Plateau
Press

ISBN 0-9698842-1-4

Priced at $9.95

Just a few miles north of Nelson, British Columbia, a settlement of predominately British farmers was established after the turn of the twentieth century. Believing the area to be ideal for growing fruit, the settlers sought to establish themselves as gentlemen farmers. It was in this district that Reginald Dawson-encouraged by his family, local real estate agents, and his own vision of a genteel life-purchased his forty acres near the shores of Kootenay Lake in 1906.

As Hope and Forty Acres clearly shows, the realities of pioneer life were not at all as Dawson expected. His recollections of the early years are written in a style that is described by the BC Historical News as "humorous and insightful." Frequently poetic and consistently informative, the memoir offers the reader a rare glimpse of a world we have long since lost.

Contains 72 pages, an introduction by Julie Dawson, and five black and white photographs.

A brief excerpt below

MAN BITES DOG

It has been said that when dog bites man, that it is not news; but when man bites dog, that is news. I am reminded of this when I think of the day I kicked my horse. It was shortly after the Great War of 1914-18, when there was still evidence of wounded and maimed men. I had returned from my overseas tour more fortunate than many others, full of vim and vitality and somewhat hypnotized by the peace and beauty of the rancher's life. After the alarms and hardships of the cold North Sea, I had a renewed optimism about the future of fruit farming.

Among my first purchases was a fairly elderly horse and, like others today who have bought second-hand cars or machinery, I got rooked. The horse was what is known as a "balker." That is to say, at the most crucial moments on the side of a hill he would exert his personality and refuse to pull. I had had previous experience of balky horses. In fact, on one occasion I had blocked up the wagon and lit a fire under the animal's belly before I could get any response. In this case, however, there was no inflammable material handy.

I am afraid that my experience overseas had not instilled patience in me, nor the use of very gentlemanly language. The load in question, though on a stony hill, was not what I considered excessively heavy or beyond the powers of a well-fed horse. I lost my temper and, in a fit of rage, up came my foot and I kicked the recalcitrant animal in what I thought were his ribs. That is where I made my mistake. I had miscalculated the anatomy of the horse and hit his hipbone, which was a great deal harder than my foot. The horse turned his head and smiled at me while I wilted in agony on the side of the road.

My injury necessitated a trip to the doctor who strapped up my foot and put me on crutches for some three or four weeks. The satisfied horse went about his lawful occasions having what he thought was a well-deserved holiday. The thought of going about on crutches having kicked a horse was not helped by the fact that a few days later, while I was still hobbling around on a crutch, a very distinguished colonel came to see me.

Seeing the crutch, naturally he thought I had been injured in the war. I was forced to explain to him how I sustained the injury. Whether due to his inherent politeness or miscommunication, he expressed his condolences on my being kicked by the horse. I did my best to explain the incident, but to no avail. I suspect he went away with the impression he had been talking to a half-wit or one the worse for liquor.