Most would agree everyone knows your business in any small-town or claims to. But we all know this isn't an exclusive trait of rural communities with small populations. Having lived in a couple of small towns myself, I've noticed people whose individualism, lifestyle, or the smoke and mirrors of social media posts come into question, becoming the topic of gossip around a dinner table or watering hole. Sometimes harmless, other times not. We've all been in these situations, and it happened just the same when I heard about a woman living in a remote town before arriving in High Level (previous Post). I planned to phone her asking if she'd be willing to be a subject for my Back To The Land project. There were assumptions from some that I would be hearing a dial tone 15 seconds into the conversation. I called anyway. The phone rang, and a woman by the name of Betty Bateman answered. I explained who I was, how I acquired her number, the details behind my project, and if she was willing to share a bit of her life story followed by a portrait. Her reply was quick and succinct, "Yah sure, why the hell not." I liked this woman already. I woke early the following morning, my destination, Zama City.
It was May 13, 2018. The day was warm, with a slight breeze in the air and thick clouds hovering below a bluebird sky like mashed potatoes. The route was simple, head North, towards the territories and once across the Hay River, head west. Unfortunately, forest fire season had arrived as I unexpectedly drove past a stretch of trees no more than a few hundred yards, hugging the highway embankment. The tree trunks were still smoking with fading orange embers and a crew of firefighters extinguishing the remnants of what I assume was an early morning alarm. I kept driving, the unnerving thought leaving as fast as it arrived.
I crossed the Hay river and made the unassuming left turn towards Zama City. The silent hum of payment turned to popcorn cracks under my feet as the road transitioned to gravel, adjusting the music volume so I could hear The Tragically Hip from my half-blown speakers. I was alone and preferred it on excursions such as this. A cloud of dust trailing behind me and the anticipation of what my encounter might, or might not wield. The landscape is typical of what you'd find in the Northern parts of the Boreal forest; rugged, rough, swamp, and remote.
The sign read Zama City, and I drove into the town; it resembled an industrial storage yard more than a rural town center. Various drilling equipment, piping, and fabricated machines I could never name or explain their functions, patiently hibernating before its operators and owners return or become abandoned entirely. There were more streets than residents, with noticeable remnants of mother nature claiming what was once hers. Finally, I pulled into a weathered modular home with its fading facade into a dirt driveway. I spotted two people sitting on the front porch, lounging casually in their plastic deck chairs, slightly hunched over, with a couple of beer bottles enjoying the sun as much as their owners.
Betty and her husband Jim have lived in Zama City since 1968. Both are from small-town Saskatchewan. Betty was born in 1944, and Jim in 1937. Betty describes the past as something similar to a gold rush, with oil and gas being the sole economic provider. Camps started to pop up, wildcatting was the norm where the population exceeded Ten thousand residents. Betty proudly brags about her three sons the couple had, "The boys enjoyed being out here as there were lots of kids at the time. Jim and I would take them hunting and whatever. And boys like that. And Jim and I didn't have any girls". It was immediately apparent that Betty was a woman you didn't toy with, confidence and sharp wit you could appreciate. Her role in the town she dedicated half her life to. Betty served on the local town council for over two decades. She also cooked in camps, was a welders helper, heated pump jack motors, and commercially fished in Pastry lake for years catching walleye, pike, and whitefish.
Betty did most of the talking. Jim sat there patiently and willingly, slumped over, his voice a high-pitched whisper, and you could see he was unwell, a sickness that was not forgiving. His skin, peeling and flaking from his limbs due to the chemo and radiation. "My skin feels like scales, and I think I ate too much fish." he said with humour in his voice. "He went through sheer hell. Cancer has no sympathy", Betty softly remarks, looking into the yard through the space between her husband and me. I can tell these are her thoughts, speaking aloud. Jim mentions he feels he's getting better when sitting in the sun.
I asked about the four seasons, specifically winter. In Betty fashion, she got to the point, "Winters here you freeze your ass off"... "When you live in the North, you adapt and dress accordingly." They heat their home with wood using a diesel furnace. I asked her to repeat herself when she mentioned they used twenty-seven quarts of wood last winter. They live and own 5 acres with no shortage of food. "We grow everything: Watermelon, cantaloupe, pumpkins, garlic, onions, potatoes, corn, tomatoes, eggplant, peppers, cabbages, cucumbers, celery, lettuce, greens, parsley, rhubarb, horseradish."..." We cut all our meat, and we eat moose, deer, pork, and chickens. You're not saving much money, but it just tastes better. It's better food, and that stuff you buy in the grocery store is just garbage. Those tomatoes from California don't taste like tomatoes. It's from all that shit they put on them". I made the mistake of asking why they don't have chickens. Her response was, "I hate chicken shit, and I told Jim, if he wants chickens, you god-damn raise them." I couldn't help laughing out loud, nearly spitting out the water in my mouth.
Betty took me for a tour through her garden with enthusiasm, Jim staying on the deck saving his strength. "In May, there are only seeds in the ground, but in two months, the place will be alive with fresh produce." As we walked, the conversation continued. Even when I didn't express an opinion or comment on a particular topic, she welcomed the company as did I. "You know this can be a really nice country (referring to Northern Alberta and its environment), you know in the last few years we've had a rough go living in this country and the reason I say that is because it's been so dry and no water "... "They say it's from global warming and I blame forestry, and they've been cutting trees after trees. When Jim and I moved up here in 1968, we had no wind in this country at all, and we come from Saskatchewan, and we know about wind. We come from the windy country. Every year it seems like it's getting drier and drier. The water table has even gone down 8ft." Betty made another particular observation about the birds. "We haven't seen any robins this year. I don't know if it's the Americans using chemicals, but we think they're dying. We used to have robins bouncing all over this yard. And we have none. Listen, do you hear any?". I listened carefully and agreed, I didn't. "Other people in the community are saying it too." She added.
After a couple of hours, I tell Betty I'm going to find a spot to take her portrait, asking if she still feels comfortable just in case my instructions and intentions weren't apparent when we spoke on the phone. "I don't give a shit!" she said, followed by a wink.
When I finished taking her picture, I asked her one final question. "Is there any advice, words of wisdom, anything you may want to share with the world if you had the opportunity?" An Immediate response followed a half-second pause. "Just be happy, and live life to the fullest cause when we die, we're gonna be dead for a long time." I followed the answer with another question, "Then, what is happiness to you?" She immediately replied, "My children and my husband. You can't take your riches with you, so you spend it on your children, your husband and keep on trucking." How do you respond to that? I thought to myself. She shook my hand firmly, thanked me for the time we spent together and wished me all her best.
Her send-off was genuine and kind. There was a gentlewoman beneath that rough exterior. I can't imagine growing up as a woman in her time, trying to establish yourself in any industry, let alone in the rural and remote prairie provinces among men and the oil patch. Yet, I'm still shocked by how open some people are when these random encounters occur. Their willingness to share a sliver of their life, if only brief, welcoming you, walking with you, being vulnerable. Maybe this encounter was a lesson to listen more, not to assume, where a simple stroll through the garden might teach us about understanding those we presume to know.
*UPDATE*- It is with a heavy heart that Jim (Betty’s husband) lost his battle with cancer in the fall of 2021. Betty followed and passed away in January 2022. My condolences to the family and friends who knew them best. She spoke of you all fondly.
