When we began developing this website, we went in search of people who had impacted their communities and unusual people. We were looking for stories of individuals who had helped to make their community a special place. However, Woodlands taught us something quite universal about rural Manitoba.
Yes, there is a wealth of interesting people and fascinating events in every town or village, but the truly unusual aspect that became obviously usual and normal was that the community itself was the story, every time.
Woodlands has and has had more than its share of unique characters. There were old-timers like Gin Langrell, Knute Overby and Olaf Sund, all large, muscular specimens from the beginning of the twentieth century who epitomized power and endurance.
Gin, for instance, outworked his 17-year-old grandson, also in great physical shape and his grandson’s friends, shovelling grain into a three-ton truck, using a grain scoop. Long after the two teenagers had flagged, dropping from exhaustion, Gin continued rhythmic shovelling into the truck until it was full: six hours, non-stop. He also could wrestle a full-grown sheep, snapping its neck for slaughter as he simultaneously cut its throat.
Olaf was the last true blacksmith in the area, wielding his sixteen-pound mallet like the giant, John Henry, of folklore.
Then there was Cliff Blowers, a bearded, chubby man, who played the fiddle at every dance and in many of the kitchens of locals as they partied. His favourite tune was “She’ll Be Coming ‘round The Mountain,” followed by “I Know an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly.” At Christmas, he dressed up as Santa for the local kids, but even at the tender age of six years, every child recognized Cliff by the songs he played, as Santa, to entertain them.
There were locals who carried reputations as the toughest fighters in the Interlake. There were peculiar bachelors like Pete Skyhar or Nick Polanko, who drove his tractor into town once a month to fetch groceries. Or very peculiar hermits like Garry Lee (featured in the book, No One’s Concern.”
There were humourous incidents involving people, like Mary, who chased her son down the railway track waving her .22 rifle and yelling, “Come back, Walter. Come back. You know your father said I could kill you.” Apparently, frustrated by his wife’s constant complaint about their rebellious son, the husband had told her, “Well, why don’t you just shoot him?”
These are not defining incidents or people. They are the fabric of a small community.
The community is the definition of the village. Community. How everyone knows everyone else’s business, but not in a malicious way. How everyone pulls together when someone is in need. How, while the town may seem cliquish, it actually embraces everyone who wants to be part of the community. How, contrary to the old saying, you actually can come home again. And be welcomed.
The Interlake is special. It is a collage of small towns, with most under 1,000 people, yet where everyone knows everyone for miles around, yet everyone is willing to let each of their neighbours live in their own unique manner.
Woodlands, with a population of under 400, has one grocery store and service station, one seniors’ residence, and no apartment complexes. It is part of the Rural Municipality of Woodlands. The municipal office and post office are located in the village.
“Fear doesn’t stop death. It stops life.” Ann raised her four offspring exactly the same way, insisting that they face all the hardships that life could toss at them and never back down. Face fear, without flinching. It was the paucity of the family’s everyday existence that would fortify them, shape them and force them to survive. Her mantra was more than tough love. It was a snarling, attack-the-world-before-it-attacks-you philosophy that the children could either adopt and embrace or from which they could flee. Garry, of all her kids, took her dictum to heart. After all, Ann’s and her offspring’s hearts were not likely to be used for other purposes. And Garry needed her approval, more than anything in his life. He feared losing it, with every thing he did and every breath he took.
His story is not unique, but his life is exceptional. A mechanical genius, a social eremite, Garry struggled to find his own way, but remained bound by the rules that Ann imposed, even in her death. He craved love and affection, yet fled from intimacy. Always struggling to succeed, always falling back as triumph seemed within reach, Garry lived the only way he could manage. It never was enough.