Looking Backwards

April 6, 1956

I was the only passenger to get off train No. 97 at Dryden. It was a beautiful September morning, the sun shining brightly, birds­many of them unknown to me at that time­fluttering in the trees that fringed a stream that I found later to be the Wabigoon River.

The night operator Art Gould, having seen to dispatching the train, came out of the station-a mean, poor repetition of the scores of similar red-painted buildings I had noted all along the journey­and asked if there was anything I wanted. I asked for a hotel. He said there was one just across the way, the Central. I thanked him and started towards it.

It was half-past six in the morning, and I was anticipating breakfast. Going along what is now Earl Avenue, then just a trail along the river bank, I was struck with the smell of pine. It pervaded the whole atmosphere, and then nearing the hotel, the river burst on my view, stretching south, lined on both banks with trees and the sound of the water rushing over what is now the dam.

I stopped to take in the scene.

It recalled all my dreams of Canada lacking only the Indian and his canoe, or perhaps the Voyageur and his load of pelts.

The hotel was closed, but my knocking on the door aroused someone, and it was opened to find out who was there, and what was wanted. Stating that I wanted breakfast first, and a room later, I was told to come on in, and my interlocutor announced himself as Bill Richardson. He explained he was looking after the hotel whilst the owner, a Mr. Kearney, was away East on holiday.

Breakfast was not yet ready but we could go into the bar for an eye-opener. (By the way this was not the only eye-opener I got that day).

However at this particular moment Bill produced a bottle of rye and a couple of glasses, and told me to help myself.

These were the days of the open bar where one stood up at the counter and took his drink standing.

In the course of conversation I mentioned that I was thinking of taking up a homestead, and settling in the district. Bill told me that the land agent, Mr. A.E. Annis, was away East and would be gone two or three weeks, so I would have to stay around till his return before I could file on the land. Well that would give me lots of time to look around and find out whether or not my first impressions were lasting, and was this the part of Canada I wanted to own, even if it were only 160 acres.

Finishing my drink, Bill told me that breakfast was ready, and showed me the dining room at the back of the bar.

Now if I go into detail, please excuse me because I would like the present generation to know what the present town looked like when I came here in 1903.

It is well nigh impossible to visualize the scene today.

That lovely pine aroma has given way to something entirely different.

The open expanse of river view is shut in by boat houses, dwellings, and buildings of the pulp and paper company.

The old rickety bridge across the river, the only access to the settlement from the west, over which the farmers drove their horses and wagons, and buggies is gone, and the present structure is to be replaced by a modern bridge further down the river.

The two hotels are modernized, and much enlarged and only old timers, and we are a dwindling bunch, can recall them at this date.

The dining room I entered that morning was a bare room. In the centre was a long table, no covering such as a table cloth or even oil cloth. The seats were two long benches, one on either side. The floor had a well worn linoleum on it. If the surroundings were not impressive, the food was plentiful and well cooked. There was no menu, so you didn't pick and choose. The waitress asked me if I would like some porridge. I said I would and a good sized basin of cereal was put before me with a pitcher of milk, and some sugar. Next came bacon and eggs with coffee.

I was doing justice to this good fare when a door opened, and in came a young fellow dressed in an army tunic. I said pleasantly to him as he sat down on the opposite side of the table: "It's a lovely morning."

His reply made me wonder what was the matter for all he said was "What the hell has it got to do with you".

Rather rebuffed by this retort, I said "If that is the way you feel to hell with you."

After the atmosphere cooled a bit he opened up with an apology, and enquired my name and where I came from. Satisfying his curiosity I learned that he hailed from Liverpool and had been in South Africa in the Boer War, hence the tunic, and was located on a homestead at Minnitaki.

This was the first time I had heard of it and my curiosity was aroused to see what kind of place that was, but more of this later.

But this was my first acquaintance with George Ruete.

A friendship was struck that morning in the Central Hotel dining room that has endured for more than fifty years, and George and I can sit and jaw about the doings in the town of Dryden till the cows come home.

But I can never forget our first conversation.

Down east I had found men always ready to talk, and act friendly to a newcomer, but my recollection of the ladies in the Ontario I had left was very different. They always struck me as being so stiff and starchy that they actually creacked when they condescended to address a word to you. I wondered that morning if I would find any more greetings like that I had just got from George.