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eighteen Too Bad They Don’t Brew Beer The day after the inaugural performance of the SMG Little Theatre, old Mr. Torgenson celebrated his eighty-fifth birthday. He was a retired farmer who had lived in the community for many years, and was known for miles around for his storytelling about the old days when the first settlers arrived. The notice in the Mayerthorpe Review had invited the whole community to come by at any time between two and six. I didn’t know Mr. Torgenson myself, but I knew his daughter Laura quite well, and thought I should pay my respects to her father, one of Mayerthorpe’s earliest pioneers—especially as Jim was unable to come on that day. I also looked forward to connecting with the broader community at a gathering where I’d likely meet people I’d never see at church. A few minutes after four that afternoon, I arrived at the door of Mr. Torgenson’s small house. I could see through the window that the room was crowded and the guests were having a good time, talking and laughing and drinking beer. Mr. Torgenson was clearly enjoying himself , encircled by a group of local farmers who looked to be listening avidly to one of his stories. When I walked in, the talking and laughter ceased instantly. Everyone got up and said they really had to leave. They wanted to get home before dark, or they had to pick up something at the Co-op before it closed. In minutes, the room emptied. Mr. Torgenson looked stunned. Laura asked if I wouldn’t sit down and have a cup of tea. I was mortified. I had obviously spoiled Mr. Torgenson’s party. Why hadn’t I known they’d all be drinking beer and feel uncomfortable in the presence of the minister’s wife? Why hadn’t I realized beforehand that they’d expect my disapproval and be embarrassed? When would I learn? Why hadn’t I suggested that Jim and I go together to see Mr. Torgenson the next day or the day before the party? I felt sick. But now I had to stay for tea and try to salvage the situation. 73 I extended greetings from Jim and explained that he had planned to come to the party but couldn’t, as he had to conduct a funeral down country and wouldn’t be home until after supper. At this Mr. Torgenson brightened slightly and said, “In the old days when someone died, we had ne’er a church or a parson, or Charlie Bromely’s hearse. Old Mrs. Richardson always volunteered to lay out the corpse, bathe it, and get it dressed for burial. My neighbour, the next concession down, always made the casket with timber cut from his bushlot. Friends of the departed would dig the grave, and gather round while the coffin was lowered. A person can’t be decently buried unless we calls on his Maker; so I always read the Lord’s Prayer for ’em. That’s all I knew to do.” That got Mr. Torgenson started, and he went on to tell me about some of his hunting expeditions. “In the early days, if we hadn’t wild game to eat, we’d have starved. So we hunted moose, deer, and sometimes elk. All you can hunt now is rabbits and prairie chickens.” After several other stories, one concerning an attack by a bear, I thanked him for the tea and stories and left for home. But I knew I hadn’t made up for the sudden loss of all his other guests. Until I’d left the house, the manse phone had rung constantly all that day with accolades for the SMG’s performance the night before. Players and audiences from all three villages were ecstatic, and wanted to know when we would do it again. The enthusiasm was such that I felt chagrined: I had viewed the quality of the performance with such dismay and wondered what I had been thinking. Most of the players had never been in a play before. None had ever seen a professional production and few even a good amateur one. The response from strangers all over the district had made me feel I might finally be accepted as an ordinary citizen like anyone else and not continue to be thought of as a “holier-than-thou parson’s wife.” But Mr. Torgenson’s party had fractured that...

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