Son of a Butcher

J.Colin Simpson, June 1, 2019

My father, William John Simpson of Hanna, Alberta, left school at age 16 to help support his family of Grandma Simpson and her four young children. Grandma told me she thought he felt being the eldest son it was his duty to help. She was not happy about his leaving school and told him so but could not rein in his determination.

Shortly before a group of neighbor men had gathered to have a wee chat with Grandpa Johnny Simpson. He worked for the CNR railway and his drinking had overtaken him, his gambling was threating the family’s economic security, and the last straw was he had become violent towards Grandma Simpson. They intervened on behalf of the family, gave him a good “talking to”, and banished him from the community.

Grandma said there was no welfare or government services at the time so neighbors helped out with food and such and she got a job washing dishes in the kitchen of the local hospital. Dad knew they needed money so he took his decision seriously and with good intent.

Young Billy Simpson started working long hours 6 days a week at Central Meat Market in downtown Hanna. The owner operators of Central Meat were Pete and Florence Kennedy. They were unable to conceive a child so when my dad came along all wide-eyed and intelligent and motivated they took a real shine to him.

The Kennedys asked Grandma Simpson if they could adopt Billy as their own child but she would not hear of it. I think one less child to feed, clothe, and take care of might have eased Grandma’s load but I know she loved him with all her heart and would not let him go.

Over time, and once he married and started a family of 5 children, Dad was able to borrow money from the bank and he bought the butcher shop and a plot of land in the country where a feedlot and slaughterhouse operation was located. Bill Simpson was highly regarded by many people near and far for his good nature, business acumen, and devotion to his community. 

Dad did not talk much with me and he didn’t need to as my mother never shut up. But when he spoke I paid attention, all my life. From a young age he took me occasionally to the Hanna Auction Market where farmers and ranchers brought their animals for sale.

He bought cattle, pigs, and sheep for processing and sale in the butcher shop. 5 days a week the boys at Central Meat cut fresh meat for sale through the long glass fronted showcase cooler or custom cut meat such as sliced cold cuts, roasts, steaks, pork chops, and even wedges cut from great rounds of mild cheddar cheese from Ontario.  

On Mondays they slaughtered animals and hung the carcasses split in halves in a large walk in cooler. The sides of beef were brought to the store and cut into quarters and held in coolers for 2 to 3 weeks to promote the ageing process of the meat and fat. This gave the meat a delicious flavour and helped tenderize it.

They did custom slaughter for farmers and ranchers who brought their animals in for processing, and every day in the back work area of the shop butchers were cutting and wrapping animals for the freezer, grinding hamburger and making custom sausage.

During the hunting season men brought in white tailed deer and pronghorn antelope for processing and Canada geese and ducks for cool storage. Every once in a while, the Calgary Stampede Ranch brought in buffalo raised on their ranch south east of town. As a child I saw my first buffalo on a Sunday night trip with my family to the feedlot and slaughterhouse.

I’d seen lots of cattle, pigs, and sheep but never a buffalo. It was in a small holding pen flanked with heavy wooden red rails anchored to great wooden black posts made from railway ties. The sun was preparing to set and the light was golden. I stuck my small head between the rails to get a good look and was face to face with a buffalo.

It’s body seemed massive and powerful, covered in short black hair and on the crest of its shoulders began a brown wooly mane that ran along its strong thick neck. The head was crested with 2 ebony horns that curled back towards the skull. I gazed into its large glistening brown black eyes and knew this was its last day. 

Around age 12 Dad took me to the Auction Market at Cereal, a village some 15 miles east of Hanna. The auction drew farmers and ranchers from the surrounding rural communities together to buy and sell animals.

As was our tradition we did not talk much in the truck and this offered the opportunity to drink in the subtle, nuanced beauty of the slowly undulating prairie nestled beneath a vast open sky.

The market was bustling with boys and men of all ages. Women worked the clerical roles and served coffee, burgers, sandwiches, and pie at the lunch counter. Dad gave me some money for a slice of apple pie and ice cream and said he had business to do.

I saw a group of 3 kids about my age, 2 girls and a boy. I stood silently and stared at them and the older girl spit, “Take a picture it’ll last longer.” I turned away and saw Dad with Mr. Beaton. I marched over to them and stuck my hand out and he gave me a firm welcoming handshake. I knew him from the Hanna auctions.

John Beaton was a tall man, large, and fit. He wore a kind and gentle face and in spite of how big he was and how small I was I felt safe with him. He worked as a cattle buyer for one of the big meat packing companies in Calgary. 

Over the years I had the pleasure of serving Mrs. Beaton in the butcher shop when I worked the front counter. She exuded a warmth and generosity that gave me a spark of excitement when I saw her come through the door. There were many good country folk who patronized Dad’s butcher shop and by extension they gave me my start in life. I possess a deep sense of gratitude. 

As the Simpson family grew to 5 children there were not enough rooms and beds upstairs to accommodate all of us so my parents built a bedroom and second bathroom in the basement and being the eldest child at 13 I moved downstairs.

Around that time my father was given a buffalo hide rug from the Calgary Stampede Ranch and he gave the rug to me. The hide graced my bedroom floor for many years. The last thing my feet touched before bed and the first thing they touched in the morning was the hairy brown and black buffalo rug. It was a bit cold down there but the rug gave me comforting warmth.

By then I was a curious junior scientist replete with a full set of 30 colourful nature encyclopedias which I read from cover to cover. I learned in elementary school that vast herds of millions of buffalo once roamed the North American Prairies and that the Indigenous First Peoples survived on what the buffalo and the land gave them.  

I marveled at the idea of living in animal skin tents on the land and could not get my head around how they coped with the long harsh prairie winters. I imagined I knew the tribal sense of community they shared because I lived in a close-knit small community of prairie people who looked out for each other.

As little ones we used to love jumping on the beds. We reached our hands high in the air hoping to touch the ever-elusive roof. Mom prohibited it and we did it anyway and somehow she always knew. Probably nothing to do with the state of the disheveled bedspreads once we moved on and became distracted with another adventure. Life was so much fun as a child.

As a little guy I used to sit on the concrete sidewalk curb in front of our family home on 5th avenue west and on hot summer days I took big rocks and smashed them onto little rocks to see what the little rocks might reveal. The road in front of our small town home was a gravel road so there was no shortage of little rocks to investigate.

I was always an early riser and beginning at six years of age I took a small plastic pail and crossed the street to the recreation complex and park where a large round wading pool existed for the pleasure of toddlers and small children on blazing hot summer days.

At night salamanders would fall into or climb into the wading pool but once they were in the water they could not get out, trapped. I collected the salamanders one or two every so often. I took them a few blocks to the west on the outskirts of town and released them into a large pond, what we called a slough.

I had tried initially to keep them as pets but soon realized I did not have the capacity to do that. Salamander rescue began my summer days for a number of years.