating blanket. But for a twelve-year-old boy with boundless energy and an insatiable appetite for adventure, even the scorching Saskatchewan summer couldn't dampen my spirits.
My first order of business was to scout out the neighbourhood, and boy, did I hit the jackpot! Right next door lived a family with several daughters close to my age. They were as pretty as prairie lilies, with sun-kissed hair and smiles that could melt the winter snow. But as I stood there, mouth agape like a fish out of water, I realized that my usual bravado had deserted me faster than a tumbleweed in a dust storm.
I mumbled something that might have been "hello" but sounded more like a prairie dog's squeak. They giggled, I blushed redder than the setting sun, and just like that, my chance at young love evaporated like morning dew. Smooth operator? More like a bull in a china shop.
Luckily, salvation came in the form of a boy my age who lived down the street. We hit it off like two peas in a pod, and soon enough, we were thick as thieves. He introduced himself as Johnny, and before I knew it, we were hatching plans for our first grand adventure - a trek to the general store for the ultimate prize: Orange Crush Pop!
The journey to the store was an odyssey in itself. We navigated the gravel roads, our feet sticking to the freshly laid tar, like flies to honey. The wooden boardwalks creaked and groaned under our feet, each step a percussive accompaniment to our excited chatter.
As we rounded the corner onto 2nd Avenue, our path was suddenly blocked by a stocky figure. He stood there like a troll guarding a bridge, his arms crossed and a scowl etched on his face. This, I learned, was the infamous Hutch, the self-appointed twelve-year-old mafia boss of Vibank.
"Twenty-five cents for passage," he growled, holding out a grubby hand.
I looked at Johnny, who shrugged helplessly. Apparently, this was a regular occurrence. Hutch's personal toll booth on the road to sugary refreshments was as regular as the sun rising and setting in Johnny’s life.
Now, I may have been a fish out of water with the fairer sex, but when it came to standing up to bullies, I had some previous experience from run-ins similar back in my home town. Now I’m no fighter. Almost always these types of skirmishes in the past have resulted in me walking away the worst for wear. Nonetheless, my past experiences had frankly made me as stubborn as a mule in these situations.
"We're not paying you anything," I said, puffing out my chest like a prairie chicken in mating season.
Hutch's eyes narrowed. "Then you ain't passing."
What happened next was a blur. One moment I was standing there, the next my fist had connected with Hutch's nose. It wasn't so much a punch as an accidental poke, but it was enough. Hutch's eyes began to water as they widened in shock, and then we were off, running like jackrabbits with a coyote on our tails.
We didn't stop until we reached the General Store, our lungs burning and our legs wobbling like newborn calves. As we collapsed on the front steps, wheezing and giggling, I felt a mix of exhilaration and dread. I'd stood up to the bully, sure, but I'd also just made an enemy in a town where I was supposed to be a guest.
When I finally trudged home, my grandma was waiting for me on the porch, her face a mix of concern and disappointment. News, it seemed, travelled faster than a prairie fire in Vibank.
"Sit down, young man," she said, patting the spot next to her on the porch swing. "We need to have a talk."
My grandma spun a web of wisdom that would stick with me longer than any tar on those gravel roads. She spoke of turning the other cheek, of finding peaceful solutions, of being the bigger person. Her words were as soothing as a cool breeze on a hot day, and I found myself nodding along, feeling both chastised and cherished.
As I headed inside, feeling a mix of shame and relief, I caught sight of the neighbours' daughters. To my surprise, they all flashed me a thumbs-up accompanied by dazzling smiles. Apparently, standing up to Hutch had elevated my status from bumbling boy to potentially alright. I found out later that they had a soft spot for Johnny and if you looked out for him, you were OK in their books.
For the rest of my stay, I took the long way around to the general store, detouring down 1st Avenue. It might have added a few minutes to my journey, but it was worth it for the peace of mind - and to avoid any more High Noon showdowns at the 2nd Ave Corral.
Looking back now, that summer in Vibank was a turning point. It was a time of missed opportunities and unexpected triumphs, of learning hard lessons and making lasting memories. The golden wheat fields of my youth may have long since been harvested, but the lessons I learned on those dusty Saskatchewan streets continue to yield a bountiful crop of wisdom.
And sometimes, on hot summer days when the crickets sing their endless song, I can almost taste the sweet, tangy flavour of that Orange Crush Pop - the prize that tasted sweeter that day than ever before or since. It still to this day is a symbol of the adventures, big and small, that shaped a twelve-year-old boy's unforgettable prairie summer.
As always, for all you readers, you can share the stories from "A Lifetime of Stories from Canada's Far West," like treasures passed down from generation to generation. May they spark laughter and inspire new adventures, for all who read them. All that I ask is you credit me, the author.
© Revised 2024 Author: Ron Merk 4762 Elizabeth St, Port Alberni BC V9Y 6L9
ron.merk@telus.net