Threads of belonging: A Métis family’s journey through changing Edmonton

When Dad and I were asked to consider adding some of our stories to Tracks in Time, a lot of memories came up around the kitchen table. We both reflected how much this city has changed.

My experience is just Mill Woods. I was raised there, left as a young adult for a few years and have come back to stay.

However, my Dad, Gordon, is a Métis man who has spent some of his youth and all of his adulthood in Edmonton. My Mom, Anita, who has since passed, immigrated from Germany when she was nine and, like many families who have come to Edmonton, found a good life here.

Shortly after my parents got married, Mom convinced Dad to buy a house in that new suburb way out on the edge of town. In 1973, they signed the papers, and in early 1974, they got the keys and called Mill Woods home. I came around in 1977, and by then Mill Woods was a happening place. Honestly, it was a great community to grow up in.

I love listening to my Dad’s stories about Edmonton when he and his siblings were young. I bugged them for stories about their shenanigans, the friends they made, the places they lived and the games they played. As Dad and I talked about Mill Woods, we realized how much has changed in both of our lifetimes there. I asked him if he could take me down to the river valley where he spent some of his childhood. He graciously agreed to let me record him showing me around and telling stories about his life and the city as he knew it back then.

My Dad and the river

The North Saskatchewan River has always been the center of my life in Edmonton. From the simple north side and south side description of where things are to the complex history of my Métis ancestry in relation to traveling the river and the fur trade, it has always been about the river.

When I was growing up in Mill Woods, the only flowing water that was within reasonable biking or walking distance was Mill Creek. That creek has a rich and deep Métis history as well, but not the same grandness or sense of adventure that the North Saskatchewan River embodies. 

When I was young, and even not so young, Dad would give me warnings about the river. He would say that his parents told him cautionary tales about kids falling through the ice or being swept away because they waded in too far. He told me stories about how ice was harvested from the river in the winter, where giant blocks were cut and dragged onto shore which then would get stored so there was ice available the rest of the year. I clearly remember being a little disgusted by that and spent a few years of my childhood preparing for the horror of finding little frozen critters in my icy drinks.

We walked not far from where Little Flower School now stands to the corner of 97 Avenue and 100 Street. Stopping on the brick path, Dad talked about how that was the location of Arctic Ice when his family lived a block away. From his recollections, he thought it had sat in that site from at least the 1930s until well after our family moved from the area in 1958. This was an important landmark in his memories of the area. Dad simply stated he and his friends used to play in the area around Arctic Ice’s warehouse, but wouldn’t elaborate when I asked more questions. (Considering the stories I’ve already heard about the trouble he and his friends would find themselves in, I hope one day to find out what they really got up to.)

Despite being adventurous children, they knew the whole river bank was off limits and he said his parents “put the fear of death into them.” My Dad never ventured off the banks into the water or onto the ice. In fact, over the many years our little family has enjoyed picnics and walks in the river valley, Dad would never venture down the banks to see the water like we would. One day when I was telling him about how my dogs love playing in the river at the off-leash areas around town, he looked shocked and a little horrified.

I convinced Dad to come down to the bank where we found a small bit of open grass that overlooked the river. The ice was already folding over on itself, creating stacks with jagged peaks. A few patches of open water still remained with dark ripples showing a hint of the swift water beneath the white ice. I could hear the crack and shift of the ice under the constant din of traffic as we spoke. As Dad looked around, he quietly said: “I didn’t realize it was so jagged. I thought it would be smooth.” I wonder if this is because the ice looked very different when he was a kid, either from memories or how much our world has changed.

The droning of engines and sirens echoed through the valley as we stood and watched the ice. I asked Dad if it had been noisy like this when he was a kid. He looked toward the James MacDonald Bridge and said, “It wasn’t like that back then, you never heard anything. You never even heard sirens. Maybe the odd time, who knows, maybe once or twice a year, but no. We never heard the din of traffic back in the mid-fifties. That’s how much life has changed. Time marches on.”

My Dad and Little Flower School

Little Flower School was a small, one-room Catholic community school that served the Rossdale Flats neighbourhood. It was run by the Separate School Board (which is now known as Edmonton Catholic Schools) from 1953 until 1969, closing when construction for the James Macdonald Bridge was in full force. Before 1953, it was a Catholic church and school house.

It now exists as a community hall next to the big ball diamond in Rossdale. It used to sit right where the busy traffic of 97 Avenue now flows, just north of Donald Ross School, its public school counterpart. Dad has fond memories of Grade 3 at Little Flower. When I was young, he talked a lot about Sister Faustina, the nun who was the teacher. My Kokum (Grandma) often told me of how my Dad was not the best student, and I have to think that Sister Faustina had to be kind and patient, considering how fond he is of her and how much of a handful he used to be.

When I prodded a bit I got a chuckle and the statements: “I was a terrible student” and “I was always bored.” Yet, he still remembers school as a good time. “I got along really well with everybody,” he says, describing the students as his friends. As all of the students lived close to Little Flower, they spent many hours together playing sports and games after school and on the weekends. Dad still remembers some of his classmates and hopes those who might yet be around could one day meet up for a reunion. After finishing Grade 3 at Little Flower, he moved on to Holy Child for Grade 4. When I asked which school he preferred, he said Holy Child—because there were more sports.

As we walked around the building, Dad gazed at the building with contented joy. He reflected on how the area looks now: “If people were to go back, they wouldn’t know this place. If you lived here when I went to Little Flower and saw things now, you wouldn’t recognize the city at all.”

He expressed sadness and a little frustration that the letters on the building declaring it as Little Flower have been pried off, and I can’t help but feel a bit of that sadness. Unlike other schools that have seen generations of children play in their yards and grow under their roofs, all that seems to remain of Little Flower School is a repurposed building and a few fond memories.

My Dad and The Neighbourhood

We climbed into my truck and drove the two blocks to where Dad’s childhood house once stood. I remember when I was still quite young, Dad would point out a roof surrounded by twisted Manitoba maple branches as we zipped along 97 Avenue, telling me that’s where he used to live. As I twisted in my seat to try and look where he was pointing, I remembered wondering why he would like living so close to a busy road. 

He told stories about the field right across a quiet street, playing football in the summer and skating in the winter mere steps from their front door. Stories about the trouble he and his friends would get into, funny stories about his little brothers and interesting stories about the relatives who lived with them sparkle in my childhood memories. I think the house was torn down in the mid 1980s, along with many more. Now, just the overgrown trees and trimmed grass are left. When I was looking at satellite images of the area, I could see the property lines in the texture of the land and overgrown shrubs, echos of what was once a bustling little community…

97 Avenue, just coming off of the James Macdonald Bridge, roars above our heads. As I fiddled with our microphones, fighting the cold and the thunder of traffic, Dad crossed the deserted side street and explored along the sidewalk. I watched him peer between branches and trunks to the grassy patch where the house once stood. 

Eventually he returned to the corner where the old house stood, right on 98 Avenue and a stone’s throw from 100 Street gestured wide with his arms and said “everything as far as you can see was our playground. The hillside, below the Macdonald hotel, way up in the trees there…” 

He talked of the sports in the field, his brother who passed away last year and the good times that floated to the top of his memory. He pointed out where things were and the landmarks that still sit despite so much change. He gestured up the hill, telling me “The Macdonald hotel was the biggest building that was standing from down here. These high rises… I think that was all residential.”

That steep climb from the flats to downtown Edmonton was a favourite part of their playground. Dad laughed when he talked about taking raw hotdogs and buns and pretending they were camping in the trees under the Hotel Macdonald. I can imagine a herd of small boys chasing each other through the brush, climbing up just below the hotel grounds and eating their raw hot dogs and buns with enthusiasm. I also envision them enjoying their impromptu lunch while only meters away the cream of Edmonton’s business folk dined on finer things—both groups talking about plans for the future, the latest sports news, and possibly what was for dinner.

It was getting dark and we climbed back into the truck. Dad said his old church was just up the way, and I insisted that we stop by. After we got set up, this amazing moment happened around connections. I had heard stories about Dad and his family going to St. Theresa’s Church, where he was an altar boy. There is one story where he decided to play with his friends instead of go do his altar boy duties, and his Mom came marching over to get him. A moment of true fear from his telling and a moment of pure amusement for the kid who up to that moment couldn’t really imagine her Dad being a little boy.

The connection that was made is that St. Theresa’s Church is now located only blocks away from us in Mill Woods. Despite how much things change, there is this deep comfort in finding a constant in the flow of time. While it might not be the same church entity, while it may not have the same people worshipping under its roof, this teeny anchor is enough to feel a moment of belonging. For my Dad, its feelings and experiences that come with the name and place. For me, it’s a tangible thread within the words of stories. Mill Woods has always been my home, and today I have one more thread of belonging tying me to this place and community.