Ghosts and Pigeons.

The old rambler swerved from side to side, kicking up yellow dust and stones. Ray had the unnerving habit of looking at the passenger while driving. We have driven into more than one wheat field on our adventures on the wide open bald ass Alberta prairie.

So far, he has always managed to get us back on the road without missing a sentence or flipping the vehicle.

last winter while we froze our prairie oysters trying to hunt the elusive and cunning antelope, mostly, we were content to take a few fat partridge home; we discovered a farm house. It stood empty from the early pioneer days. We explored every room, fascinated on how simple but well built the house was, the early settlers took pride in what they had.

On the main floor was a huge living room , off to the left was an equally large kitchen with a pantry that at one time must have held plenty of preserved jams, vegetables' and sauces. Today, it was home to field mice that deposited their droppings on every shelf and then some. For such a little critter they sure crap a lot.

Getting through the winter months in Alberta was no walk in the park back then. Each room had an opening in the wall where a stove pipe would have exited. Burning whatever wood or coal you could find was the only source of heat. Two large bedrooms up stairs may have been comfort to a pile of dirty faced children that hoped the heat would find its way to them. But, what really perked our interest was the feral pigeons that flew in and out of the open space that once held glass.

When homesteaders left a place, they, or the neighbours, would remove whatever furniture, including the glass out of the windows. Times were tough back then. I remember back in Ontario my grandfather who had a homestead up north went back years later to see it. There was nothing left but the shell of a bone dry well. People had to do whatever they could to survive.

My friend Ray, and I, both pigeon fanciers as children back in Ontario, talked about those birds often and decided that we would go back to the farm, wait inside until dark when all the pigeons were in and catch a few pair. Most, or all, of our half cocked adventures were born in Maxs bar. The only drinking hole in town, so you better watch your manners, or your out. I took a waiters job for Max for a short time. On Saturday, the place filled with farmers, cowboys and the dreamers that I hung with. It didn't take me very long to see that there was more fun drinking beer than delivering it. Max was not happy but I retired early from that position.

Gerald, the town biker, actually, he was the only one out of a population of six hundred that owned a motorcycle, so officially he was the town bike gang, overheard our talk in the local bar and told of a horrifying axe murder that was committed in that house. The father, said Gerald, went insane and killed his family of nine ,mostly in the upper bedrooms. Chopped them up like cords of wood. The house was haunted he said.

Now, Gerald smoked a lot of weed and would go off on fabricated stories like this all the time, but Ray was a ghost believer and so here we are, on the way to see some walking dead, and possibly nab a few pigeons.

We climbed the creaking staircase just as the sun was setting, which in an Alberta summer is about ten P.M. We were like the adventurers of old, or National Geographic explorers, or like bored grown men who's brain hasn't caught up to the body.

There was a mirror on an old dust covered chest of drawers that the neighbours missed, neither of us took the opportunity to see what was inside. Not after seeing all the mouse turds. Bravery was not on the top of our qualifications. We took a seat on the floor amongst the cooing pigeons and bird poop.

The sun set and darkness filled the room, replacing our joking and nervous chatter with fear.

We stared into the mirror with wide excited eyes. Ray said ghosts preferred to communicate like that. I am, or, was not a believer and considered it all fun, but silly.

We decided to head home when nothing spooky happened and besides, we finished that last of a six pack, and were now sharing the last of a roll your own cigarette. At times we thought maybe something was inside the mirror, leering at us from behind the red glow of our smokes. Convinced it was nothing Ray had enough, time to go he insisted.

Disappointed, we got up and as we entered the hall, facing the other bedroom a blurry vision of two small figures appeared. They swayed from side to side and might have did other things but we were already down the stairs, missing most and out into the yard.

Ray frantically searched for his car keys. I told him they were in the ignition but he couldn't hear me over all the shrill screaming he was doing. We were making more pitiful noises than a pig fight over the last corn cob.

Finally getting into the car first he drove off spewing dust, rocks and debris everywhere. He said later ,when he came back and found me covered in road dust and out of breath on that dark lonely road, that he thought I was in the car.

Back at the bar, Gerald said he was just pulling our legs about the murder, he got a big laugh over that and was quick to share with all the locals sitting nearby.

Ray and I, to this day, will swear, we saw ghosts. We soon became those 'nut bars from Ontario' in that prairie town. And Gerald, who painted his house purple and parked his hog in his living room was just a good ole boy. When your an outsider, your always an outsider. Didn't bother us, we were somewhat nutty back then.

We never went back or anywhere near that house again, not only avoided it but didn't even go down that long ugly road. The pigeons can live in peace, they were safe from us.