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would refresh themselves during hot summer afternoons, flocks of turkeys and white domestic geese running free. Roy describes what was truly an oasis in the mid dle of the most arid desert: “Papa had described his Dunrea settlement as a sort of paradise, and that was precisely the work he used, a paradise”. Roy’s description of the people begins with the children, or rather with their effect on Chriatine’s father. "The moment he stepped down from his rig, Papa found himself surrounded with children: he patted their cheeks, tweaked their ears... a strange thing, for with his own children Papa never did such things.” Of the men she writes, “These Little Ruthenians... were not at all small; on the contrary, they were almost all of average stature, some of them even very tall and strudy. Papa called them Little Ruthenians for a reason unconnected with their size...” The Ruthenian women are portrayed in an almost poetic manner. They were "silent, shy women, who hid their lovely tresses beneath kerchiefs., [their] voices were the same as of murmuring watar and of silence... never high or screeching.” And y^t, the des cription of the women continues with a strong and sad commentary on gender roles. While the men talked business, the women had prepared the food in so great a rilence that, each, time, Papa was startled to hear the soft words spoken near his ear: — If you olease, Mr. Government, do us the great honor of coming to our table. The men sat down; not the women, whose role now was to remain standing behind hosts and guests, attentive to pass them the variuos dishes... he would have preferred to see them seated at the same time as the men at their own table. This was the only fault he found with his Little Ruthenians — that they were absolute masters in their own families ... the lot of the women at Dunrea was the only thing that upset him. The siory continues with a great fire, disillusion ment and other events that move the reader away from tne Ukrainian immigrants and back into the lives of the novel’s central characters. But it is interesting to note that so mary details about the Ukrainian immigration to Canada have been preserved in a novel written by a French Canadian whose familiarity with the early Ukrainian settlers and their lives is to be commended. At the open air museum near Edmonton, in the Cana dian province of Alberta, visitors can see a cluster of houses which date back to the first economic immigra- tior. to the Canadian West. Houses were covered with thatched roofs. Walls were white-washed with tiny win dows; the size of the windows and their small number was due to the fact that in their native villages in Ukraine, people were heavily taxed for the number of windows and doors in their dwellings. The size of the windows made a difference as well. Immigrants thought that the same heavy taxes would apply in Canada, therefore the first houses, like those described in Roy’s novel, had only one door and one tiny window. UKRAINIAN CANADIAN BY CAL HARRISON My grandfather’s wallet looked old and familiar like another member of the family. I must have seen him open it a thousand times to buy pellets for the gun, or a tin of Sportsman’s tobacco, Zig-Zag rollinng papers, pop for his kids, whatever. Usually at Mike Sass’s General Store, but sometimes at Kolochuk’s. It was no wonder then, that when he died I looked through it. Maybe for a memory of him. Maybe for the story of me. I found a driver’s license that said he was Peter Har rison of MacArthur Street in Winnipegosis. They only started naming the streets in Winnipegosis a few years ago before he died so I knew that this didn’t mean much. Harrison looked familiar becaUse he and I shared his name, but it looked strange and unfamiliar when I put his name and image together — maybe because he was Dido to me. Of course, I never called him Mr. Harri son. Maybe the kids down the street did, but more likely they didn’t either. Mr. Harrison was too formal a title for a guy who wore one-piece long underwear in August and shot crows with a pellet gun. ’’Dido Harrison” seemed okay though.I had two Didos and I often differ entiated them that way. After the funeral we went back to Baba and Dido’s place. Dido wasn’t there anymore, but it didn’t seem right to call it Baba’s so quickly. The priest came with us to the house and joined my dad and his brothers in a toast to their father. Rye and RC Cola and “Dai Bozhe”. My dad and my uncles were tired. I don't know how they felt, but I think they felt some relief. For 30 years, their father had been sick with episodes of hospitalization fol lowed by periods of good health. They were also tired from working at the grave that morning. The sandy soil had caved in over night and had filled the hole with water. That morning had been spent in the cold and wet trying to make the ground comfortable for their father.
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