Before my father brought home his first car, a ’53 two-tone, green-on-green, four door Chevy sedan, his friend Dominik Iskierski was already driving his first Canadian vehicle. Dominik was a decorated veteran who served in the storied Anders’ army, the allied Polish forces fighting under the British command. Caring more about having transportation than what others thought, he bought a war surplus 1930’s vintage army truck. Upfront, his family of six fit into the wide cab built for three or four soldiers. Around back was a ton-and-a-half flat bed with wooden stake sides and steel hoops that supported a removable canvas cover.
I don’t know what contribution his truck made to the war effort or if it had ever seen combat overseas, but I imagined it with benches full of soldiers in muddy boots being chauffeured from one front to another. I do know that his truck had carried my family’s possessions into their new house and likely helped half the other parishioners of Holy Ghost Church. On hot summer days, Dominik would offer rides for a day at the beach.
I couldn’t wait for Father Michalowski’s final blessing and dismiss us from the early morning Sunday mass. Behind the church two or three families gathered around Dominik’s truck waiting to be hoisted up into the back. The adults seated themselves in the soft old sofa at the end of the flatbed tied down just behind the cab while the kids could find a spot on the thick quilted mover’s blankets piled up in the corner. The inflated car tire inner tubes were not only fought over beach toys but also in demand seats. All aboard, we rolled out for a quick stop at the icehouse on Salter Street. A twenty-five-pound block would throughout the day cool down the picnic lunches packed into a galvanized metal laundry tub. With the tailgate shut and secured, we were finally on our way to the Oasis.
I looked out through the open back flap to watch the city disappear and be replaced by flat prairie fields. My father marveled at the richness of the land as he pointed out the green knee-high wheat, the blue flowering flax and the brilliant yellow canola in blossom. Turning off the highway onto Oasis Road cued the men to lower the back flap and tie it shut. As the truck slowed and stopped at the entry gate, we were all told to sit still and stay quiet. Outside the tarp, I could hear the gate attendant’s entrance tally, “two adults and four children but I will have to charge you double to park your truck”. I am guessing that Dominik had a bit of a smile on his face as he paid the admission.
I loved the Oasis, a man-made beach repurposed from a retired gravel pit. I would play in the water until my mother dragged me out, lips blue with cold, fingers waterlogged and wrinkled. The sandy bottom was easy on the feet, not rocky and not soft with silt and loon poop that squished between your toes. What I loved the best about the Oasis though, was the ride there in the back of Dominik’s truck.