A Little Carbon in the Biscuits

Picture him 20 years younger.
The hair was red . . .

Dad was the youngest in a family of 11 children.

He had never been anywhere.
His father needed to take supplies to one of the family cow camps.

Dad was five.

Old enough, finally, to go along.

The two of them started out.

The camp was about 35 miles away over roads that were mostly trails across the prairie.

Though the day had started out beautiful, the weather quickly turned sour.

As often happens in Southern Alberta.

Before they could start for home, a blizzard blew in.

Travel quickly became impossible.

Granddad decided that he and his youngest son would have to bunk with the rotund keeper (who also served as cook, bottle washer, chore boy, range rider and chief spinner of horrendous tales), of the camp.

Dad was beyond excited.

It was his first time sleeping away from home.

The next morning dawned bright and clear.

As often happens in Southern Alberta . . . too.

Before the two of them left, however, they were offered breakfast by the keeper.

He made bacon and eggs and, because the old camp stove was rather unpredictable, biscuits that were burned black.

At first, Dad turned up his nose at the sight of the large, black lumps, but, after seeing his father eat a couple, he decided to try.

They weren't too bad.

He even got through a second.

Safely back at home a few hours later, as they were sitting down to lunch, his mother asked how he had liked it at the camp.

Dad was quite excited about the whole experience and talked about it enthusiastically.

He wished he could have stayed.

His Mom asked what he had eaten for breakfast.

It had been great, he enthused.

And he had eaten all of it!

"What did you have?" his mother asked.

"Bacon 'n eggs 'n coal!" Dad said proudly.

No wonder people were hardier back then.