Break Time!

Mischief-maker extraordinaire!

Halloween was a time of hijinks and high-spirited fun in Milk River in the 60s.

Much like it was everywhere.

My brother's stories always surpassed anything my friends and I could dream up, however.

Our lone constable tried hard to keep order in his town.

By different techniques . . .

1. Keeping a strong presence.

Rather hard when you are the only cop in a town full of 'hooligans'.

His word, not mine . . .

And the kids know that as soon as you've driven past, you can't see them.

2. Locking everything up.

Also only effective if one actually . . . locks . . .

But I am getting ahead of myself.

One group were especially rowdy.

My eldest brother's group.

Oh, they didn't do actual damage, unless you count the time they burned down a rickety old shed and, along with it, the power lines to the entire town.

But that is another story.

They just had fun.

One Halloween, our intrepid, lone policeman decided that the best defense was a good offence.

And the best way to do that was to round up the troublemakers before they actually . . . made . . . trouble.

Which he did.

My brother and his friends were escorted, under protest, to the local jail and locked into one of the cells.

Throughout the evening, many more were brought in.

The cell was getting crowded.

Our policeman was quite proud of himself.

He had single-handedly stopped the mischief in our town.

Genius.

What he hadn't considered was the imagination and daring of this particular group of young men.

And the security of his police station.

With its back door that was never locked.

Ever.

Something that all of the kids in town knew.

Partway through the evening, two of the mayor's sons sneaked in by that door and gave the 'prisoners' a file.

An actual file.

I am not making this up.

Then they left.

The boys locked in the cell immediately went to work and, in short order, filed through one of the bars.

One by one, they sneaked through the opening and out the back door.

One of them, however, refused to leave.

He wanted to see the face of the constable when he discovered the empty cell.

He got his wish.

The constable came in to perform a routine check.

He found, not a sound cell full of potential law-breakers; but instead, a cell minus one bar and most of his prisoners.

Consternation warred with chagrin in his expressive face. (Ooh! Good sentence!)

The lone young man was laying back on a bunk, both hands behind his head.

He sat up. "Sir! There's been a jail-break!"

And you thought Milk River was a sleepy little town!

Outhouse Tipping. Sport of Kings.

Seated: Grandma and Grandpa Berg and 'She Who Holds the Horses'
Surrounding them: The Instigators

Halloween.

Ghosts and goblins.

Witches, black cats and scary pumpkins.

Pirates, vampires and mummies.

An evening of treats, tricks and mischief.

And it has been this way for many, many years.

My Mom often talked of mischief perpetrated by her and her eight (yes, I said eight) brothers.

They were in a rural community, with all of the families around them involved in some sort of agriculture, so the opportunities for tricks were almost as endless as the imaginations that enacted them.

Pigs in the hen house.

Harnesses on the cows.

Wagons hauled to the roofs of the barns.

Tires and assorted junk piled in the roadways.

But the favourite, the real king of the pranks was outhouse tipping.

Though indoor plumbing was quite common in the cities and larger communities in the mid-1930s, on the farms and ranches surrounding Millicent, Alberta, most families still made use of the outdoor privy.

Cold in the winter, hot in the summer, but necessary the whole year through, the outhouse was an accepted and integral part of family life.

And very few of them were fastened down.

All it took was a concerted effort by two or more strong lads and . . . over it would go.

Followed by much laughter and hilarity as the perpetrators fled.

To the next farm.

Where their adventure would start all over.

Mom held the horses, or so she contends.

But I digress . . .

One Halloween, she and her eight brothers were making the rounds.

One farm, in particular was their destination.

The husband and wife who ran it were 'feisty'.

And protective.

And fun to pit wits with.

The Berg kids crept along in the darkness, trying desperately to be silent.

Finally, they left my Mom holding the horse's reins and crept closer.

All was quiet.

Light was pouring from the farm house.

The couple was likely eating dinner.

The boys picked their target out of the gloom.

It stood in lonely glory (can one use the word 'glory' in describing an outhouse?) to one side of the yard.

Closer.

Finally, they reached the little structure.

Ahh. Now just a little push to set things going . . .

Now, unbeknownst (good word) to them, the farmer had decided, this year, to outwit his antagonists.

By hiding inside the outhouse.

At the climactic moment, he would burst from the building and give his shotgun a blast into the air.

That would scare those little scamps into next week!

His plan was brilliant.

Genius.

Right up to the point where the boys tipped the outhouse over . . . on its door.

Trapping their would-be assailant inside.

Hampered but unbowed, he stuck his head through one of the holes and shouted, "Ye blimey little rats! I'll get ye!"

Then followed with the planned shotgun blast at the sky.

Admittedly, completed as it was through the hole of an outhouse, the action lost some of its 'punch'.

And the boys, by this time were already over the hill, laughing at their cleverness.

But the farmer's actions did achieve one thing.

Made doubly sure that his farm was on the 'trick' list for a long as the boys lived at home.

Or until he got indoor plumbing.

Whichever came first.