PRAIRIE FORUM Vol. 26, No.2 Fall 2001 CONTENTS Editor's Note Patrick C. Douaud iii ARTICLES The Last Quarter Century in Canadian Plains Archaeology Ian Dyck 143 From Short-term Emergency to Long-term Crisis: Public Works Projects in Saskatoon, 1929-1932 EricJ Strikwerda 169 How Do You Spell Political Success? Candidate Characteristics in the 1999 "Harvest Election" Cora Voyageur andJoyce Green 187 Agricultural Extension and Resistance: Rural Governance as Spatial Practice Rod Bantjes 203 Fictional Manawaka and Tangible Neepawa, Manitoba Sarah Payne and Paul Simpson-Housley 219 The Origins and Development of Manitoba's Provincial Park System John C. Lehr 241 ESSAY Returning to a Little Prairie Town Audrey Pihulyk 257 BOOK REVIEWS BARNHART, Gordon L., Peace, Progress and Prosperity ': A Biography of Saskatchewan's First Premier, T. Walter Scott by David E. Smith 259 ZIMON, Kathy E., Alberta Society ofArtists: The First Seventy }ears by David Garneau 260 FRIESEN, John W., Legends ofthe Elders by C. WHna Hodgson 263 CARDINAL, Harold and HILDEBRANDT, Walter, TreatyElders ofSaskatchewan: OurDream Is That Our Peoples Will One Day Be Clearly Recognized As Nations; RA~ Arthur and MILLER, Jim, Bounty and Benevolence: A History of Saskatchewan Treaties; ST. GERMAIN, Jill, Indian Treaty-Making Policy in the United States and Canada, 1867-1877 by Rob Nestor 266 STINGEL, Janine, Social Discredit: Anti-Semitism Social Credit and theJewish Response byJackie Kuikman 270 MYSYK, Avis, Manitoba CommercialMarket Gardening 1945-1997: Class, Race and Ethnic Relations byJames N. McCrorie 273 CONTRIBUTORS 275 PRAIRIE FORUM: Journal of the Canadian Plains Research Center

Chief Editor: Patrick Douaud, Education, Regina

Copy Editor: Brian Mlazgar, CPRC, Regina Book Review Editor: Wendee Kubik, CPRC, Regina

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PRAIRIE FORUM is not responsible for statements, either offact or opinion, made by contributors. © 2001 CANADIAN PLAINS RESEARCH CENTER ISSN 0317-6282 EDITOR'S NOTE

The present issue of Prairie Forum has a distinctly political flavour. Even an unlikely candidate such as our first article, "The Last Quarter Century in Canadian Plains Archaeology," subscribes to this theme: in it Ian Dyck shows the growth of a traditionally local discipline into a full-fledged administrative and political concern with ramifications in most sectors of society spanning the entire country. Eric Strikwerda then describes an effort made by the city of Saskatoon during the depression to keep down unemployment levels through a scheme offering work for wages and dignity, and explains how this was finally abandoned in favour of direct relief. John Lehr's study ofManitoba's provincial park system distinguishes four phas­ es ofdevelopment over four decades: from the concept ofmultiple use of areas of conservation in the early 1960s to the current emphasis on the preservasionist role of the Provincial Parks. Staying with Manitoba, S. Payne and P. Simpson-Housley introduce us to the .town of Neepawa, which served as inspiration for Margaret Laurence's fictional Manawaka, and to the expectations entertained by "literary tourists" when they go there visiting and exploring. The political theme governing this issue surfaces again with the following two contributions. First, C. Voyageur and J. Green detail the unusual aspects of Saskatchewan's 1999 "Harvest Election" and analyze the backgrounds and experi­ ences of those who ran for office. Then Rod Bantjes offers us an in-depth study of rural governance in Saskatchewan, a province where dispersed populations and cli­ matic vagaries have always posed severe problems for spatial practice. Finally, Audrey Pihulyk is the author of this issue's essay, "Return to a Little Prairie Town," which captures the nostalgia of re-visiting the place of one's youth and witnessing its steady decline away from the larger instances of what Rod Bantjes has termed "politics of assembly."

Patrick C. Douaud Editor-in-Chief University of Regina

The Last Quarter Century in Canadian Plains Archaeology

IanDyck

ABSTRACT. Over the past 25 years Canadian Plains archaeology has been transformed from a modest­ ly funded, self-disciplined, scholarly enterprise based in provincial museums, archaeological societies, universities and national historic parks, into a government-regulated concern dominated by cultural resource management imperatives, funded largely by developers, and sensitive to Aboriginal interests. This article focuses on change and development in four areas - heritage legislation, Aboriginal involve­ ment, expanded public interpretation, and additions to archaeological knowledge. SOMMAIRE. Au cours des 25 dernieres annees, I'archeologie des Plaines canadiennes est passee d'une entreprise academique auto-disciplinee et modestement financee au sein des musees provinciaux, des societes d'archeologie, des universites et des pares historiques nationaux, aune industrie reglernentee par les gouvernements, dominee par les imperatifs de la gestion des ressources culturelles, financee en general par les agences de developpement, et attentive aux interets des Autochtones. Cet article exam­ ine les changements en fonction de quatre themes : la legislation sur le patrimoine, l' engagement autochtone, I'interpretation du public en general et l'accumulation des connaissances archeologiques.

Introduction During the past 25 years, many of the objectives for an archaeology of the Canadian Plains, set during the early 1970s by archaeologists, public and private interest groups, bureaucrats and politicians, have been advanced to a significant degree. One thinks, for example, about desires for broader and more systematic exploration; for a more synthetic knowledge of the archaeological past; for better infrastructure to carry out the necessarywork; for increased preservation ofarchae­ ological remains; for development ofmore empathetic connections among archae­ ology, archaeologists and Aboriginal peoples; and for greater public recognition. We have seen substantial progress in all these areas. In the following pages I will attempt an overview of the last quarter century through a discussion of four themes. The first theme concerns passage and implementation of comprehensive heritage legislation. This had a profound effect on many aspects ofArchaeology. In simple terms, ownership and responsi­ bility for archaeological remains, formerly in the hands oflandowners, collectors, scholars and collection-holding institutions, was vested in government. As gov­ ernments began to exercise their new powers, Archaeology became a truly pub­ lic enterprise affecting many interests beyond the traditional ones. One of the affected groups, Aboriginal peoples, responded by expressing special interest in archaeological objects and by demanding a measure of control over how those materials are treated. Their involvement is my second theme. Another result of government-imposed direction has been a marked increase in the level of public interpretation. That is my third theme. Finally, there have been notable advances in the discovery, analysis and interpretation of prairie archaeological remains. Consequently, subject development will be my fourth theme. Heritage Legislation In regard to heritage legislation, during the 1970s each of the prairie provinces responded to public pressure by passing comprehensive heritage acts. Modelled, at least in principle, on international conventions issued by UNESCO (1956, 1968, 1970, 1972a, 1972b; see also Jones 1978), one ofthe important results of these acts was that they formally vested ownership ofarchaeological remains in the provincial Crown..Another result was that they enabled the application of regulations gov­ erning the treatment of such remains. Alberta was the first with new legislation in 1973. Manitoba and Saskatchewan followed suit in 1974 and 1975. Later federal efforts at control of archaeological materials, developed most fully at the policy level, have had somewhat parallel effects at the national level (cf. Government of Canada 1988, 1990, 1993, 1999,2000; Burley 1994 and attached dialogues; see also the federally supported work of Nicholson, Pokotylo and Williamson 1996). Returning to the provinces, through their acts, later amplified by policies, regula­ tions and revised legislation, the legislatures assumed responsibility for preserva­ tion, study, interpretation, co-ordinated development and promotion of the "her­ itage resources" on lands in their domain. Some archaeologists had reservations about putting the fate of their discipline so fully into government hands. Most, however, were imbued with the idea that this change would be a positive thing. Not only would it enhance public awareness of the ancient human occupations of Canada, but it also was expected to prompt increased government support for the study and protection ofwhat actually remains ofsuch occupations. Thus, archaeol­ ogists generally found themselves sympathetic to heritage legislation. With its pas­ sage they took satisfaction from the fact that archaeological materials had been for­ mally acknowledged as a significant public issue and a government responsibility. When governments began to implement the new statutes, they set in motion a string of consequences that have had a profound effect on the course ofCanadian Plains archaeology. For one thing, they created a new class of archaeological posi­ tions - regulators - to oversee control systems involving research permits, cen­ tralized archaeological records, and legislatively mandated attention to land-alter­ ing developments. By necessity, the regulatory group also assumed responsibility for devising the accommodations necessary to make the legislation effective in a world of government, corporate, individual and group interests. This drew them into numerous consultations regarding matters such as the type and scale of archaeological interventions that would be required in non-archaeological activi­ ties, who would pay for these activities, who was competent to discharge the work, the standards to be met, the kinds of access to sites, collections and information that would be allowed, the importance ofpublic education, the contributions that Archaeology could make to cultural tourism, and many other issues. Out of these involvements came numerous implications for archaeological practice, subject development and public image. One of the outcomes was development of a substantial group of private archaeological consultants in each province. Consultants now do most ofthe field­ work related to impact assessment and mitigation preceding major land-altering activities. In scale and frequency, this kind of archaeology has come to dominate all others. Moreover, from the beginning it has been a highly controlled form of investigation - by virtue ofthe regulatory power exercised by government and the financial controls held by developers (cf. Germann and Spurling 1987). Nevertheless, development-driven archaeology has produced huge numbers of new site records and some very interesting explorations. One thinks, for example, of the Oldman Dam project in Alberta where more than 175 sites representing all periods from Early Precontact to Early Twentieth Century were recorded and where more than 50 sites were subjected to detailed investigation (cf. Ives 1991: 6-8; Balcom 1991; Van Dyke et al. 1991; Landals 1991; Krozser 1991); or the Alameda/Rafferty Dam project in Saskatchewan which had similar results (cf. Finnigan 1986,1992; Russell 1989; Finnigan et al 1990; Shay et al. 1990), or the TransCanada Pipelines project in Manitoba (Kelly 1991; Landals and Fedirchuk 1993; Landals 1994). Many other examples could be cited. There is simply no doubt that during the past quarter century the corpus of archaeological records and col­ lections, now largely under government control, has expanded enormously. Initially, the regulatory agencies, particularly in Manitoba and Alberta, placed great importance on dissemination of research results to the archaeological com­ munity and the public via publication. Indeed, new publication outlets such as Alberta's Occasional Papers and Manuscript Series, Saskatchewan's Pastlogand Research Council Publications, or Manitoba's Preliminary Reports, Final Reports, Miscellaneous Papers, Publications in Archaeology,and PlanningDistrict Studies, all blossomed during the mid 1970s. These reports quickly doubled and then redoubled the scholarly lit­ erature on the archaeology of these provinces, but the outlets survived only about 15 years and then disappeared. Unfortunately, alternative publications in muse­ ums, archaeological societies and universities also declined at about the same time leaving an insufficient number of outlets for a large body of reports, the so-called gray literature. This gray literature continues to grow and to be a major disap­ pointment for its low level of contribution to archaeological knowledge. Coincident with the decline in scholarly literature has been a marked increase, strongly supported by government, in public interpretation of archaeological information. I will come back to this shortly. Another consequence ofheritage leg­ islation is that the interests of many traditional advocates for Archaeology, namely non-professional members of archaeological societies, have been dislocated. The practice of amateur archaeology has become a much more passive affair during this period as regulatory emphasis on professionalism has limited the practical range ofamateur activities. Amateur archaeologists, however, are not the only ones who have been forced into a narrower corridor. The unbounded research of pro­ fessional scholars, although still quite strong at the beginning of this 25-year peri­ od, was effectively discouraged in later years when support was shifted to conserva­ tion, public education and other issues. This is worrisome, because the health of Archaeology requires sustained research and unconstrained circulation of results. Without them, the intellectual capital and vitality ofthe discipline can only decline. Fortunately, there are recent signs, especially in some universities and museums, that the pendulum may be swinging back to a position of greater support for this important activity. One last point I would like to make with respect to heritage legislation is that government agencies have become crucibles for the expression and accommoda­ tion of differences between Aboriginal and archaeological objectives. Eventually, most people in the archaeological community will have been drawn into the reso­ lution of these differences.

First Nations Involvement Over the past 25 years, Aboriginal issues have been one of the foremost public concerns in the country. Few Canadians remain unaware of the 1969 federal gov­ ernment White Paper on Indian Affairs and its repercussions, or the dismal living conditions experienced by some First Nations groups, or the abuse suffered by Aboriginal students in residential schools, or the massive land claims process, or the armed confrontations at aka and Gustafson Lake, or the many other environ­ mental, educational, cultural, medical and spiritual issues which focus on Native peoples. In recent decades, First Nations activists have added archaeology to this list. By a series ofdemonstrations, occupations, accusations and boycotts, they have forcefully expressed dissatisfaction with Archaeology, beginning with treatments given ancient Aboriginal remains by archaeologists, museums and other collec­ tions-handling institutions. During the early 1970s, members of the American Indian Movement occupied the Saskatchewan Museum of Natural History and the rotunda of the Provincial Legislative Building until the government agreed to remove all Aboriginal skeletal remains from its public exhibits. A few years later the new archaeological regula­ tory agency in Manitoba was confronted by First Nations protestors during salvage excavation of human remains within the city of Selkirk. After intense consultation and rapid development of new burial investigation procedures, the remains were reburied (Saylor 1978). In 1985 the accidental discovery of a Postcontact burial ground in Fort Qu'Appelle, Saskatchewan, launched a multi-sided confrontation among the province's Indian community, a land developer and the provincial gov­ ernment (Spurling and Walker 1987). In this instance the Saskatchewan archaeo­ logical community sided with the district chiefs and withheld their support from archaeological regulators. Under intense media attention, the matter escalated into ministerial offices and law courts. Finally, after more than six months of delib­ erations, the premier stepped in and announced that he would not ratify any agree­ ment on the burial site until the Native population was satisfied. Ultimately, half the land in question was used for construction of a provincial courthouse and the other halfwas devoted to a commemorative park in which all the disturbed inter­ ments were reburied. These incidents, and several others, crystallized government willingness to recognize First Nations' sensitivities and to accede to their wishes in respect to human remains. Other events widened the field. In 1988 the "Spirit Sings" exhibition, organized by the Glenbow Museum, became the object ofa boycott by the Lubicon Cree ofnorthern Alberta. The ensu­ ing political debate ringed the globe (cf. Harrison 1988a, 1988b). Although ini­ tially tied to a land-claim dispute, questions about exhibit content, plus control of artifacts and interpretations, soon entered the scene inciting divisive debate among anthropologists and archaeologists (cf. Trigger 1988; Ames 1988). The boycott finally ended in the fall of 1988 when the Assembly of First Nations and the Canadian Museums Association organized a conference, funded by the Departments ofCommunications, Multiculturalism and Secretary ofState, entitled "Preserving Our Heritage: A Working Conference Between Museums and First Peoples." Out ofthis came a task force, which later issued a report promoting prin­ ciples and recommendations for future partnerships between First Peoples and Canadian museums (Hill and Nicks 1992; Nicks 1992). These included prescrip­ tions for museum responsibilities regarding First Peoples' involvement in museum research, planning, exhibition presentation, and collection management. Also included were guidelines for repatriation ofcollections, professional and technical training of First Nations people for museum work, training of non-Aboriginal museum professionals in Aboriginal cultural knowledge and so forth. All of this had a direct bearing on the operations of museum archaeologists, and ultimately on all archaeologists involved with Aboriginal archaeology. Prompted by such events, Canadian Plains agencies and archaeologists began to implement.the task force principles and recommendations. The still-evolving sit­ uation is a highly complex one and I will only attempt to touch some of the major features here. As a first step, regulatory agencies in the prairie provinces developed working procedures regarding the investigation and handling of unmarked buri­ als. Implementation of these procedures has included a considerable amount of repatriation and reburial of funerary collections, plus direct involvement of First Nations in subsequent burial investigations (cf. Germann 1995). Archaeologists have also reached out to Aboriginal elders for opportunities to discuss matters of mutual concern and to gain deeper insight into traditional Aboriginal cultures. One example ofthis occurred in May 1990 when a specialjoint meeting of the Alberta and Montana archaeological societies was organized around the subject of sacred sites and featured presentations by Native and non­ Native speakers (Reeves and Kennedy 1993). Another example was a pair ofwork­ shops organized by the Saskatchewan Association ofProfessional Archaeologists to bring First Nations elders and archaeologists together (Hanna and Gibson 1993; Ramsay 1994; Hanna 1997). About the same time as these meetings were taking place, two prairie people, B.A. Nicholson and E. Yellowhorn, were selected by the Canadian Archaeological Association as co-chairs for a Canada-wide series of con­ sultative committees which eventually produced a "Statement of Principles for Ethical Conduct Pertaining to Aboriginal Peoples" (Nicholson, Pokotylo and Williamson 1996). This statement outlined a comprehensive set of responsibilities that archaeologists were expected to discharge in respect to the interests and sen­ sitivities ofAboriginal peoples and was aimed at all Canadian archaeologists work­ ing with Aboriginal remains. Exhibition and interpretation is another area in which prairie archaeologists have taken steps to involve Native peoples. Major developments such as Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump Interpretive Centre (cf. Sponholz 1988), Wanuskewin Heritage Park (Walker 1987a, 1987b; Warden et al. 1992), the First Nations Gallery at the Royal Saskatchewan Museum (Conaty 1989), and the Syncrude Gallery of Aboriginal Culture at the Provincial Museum ofAlberta Uenkins 1998; Cartmell 1998) have all been created during the past dozen years, in each case with direct involvement of First Nations in planning, construction and programming. Some of these also involved Native people in the administration and operation of the facility. Training in Archaeology and Museology is another area in which archaeologists have contributed to the involvement of First Nations. Over the years, numerous archaeological projects have employed Native people as labourers, but in the last decade museums, universities and other organizations have created special pro­ grams to foster the education of Aboriginal students in technical and scholarly aspects of the field (Scribe and Nicholson 1994; Syms 1997a; Musser 1997). A fair number ofAboriginal students have graduated from these programs in each ofthe prairie provinces, several having reached the master's level. At least three of these have accepted archaeological employment with government agencies. One final area of increased involvement is co-management of cultural resources. Once again, several examples could be cited, but the one I will use is that ofParks Canada. In recent years, Parks Canada has made adjustments to its tra­ ditional focus on the commemoration ofEuro-Canadian achievements, and is now giving greater emphasis to Aboriginal history. One result is that, over the past half­ dozen years, most Parks Canada commemorations in the prairie provinces have been at sites associated with the 1885 Riel Rebellion. Moreover, existing texts and interpretive programs are being reviewed and an agreement has been reached with the Metis Nation ofSaskatchewan for co-management ofBatoche National Historic Site (Fox 1999: 35,41). Since 1994, the Prairie and Northern Region has had an Aboriginal affairs coordinator in Winnipeg to deal with the complexities of land claims, new park developments, and policies concerning resource management within existing parks (Fox 1999: 37). In addition, Parks Canada has hired an Aboriginal person as an archaeological collections manager for its Winnipeg office (Fox 1999: 38). Thus, as the list ofexamples mounts, it is evident that prairie archaeologists and archaeological institutions have taken many steps toward the accommodation and encouragement of greater First Nations involvement in the discipline (see Pettipas (1993) and Syms (1997b) for the range of one institution's experience, and Anon (1998) for a recent conference on the subject). There still remains a question about what effect this involvement has had. For most non-Aboriginal archaeolo­ gists whom I've consulted, the process is viewed as necessary and desirable. Many would defer a specific evaluation by saying that archaeologists have much to gain, that such matters take a long time to develop, or that relationships do seem to be improving. Indeed, some archaeologists are now comfortable in recording their thoughts about what benefits archaeologists should have a right to expect in such relationships (cf. Trigger 1997; Nicholas and Andrews 1997). On the Aboriginal side, the point has been reached where one First Nations archaeologist thinks that "nineteenth-century attitudes seem to be abating and it is now generally acknowl­ edged that Native concerns are not subordinate to scientific ones" (Yellowhorn 1996: 36). The same archaeologist advances a four-stage historical scheme for Indian involvement in archaeology, claiming that Native activists are now leaving a third or "Reactivist" phase and entering a forth phase which he labels "Nationalist" (Yellowhorn 1996: 27-28). In any case, between Aboriginal and archaeological efforts, First Nations involvement in Canadian Plains archaeology is now an impor­ tant aspect of the discipline. Public Archaeology My third theme is public interpretation of archaeology, a facet of prairie expe­ rience which has expanded considerably during the past 25 years. Newspapers, and, to a lesser extent, electronic media such as radio and television, have long done an importantjob by broadcasting news about major archaeological advances as they occurred. This is not an area of expansion since the flow ofstories in these media seems to have remained roughly constant over the past 25 years. There have been expansions, however, in other forms ofdissemination. By the mid-1970s, gov­ ernments, museums and archaeological societies were becoming more generous in their support for printed materials aimed at the general public. As a result, large numbers of booklets, leaflets and posters were made and distributed. Yet, by the early 1980s priority had begun to shift toward more expensive forms ofinterpreta­ tion. I have already mentioned several of the major exhibitions and heritage parks created as a means for facilitating public exposure, to Aboriginal cultures and their archaeological histories (see also Kooyman 1987). Projects such as these started opening in the 1980s and continued into the 1990s. They are one ofthe most obvi­ ous expansions of public archaeology during the period. Coincidentally, interpretive programs relating to Euro-Canadian cultures were also expanding to represent a fuller cross-section ofCanadian heritage. Part ofthis diversification was achieved by highlighting previously uninterpreted aspects of existing sites, and part by development ofnew sites. Almost all ofit had an archae­ ological component (cf. Murray 1981). National Historic Parks was one of the major proponents with significant developments at sites such as Lower Fort Garry, The Forks (of the Red and Assiniboine rivers), Motherwell Homestead, Batoche, Fort Battleford, Fort Walsh, and Bar U Ranch. Similarly, the provinces and munic­ ipalities increased their investment in public archaeology with new or refurbished programs at places like Victoria..Settlement, Writing-On-Stone, Fort Carlton, St. Victor's Petroglyphs, Wood Mountain NWMP Post, Lockport, and a host of local museums. During the last two decades, archaeological societies have turned a stronger face to public education with such projects as travelling demonstrations and exhibits, public field schools, cross-country bus tours and, in one case, participa­ tion in a cable television series on Archaeology (Anon 1991; Jones 1994a, 1994b; Thomas 1996; Burns and Larcombe 1997). In addition, all prairie societies, includ­ ing some of their local chapters, are now represented on the Internet. At least two of them have moved beyond the minimal Home Page stage and are supplying information about their programs plus Internet links to other archaeological sites (see also Beaudoin 1997). As to the most traditional outlets for archaeological information, books and articles, the overall number of new books referring to the prairies seems to have peaked and then declined through the period under consideration. Nevertheless, several popular works aimed at a general readership have appeared in recent years (Helgason 1987; McLeod 1987; Bryan 1991; Epp 1991; Huck and Whiteway 1998). One of these provided the first comprehensive treatment ofPrecontact archaeolo­ gy spanning all three provinces (Bryan 1991). To my knowledge, the public impact ofsuch books has not been studied. One area in which prairie archaeologists have had discouraging results is in their attempts to breech school curricula. In Saskatchewan, during the early 1990s a manuscript prepared under the aegis ofthe Archaeological Society was proposed to the Saskatchewan Department of Education for use in schools (Epp 1991). The critical analysis and outright rejection it received from departmental bureaucrats was stunning, especially to the author who was, himself, a former school teacher (Epp 1992). It seemed that for such a book to be acceptable it would have to add things unjustified by archaeological evidence, or remove sections which did have a firm archaeological basis. In Alberta, the Archaeological Survey of Alberta employed Heather Devine as a public education officer for several years. Her task was to coordinate the development and dissemination of instructional and infor­ mational materials for the general public and for schools. In the course of her work, Devine did a careful analysis of the Alberta school curriculum and prepared recommendations for the inclusion of Archaeology (Devine 1986, 1990). Even after much lobbying by the Archaeological Survey ofAlberta, however, her efforts were frustrated by the Department of Education. In the end she found that the small amount ofArchaeology already in the curriculum was to be reduced and lim­ ited to discussions of ancient Greek civilization (Devine 1990: 198). I will not go into her analysis ofwhy this happened except to say that it provides valuable insight into the obstacles that must be overcome if Archaeology is ever to reach beyond the personal efforts of a few interested teachers and actually penetrate the curric­ ula of prairie school systems. In summary, during the past 25 years considerable money and effort has been spent, mainly by governments, in attempting to facilitate public exposure to Archaeology, particularly in venues such as museums and heritage parks. This effort has spanned all the different kinds ofArchaeology - precontact, protocon­ tact, fur trade, ethnic, agricultural, industrial and so forth - in much the same way that heritage interpretation, as a whole, has been gradually broadened to better represent Canadian society. Beyond vastly improved public access to archaeologi­ cal information, one of the results should have been greater public appreciation for the nature and heritage value of archaeology to prairie people. Unfortunately, whether public archaeology programs are actually having this effect is not known. It would certainly be useful to have a public opinion study for the prairie provinces of the type recently conducted by Pokotylo and Guppy (1999) for Greater Vancouver and the lower Fraser River Valley. Subject Development At this point I will turn to my final theme which is subject development. A first observation, and one that surprised me as I prepared this paper, is that a very important aspect of the past 25 years has been the amount of archaeological syn­ thesis it produced. Syntheses are now so numerous and varied that they can be divided into a number of types. Provincial syntheses - covering, for example, the Precontact archaeology of the prairies or adjoining transitional regions - have been prepared for Alberta (Vickers 1986; Ronaghan 1986), Saskatchewan (Dyck 1983), and Manitoba (Buchner 1979; Steinbring 1980; Pettipas 1984; Nicholson 1987a). Multi-province syntheses - spanning the prairie regions of all three provinces have also appeared (Bryan 1991; Wright 1995, 1999). There have been period syntheses - giving detailed examinations of the Pre­ Clovis and Early periods (Wilson and Bums 1999; Buchner and Pettipas 1990), the Middle Period (Buchner 1980; Forbis 1992) and the Late Period (Reeves 1983 [1970]; Syms 1977; Meyer and Epp 1990; Vickers 1994; Duke 1991; Walde et ale 1995). Complex or phase syntheses - have dealt with entities as such Oxbow (Millar et ale 1981), Pelican Lake (Foor 1982) and Avonlea (Davis 1988). Ethnohistorical and ethnoarchaeological syntheses - have supplied informa­ tion about peoples of the Postcontact Period, particularly Aboriginal peoples (cf. Bonnichsen and Baldwin 1978; Kaye and Moodie 1978; Hanson 1980; Brasser 1982; Syms 1982; Brink 1986; Magne et ale 1987; Nicholsen 1987b; Smith 1988; Russell 1988,1991; Epp 1993; Kennedy 1993). Topical syntheses have provided overviews for subjects such as geoarchaeology (Campling 1980; Wilson 1983, 1990; Johnson 1986; Beaudoin 1989, 1993, 1999; Beaudoin et ale 1996; Bobrowsky et ale 1990; Burns 1995; Low 1995; Wilson and Burns 1999), radiocarbon dates (Wilmeth 1978; Vickers 1983; Brumley and Rushworth 1983; Dyck 1983; Beaudoin 1987a, 1987b; Walker 1992; Morlan 1993, 1988, 1999; Morlan et ale 2000), bison hunting (Arthur 1975; Davis and Wilson 1978; Morgan 1979; Gordon 1979; Verbicky-Todd 1984), tipi rings (Quigg and Adams 1978; Quigg 1979; Finnigan 1982; Davis 1983; Wilson 1995), boulder monuments (Steinbring and Buchner 1976; Kehoe and Kehoe 1977,1979; Quigg 1981; Wilson 1981; Brace 1987; Brumley 1988; Vogt 1990; Mirau 1995), rock art (Keyser 1977; Jones 1979; Brink 1981; Klassen and Magne 1988; Barry 1991; Fedirchuk and McCullough 1991; Fedirchuk 1992; Brenner 1994), human burials (Millar 1978; Syms 1978; Walker 1978, 1984; Saylor 1980; Meiklejohn et ale 1994; Finch and Waddell 1996), certain aspects of Postcontact material culture (cf. Sussman 1979, 1985; Ross 1980;Jones 1981; Lunn 1981, 1985; Gusset 1984; Morton 1984; Karklins 1985, 1992; Dueck et ale 1994), and histories of archaeology within the region (Forbis 1977, 1999; Dyck 1980, 1987; Syms 1980; Coutts 1981; Putt 1984; Johnson 1987; Pohorecky 1987; Meyer 1987; Spurling 1987;Jones et ale 1988; Pettipas et ale 1998). Finally, we have also had critiques ofsuch particular subfields or approaches to Archaeology as, for example, historical archaeology (Pyszczyk 1989), fur trade archae­ ology (Adams 1981; Klimko 1994,1998), tipi ring studies (Burley 1990), resource man­ agement versus academic archaeology (Epp and Spurling 1984), and medicine wheel astronomy (Haack 1987). Altogether, there has been a lot of synthesis. There have also been important developments in each of the archaeological periods, some of the highlights being as follows: Pre-Clovis Period: by now long-standing contenders for this degree of antiquity, the Taber child remains, for example, have been reanalyzed and reassigned to a younger age (Wilson et ale 1983; Moffat and Wainwright 1983; Brown et ale 1983; Wilson and Burns 1999; see Stalker 1983 and Pohorecky 1988 for oppos­ ing views). There have been new searches for evidence ofIce Age human occu­ pation (Magne and Ives 1991), and more discoveries (Chlachula 1994,1996; Chlachula and Le Blanc 1996). Unfortunately, these, too, remain in doubt after critical examination (Wilson and Burns 1999). Consequently, there is still no clear sign of human occupation in the Pre-Clovis Period. Early Period: Clovis points have recently been recovered from conflated multi­ component deposits in St. Mary Reservoir (Chandler 2000), and a broad spec­ trum of archaeological complexes beginning with fluted points is represented in compressed deposits at sites such as Sibbald Creek (Gryba 1983,1985) and EkPu-8 (Ronaghan 1993). Agate Basin has been found in considerable quanti­ ty at the Parkhill site in Saskatchewan (Ebell1980). Cody complex remains have been reinvestigated at the Fletcher site, mainly producing new data on pale­ oenvironmental conditions (cf. Wilson et ale 1991). The Dunn (Ebell1988) and McLeod (Joyes 1997) sites have provided large surface collections of Cody-like materials. However, at the Heron-Eden (Linnamae 1990; Corbeil 1995) and Niska sites (Meyer 1985; Meyer and Liboiron 1990) fragments ofCody complex occupation floors have also been found. On the northeastern fringes of the Plains a new archaeological entity, the Caribou Lake complex, has been identi­ fied, apparently representing a transition from grasslands bison hunting to a forest adaptation about 8000 radiocarbon years ago (Steinbring and Buchner 1980; Buchner 1981,1984). Overall, our record for the Early Period has improved, but it still remains shadowy. We have yet to uncover a substantial, well-preserved, unmixed occupation for this time period. It is in the Middle Period that advances in knowledge have probably been great­ est. We have identified distinct new complexes belonging to the Early Middle Period at places such as the Stampede site (Gryba 1975,1976,1980), the Boss Hill site (Doll 1982), the Anderson site (Quigg 1984), the Hawkwood site (Van Dyke and Stewart 1985), the Gowen sites (Walker 1992), and the Norby site (Zurburg 1991). The old Altithermal cultural hiatus, which was insightfully reconsidered in Reeves' 1973 review, is now being filled with solid evidence of occupation. Meanwhile, the Late Middle Period, whose contents were roughed out before the 1970s, has been given much greater substance and detail. There has been considerable work on the Oxbow complex (Dyck 1977, Walker 1981; Amundsen 1986; Nero 1997; Green 1998), and the McKean/Duncan/Hanna series (cf. Brumley 1975; Quigg 1986a; Frey 1997; Mack 1999), some work on Pelican Lake (cf. Duke 1985; Brink and Baldwin 1988, Van Dyke et ale 1991; Dyck and Morlan 1995), and there is growing evidence that the Besant series straddles the Middle and Late periods and is more complicated than was previously known (cf. Quigg 1986b; Ramsay 1991; Van Dyke et ale 1991; Dyck and Morlan 1995). In regard to the Late Precontact Period - our knowledge of the Avonlea com­ plex is steadily improving (cf. Brumley 1976; Wilson-Meyer and Carlson 1985; Davis 1988; Dawson and Walker 1988; Dyck and Morlan 1995), the Miniota site being one ofthe best discoveries to date (Landals 1994, 1995). For later complexes, there has been considerable sampling ofvarious site types (cf. Adams 1977; Walker 1983; Finnigan 1988; Linnamae 1988; Vickers 1989; Brink and Dawe 1989), some devel­ opment in functional analysis ofpottery (Malainey 1995; Malainey et ale 1999), and much work on ceramic classifications (cf. Syrns 1979; Meyer 1988; Malainey 1991; Walde 1994); but we still have too few sites with large exposures, clear deposition­ al context and secure dating. This places most of the archaeological constructs for this period (such as Old Women's, Moose Jaw, Devil's Lake-Sourisford, Wascana, One Gun, and Mortlach) on an insecure foundation. In contrast, there has been some excellentwork on ceramics at the northeastern edges ofthe Plains and in the western fringes of the Boreal Forest (Tisdale 1978; Meyer 1981, 1998; Meyer and Russell 1987; Lenius and Olinyk 1990; Hanna 1992; Gibson 1998). This promises to be an area of continuing development as important discoveries such as the excellent series of Blackduck components found at The Forks are analyzed and reported. It should also be noted that the Vickers Focus (cf Nicholson 1990,1994; Nicholson and Hamilton 1999), our sole contender for a Precontact horticultural complex on the Canadian Plains, has received virtually all of its development dur­ ing the period under review. As to the Postcontact Period, although some progress is being made on Indian sites of various kinds, campsites are still surprisingly elusive (cf. Milne Brumley 1978; Quigg and Adams 1978; Kelly 1986: 93; Brumley and Dau 1988). There has been new archaeology on the fur trade (Hurlburt 1977; Losey et ale 1977; Priess 1978,1997; Priess and Sears 1979; Steer et ale 1979; Hamilton 1979,1986,1991; Tottle 1981; Klimko 1983, 1987,1989; Monks 1983; Forsman 1985; McLeod 1991; Klimko and Hodges 1993; Pyszczyk 1997; Kroker 1999), on Mitis-related subjects (Forsman 1977; Donahue et ale 1978; Grainger and Ross 1980; Burley 1980; Lunn et ale 1980; Brandon 1981; McLeod 1982,1983; Lee 1983; Proch 1986; Ebell 1987; Doll et ale 1988; Burley et ale 1992), on the RCMP (Adams et ale 1977; Campbell 1977; Cumbaa 1977; Murray and Sciscenti 1977; Forsman 1981; Fifik 1986a, 1986b; Seyers 1986; Heitzmann 1990; Klimko et ale 1993), the whiskey trade (Wells et ale 1984; Kennedy 1987, 1991, 1997), mission sites (McLeod and Hart 1986; Kennedy 1986) and Rebellion sites (Minni 1986; also references to Batoche under Metis-related subjects). There has been study of agriculture and ranching (Adams 1978; Adams et al. 1978; Heitzmann 1980; Badertscher 1984; McLeod and Seyers 1988), scattered work on ethnic groups such as Ukrainians (Pyszczyk 1985, 1987), Doukhobors (Pohorecky 1993; Kozakavich 1998) and Mennonites (Priess 1998), and occasional ventures into urban and industrial archaeology at field hospitals, cemeteries, brickyards, sawmills, and coal mines (McIntyre 1978; Forsman 1980; Finnigan 1981; Klimko 1987, 1988; Kennedy 1990, 1995; Buhr 1997, 1999). In short, the archaeology of the Postcontact Period has become much more complex and interesting in the past 25 years. Moreover, the gap between the Precontact and Postcontact periods has narrowed and may eventually disappear, allowing a continuous panorama ofthe archaeological past. A major synthesis ofthe Postcontact archaeologies is needed to facilitate this process. Conclusion In conclusion, the past quarter century has been a time when field archaeolo­ gists have adjusted to tight regulation and land developers have become Archaeology's principal financiers. It has also been a time when the focus of field activities has shifted from amateur societies, universities and museums to regulato­ ry agencies and consulting companies. Direct challenges by Aboriginal activists have been met with substantial efforts at accommodation. There have been major accomplishments in public interpretation, but archaeologists have been largely unsuccessful in influencing school curricula. As to subject development, large numbers ofnew site records have been produced, together with a growing amount of gray literature. Academic studies have tended to focus on synthesis, relying mainly, but not exclusively, on pre-1980s data. Notable progress has been made in some aspects of the Middle and Late periods, while Postcontact Period archaeolo­ gy has ramified far beyond traditional focus on fur trade and military sites to encompass a much broader cross-section of historical experience. In the end, Canadian Plains archaeology has survived in all its major facets, producing a mar­ vellous array of new information. The fact that so much has been learned and so many theoretical and ethical adjustments have been made means that disciplinary objectives are now in need of review.

Acknowledgements I am indebted to William D. Finlayson and David A. Morrison for organizing the CAA Symposium in which a version of this paper was presented, and to the Canadian Museum of Civilization for supporting its preparation. I also thank the numerous colleagues who, over the years, have shared knowledge and opinions with me. I am especially grateful to Gary Adams, jack Brink, Gary Dickson, David Meyer, and Rod Vickers for recent detailed discus­ sions about Canadian Plains archaeology. Their comments have certainly enriched my understanding, but I should say that what follows is my own perspective and not necessarily one with which any of them would entirely agree. In addition, I acknowledge the assistance of Gary Adams,jack Brink, Carlos Germann, Margaret Kennedy, Richard Morlan and Peter Priess in providing references that I was missing. Roger Marois translated the abstract.

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Aboriginal Mounds in Southern Manitoba: An Evaluative Overview. Manuscript Report 323, Parks Canada, Ottawa. --.1979. The Devil's Lake-Sourisford Burial Complex on the Northern Plains. Plains Anthropologist 24, no. 86: 283-308. --. 1980. Chris Vickers: In Search of Manitoba's Cultural History. In Directions in Manitoba Prehistory: Papers in Honour ofChris Vickers, ed. by L. Pettipas, pp. 1-24. Association ofManitoba Archaeologists and the Manitoba Archaeological Society, Winnipeg. --. 1982. Identifying Prehistoric Western Algonkians: a Holistic Approach. In Approaches to Algonkian Archaeology,ed. by M.G. Hanna and B. KOOYman, pp. 1-34. The University ofCalgaryArchaeological Association, Calgary. --. 1997a. Archaeological Native Internships at the Manitoba Museum of Man. and Nature. In At a Crossroads: Archaeology and First Peoples in Canada, ed. by G.P. Nicholas and T.D. Andrews, pp. 224-234. Archaeology Press Publication No. 24, Simon Fraser, University Department of Archaeology, Burnaby. --. 1997b. Increasing Awareness and Involvement of Aboriginal People in Heritage Preservation: Recent Developments at the Manitoba Museum of Man and Nature. In At a Crossroads: Archaeology and First Peoples in Canada, ed. by G.P. Nicholas and T.D. Andrews, pp. 53-68. Archaeology Press Publication No. 24, Simon Fraser, University Department ofArchaeology, Burnaby. Thomas, Marvin. 1996. Regina's Festival of Ancient Technology. Saskatchewan Archaeological Society Newsletter 17, no. 5: 83. Tisdale, Mary Ann. 1978. Investigations at the Stott Site: A Review ofResearchfrom 1947 to 1977. Papers in Manitoba Archaeology, Final Report 5, Department ofTourism and Cultural Affairs, Winnipeg. Tottle, Terry P. 1981. History and ArchaeologyofPine Fort. Papers in Manitoba Archaeology, Preliminary Report 7, Department of Cultural Affairs and Historical Resources, Winnipeg. Trigger, Bruce. 1988. Museums and Politics: The Spirit Sings and the Lubicon Boycott. Point/Counterpoint - Who Owns the Past? Muse 6, no. 3: 13-15. --. 1997. Foreword. In At a Crossroads: Archaeologyand First Peoplesin Canada, ed. by G.P. Nicholas and T.D. Andrews, pp. vii-xiii. Archaeology Press Publication No. 24, Simon Fraser, University Department ofArchaeology, Burnaby. United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO). 1956. Recommendation on International Principles applicable to Archaeological Excavations. --. 1968. Recommendation concerning the Preservation of Cultural Property endangered by Public or Private Works. --. 1970. Convention on the Means of Prohibiting the Illicit Import, Export and Transfer of Ownership of Cultural Property. --. 1972a. Convention for the Protection of the World Cultural and Natural Heritage. --. 1972b. Recommendation Concerning the Protection, at a National Level, of the Cultural and Natural Heritage. Van Dyke, Stan, and Sally Stewart. 1985. Hawkwood Site (EgPm-179): a Multi-component Prehistoric Campsite on Nose Hill. Archaeological Survey ofAlberta Manuscript Series No.7, Alberta Culture, Edmonton. Van Dyke, Stanley, Sharon Hanna, Wendy Unfreed and Barbara Neal. 1991. That Dam Archaeology: Campsites in the Oldman River Reservoir. In Archaeologyin Alberta;1988-1989, ed. by M. Magne, pp. 25-65. Occasional Paper 33, Archaeological Survey of Alberta, Provincial Museum of Alberta, Edmonton. Verbicky-Todd, Eleanor. 1984. Communal Buffalo Hunting among the Plains Indians: An Ethnographic and Historic Review. Occasional Paper 24, Archaeological Survey ofAlberta, Alberta Culture, Edmonton. Vickers,j. Roderick. 1983. An Introduction to Alberta Radiocarbon Dates. In Archaeologyin Alberta, 1982, ed. by David Burley, pp. 134-141. Archaeological Survey of Alberta Occasional Paper 21, Alberta Culture, Edmonton. --. 1986. Alberta Plains Prehistory: A Review. Archaeological Survey of Alberta, Occasional Paper 27, Edmonton. --.1989. The Ross Site (DlPd-3) 1980 Research.Archaeological Survey ofAlberta Manuscript Series No. 14, Alberta Culture and Multiculturalism, Edmonton. --. 1994. Cultures of the Northwestern Plains: From the Boreal Forest Edge to Milk River. In Indian Cultures ofthe Great Plains: A.D. 500-1500, ed. by K.H. Schlesier, pp. 3-33. University of Oklahoma Press, Norman. Vogt, D.E. ·1990. An Information Analysis of Great Plains Medicine Wheels. Ph.D. dissertation, Department ofArchaeology, Simon Fraser University, Burnaby. Walde, Dale. 1994. The Mortlach Phase. Ph.D. dissertation, Department ofArchaeology, University of Calgary. Walde, Dale, David Meyer, and Wendy Unfreed. 1995. The Late Period on the Canadian and Adjacent Plains. Revista de Arqueologia Americana 9: 7-66. Walker, Ernest G. 1978. The Paleopathology of Certain Skeletal Remains from Saskatchewan. Napao 8, nos. 1-2: 30-47. --.1981. The Greenwater Lake Site (FcMv-l): An Archaic Burial from Saskatchewan. Napao 11, nos. 1-2: 8-12. --. 1983. The Woodlawn Site: A Case for Interregional Disease Transmission in the Late Prehistoric. CanadianJournal ofArchaeology7: 49-59. --. 1984. The Graham site: A McKean Cremation from Southern Saskatchewan. Plains Anthropologist 29,no. 104: 139-150. --. 1987a. Indian Involvement in Heritage Resource Development: A Saskatchewan Example. Native Studies Review 3, no. 2: 123-131. --. 1987b. The Establishment ofWanuskewin Heritage Park. Saskatchewan Archaeology8: 75-79. --. 1992. The Gowen Sites: Cultural Responses to Climatic Warming on the Northern Plains (7500-5000 B.P.). Archaeological Survey of Canada Mercury Series Paper 145, Canadian Museum of Civilization, Hull. Warden, Kathryn, Peter Wilson and Wayne Roberts. 1990. Voices ofWanuskewin... a dream come true. Star Phoenix, Saskatoon, Souvenir Edition, Section C, Tuesday, june 23, 1992. Wells, Katie,john Tallow, Ester Tailfeathers and Gerald T. Conaty. 1984. Archaeological Research on the Blood Reserve, 1984. Alberta ArchaeologicalReview 9: 3-16. Wilmeth, Roscoe. 1978. Canadian ArchaeologicalRadiocarbon Dates (Revised Version). Archaeological Survey of Canada Mercury Series Paper 77, National Museum of Man, Ottawa. Wilson, Michael C. 1981. Sun Dances, Thirst Dances, and Medicine Wheels: A Search for Alternative Hypotheses. In Megaliths to Medicine Wheels: Boulder Structures in Archaeology, ed. by M. Wilson, KL. Road and KJ. Hardy, pp. 333-370. University of Calgary Archaeological Association, Calgary. --. 1983. Once Upon a River: Archaeology and Geology ofthe Bow River Valley at Calgary, Alberta, Canada. Archaeological Survey of Canada Mercury Series Paper 114, National Museum of Man, Ottawa. --. 1990. Archaeological Geology in Western Canada: Techniques, Approaches, and Integrative Themes. In Archaeological Geology of North America, ed. by N.P. Lasca and J. Donahue, pp. 61-86. Geological Society ofAmerica Centennial Special Volume 4, Boulder. --. 1995. The Household as a Portable Mnemonic Landscape: Archaeological Implications for Plains Stone Circle Sites. In Beyond Subsistence:Plains Archaeology and the PostprocessualCritique, ed. by Philip Duke and Michael C. Wilson, pp. 169-192. The University of Alabama Press, Tuscaloosa and London. Wilson, Michael Clayton, and James A. Bums. 1999. Searching for the Earliest Canadians: Wide Corridors, Narrow Doorways, Small Windows. In Ice Age PeopleofNorth America: Environment, Origins, and Adaptations, ed. by R. Bonnichsen and KL. Turnmire, pp. 213-248. Oregon State University Press for the Center for the Study of the First Americans, Corvallis. Wilson, Michael Clayton, David W. Harvey and Richard G. Forbis. 1983. Geoarchaeological Investigations of the Age and Context of the Stalker (Taber Child) Site, DIPa 4, Alberta. Canadian Journal ofArchaeology7, no. 2: 179-207. Wilson, Michael Clayton,J. Roderick Vickers, Arthur C. MacWilliams, Alwynne B. Beaudoin, and Ian G. Robertson. 1991. New Studies at the Fletcher Palaeo-Indian Bison Kill (Alberta/Scottsbluff), Southern Alberta. In Archaeology in Alberta, 1988 and 1989, ed. by Martin Magne, pp. 127-134. Archaeological Survey - Provincial Museum ofAlberta Occasional Paper 33, Alberta Culture and Multiculturalism, Edmonton. Wilson-Meyer, Dianne, and Muriel I. Carlson. 1985. The YellowskySite (FjOd-2): An Avonlea Campsite in West-Central Saskatchewan. Saskatchewan Archaeology6: 19-32. Wright,J.V. 1995. Paleo-Indian culture, Early Plains culture and Middle Plains culture. In A History ofthe Native People of Canada, Volume I (10,000-1,000 B.C.), by J.V. Wright, pp. 24-52, 127-136, 298-332. Archaeological Survey of Canada Mercury Series Paper 152, Canadian Museum of Civilization, Hull. --. 1999. Late Plains culture. In A History ofthe Native People of Canada, Volume II (1,000 B. C. - A.D. 500), by J.V. Wright, pp. 781-847. Archaeological Survey of Canada Mercury Series Paper 152, Canadian Museum of Civilization, Hull. Yellowhorn, Eldon. 1996. Indians, Archaeology and the Changing World. Native Studies Review 11, no. 2: 23-50. Zurburg, Suzanne Caroline. 1991. The Norby Site: A Mummy Cave Complex Bison Kill on the Northern Plains. M.A. thesis, Department of Anthropology and Archaeology, University of Saskatchewan, Saskatoon.

From Short-Term Emergency to Long-Term Crisis: Public Works Projects in Saskatoon, 1929-1932

EricJ. Strikwerda

ABSTRACT. At the outset of the Depression, Saskatoon initiated a series of "work for wages" schemes designed to provide its residents with work. Financed by all three levels of government but implement­ ed entirely at the municipal level, the work reliefprojects enjoyed early success in keeping urban unem­ ployment within at least manageable levels. But work reliefs effectiveness in dealing with urban unem­ ployment proved largely dependent on the duration and relative severity of the economic downturn. Between 1929 and 1932, most viewed the Depression as a temporary anomaly, a short-term emergency requiring no more than short-term emergency measures. Butafter 1932, after nearly three years ofwors­ ening social conditions coupled with increasing numbers of unemployed, the characterization of the economic situation as a short-term emergencyfoundered-the Depression had become a long-term cri­ sis. By the spring of 1932, the federal and provincial abandonment of public works in favour of the cheaper, more efficient direct relief marked this change in perception. SOMMAIRE. Au debut de la grande depression, Saskatoon mit en oeuvre une serie de projets de "tra­ vail pour un salaire" au profit de ses residents. Finances par les trois niveaux de gouvernement mais exe­ cutes au niveau municipal seulement, ces projets d'aide sociale reussirent au debut amaintenir le cho­ mage urbain a un niveau raisonnable. Mais cette efficacite s'avera en grande partie dependante de la duree et de la severite relative du declin economique. Entre 1929 et 1932, on considerait generalement la depression comme une anomalie temporaire, une crise acourt terme ne necessitant que des mesures acourt terme. Mais en 1932, apres presque trois annees de conditions sociales qui empiraient et de cho­ mage qui augmentait, cette illusion s'effondra : la grande depression etait devenue une crise a long terme. Au printemps de 1932, ce changement de perception devint clair quand les gouvernements federal et provincial abandonnerent les travaux publics au profit de l'aide directe, moins chere et plus efficace. The Broadway Bridge, connecting the Nutana residential area with the down­ town core in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, officially opened to public traffic on November 11, 1932. Constructed entirely by labour from the ranks of the city's unemployed, the bridge marked the end of a distinct period in Saskatoon's Depression experience; it was the last in a series of public works projects designed to provide work relief to the city's resident jobless. Although projects like the Broadway Bridge successfully created some useful work for the urban unemployed until 1932, their effectiveness at addressing the unemployment problem crumbled under the weight ofeconomic exigency for the remaining years ofthe Depression. On one level, Saskatoon's public works projects created badly needed work for hundreds of the city's jobless and, with provincial and federal financial aid, con­ tributed useful "infrastructure works at a reasonable cost to the city. On another ing Saskatoon in early 1930. Hoping to strengthen municipal appeals for federal funding of urban public works relief through collective rather than individual action, Winnipeg mayor Ralph Webb organized an unemployment conference of provincial and municipal officials as well as trades and labour representatives from the Great Lakes to the West Coast. Held in Winnipeg in earlyJanuary 1930, the conference adopted a series of resolutions aimed at securing greater federal involvement in the unemployment crisis facing western cities. The delegates agreed to three principal arguments. First, Port Arthur mayor George Gibbon argued that because the present unemployment situation was more widespread and acute than it had been during the recession ofthe early 1920s, the federal gov­ ernment should "again assume their share of the cost of unemployment relief' under the same conditions. Secondly, Calgary mayor Andrew Davison contended that owing to federal immigration policies, the dominion government had an obli­ gation to take full responsibility for the care and maintenance of unemployed immigrants. Finally, the conference as a whole argued that the dominion-wide nature of the jobless situation afforded the federal government reason to intrude on provincialjurisdictions on the issue of unemployment relief," Armed with the resolutions adopted at the conference and the support of the western representatives, Webb led a delegation of more than twenty-five western politicians, businessmen, and labour leaders to Ottawa. Saskatoon's contribution included two delegates - the recently elected Mayor John Hair and Alderman A.M. Eddy - and a jobless figure of more than nine hundred married and single men. On February 25, 1930, the delegation met with Prime Minister William Lyon Mackenzie King and several members of his cabinet. After brief statements by the western delegates, most of which invariably referred to the poor state of affairs in prairie and coastal cities, Mayor Webb summed up succinctly the delegation's posi­ tion: "We believe that the Government, in view of policies with regard to unem­ ployment reliefwhich were in effect some years ago, will recognize the nature ofthe problem. We do notwant investigations, commissions, and the like, but assistance."?" An unmoved Mackenzie King responded that "[w]ith the possible exception of France, actual figures, if available, would show that the unemployment situation in Canada was better than that of any country in the world." He went on to suggest that the level ofunemployment was comparable to any other winter, observing that "at no time was any country without unemployment," and reiterating the concept of local responsibility. In fact, so cold was King's reception of the delegation that he even questioned the sincerity ofthe municipalities and provincial governments, accusing them ofasking for relieffor themselves rather than for the unemployed." Mayor Webb's active Conservative Party membership, moreover, helped convince King that the "alleged" unemployment condition was little more than a "Tory device to stir up propaganda against the government."12 By the end ofthe meeting, King offered the delegation exactly what it did not need - a vague plan whereby "[e]mployers and employed, the provinces and the municipalities might consis­ tently get together and study the problem to see whether [an unemployment insur­ ance] scheme could be introduced." Thoroughly rebuffed by the federal government, the delegation's members returned to their respective municipalities with only the empty promise of a possi­ ble investigation into an unemployment insurance scheme that, judging from experience, would probably never come to fruition." Municipal authorities in From Short-Term Emergency to Long-Term Crisis: Public Works Projects in Saskatoon, 1929-1932

EricJ. Strikwerda

ABSTRACT. At the outset of the Depression, Saskatoon initiated a series of "work for wages" schemes designed to provide its residents with work. Financed by all three levels ofgovernment but implement­ ed entirely at the municipal level, the work reliefprojects enjoyed early success in keeping urban unem­ ployment within at least manageable levels. But work reliefs effectiveness in dealing with urban unem­ ployment proved largely dependent on the duration and relative severity of the economic downturn. Between 1929 and 1932, most viewed the Depression as a temporary anomaly, a short-term emergency requiring no more than short-term emergency measures. But after 1932, after nearly three years ofwors­ ening social conditions coupled with increasing numbers of unemployed, the characterization of the economic situation as a short-term emergency foundered-the Depression had become a long-term cri­ sis. By the spring of 1932, the federal and provincial abandonment of public works in favour of the cheaper, more efficient direct relief marked this change in perception. SOMMAIRE. Au debut de la grande depression, Saskatoon mit en oeuvre une serie de projets de "tra­ vail pour un salaire" au profit de ses residents. Finances par les trois niveaux de gouvernement mais exe­ cutes au niveau municipal seulement, ces projets d'aide sociale reussirent au debut amaintenir le cho­ mage urbain a un niveau raisonnable. Mais cette efficacite s'avera en grande partie dependante de la duree et de la severite relative du declin economique. Entre 1929 et 1932, on considerait generalement la depression comme une anomalie temporaire, une crise acourt terme ne necessitant que des mesures acourt terme. Mais en 1932, apres presque trois annees de conditions sociales qui empiraient et de cho­ mage qui augmentait, cette illusion s'effondra : la grande depression etait devenue une crise a long terme. Au printemps de 1932, ce changement de perception devint clair quand les gouvernements federal et provincial abandonnerent les travaux publics au profit de l'aide directe, moins chere et plus efficace. The Broadway Bridge, connecting the Nutana residential area with the down­ town core in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, officially opened to public traffic on November 11, 1932. Constructed entirely by labour from the ranks of the city's unemployed, the bridge marked the end of a distinct period in Saskatoon's Depression experience; it was the last in a series ofpublic works projects designed to provide work relief to the city's resident jobless. Although projects like the Broadway Bridge successfully created some useful work for the urban unemployed unti11932, their effectiveness at addressing the unemployment problem crumbled under the weight ofeconomic exigency for the remaining years of the Depression. On one level, Saskatoon's public works projects created badly needed work for hundreds of the city's jobless and, with provincial and federal financial aid, con­ tributed useful "infrastructure works at a reasonable cost to the city. On another level, however, the projects revealed Saskatoon's initial understanding of the Depression in its earliest stages and illustrated the city's first response to the emerg­ ing unemployment problem. Saskatoon had, ofcourse, faced recessions before - one beginning in 1913 and the other in 1920 - but the Depression's proportions in both severity and length were entirely unprecedented. In the first instance, the onset of the Great War in August 1914 curtailed potential economic and unemployment disaster. As the nation geared up for total war in a flurry of domestic wartime production activity, concurrent recruitment for overseas service turned unemployment into labour shortage. In the second instance, the economic difficulties caused in part by rapid demobilization after the war and intensified by American protectionist tariffs gave way to economic expansion and a corresponding return to prosperity by 1924. That the comparatively brief economic downturn between 1920 and 1924 had given way to substantial growth through the latter halfofthe 1920s seemed to offer testimony to the fundamental strength of the market economy and its self-correc­ tive ability. It appeared as though traditional responses to periods ofeconomic and employment uncertainty - including unemployment reliefwork programs - con­ stituted effective measures in addressing urban unemployment problems. It should come as no surprise, then, that Saskatoon's initial response to the sudden increase in the numbers of the unemployed during the autumn of 1929 echoed the city's response to similar conditions in the past. In early November 1929, municipal authorities in Saskatoon could not help but recognize the looming unemployment problem despite federal assurances to the contrary. Indeed, members of Saskatoon's city council, along with similar repre­ sentatives from MooseJaw and Regina, demanded some form of provincial unem­ ployment aid even while Peter Heenen, the minister of Labour in Mackenzie King's cabinet, insisted that employment levels for November "had never been higher."! If the level of unemployment appeared troublesome at all, the minister suggested, then it had more to do with anomalous crop conditions than with the stock market crash in the United States or any longstanding economic collapse. And yet, Saskatoon's city council had good cause for concern. The city recorded fifty-six families on relief in December, more than twice as many as for the same month one year before. The recorded number of families on relief, however, dis­ guised a much larger unemployment problem simmeringjust below the surface. Saskatoon's chief engineer estimated that at least 350 married men were actually unemployed in the city but had notyet applied for relief." With at least four months of winter ahead, the unemployment situation seemed unlikely to improve before spring. It is hardly surprising that Saskatoon's municipal authorities recognized an unemployment problem at a time when the federal, or even provincial, govern­ ments did not. After all, while Canada's federal politicians and businessmen, bankers and economists buoyantly talked of a "fundamentally sound" economy, Saskatoon's City Council and residents alike watched revenues fall, local businesses fail, and unemployment numbers grow. Like other Canadian cities held under the yoke oflocal responsibility, Saskatoon was on the front line ofa growing emergency. Still, the Saskatchewan government had serious reservations about establishing any real and far-reaching unemployment policy that would undoubtedly set dan­ gerous precedents for the future. At the same time, provincial authorities reasoned thatsome limited funding ofmunicipal public works modeled after a federal emer- ing Saskatoon in early 1930. Hoping to strengthen municipal appeals for federal funding of urban public works relief through collective rather than individual action, Winnipeg mayor Ralph Webb organized an unemployment conference of provincial and municipal officials as well as trades and labour representatives from the Great Lakes to the West Coast. Held in Winnipeg in earlyJanuary 1930, the conference adopted a series of resolutions aimed at securing greater federal involvement in the unemployment crisis facing western cities. The delegates agreed to three principal arguments. First, Port Arthur mayor George Gibbon argued that because the present unemployment situation was more widespread and acute than it had been during the recession ofthe early 1920s, the federal gov­ ernment should "again assume their share of the cost of unemployment relief' under the same conditions. Secondly, Calgary mayor Andrew Davison contended that owing to federal immigration policies, the dominion government had an obli­ gation to take full responsibility for the care and maintenance of unemployed immigrants. Finally, the conference as a whole argued that the dominion-wide nature of the jobless situation afforded the federal government reason to intrude on provincialjurisdictions on the issue of unemployment relief." Armed with the resolutions adopted at the conference and the support of the western representatives, Webb led a delegation of more than twenty-five western politicians, businessmen, and labour leaders to Ottawa. Saskatoon's contribution included two delegates - the recently elected Mayor John Hair and Alderman A.M. Eddy - and a jobless figure of more than nine hundred married and single men. On February 25, 1930, the delegation met with Prime Minister William Lyon Mackenzie King and several members of his cabinet. After brief statements by the western delegates, most of which invariably referred to the poor state of affairs in prairie and coastal cities, Mayor Webb summed up succinctly the delegation's posi­ tion: "We believe that the Government, in view of policies with regard to unem­ ployment reliefwhich were in effect some years ago, will recognize the nature ofthe problem. We do notwant investigations, commissions, and the like, but assistance.'?" An unmoved Mackenzie King responded that"[w]ith the possible exception of France, actual figures, if available, would show that the unemployment situation in Canada was better than that of any country in the world." He went on to suggest that the level ofunemployment was comparable to any other winter, observing that "at no time was any country without unemployment," and reiterating the concept of local responsibility. In fact, so cold was King's reception of the delegation that he even questioned the sincerity ofthe municipalities and provincial governments, accusing them ofasking for relieffor themselves rather than for the unemployed.11 Mayor Webb's active Conservative Party membership, moreover, helped convince King that the "alleged" unemployment condition was little more than a "Tory device to stir up propaganda against the govcmment.?" By the end ofthe meeting, King offered the delegation exactly what it did not need - a vague plan whereby "[e]mployers and employed, the provinces and the municipalities might consis­ tently get together and study the problem to see whether [an unemployment insur­ ance] scheme could be introduced." Thoroughly rebuffed by the federal government, the delegation's members returned to their respective municipalities with only the empty promise of a possi­ ble investigation into an unemployment insurance scheme that, judging from experience, would probably never come to fruition." Municipal authorities in gency relief scheme of the early 1920s would not only ease the urban unemploy­ ment problem and pacify municipal demands, but would do so at a small political and economic cost to the province. The provincial cabinet viewed aid in small enough doses toward what was traditionally a local concern as nothing more than an emergency palliative, an explicitly short-term cure for a short-term ill. That the emergency palliative should take the form of work relief rather than direct reliefwas nothing new. Conventional wisdom relied on during the recession ofthe early 1920s dictated thatwork reliefwas preferable to direct relief." Little had changed in this wisdom by 1929. "The main question is already settled," the Saskatoon StarPhoenix editorialized on November 8,1929; "[i]t is agreed that work is the best solution of any unemployment problem and public authorities should, so far as possible, spread their spending programs over the winter season."? Saskatoon's city council shared this perspective, viewing public works relief as the only legitimate means of alleviating the unemployment problem. On December 16, 1929, the Saskatchewan government offered firm provincial commitment to Saskatoon's unemployment relief programs. The province prom­ ised to bear two-thirds of the extra costs associated with winter public works con­ struction as opposed to the less expensive summer construction." Although local improvements were generally more efficiently undertaken during the summer months, efficiency was not the main design behind the provincial work relief scheme. Winter construction, the province reasoned, would not only provide more men with more work, but also provide more work when it was needed most ­ namely during the winter months when unemployment levels were higher," On the surface, the provincial scheme was more than what was required of the province. According to a January 1922 federal order-in-council, unemployment became a provincial responsibility only when the municipality was under such extreme economic hardships that it could not possibly care for its unemployed res­ idents.? The provincial scheme, moreover, was unveiled at a time when even the prime minister denied the existence of an unemployment problem. But despite the seemingly strong provincial commitment, the scheme failed to address the shadowy causes and implications looming behind the growing numbers of the unemployed. Essentially, the provincial scheme constituted little more than an incentive for Saskatoon to undertake routine public works immediately rather than wait until the summer, when the government expected unemployment numbers to fall. In the end, the provincial contribution to the relief of Saskatoon's jobless fell far short of the city's need. The city itself could scarcely provide for those with lit­ tle or no income teetering on the brink oftotal destitution, let alone the hundreds ofjobless without food or lodgings." From Saskatoon's perspective, although the unemployment situation was still viewed as a temporary problem, it was no longer a matter of purely "local" concern. Saskatoon's local resources, nearly tapped as a result both of the city's continued deficit financing for relief and core services as well as the debt carried over from the boom years earlier in the century, placed severe limitations on the city's unemployment strategy - a strategy based almost entirely on public works projects. This strategy demanded new funds, and with the provincial contributions already directed elsewhere, Saskatoon turned to the next source of unemployment relief- the federal government. Other major urban centres in the West endured frustrations similar to those fac- Saskatoon once again faced the city's jobless with sympathetic words, but empty pockets. The few relief works still providing some of Saskatoon's jobless with employment, including watermain extensions, boulevard and sidewalk work, and various oddjobs for the city's Engineering Department, never seemed to provide enough work. The lack of federal support and the nearly completed provincially supported works forced Saskatoon's city council to take steps aimed at reducing relief costs. One such step was to organize the unemployed along lines of less eli­ gibility for whatever municipally funded work relief the city could afford. Designed to limit the number ofjobless residents who qualified for work relief, the concept of"less eligibility" essentially divided the city'sjobless into decreasing gradations of eligibility for work relief. Mayor Hair curtly described the formal organization in a letter circulated among Engineering Department foremen on April 27, 1930: Unless under very exceptional circumstances, only those who are at pres­ ent time British subjects, either by birth or naturalization or those who have applied for naturalization papers will be employed ... preference [should be] given to married men and other things being equal, those with families [should be] given preference.l" The attention afforded British subjects was in direct response to a reported five hundred immigrants who had arrived in the city earlier in the month." Saskatoon's Engineering Department could offer the city's estimated seven hundred married and single jobless little more than small projects able to employ only a fraction of their number as it was; providing relief to another five hundred newcomers was simply out ofthe question. In any case, it is doubtful whether Saskatoon would have offered relief to the new immigrants even if municipal finances permitted. If Saskatoon's municipal authorities viewed the recent immigrant unemployed as bona fide residents - and therefore qualifying for municipal relief- the city would surely have forfeited one of its strongest arguments in favour of direct federal involvement in municipal unemployment relief costs. Saskatoon's municipal authorities still maintained that because immigration was a federal initiative, the federal government should assume all responsibility for the care and maintenance of the immigrant unemployed. In other words, and as Mayor Hair argued, "those responsible for bringing newcomers should be responsible for finding them employment."16 The lack of federal support for municipal unemployment relief expenditures, combined with the rapidly disappearing provincial supplements to Saskatoon's winter construction projects, forced the city to further divide its unemployed pop­ ulation into married and single men. That municipal authorities considered single _unemployed men as less eligible for relief work employment than married men with families should not be surprising, particularly in view of the social mores prevalent in Canada during the 1930s. Mayor Hair provided an adequate illustra­ tion of such mores, along with a bit of advice for several single unemployed men waiting on him for relief: "I explained to them the first principles ofmanhood was [sic] to recognize women and children first. Until we have taken care of women and children I had no authority to deal with men such as they."? Hair's comments reveal some of the city's assumptions about the nature ofwork, gender, and famil­ ial obligation. By recognizing "women and children first," Hair implied that mar­ ried men would use their relief wages to provide for their wives and children because the city did not offer relief work to women. This implication was of some benefit to the city. By offering work relief only to married men with wives and chil­ dren, the city effectively stretched its relief dollar further than it could by giving that relief dollar to a single man. Some unemployed women in Saskatoon resented such attitudes. During the summer of 1931, for example, Lily Whaley requested that she be considered for employment on the city's work reliefprograms: "My circumstances place me on the same level as a man," she wrote to Mayor Hair, "and I will be glad ifit could be pos­ sible for the city to provide manual labour as far as these unemployed men for myselfat the same low salary rather than be compelled to ask for relief.'?" Although Hair was sympathetic to Whaley's request and promised to make inquiries as to the feasibility of offering some light gardening work to the city's unemployed women, Chief Engineer Archibald warned against such a measure: I might say that it is probably quite true that there are many unemployed women in the city that could perform manual labourjust as well as many of the men who are at present time engaged on this sort of work. However, I do not think that the city should take any step in this direction, as I am quite sure there would be a very serious revulsion offeeling on the part of the public if women were to be engaged on even lighter forms of labouring work." Ifletters from various residents are any indication ofa "serious revulsion offeel­ ing on the part of the public," then such letters generally confirm Archibald's warning. "The great majority of [employed] married women are working just so they can get away from their husbands and have a good time," one concerned cit­ izen wrote in a letter to the city council in October 1931. "Supposing we all prac­ ticed the selfish economy ofmarried couples working," another asked the editor of the Star Phoenix, "what would be the result? The world would sink into oblivion.?" Although not necessarily constructed with a view toward saving the world from oblivion, Saskatoon's work distribution policies nevertheless confirmed the notion that women should not participate in the city's work relief projects. Saskatoon's relatively minute efforts at reducing relief costs were no match for the 710 jobless men desperately seeking some form of municipal aid. On July 7, 1930, an indignant delegation ofunemployed men appeared before the city coun­ cil demanding "that immediate steps be taken to provide employment for those out ofwork.'?' But the city's beleaguered ReliefDepartment could offer little more than small projects able to employ a total of only 167 men. Saskatoon's municipal authorities, meanwhile, had secured nothing more from the province than a provincially funded institute for the deaf and dumb and a promise that no har­ vester excursion from other parts of the country would threaten to take harvest work away from Saskatoon'sjobless in the fall. Clearly, some change in unemploy­ ment relief policy at the federal level was required. That change came when Prime Minister King dissolved Parliament and called a federal election forJuly 1930. Historian James Struthers has argued that the 1930 general election "was the first modern federal election in which the issue of unemployment proved deci­ sive.?" The two main national parties' fundamental disagreement over the nature of the unemployment situation during the election campaign seems to confirm Struthers' observation. On one hand, King's ardent refusal to believe that unem­ ployment had reached national proportions or that appeals for federal aid to municipalities and provinces constituted anything more than blatant and unwar­ ranted cash grabs revealed the prime minister's misunderstanding ofthe depths to which some parts of the country had fallen. Opposition Conservative leader Richard Bedford Bennett, on the other hand, seemed more in touch with the frus­ trating intractability of the unemployment problem - at least on the surface. Either as a simple election ploy designed to differentiate his campaign from that of the federal Liberal Party or out of genuine concern for the estimated 13 percent of Canadians without work, Bennett promised a wary electorate that "[tjhe Conservative Party is going to find work for all who are willing to work or perish in the attempt." Bennett handily defeated King's Liberals in the election, perhaps as much on the strength of his promise to "end unemployment" as on King's callous dismissal of any unemployment problem at all. Almost immediately, Bennett introduced two bills designed to lift Canada out ofthe Depression. The first, and in Bennett's opinion the most important, involved the traditional Conservative Party tactic of raising the tariff. Increasing the tariff would not only protect Canadian manufacturers from the cancerous outside world, but would also create jobs, end unemployment, and "blast a way into the markets of the world." The second, of more immediate importance to municipal authori­ ties in Saskatoon, involved a $20 million unemployment relief package to support urban public works and direct relief schemes. Enacted on 26 September 1930, the Unemployment Relief Act provided $16 million to cover the federal government's promised 25 percent share of the cost of public works construction. The remain­ ing 75 percent share, divided between the provincial and municipal governments at 25 and 50 percent respectively, covered the balance. Set to expire the following spring, the Unemployment ReliefActillustrated the pre­ vailing belief that the unemployment problem was temporary and that the nation, with the help of the tariff, would soon be on more stable ground. Bennett intro­ duced the legislation with the determined intention of banishing unemployment; Minister of Labour Gideon D. Robertson optimistically explained that the unem­ ployment problem facing the nation was "serious ... but surely not insurmount­ able.?" Unfortunately for Canada'sjobless, the two unemployment measures essen­ tially constituted the new Conservative government's entire solution to the unem­ ployment problem. When news ofthe dominion scheme reached Saskatoon, Mayor Hair presented the provincial government - who retained responsibility for the approval process - an ambitious $700,000 public works proposal which included a subway over 19th Street, storm sewer work, and a new wing on the City Hospital. The province approved the city's $300,000 19th Street subway plan and $150, 000 storm sewer work, both of which promised employment to Saskatoon's jobless labourers, but dismissed the $250,000 City Hospital wing. Since the hospital wing would offer employment primarily to tradesmen, and since many of Saskatoon's tradesmen were already employed on other municipal work, including a technical school and the provincial institute for the deaf and dumb, provincial authorities argued that the $250,000 could be better spent on a building in Regina." Rather than forgo the hospital wing's relief potential, city officials opted to finance the project inde­ pendent of provincial or federal support. ByJanuary 1931, the Engineering Department was employing some 500 mar­ ried men per week on the 19th Street subway, various storm sewer work through the city, and the wing on City Hospital. Depending on the size oftheir families, the men who qualified for employment on the projects worked between one and three weeks out of every month for eight hours per day, and earned forty-five cents per hour," While the three relief projects, combined with other local improvements, significantly relieved the unemployment situation, they collectively offered work to less than one-third of the city's estimated 1,700jobless married men. And because the city offered no reliefassistance without some contributory work, surplus unem­ ployed married men sanded streets, cleared snow, or performed shrub and bush work for relief. Through the spring and summer of 1931, Saskatoon's city council tried, generally with limited success, to secure more federally and provincially financed public works. On March 18, 1931, for example, the city appealed to the provincial government for approval of an extension of the sewer and water-main work begun the previous year. The province approved only $15,000 - a mere frac­ tion of the $180,000 the city had requested." With unemployment numbers still climbing by June 1931, Saskatoon's work reliefpolicies grew ever more coercive and restrictive to reduce the number of res­ idents who qualified for relief. For example, relief department officers struck from the relief rolls any unemployed resident refusing to participate in "created work" schemes. This measure caused the unemployed's long simmering frustration with a relief system they neither embraced nor trusted to boil over. OnJune 1, a dele­ gation numbering between 700 and 800 marched on City Hall demanding work or wages for the unemployed." But Saskatoon's city council could do little more than look to Regina and Ottawa for financial help. But the provincial government, con­ sumed with worsening conditions in rural Saskatchewan, responded to Saskatoon's appeals by denying that "the situation has reached proportions where it is too large for local urban municipalities.?" The federal government, on the other hand, dis­ patched Minister of Labour Gideon Robertson across the nation to assess the effects of the federal unemployment initiatives and discuss possible solutions with provincial and municipal authorities. Robertson reached Saskatchewan on June 19, 1931. Upon his return to Ottawa, the labour minister described alarming conditions which suggested that neither the tariff nor the $20 million reliefscheme had made a significant dent in the unemployment situation. The Bennett government hur­ riedly pushed new legislation - the Unemployment and Farm ReliefAct - through Parliament on Dominion Day. Even though this second unemployment relief act offered more financial muscle than its predecessor did - the federal government now offered fifty cents on the dollar for all approved municipal and provincial pub­ lic works - it differed little in substance. Although the federal government remained vague about the total amount it was willing to expend, it clearly set the Act to expire on 1 May 1932, once again reflecting the assumption that the unem­ ployment problem would disappear by spring. When word of the new federal relief scheme arrived in early August, Saskatoon applied for approval of another $300,000 storm sewer project. In submitting the proposal, Mayor Hair reminded the provincial minister of Railways, Labour and Industries how badly Saskatoon needed employment, estimating a total of 1,500 unemployed married men in the city, 50 of whom were "very distressing cases.'?' Hair asked the minister if the city could begin work on enough of the sewer proj­ ect to provide employment for the 50 men. Although the newAct had yet to be offi- cially enacted by Parliament, the minister approved $30,000 of the $300,000 pro­ posal on the understanding that the city abide by the terms of the federal scheme and spend no more than 40 percent of the cost on materials and no less than 60 percent of the cost on labour," By early September 1931, with the federal Unemployment and Farm ReliefActfirm­ ly in place, Saskatoon's city council turned its attention to the Broadway Bridge project. Municipal authorities had viewed a bridge as an ideal relief project since at least the summer of 1930, when a Toronto urban planning firm hired by the city recommended construction of a main traffic artery connecting Broadway Avenue on the south side of the Saskatchewan River with 19th Street on the north. Expected to provide enough work to at least maintain the city'sjobless population, the bridge seemed at first a viable, constructive solution to Saskatoon's unemploy­ ment problem. But as worsening conditions forced the city to increase its sum­ mertime estimate that 1,500 men would be unemployed by autumn, it became nothing less than an essential relief measure." On September 18, 1931, Chief Engineer Archibald grimly revealed to Commissioner Leslie that more than 2,400 married men were registered with the city's Relief Department." Even with Archibald's estimate that 25 percent of this number were physically unfit for manual labour, the Engineering Department still had to find useful employment for nearly 2,000 men. Of course, neither Commissioner Leslie nor the city's unemployed needed Engineering Department statistics to tell them what they already knew. Archibald's count only confirmed what was readily apparent in the city's soup kitchens and along the city's bread lines - Saskatoon's unemployment levels were higher than they had ever been before. To make matters worse, the end ofthe harvest season was rapidly approach­ ing, and this was sure to push transient farm workers into the city for the winter. Although municipal authorities had long evaded responsibility for transient work­ ers, recent changes to provincial relief policy dictated that because the Dominion and province pay at least 65% of public works costs, the municipality, in all fairness, should be expected to take care of all persons resident in the municipality and who have no fixed abode." Now more than ever, Saskatoon's municipal officials and the unemployed alike des­ perately needed the city's newest public works proposal to come to fruition. But with the city already courting bankruptcy and with no real ability to generate any significant new revenue, the success of any work relief proposal rested entirely on approval from the senior governments. Saskatoon's city council consequently pursued official approval for the project through the late summer and early autumn of 1931, with a determination and vigour once reserved only for city boosting. But the city council's dogged support for the bridge project was neither strictly altruistic nor entirely benign. Municipal authorities had almost as much to gain from the tripartite-funded Broadway Bridge as did the city'sjobless for whom the project was primarily designed. The corollary economic and social benefits the city expected from the bridge project informed and directed Saskatoon's work relief policies at least as much as did the bridge's primary function of relieving the city's unemployed. The needs of the city's unemployed were fairly simple: Saskatoon's jobless required enough regular employment to sustain themselves and their families through the coming winter and maintain some degree of dignity in the process. The city's needs, on the other hand, were more complicated but no less important in directing relief policy; nor were they fundamentally different from, or necessar­ ily at odds with, the needs of the city's jobless. First, municipal authorities in Saskatoon expected the bridge project to provide as much employment to the city'sjobless as possible, at as little cost to the city's ratepayers as possible. Secondly, municipal authorities expected the bridge project to provide the city with a lasting and useful asset at a reasonable cost. A new bridge, spanning the South Saskatchewan River from BroadwayAvenue on the south side to Fourth Avenue on the north, would not only offer a much needed conduit between the Nutana resi­ dential area and the downtown core, but would also relieve subway traffic on the decrepit and overly narrow 19th Street Bridge. Finally, the bridge project would help counteract the instability and potential civil unrest associated with high levels of urban unemployment. Keeping idle hands occupied on the bridge would pre­ vent a jobless population, angry and frustrated at a system which had failed them, from agitating on street corners and in union halls and from planning mass demonstrations, protests, and riots through city streets and market squares. The apparent economic benefits the bridge project offered Saskatoon's unem­ ployed are easily identifiable. On the surface, the Broadway Bridge promised thou­ sands of man-hours of regular work and a minimum wage of forty-five cents per hour. If Engineering Department implementation plans were accurate, each man who qualified for work on the bridge could expect sustained employment for at least three weeks out of every month for the duration of the project's construe­ tion." This came as no small relief to hundreds of Saskatoon's jobless, many of whom had been without regular employment for months. Less easily identifiable was the dignity inherent in earning an honest wage doing meaningful and useful work. The humiliation of sudden unemployment was difficult to bear for many of the city's residents, particularly for those who prided themselves on their self-suffi­ ciency and thrift. Such humiliation, of course, was not limited to Saskatoon: for unemployed men in urban centres across the country, standing before the relief officer, hat in hand, and declaring complete and utter destitution remained a sign ofpersonal failure-this despite climatic and economic conditions and systems cer­ tainly beyond their control. One reliefoffice employee in Edmonton, for example, described the difficulty some unemployed men had in accepting relief: "I've seen tears in men's eyes, as though they were signing away their manhood.?" For Saskatoon's nearly 2,000 bona fide married reliefers, then, the bridge proj­ ect offered some dignified salvation from their feelings of inadequacy, some sense that they could make a contribution to the city through their labour, that they were not shiftless or lazy or paupers. But dignified salvation during the autumn of 1931 remained an elusive commodity for many of the city's unemployed. Because the city insisted that the unemployed work for relief - even in the absence of mean­ ingful and useful work - a good many unemployed men found themselves employed on various created-work schemes while the city finalized arrangements for the tripartite-funded bridge project." Defined by municipal authorities as works that would not be undertaken under normal economic conditions, Saskatoon's created-work projects merely tested the unemployed's willingness to work, often in degrading and meaningless ways. On the surface, little distinguished employment on the city's created-work schemes from employment on the bridge project: after all, work was work, espe­ cially for those with bills to pay and dependents to support. Below the surface, however, created-work schemes differed from work on the bridge project in two ways. First, created work did not offer a real wage. Men working on snow removal, bush work, or street sanding were generally paid only in shelter and groceries vouchers. While shelter vouchers paid the rent and utilities bills, they also served as monthly reminders ofthe reliefers' poverty. Similarly, while food vouchers eased a family's hunger, a simple trip to the grocery store turned into a public display of personal failure. Payment in straight goods rather than in cash also suggested that municipal authorities lacked confidence in the unemployed's ability to make responsible consumer decisions. Secondly, the city made no attempt to ensure worker efficiency on created-work projects. This meant that the city did not con­ sider such work as either necessary or useful - hardly the kind of projects which engendered the satisfaction of performing honest and meaningful work. Among those toiling on one of the city's created-work projects while the city awaited firm federal support for the bridge project during the autumn of 1931 was A.C. MacNeil. Laid offfrom his job as a salesman at the Massey-Harris Company in December 1930 and without steady employment for nearly ten months, MacNeil was only too familiar with the indignities associated with the city's created-work schemes. While the Engineering Department made surveys and sank test holes on the riverbank in preparation for the bridge project, for example, MacNeil joined other unemployed men performing clean-up work at the city's nuisance grounds as a work test for groceries." The created work at the city dump was degrading­ the site offered neither a heated shack for shelter nor a place to eat lunch nor even simple toilet accommodation. The work at the dump was as unpopular as it was degrading - so unpopular that near the end of August 1931, at least five men defied the foreman and refused to do the work allotted to them. Nevertheless, MacNeil preferred his job outside the city at the dump to other created work schemes such as sweeping city streets because, as he explained, "I would not want any of my friends to know or even suspect that I was forced into this corner,'?" The bridge project also offered the city significant economic benefits. In real terms, partial financing from the senior governments translated into a significant and useful local improvement at a fraction of the cost the city would have had to expend under normal economic conditions. The new Unemployment and Farm Relief Act promised that the federal and provincial governments would collectively bear some 65 percent of the bridge project's cost, leaving the city responsible for the balance. The Act also made provision for the federal government to underwrite the issue of bonds necessary for raising the city's share of the project. This meant that Saskatoon could borrow its share ofthe project's cost at a rate about 20 percent less than if the city was forced to raise the entire municipal share alone." The bridge project did not merely offer a local improvement at a bargain price. With an alarmingly high number of unemployed men in the city during the autumn of 1931, the bridge project represented a stability which could only come from an occupied working population. American social scientists Frances Fox Piven and Richard Cloward have posited that seemingly progressive and benevo­ lent state intervention into market economies through measures such as public works projects constitute little more than attempts to maintain social control over the working population during times of mass unemployment. In this view, the bridge project replaced the stability of fixed occupational roles once provided by private industry. Saskatoon's explicit policy of aggressively denying relief to those not willing to work, not willing to participate, suggests that municipal authorities perceived public works as a component in bolstering civil order. Beginning as early as 1930, municipal authorities viewed the city's jobless as paupers requiring relief as well as potentially dangerous elements demanding seri­ ous municipal attention. And providing the unemployed with work - some pro­ ductive exercise designed to occupy otherwise idle time - was rapidly becoming the city's new strategy to disarm potential civil unrest. In fact, municipal authori­ ties had identified the potential problems associated with masses of idle unem­ ployed through their experience with the steadily increasing numbers ofthe unem­ ployed through most of1930: "It is very evident that single men are starting to flock into Saskatoon," Mayor Hair confided to all the new candidates for alderman in November 1930, "and it is also very evident that there are agitators ofthe worst type trying to create trouble amongst the single men.'?" Mayor Hair's concerns were not entirely unsubstantiated. Local unemployed groups representing the city'sjobless had been organizing demonstrations against the city's "unfair" relief policies since at least the summer of 1930, and had been urging single unemployed men not to acceptjobs on surrounding farms for their board as early as the winter of 1929. Groups such as the Communist-affiliated Saskatoon Unemployed Association (SUA) attempted to organize Saskatoon'sjob­ less and agitate for better relief policies on their behalf. Members of the SUA were initially dismissed by Saskatoon's municipal authorities as little more than harmless shirkers or small-scale agitators lacking significant influence amongst the city'sjob­ less." In fact, during the spring and summer of 1930, Saskatoon's city council refused to even recognize the SUA as a legitimate representative of labour at all. But the summer of1930 was long past, and unemployment numbers by the autumn of 1931 had grown exponentially. Nearly two full years of relief expenditures seri­ ously compromised the city's ability to provide meaningful work for the unem­ ployed. The sheer number ofjobless by November 1931 compounded the city's inability to secure any real occupational stability, and increased the perceived threat ofCommunist infiltration and the associated rise of civil disorder. Added to this was the end of the harvest season, the onset of another winter, and the early completion of the $300,000 storm sewer project, expected to throw another 200 men out of work. Never before had worker dislocation been more widespread in Saskatoon; and, perhaps, never before had the potential threat of civil disorder caused by mass worker dislocation been more palpable. Although real violence, instigated by local Communists and carried out by the local unemployed, had yet to descend on the city, there were real reasons for municipal authorities to take the Communist threat seriously. Just days before con­ struction on the bridge began, the National Unemployed Workers' Association, parent group of the SUA, warned the city council of potential violence unless the city heeded the unemployed's concerns: "Our condition is very serious regardless ofstatements made by [Mayor] Hair," NUWA secretary and known Bolshevist Steve Forkin wrote in a 9 December letter to city council. He continued: There are hundreds ofus penneless [sic] and poorly clad. The city's relief policy is probably the most callous on the continent. Saskatchewan jails however are preferable to present conditions. We assure the city that if the present policy is not changed we will not starve without a struggle and it will be an organized struggle bringing into play our full mass force in organized bitter resistance." The thinly veiled militant tone ofForkin's letter, combined with the increase in the numbers ofunemployed, perhaps offers partial explanation for the city's deter­ mination to bring the bridge project to fruition. If there was ever a time when the city needed a large relief project able to provide a significant number of unem­ ployed with work, then the autumn and early winter of 1931 was that time. And although the openly Communist-led SUA had organized non-violent mass demon­ strations before, the recent Estevan Riot testified that the Communists, if properly provoked, were capable ofviolent action. The events of 29 September in Estevan, wherein striking miners under the cooperative leadership of the Communist Workers' Unity League and the Mine Workers Union of Canada clashed with police, leaving three miners dead and at least twenty-three injured, were still fresh in the minds of municipal authorities through the last three months of 1931. Legitimate or not, fears of a lean and hungry jobless population disrupting the existing economic and social order were present in every Canadian city during the autumn of 1931. Certainly, municipal authorities in Saskatoon felt threatened by potential civil disorder caused by unemployment. And while they did not expect the bridge project to banish civil disorder through occupational stability, they at least hoped it would undermine Communist agitators by robbing them of their primary weapons - namely widespread poverty and dissatisfaction amongst the jobless. On the morning of 12 December 1931, Mayor Hair returned to Saskatoon after a three-day conference with representatives of the provincial government at Regina. He carried with him a signed agreement authorizing the city to begin con­ struction of the Broadway Bridge under the terms of the Unemployment and Farm ReliefAct. 43 Within days of the project's approval, the first shift of some fifty jobless men was busily inserting drainage pipes for the south abutment ofthe bridge while another fifty men hauled stone, gravel, and sand in preparation for the construc­ tion of the concrete piers by December 17, 1931. Under the watchful eye of Chief Engineer Archibald, each man worked one of three seven-and-a-half hour shifts. The shifts operated consecutively nearly around the clock. The Engineering Department distributed work based on names drawn entirely from the city's unem­ ployment register and divided into categories according to family size. Designed to ensure that those men with the most dependents received the most work, the Engineering Department's labour distribution system reinforced the city's gender assumptions about the nature ofwork, unemployment, and relief. "It is quite appar­ ent," Mayor Hair reasoned in September 1931, "that the married man with no chil­ dren does not require as much as the married man with a family offive or six." The first month-and-a-halfofconstruction on the bridge project had been a rel­ atively smooth affair. The total wages paid to Saskatoon's jobless between mid­ December 1931 and the end ofJanuary 1932 amounted to $42,000. The Relief Department had issued 750 work cards, and at least 700 men had actually worked on the bridge contract. RJ. Arrand, general contractor for the project, expressed general satisfaction with most ofthe workers despite the fact that many ofthe city's unemployed had little practical experience with bridge work. Finally, the nearly completed piers jutting out of the water and running in steady succession across the river hinted at the majestic structure regarded as an integral feature of the city's skyline today. The coming and going ofworkers, the rumble ofmachines, and the clouds ofsteam rising from the Saskatchewan River into the icy air all gave the work site every bit the appearance of bustling, productive animation.44 But the apparent success of the project belied a growing level ofworker dissat­ isfaction amongst the rank and file jobless. In fact, most men preferred storm sewer work to working on the bridge. Representatives of the men working on the bridge brought their constituency's concerns before a special meeting of the city's Committee on Unemployment on February 14, 1932. Secretary Anderson of the Saskatoon Local Unemployed Association (SLUA) and representing the workers, cited thirty-three cases where men reported to work their shift on the bridge only to be dismissed - without pay - for lack ofavailable work." Travel to the worksite with little transportation but their own two feet was no easy task for many of the unemployed, particularly for those who lived as far away from the site as the other side of town. And the icy prairie winter of 1931-32, extraordinarily cold even by Saskatchewan's standards, made the trek even more onerous. During the con­ struction of the piers, for example, the temperature hovered around forty degrees below zero. Further, because all the workerson the bridge were unemployed and on relief, it is unlikely that more than a few men could afford the "luxuries" of warm clothes or a healthy diet. Ill-clad and under-nourished, most men made the formidable journey only with extreme difficulty. The workers' anger and frustra­ tion at arriving at the worksite only to be turned away is hardly surprising; nor is it surprising that the workers demanded direct relief as compensation for their time in going to the bridge. The city council, however, denied the workers' demands after Arrand reported that some men "wait 20-30 minutes for work to begin and then they disappear when they are called to work.?" Saskatoon's jobless also leveled complaints of favouritism against the Engineering Department. On February 23, City Foreman WJ. Myatt faced an inquiry before a special committee to answer to charges that he had been "employ­ ing about a dozen men to do special work more or less continuously when there are other men in need of employment capable of taking their turn at suchjobs.?" The dozen men, employed primarily on drainage work to strengthen the river bank for the south bridge approach, became the focus ofSLUA's objections to the city's labour distribution system. Although the charges were serious, SLUA had lit­ tle direct evidence linking Myatt to any conscious wrongdoing, and the matter sub­ sided. But the frustration amongst the city'sjobless, borne out of the dismissals for lack of available work, the safety concerns, and the charges of favouritism, remained. If the relief workers' patience seemed near breaking point by the spring of 1932, municipal authorities were also rapidly losing patience with the unemployed. On March 23, Relief Officer Rowland declared a war on frauds - those unem­ ployed men and women who applied for relief under false pretenses - and reduced the number ofmen eligible to work on the bridge. Rowland's evidence of relief abuse included one man who, after receiving work relief for months, admit­ ted to having sent at least two thousand dollars to relatives in Hungary "for safe­ keeping." In another case, relief officials determined that a married woman claim­ ing estrangement from her husband and receiving relief was actually "in contact" with her husband and that she had money. Relief abuse, of course, was neither a new development nor an entirely unavoidable one; but Rowland's explicit response of"punishing to the full extent ofthe law... anyone found guilty ofdelib­ erate misrepresentation" was different. Saskatoon's crack-down on frauds further reflected the city's increasing difficulty in providing relief to the more than 2,100 unemployed married men." Saskatoon's difficulty in providing unemployment relief was also reflected in the City Council's adoption of a new, more restrictive relief policy on March 26. Designed to reduce the city's relief expenditures, the new policy affected nearly 1,200 families by denying work reliefto all unemployed men with less than two chil­ dren. Other restrictions outlined in the new relief policy included denying the two meals per day able-bodied single unemployed men had been eligible to receive since 1929, and denying work relief to any unemployed man who married after December 31, 1929. Municipal authorities hoped this latter measure would cir­ cumvent unemployed men "who got married merely to get on relief.'?" The city's reliefoffice was not alone in pointing out reliefabuse. One city alder­ man, for example, characterized the relief gangs on the bridge as nothing more than loafers. "Ifone man wants a match to light his pipe," he complained, "four or five seem to go into conference on the matter and it takes about five minutes to arrange all the details." Relief Officer Rowland expressed similar frustration when it became apparent that the foremen had no control: "If we only had provincial authority to compel the jobless to work for their relief groceries," Rowland point­ ed out, "then we could cut them off relief immediately that they refused to put in a decent day's work.?" Rowland's remarks did little to improve relations between the city and the unemployed. In the early morning hours of Sunday 8 May 1932, attempts were made to burn two separate city relief offices; although fire investi­ gators were unable to lay any charges, specific signs cast considerable suspicion on dissatisfied reliefworkers. Once hailed as the salvation ofdignity amongst the city's jobless, the Broadway Bridge had become a lightning rod of worker discontent; once regarded as the answer to Saskatoon's unemployment problems, the bridge now seemed to cause more problems than it solved. Despite the clear deterioration in relations between the city's jobless and Saskatoon's municipal authorities through the spring and summer of 1932, the bridge project had been at least a qualified success. By mid-june, the project had provided more than 1,400 unemployed men with work and had paid nearly $200,000 in wages since construction began seven months earlier," Workers had finished pouring concrete into the piers by late July and had laid part of the bridge's surface by August; but the nearly completed bridge made manifest the problems surrounding the presence of unoccupied and unemployed men in the city. On September 14, Commissioner Leslie announced what most ofthe city's res­ idents had long suspected: Saskatoon could no longer provide work relief to the city's jobless. Although the federal government had extended the Unemployment and Farm ReliefAct past the March 1932 deadline, allowing works in progress to be completed, no new dominion funds for urban public works projects were forth­ coming. In September 1932, even the most stubbornly optimistic residents har­ boured no doubts as to the longevity and seriousness of the unemployment prob­ lem. Gone were the days when better times were said to bejust around the corner; and although the city had collectively planned, initiated, and constructed an impressive series of public works, those days were gone too. Work relief costs had simply grown too high too quickly, and rather than embark on a new variation of the old work for wages theme, Prime Minister Bennett withdrew financial support for urban public works in favour of the less expensive direct relief. To compensate Canadian cities suddenly left with legions ofunemployed men with nothing to do, Ottawa and the provinces opted for financing relief camps for the unemployed. But the federal promise to finance relief camps for the urban unemployed did little to ease the fears, uncertainty, and tension amongst Saskatoon's jobless. On November 7, the city's unemployed clashed with local police over the opening of a federally and provincially sponsored relief camp for the single unemployed. The Star Phoenix carried a description of the day's violence: Wielding blood-soaked batons and sticks, police and the unemployed clashed in a fierce pitched battle at 2 o'clock this afternoon. Charging a yelling mob ofworkless, nearly 90 officers accounted for a dozen or more casualties and half-dozen arrests.52 Construction on the Broadway Bridge began during a time of relative uncer­ tainty. In December 1931, neither the federal nor the provincial nor even the municipal governments could foresee the development of events through the fol­ lowing year that led to the first appearance ofviolence associated with Saskatoon's unemployment problem. But the federal withdrawal from financing urban work after November 1932 exacerbated an increasingly tense relationship between Saskatoon's unemployed and the city's municipal officials. Although the federal withdrawal from financing urban work programs seemed inevitable, it was no mere policy shift: rather, it was a complete reversal of the federal unemployment strate­ gy. During his 1930 election campaign, Prime Minister Bennett had promised work for wages, the abolishment of the dole, and an end to unemployment. By 1932, unemployment levels were higher than ever, direct relief was Ottawa's new approach to the unemployment problem, and the era ofwork for wages was over. A federal policy shift ofsuch proportions was notjust an admission that work relief was insufficient: it was an admission that the Depression could no longer properly be termed a short-term emergency - it had become a long-term crisis. The Broadway Bridge stands today much as it did in November 1932. Though Saskatoon's skyline has since grown, the bridge remains one of its more recogniz­ able features; and although other spans have been built across the South Saskatchewan in the years following the Depression, the Broadway Bridge remains a convenient and much used conduit between the popular Broadway district and the city's downtown. But the Broadway Bridge is more than a recognizable feature or a convenient conduit: it is a reminder, a physical manifestation, of the city's attempts to deal with the mass unemployment of the 1930s; it is a reminder of the end of work relief and the beginning of direct relief; and it is a reminder of the short-term emergency that became a long-term crisis. Notes 1. Quoted in Labour Gazette, December 1929, p. 1326. 2. City of Saskatoon Archives [hereafter SA], D500 III 895, Chief Engineer Archibald to City Commissioner Leslie, December 24, 1929. 3. In fact, a September 1924 Provincial-Dominion unemployment conference concluded that "all fed­ eral, provincial, and municipal work now under construction should be continued with full com­ plement of employees during the winter months." 4. Star Phoenix [hereafter SP], September 8, 1929. 5. SA, D500 III 895, Deputy Minister Molloy to Leslie, December 16,1929. 6. Ibid. 7. Labour Gazette, February 1922, pp. 192-93. Termed "local responsibility," both tradition and the order- in-council left responsibility for the urban unemployed clearly in municipal hands. 8. SA, D500 III 893, Saskatoon Unemployment Conference Report, December 23,1929. 9. SA, D500 III 895, Mayor Webb to Mayor Hair, February 1, 1930. 10. National Archives ofCanada [hereafter NA], RG 27, vol. 3133, Conference Minutes, March 1, 1930. 11. Ibid. 12. Quoted inJ.H. Thompson andA. Seager, Canada, 1922-1939:Decades ofDiscord (Toronto: McLelland and Stewart, 1985), 197. 13. Contributory, as well as non-contributory unemployment insurance plans were widely discussed solu­ tions to unemployment well before the onset ofWorld War I. Little progress on the topic had been made by 1930, and certainly no consensus as to their viability or implementation had ever been agreed upon. See james Struthers, No Fault ofTheir Own: Unemployment and the Canadian Welfare State, 1914-1941 (Toronto: Univesity ofToronto Press, 1983), 44, 13, 22-23. 14. SA, D500 III 895, Conference between Hair and City Foremen, 27 April 1930. 15. SP, April 11, 1930. 16. Ibid. 17. Ibid., july 10, 1930. 18. SA, 1069-1521 (3), Lily Whaley to Hair,july 7,1930. 19. SA, 1069-1521 (3), Archibald to Hair,july 9, 1930. 20. SP,june 28, 1930. 21. SA, D500 III 895, Council Minutes,july 7,1930. 22. Struthers, No Fault ofTheir Own, 44. 23. Labour Gazette, September 1930, p. 996. 24. SA, D500 III 895, Council Minutes, October 13, 1930 and October 26, 1930. 25. SA, 1069-2055 (8), City Clerk Tomlinson to Calgary City Clerk,january 12, 1931. 26. SA, 1069-2055 (9), Saskatoon to provincial government, March 18, 1931. 27. SA, 1069-1522 (2), Council Minutes,june 1, 1931. 28. SA, 1069-2055 (5), Premier Anderson to Tomlinson, july 9,1931. 29. The two federal unemployment relief acts required municipal authorities to submit proposals through their respective provincial governments rather than through the federal government directly. This measure reduced federal administrative costs significantly. 30. SA, 1069-1573 (3), Hair to Merkley, August 4,1931 and August 6,1931. 31. SA, 1069-1573 (3), Meeting between Hair, Leslie, and Archibald,july 15,1931. 32. SA, 1069-1573 (3), Archibald to Leslie, 18 September 1931. 33. SA, 1069-1521 (1), Molloy to Tomlinson, 13 October 1931. 34. SA, 1069-219 (1) and (12), Archibald to Leslie, 18 November 1931. 35. B. Broadfoot, Ten Lost Thars: Memories ofCanadians lVho Survived the Depression (Toronto: Doubleday Canada, 1973), 70. 36. SA, 1069-2055 (8), Tomlinson to Charlotte Whitton,january 6, 1931. 37. SA, 1069-2055 (1), A.C. MacNeil to Hair, September 25,1931. 38. SA, 1069-2055 (1), Council Minutes, August 31, 1931. 39. SP, September 5,1931. 40. SA, D500 III 893, Circular letter from Mayor Hair to all new aldermanic candidates, November 17, 1930. 41. SA, D500 III 895, Council Minutes,july 10,1931. Demonstrations of the unemployed had general­ ly been peaceful. Onjune 1, 1931, for example, a crowd of some three hundred jobless marched on Mayor Hair's Saskatoon home and demanded immediate relief. Hair assured the crowd that the city was doing all it could and that "none will starve." On the same day, Saskatoon's City Council blamed Saskatoon Local Unemployed Association President Steve Forkin for the demonstration and branded him an "agitator" and a "parasite." 42. SA, 1069-2055 (1), Steve Forkin to City Council, December 9, 1931. 43. SP, December 12,1931. 44. "Broadway Bridge Construction," reel to reel film (Local History Room, Saskatoon Public Library 1932). 45. SA, 1069-219 (12), Special Committee Minutes, February 14, 1932. 46. Ibid. 47. SP, February 23,1932. 48. Ibid., and ibid., March 23, 1932. 49. SP, March 26, 1932. 50. SP, April 19, 1932. 51. NA, RG 27 vol. 2247, File Progress Report, December 1932. 52. SP, November 7, 1932. How Do You Spell Political Success? Candidate Characteristics in the 1999 "Harvest Election"

Cora Voyageur andJoyce Green

ABSTRACT. The Saskatchewan "Harvest Election" call on August 19,1999 was unusual. Politics are usu­ ally sensitive to the seasonal pace of farmers in a largely agricultural province. Yet, the election was called for the time when the large farming constituency could most certainly be expected to be in the fields. When the votes were tallied it appeared that rural Saskatchewan especially had passed a highly critical judgement on the New Democratic Party government led by Roy Romanow, who held a slim majority only by forming a coalition with the rump of the Liberal Party. And yet, the characteristics of those elected on both sides ofthe Legislature were more similar than distinct. We explore the results of Saskatchewan's 1999 "Harvest Election," but our primaryfocus is an examination ofthe candidates who ran for office. We wanted to know who ran, and what were their backgrounds and their campaign expe­ riences. Do those who run for office mirror the characteristics of their constituents? SOMMAIRE. L'appel aux "elections de la recolte" de 1999, en Saskatchewan, avait quelque chose de peu commun. Dans une province en grande partie agricole, la politique est en general sensible au rythme saisonnier des fermiers. Pourtant, la date de l' election coincidait avec la periode pendant laquelle la vaste circonscription agricole se trouvait dans les champs. Au decompte des votes, il s'avera que la Saskatchewan rurale tout specialement avait ete fort critique du gouvernement neo-democrate de Roy Romanow, qui devait sa mince majorite a une coalition avec ce qui restait du parti liberal. Et pourtant, les caracteristiques des elus des deux cotes de I'assemblee legislative etaient plus similaires que distinctes. Nous analysons les resultats de ces "elections de la recolte," mais nous nous interessons plus particulierement aux candidats. Nous voulions les connaitre, ainsi que leurs origines et leur experi­ ence des campagnes politiques : ces candidats refletent-ils les caracteristiques de leurs electeurs?

Introduction In this article, we look at the demographic and activist profiles of candidates that ran, both successfully and unsuccessfully, in Saskatchewan's 1999 "Harvest Election," and also at their campaign experiences. We wanted to know if Saskatchewan party politics attracted a wide diversity of candidates, or if certain characteristics were common to the candidate pool. When the votes were tallied it seemed that rural Saskatchewan especially had passed a highly criticaljudgmenton the New Democratic Party government led by Roy Romanow, which held a slim majority only by forming a coalition with the rump of the Liberal Party. Yet, the characteristics of those who were elected on both sides of the Legislature were more similar than distinct. Political participation in the form of candidacy, especially successful candidacy, shapes political representation. Arguments supporting more proximatedescriptive representation by legislators relative to their constituents are linked to calls for more participatory democracy, although electoral politics is only one stratagem for making democracy more inclusive and relevant (Phillips 1998: 238-39). We adopt Jane Mansbridge's argument that descriptive representation is especially important where marginalized groups have historically been prevented from electoral partic­ ipation by law (Mansbridge 2000). Both women of all "races"! and Aboriginal peo­ ples ofboth genders (though not only women and Aboriginal peoples) have been prohibited by law from voting in the past." Therefore, it is reasonable to assume that both groups have less grounding in electoral and representative politics, and that there may continue to be dominant cultural practices and attitudes that inhib­ it both groups from participation. In other words, the lack ofwomen and aborigi­ nal peoples in Parliament and in legislatures is a testament to structural and cul­ tural restrictions on equality and political participation, and hence on democracy as it is generally understood in contemporary Canada. Yet our legislatures (and therefore the people in them) "lie at the symbolic heart of representative govern­ ment" (Vickers 1997: 23), and the idea of"equitable representation" has been con­ sidered by policy makers (though evidently not very seriously) since at least 1970 (Arscott and Trimble 1997: 10), and more seriously by the Royal Commission on Electoral Reform and Party Financing in 1991 (Schouls 1996). Our study sought to identify who ran for office in Saskatchewan's 1999 Election. We asked about their demographic and political background, as well as their subjective campaign experiences. We also compared the characteristics and experiences of the candidates who were successful with those of the candidates who were not. Given the ideological cleavage in the province which became apparent in the electoral results (the NDP won 38.7 percent; the Saskatchewan Party won 39.6 per­ cent; the Liberals won 20.2 percent; and the New Green Alliance won 2 percent of the popular vote), we wondered what effect ideology might have on the candidate recruitment process. Did candidates emerge because of ideological conviction, or because of factors such as political connections, legislative experience, name recognition, and financial resources - all of which Pippa Norris (1997) views as essential to electoral success? Methodology This research was initiated the day the "Harvest Election" was called by Saskatchewan premier Roy Romanow on August 19,1999. The primary data were collected through personal and telephone interviews with candidates, using a semi­ structured interview schedule which explored many characteristics about the can­ didate as well as aspects of the candidate experience. The survey instrument included information in the following areas: the candidate's demographic infor­ mation and political preparation; the party support received by the candidate; the candidate's political and personal experience; domestic/employment responsibil­ ities during the campaign; and any additional comments they had about their experience (interview schedule attached as Appendix A). The candidate interviews were conducted over a three-month period during winter 1999-2000. Our goal of achieving a 100 percent sample was not attained since participation was voluntary. Some refused to participate and others could not be located. However, we did interview 108 of206 candidates, or 52.4 percent ofthe population. Although our sample is not an exact replica of the candidates' distribution, it is similar enough to lend itselfto analysis. The results include representation from all but two of Saskatchewan's 58 constituencies. We begin our analysis with a brief overview of the 1999 election results.

Election Results Five parties (the New Democratic Party, the Saskatchewan Party, the Liberal Party, the New Green Alliance, and the Progressive Conservative Party) and two independent candidates competed in the election. The NDP, the Saskatchewan Party, and the Liberal Party ran candidates in all 58 constituencies; the New Green Alliance, running in its first general election, fielded 16 candidates; while the Progressive Conservatives, running with no leader and no platform, fielded 14 candidates. A total of 206 people ran in 58 constituencies which included 25 urban ridings, 24 rural ridings, and 9 urban/rural split ridings. Individual constituencies had between 3 and 5 candidates. The majority of candidates were men (165 of 206, or 80 percent), while 41 of 206, or 20 percent, were women (Elections Saskatchewan, 1999). Women were more likely to run in urban constituencies, with 27 of the 41 female candidates, or 66 percent of women, running in urban areas (Elections Saskatchewan 1999). The NDP won re-election on September 16, 1999. However, and despite the premature and erroneous declarations ofCBC TV and CTV "Decision Desks'" that the NDP had won a majority government, the NDP won only 29 seats, or half the 58 seats in the legislature. Saskatchewan elections are decided on the plurality or 'first-past-the-post' system, which can diverge from parties' share of the popular vote. The Harvest Election yielded the following results: the NDP won 29 of a pos­ sible 58 seats with 38.7 percent of the popular vote; the Saskatchewan Party won fewer seats (26) with a larger percentage of the popular vote (39.6 percent); and the Liberal Party won only three seats (and was, by judicial decision, awarded a fourth in the constituency of Wood River onJanuary 26th, 2000) despite earning 20.2 percent ofthe popular vote. The New Green Alliance, running in its first gen­ eral election, won no seats, and had nearly 2 percent of the vote (Caldercup, October 16, 1999). Rather than govern with the chronic threat ofa successful non­ confidence motion, the NDP formed a coalition government with the three-seat Liberal Party on September 30; they brought two Liberals into Cabinet (one of whom subsequently bolted to sit as an Independent Liberal) and placed the third in the Speaker's Chair. The Saskatchewan Party became the Official Opposition. Despite a strong tradition of left-wing, social-gospel populism, Saskatchewan also has a significant block of ideologically right-wing citizens who voted for the Saskatchewan Party. The Saskatchewan Party, ideologically neoliberal and neocon­ servative/ won a marginally higher percentage of the popular vote than the New Democrats in the 1999 election.

Respondents' Demographic Profiles The first set of data we analyzed was the respondents' demographic informa­ tion. We wanted to know if they mirrored Saskatchewan's demographic composi­ tion, and wondered whether they were "ordinary" (that is, statistically average) cit­ izens or whether they represented an atypical component ofsociety. Table 1: Survey Respondents' Social Characteristics by Party Affiliation, 1999

Characteristic PartyAffiliation N=108 NDP Liberal PC SaskParty Indep NGA Total Gender Male 17 30 7 26 1 9 90 Female 6 4 0 6 0 2 18 Category Total 23 34 7 32 1 11 108 Race White 23 27 6 32 1 9 98 Non-White 0 7 1 0 0 2 10 Category Total 23 34 7 32 1 11 108 Postsecondary Training Yes 17 24 6 23 1 10 81 No 6 9 1 9 0 1 26 Refuse 0 1 0 0 0 0 1 Category Total 23 34 7 32 1 11 108 ~e (Years) Younger «34) 0 2 4 5 0 2 13 Middle (35-54) 19 20 1 20 1 5 66 Older (55+) 4 11 2 7 0 4 28 Refused 0 1 0 0 0 0 1 Category Total 23 34 7 32 1 11 108 Marital Status Married* 21 27 6 26 1 6 87 Not Married ** 2 6 1 6 0 5 20 Refused 0 1 0 0 0 0 1 Category Total 23 34 7 32 1 11 108 Annual Household Income Less $20,000 0 3 0 4 0 3 10 $20,001 - $30,000 1 0 0 1 0 1 3 $30,001 - $50,000 2 7 1 3 0 2 15 $50,001 - $70,000 3 6 2 6 0 1 18 More than $70,000 14 10 0 10 0 2 36 Refused 0 2 0 0 0 0 2 NotAsked*** 3 6 4 8 1 2 24 Category Total 23 34 7 32 1 11 108 Dependent Children Yes 11 21 1 15 0 5 53 No 12 12 6 17 1 6 54 Refused 0 1 0 0 0 0 1 Category Total 23 34 7 32 1 11 108 Source: Harvest Election SUIVey, 1999 -2000. *denotes married and common -law; ** denotes single never married, separated/divorced, and widow(er) *** eighty-two respondents answered this question.

Unlike most other professions, politicians need no "formal" training to do their jobs. They come from all walks oflife and from a wide range of occupations. Table 1 shows the social characteristics of the surveyed 108 respondents by party affilia­ tion. The social characteristics included in this table are: gender, race, education, age, marital status, annual household income, and whether dependent children live with them. These data support recruitment literature, which states that males are over-rep­ resented as election candidates (Norris 1997; Norris and Lovenduski 1995; Arscott and Trimble 1997; and Brodie 1985). Our respondents were overwhelmingly male (83 percent), which is a slight over-representation of males when compared with the 80 percent males who ran as candidates. This means that women are slightly under-represented in this sample at 17 percent when compared to the 20 percent female candidates who ran in the election (Elections Saskatchewan 1999). However the three-percentage-point under-representation between the female sur­ vey respondents and the total number offemale candidates who ran in the election is small compared to the gross under-representation of women as 20 percent of candidates and their 50.6 percent (Voyageur and Green 2001) representation in the Saskatchewan population. A comparison of respondents' gender by party affil­ iation shows that female representation in this sample ranges from a high of 26 percent for the NDP to a low of 0 percent for both the Progressive Conservative and the Independent candidates. Respondents are primarily white as opposed to non-white (Aboriginal and visi­ ble minority) individuals. The data indicate that non-white respondents (six Aboriginals and four visible minorities) were represented in only half the political parties. A comparison of respondents' ethnicity showed that the Liberals had the largest number of"non-white" respondents with seven respondents, or 21 percent, with the New Green Alliance in second place with two respondents, or 18 percent, while the NDP, the Saskatchewan Party and the Independents did not have any non-white representation in the respondent pool. We are told, however, that the NDP ran at least two Aboriginal candidates and the Saskatchewan Party ran at least one Aboriginal candidate. The data shows that non-white groups were under-represented at 9 percent of the respondents. Aboriginal people comprise the largest minority population in the province with at least 11.4 percent of Saskatchewan's population; and visible minorities are 2.6 percent for a combined representation of 14 percent of the Saskatchewan population (Statistics Canada 1999a). The paucity of non-whites in the political landscape further calls into question the way in which political repre­ sentation may be implicitly structured to privilege whites. Respondents were very likely to have a postsecondary education, with 76 per­ cent having some form ofpostsecondary training; ofthese, 28 percent held at least one university degree and 12 percent held a graduate degree. Only 9.3 percent of candidate respondents did not have a high-school diploma. This is in sharp con­ trast with Saskatchewan educational averages, which show that 43.1 percent of adults in Saskatchewan have not finished high school, while only 12.8 percent have a university degree (Statistics Canada 1999c). When we controlled for gender we found that female respondents were better educated than males. All female respondents had completed high school, with 89 percent having some form ofpostsecondary training; and 44 percent were holding at least one university degree. Men, on the other hand, had lower educational cre­ dentials with 11 percent not having completed high school, 71 percent having some postsecondary training, and 40 percent having at least one university degree. All political parties had respondents with educational credentials much higher than the Saskatchewan average. Ninety-one percent ofNew Green Alliance respon­ dents had postsecondary training, followed by 74 percent of NDP respondents, 72 percent ofSaskatchewan Party respondents, and the Liberal Party with 71 percent. Our findings support the conclusions of Wessels (1997), who finds a large gap between the educational achievements of the electorate and of those seeking elec­ tion. Further, our findings support Erickson, who states that candidates and legis­ lators in Western democracies are well-educated: she found that about 67 percent had university degrees, more than 50 percent had postgraduate degrees, and fewer than 10 percent had high school diplomas or less (1997: 51). Regarding age, the vast major ofrespondents (62 percent) fell into the middle­ age category, namely between the ages of 35-54 years." These middle-aged individ­ uals are at a stage in their lives where they have had the opportunity to complete a postsecondary education and the time to establish themselves in their profession and in their community. Among our respondents, women generally began politics later in life than men: the youngest women were in the 35-54 age group or middle­ age category. Men began politics earlier (some under the age of 20 years) and had representation in all age categories. An analysis by party affiliation indicates that all parties had the largest percentage of candidates in the middle-age category, from 35 to 54 years of age - except the Progressive Conservatives, who had almost 60 percent oftheir candidates under 35 years. The New Green Alliance had the high­ est representation in the older category at 36 percent. Respondents were more likely to be married (81 percent) than to be single, with men more likely to be married (82 percent) than women (67 percent), but also more likely to be divorced! This reflects the fact that candidates being prima­ rily men, their representation in both categories is high. However, it is interesting that women are more likely than men to choose political candidacy while they are divorced or single. Ninety-one percent ofNDP respondents were married, followed by 82 percent ofLiberal respondents and 81 percent ofSaskatchewan Party respon­ dents. The New Green Alliance had the highest percentage of unmarried respon­ dents at 45 percent. When we controlled for winning and nonwinning respondents by marital status, we found that more winners (95 percent) were married than nonwinners (79 per­ cent). We also found that all male respondents who won the election were married. As married persons, they are less likely to be solely responsible for domestic duties, personal finances, and any required childcare. Married men enjoy the support of their wives, and hence the domestic support and often the financial support of another adult: intangibly yet importantly, men are therefore more likely to have the emotional support of another adult. Most respondents (66 percent) worked for pay outside the home. Of those who worked outside the home, 82 percentworked full time or at least 35 hours per week at their paid employment. Many ofthese respondents mentioned that it was difficult to hold down a full-time job and campaign for election at the same time. Only 2 of our respondents who worked outside the home during the election were elected. The income data" show that 66 percent of the respondents who answered this question have annual household incomes over $50,000 per year. Again, this is a marked contrast with the Saskatchewan average family income of $42,541 (Statistics Canada 1999p). Of those who responded to the income questions, 31 percent of females and 52 percent of males recorded household incomes over $70,000. A comparison of respondents' annual household incomes along party lines shows that the New Green Alliance has the largest representation of those answering this question, in the lowest income category, with 33 percent. The NDP, the Progressive Conservatives and the Independent had no representation in the lowest annual household income category. At the other end of the annual house­ hold income scale, the NDP had the highest percentage of its respondents, at 67 percent, in the over-$70,000 category, followed by the Saskatchewan Party at 43 per­ cent and the Liberals at 38 percent. About half the respondents had dependent children living in their homes at election time. However, when reviewing the presence of children by gender of candidate, the data show that 11 of 18, or 61 percent, of female respondents did not have dependent children living with them, as compared to 43 of 89, or 48 per­ cent, of male respondents. The presence of dependent children can obviously affect the amount of time, money and energy expended on the campaign trail. This could place those without children, or those with a supportive spouse, at an advantage over those with children, especially single parents. It also appears that fewer women with dependent children run for political office. Almost all male can­ didates were married, implying a probability that they had wives who, consistent with the gendered division of labour, would take responsibility for childcare and domestic duties. The demographic profile of a typical successful respondent was thus a married, white male with some form ofpostsecondary education, between the ages of35 and 54 years, with no dependent children living at home, and with a household income over $70,000 per year. This is consistent with Black and Erickson (2000: 3), who found that "the social status [including education, income and occupation] of political recruits exceeds that of the population they represent." Our findings also support Bowles and Gintis (1976), who found a high correlation between advanced education and income - which means that political candidates are not likely to be poor. Our respondents possessed both higher-than-average incomes and higher­ than-average academic credentials. Political Preparation and Party Membership We asked respondents about their political preparation. Political preparation can come from a number of sources including party membership, political family background, incumbency, and experience with the party candidate selection process. We wanted to know how long the respondents held party membership, and whether the length of party affiliation could translate into election success. Our data therefore show the duration of the respondents' party memberships. A large number of respondents were relatively new party members, with 50 percent reporting they held party membership for less than five years. The largest number of respondents, 39 of 108, or 36.1 percent, had their party memberships for 1-4 years. This means that they obtained their party memberships since the New Democrats, led by Roy Romanow, came to power in 1991. Forty-eight percent reported holding their party membership for more than 5 years, with 25 percent ofthe stalwarts holding a party card for more than 20 years. Curiously, almost 2 per­ cent said they didn't know how long they had been members of their party. However, partisan interest and activism cannot be associated solely with long­ term party membership. Recall that fully 50 percent of candidates reported a fair­ ly recent partisan affiliation of 1-4 years; 49.1 percent ofrespondents said they had belonged to other parties prior to the election; while 50.9 percent said they had never belonged to a different party. For halfthe candidates, partisan affiliation and activism spanned parties, while for the other half, affiliation and activism were devoted to one party. Ifparty membership is strongly correlated with ideology, then our respondents are either ideologically ecumenical or ideologically indifferent. We note that the emergence of two new, or apparently new, parties in the 1999 election prohibits drawing conclusions about the relationship between long-term party affiliation and electoral success: Saskatchewan Party and New Green Alliance members could not hold their memberships over time as their parties did not exist earlier. While the emergence of two new provincial parties is a rare political occur­ rence, astonishment must be tempered with context: the Saskatchewan Party emerged, phoenix-like, from the ashes of the Saskatchewan Progressive Conservative Party, with the addition of some Saskatchewan Liberal MLAs. The Progressive Conservatives were faced with a loss ofmembers, donations and public confidence in 1991 following the defeat of the Progressive Conservative govern­ ment of Grant Devine. At that time, many high-profile Progressive Conservatives were implicated in a fraud scandal resulting in a number of charges and convic­ tions, a couple of which were, at the time of the election call, still in play in the courts. The New Green Alliance (NGA) was, however, a genuinely new kid on the political block, running with little infrastructure, a small membership, little fundraising capacity, and not enough candidates to run the full slate of 58; the NGA is the party to watch to see how well a party with a new-to-Saskatchewan ide­ ology and policy platform may do. In the 1999 election, the Saskatchewan Party drew its candidates primarily from the Progressive Conservatives, but also from the Liberal and New Democratic par­ ties. The New Green Alliance drained candidates from the NDP ranks, but also bagged a Liberal. The Liberals captured a number of previous New Democrats, a few Progressive Conservatives, and a (new) Saskatchewan Party member. We think this is indicative of two different approaches to partisan activity. The first approach is that ofstrategic use ofparty politics for political participation. Persons in this cat­ egory are less likely to have a general, consistent ideological approach to life and to politics; they are more likely to use politics pragmatically for particular issues, or because a particular party appears to be a vehicle for successful personal political activity and/or promotion of particular issues. The second approach involves a deeply held consistent ideology, which is durable over time, and the integrity of which is not dependent upon popular ideology or the political vicissitudes ofa par­ ticular party. Therefore, our hypothesis also suggests that personal ideology will move people to different political homes when there is dissonance between their ideology and the politics and policy of their erstwhile parties. Not all candidates were 'true believers' in their party as the only vehicle for political activism. As mentioned earlier, approximately half the respondents, 53 of 108, or 49.1 percent, had belonged to another party prior to representing this party in the election; 55 of 108 or 50.9 percent said they had not belonged to another political party. This suggests that ideology is tempered with pragmatism, however motivated, for almost half of all candidates. An alternative interpretation is that there is such a narrow spectrum of ideology among Saskatchewan political parties that activists can move comfortably between at least two parties. Ten of the 108 candidates, or approximately 9 percent of respondents, had previously belonged to two other political parties prior to representing their current party in the election. This might also mean that as new parties emerged which were more closely aligned with candidates' political ideologies, or whose electoral prospects matched candidates' ambitions, a number of individualsjumped parties. Political Family Background The informal socialization that a person receives from being raised in a politi­ cal family can also prepare an individual for political involvement later in life. In our sample, 48 of 108 respondents, or 44 percent, stated they came from political­ ly involved families. Although some respondents indicated that only specific fami­ ly members were politically active, half the respondents from politically involved families stated that their entire family was involved in politics. They identified the activists as: grandparents (24); parents (14); self (3); other relative (1); and entire family (24). On this information, it seems that candidates were very likely to have come from families where politics was a significant and inclusive activity. There was more male involvement than female involvement in this "politically active family members" group. By far the largest percentage of respondents who reported previous political involvement, viz. 40 percent, were involved in provincial politics, suggesting very strong identification with provincial governance and provincial political parties, and a strong correlation between respondents' involvement in provincial politics and their families' similar interests.

Incumbency The most valuable form of political capital for candidates is incumbency. With incumbency come name recognition, media credibility and access, experience, and partisan legitimacy. One-fifth of respondents were incumbents when the elec­ tion was called. This means that four-fifths ofthe candidates were running without the benefit of the name recognition and personal confidence that flow from hav­ ing won one's seatbefore. Not all nonincumbents were political rookies since some had held office before. The fact that only about 20 percent of respondents were incumbents points to the relatively high turnover rate in this election, as many MIAs had chosen not to run again. This can be read as permeability of the elec­ toral system, to the extent that enhanced opportunity may be found for electoral contestation in constituencies where no incumbent is running. We caution that this permeability seems restricted to a certain configuration of candidate attributes, as will be discussed below. Table 2 shows a large number of election newcomers with 62 percent of candi­ dates running for the first time. We asked whether incumbency had an impact on one's chances of political success: it appears to have had a notable impact. Table 2 shows that the chances of winning increase with the number of times run - from 12 percent for first-time candidates to 100 percent for five-time can­ didates. But there is one exception: the respondent who ran the greatest number of times did not win a seat. There are as well some implications for the motivation to compete, in that ifan incumbent is running in one's constituency, that factor may be a disincentive to political competitors, simply because of the probability of re-election for incum­ bents. Also, the high turnover of candidates may suggest a lack of experience on the part of partisan candidates: they are largely neophytes who will naturally find the process intimidating, onerous, costly, and so on. This again may function as a disincentive. Alternatively, the high turnover may be a sign of candidates' confi­ dence in democratic opportunity, in that new people are continually letting their names stand for election (however futile their effort may be). As a result of the election, half ofthe incumbents lost their seats while the other half retained them. While a relatively low number ofrespondents were incumbents, many had polit­ ical experience in other political arenas. Approximately half, 55 respondents or 51 Table 2: Respondent Times Run by Win/Lose

Respondents Win Lose Total Times Run Number % Number % Number % 1 8 12 59 88 67 62.0 2 5 25 15 75 20 18.5 3 4 52 9 48 13 12.0 4 2 50 2 50 4 3.7 5 1 100 0 0 1 0.9 6 0 0 1 100 1 0.9 Refused 0 0 2 100 2 1.8 Total 20 88 108 100*

Source: Harvest Election Survey, 1999 -2000. *denotes married and common -law; ** denotes single never married, separated/divorced, and widow (er) percent, held other elected office prior to running in this election, with the major­ ity of this activity (33 percent) in municipal government. Other political involve­ ment included a variety ofcommunity groups, trade unions, church groups, student groups, constituency representatives, and school board representatives. The unify­ ing characteristic in respondents' prior political involvement was that most involve­ ment was pretty close to home. This is similar to the Black and Erickson (2000) analysis ofthe 1993 federal candidates, in which "about a quarter" had held elected office previously; and of those, four-fifths had held office in local government. Political Candidate Selection Process Before one's name can appear on the ballot, the candidate must win formal nomination competitions carried out by the party. When we asked the respondents about their nominations, surprisingly few were contested. Only 14 of 108 respon­ dents (2 women and 12 men) fought contested nominations, while 94 were acclaimed. Where nominations were contested, the number of people competing ranged from 2 (in 9 cases) to more than 6 (in 1 case). The nomination was con­ tested by 3 candidates in two cases, and by 4 candidates in two other cases. We suggest three possible interpretations that are not mutually exclusive: 1) parties engage in unofficial contests before the nomination meeting, and hence contested nominations are largely settled before the meeting; 2) there are low lev­ els ofinterest in competing for nomination, and therefore in competing in provin­ cial elections; 3) strong partisan consensus on candidates discourages challenges. When we asked the respondents about gender or ethnic diversity in their nomi­ nation races, they recalled that women ran unsuccessfully for nomination in four ridings. In fact, one female candidate for nomination lost to a female respondent. Respondents also stated that they knew of two Aboriginals and three visible minor­ ity candidates who ran unsuccessfully in nomination races. Respondents knew ofno disabled individuals who ran unsuccessfully in any ofthe 14 contested nominations. We found very little diversity among the would-be candidates. It seems that the exclusion of "nontraditional" candidates emerges at the earliest stages of the polit­ ical process and, asJanine Brodie (1985) found in her study ofwomen in Canadian politics, winning the nomination at the constituency level is the first hurdle that potential candidates must clear. Our data show that a typical successful respondent had a party membership with his/her present party for between 1 and 4 years. Successful respondents were less likely to come from what we described as a politically involved family, with 55 percent saying their families were not politically involved. Slightly more than half the winners (55 percent) were incumbents when the election writ was dropped. This same percentage of individuals did not have their nomination contested. In addition, the majority ofwinners (80 percent) anticipated either possibly or probably winning their seat. Respondents' Campaign Experience Respondents chose to run in the election for many reasons. Most notably, they were interested in making a difference in their community and in sending a mes­ sage of discontent to the existing government. There was a strong sense of politi­ cal efficacy on the part of the respondents. When asked about the positive aspects of campaigning, a significant number indicated that the opportunity to receive community support and to make social contacts was gratifying. This included meeting new people, getting to know the community and its issues, learning about politics and campaigning, and gaining a personal feeling of empowerment. In sum, the most frequently cited positive aspects ofcandidacy had to do with positive social interaction in a community con­ text. Only one person cited winning as the positive aspect of candidacy. The most frequent negative responses about candidacy clustered around issues concerning the impact of campaigning on personal time, intrusions upon family time, lack ofprivacy, party politics, the logistics ofcampaigning, negative voter con­ tact, and lack of money. Some candidates also fingered dirty campaigns run by other parties, as well as bad press, as the most negative experiences they had while running in the election. Seven respondents noted that it was difficult to campaign because people were busy, mostly in the harvest fields. Many candidates com­ plained about inadequate funding, the importance ofmoney, and related financial aspects ofcampaigning. Clearly, the demands ofcampaigning in terms oftime and financial costs were major concerns for our respondents. Candidates said they gave up their personal lives for the duration of the cam­ paign. Some noted that the time away from home and family was difficult, and many found it to be physically and emotionally draining. Still others said their lives were "turned upside down." These statements indicate that partisan candidacy places extraordinarily high demands on candidates, in ways that are injurious to their families, personal lives, and personal wellbeing. We were interested in determining the respondents' personal and professional challenges while participating in the election campaign. These included having to deal with political and media issues on an ongoing basis. Many found this an oner­ ous task because the issues changed on a daily and sometimes an hourly basis. Still, some difficult experiences involved fear of public speaking, a fear generally unas­ sociated with politicians but predictable given the relative political inexperience of the majority ofthe respondents, most ofwhom were running in their first election. Conflict with paid employment was a problem for some respondents, who were not given time off or were unable to afford leaves of absence from work in order to devote time to their campaign. Many found it very difficult to maintain theirjob responsibilities and run in the election at the same time. Slightly less than half the respondents (46 percent) did not take a leave of absence to run in the election; if they were to lose the election, they did not want to jeopardize their means of sup­ port. Thisjeopardy was very real for at least one candidate, who reported that his wife was fired from herjob for helping with his campaign. Another individual stat­ ed that he was unable to attend an all-candidates debate because ofwork commit­ ments, which he felt decreased his ability to "show his stuff' to potential voters. The campaign trail is grueling, and many found the stress of constantly being on the move exhausting. Others - those who did not believe they had a chance of winning - found it hard to motivate themselves and their workers, since an elec­ toralloss was imminent. Those who felt they would probably lose the election felt they were in a vicious cycle: they had trouble recruiting campaign workers and thus less ability to raise campaign funds, and their lack of resources, human and finan­ cial, hampered their ability to bring their message to the electorate, thus increas­ ing the likelihood of loss. Money, both the availability and the lack thereof, played an important role in the respondents' election experiences. Many expressed disappointment in the importance placed on money in the political process - it is not necessarily the "best" candidate who wins, but the "best financed" one. We suspect that of potential candidates for whom economic and family consid­ erations were pressing, a prudent personal calculus operated to keep them out of partisan candidacy. Potential candidates who are poor or economically vulnerable, and who have young children, likely decide they cannot afford the high economic and personal cost of running for election. To the degree that all women and Aboriginal men and women are less likely to be affluent and to have professional or secure employment, this class-related tendency is more deleterious to women's and Aboriginal citizens' potential to run for office. The public-private sphere dichotomy is now taken to represent inequitable gen­ der relations. The dividing line is a site of ideological struggle over the appropri­ ate form of gender relations and the proper limits on public policy and public spending. Society's differential expectations of men and women in relation to the private sphere place different burdens, and more burdens on women than on men. This effectively discourages women's participation in public life. In this section of the survey we asked what tensions candidates experience between their personal and political obligations. One third of candidates said they were primarily responsible for domestic duties; another third said they were not primarily responsible for these duties; and thirty percent - almost a third - said they were 50 percent responsible for these duties. When we controlled for gender, 83 percent (15 of 18) of the women respondents said they were primarily respon­ sible for domestic duties in their households, while the remaining three women said they were 50 percent responsible for these duties. No female respondents reported they were not responsible for domestic duties. Twenty-two of 90 men (24 percent) said they were primarily responsible for domestic duties in their homes; 39 of 90 (43 percent) said they were not responsible; while 29 (33 percent) said they were 50 percent responsible for these duties. The males either primarily responsible or 50 percent responsible for domestic chores represented about half the married males, and should be considered exceptional because studies show that household chores fall primarily on women and that men typically overestimate their domestic chore participation. Campaign Support Many respondents noted that they received many types ofaid from their parties in their bid to seek election. This help included advertising, briefing materials, cam­ paign advice, campaign workers, organizational help, media coverage, central pur­ chasing, and moral support. Candidates stated that this assistance was invaluable. Candidates who responded to our survey were not likely to have had financial support from their parties' central campaigns. Table 3 indicates that only 11.1 per­ cent, or 2 of 18 women (one NDP and one NGA), said their parties' central cam­ paigns provided financial support for their constituency campaign; 11 of 90 men (12.2 percent) identified this support. Overall, women received slightly less sup­ port from central campaigns than men: although representing 17 percent of the respondents, only 15 percent received financial support from their central cam­ paigns. The 13 respondents (12 percent) who received campaign contributions from Central Campaign had varying contributions: three received between $1 and $100, four received between $101 and $500, four received between $501 and $1,000, and three received over $1,000. One person who received a financial cam­ paign contribution from the Central Campaign refused to give a dollar amount. Central Campaign contributions seemed to have little effect on a respondent winning or not winning the election since only 2 of 20, or 10 percent of winning respondents, received funds from their Central Campaign. However, receiving funds from the candidates' constituency associations played a bigger role: 70 per­ cent of winning respondents received financial support from their constituency associations. A small majority, 56 respondents or 52 percent, received no support from their constituency associations, while 52, or 48 percent, were supported to some degree. By gender, 9 of 18 women (50 percent) reported that their constituency associa­ tions had provided financial support for their campaigns, while 43 of 90 men (48 percent) claimed this support. The 52 respondents who received campaign contri­ butions from their constituency associations fell within the following range: one received between $1 and $100, two between $101 and $500, seven between $501 and 1,000, and 39 received over $1,000. Three people who received campaign con­ tributions from the constituency association refused to give a dollar amount.

Table 3: Comparison of Respondents' Central Campaign and Constituency Association Financial Support by Political Party and Gender

Respondents' Financial Support (N=108) Political Party Central Campaign ConstituencyAssociation Yes No Total Yes No Total New Democrats 4 19 23 20 3 23 Liberals 2 32 34 17 17 34 New Green Alliance 2 9 11 3 8 11 Prog. Conservative 2 5 7 * 7 7 Saskatchewan Party 3 29 32 12 20 32 Independent * 1 1 * 1 1 Total 13 95 108 52 56 108 Gender Female Total 2 16 18 9 9 18 Male Total 11 79 90 43 47 90 Total 13 95 108 52 56 108 Source: Harvest Election Survey, 1999/2000 * indicates no re presentation The typical successful respondent received no financial support from his/her party's central campaign. However, that successful respondent was most likely to receive financial assistance from his/her constituency association. Reported finan­ cial assistance to successful respondents ranged from a low of $6,500 to a high of $38,000. The typical successful respondent was only slightly less likely to have incurred personal debt from running in the election than the nonsuccessful respondent.

Conclusion It takes no special insight to notice that Canadian legislatures are overwhelm­ ingly dominated by middle-class, white, publicly heterosexual, able-bodied men. Saskatchewan's legislature is no exception. A number of scholars have investigat­ ed this phenomenon, seeking to explain it, and sometimes advocating transfor­ mation for more representative inclusion. Lack of political representation by women, aboriginal people, visible minorities, and other under-represented seg­ ments of Canadian society has been viewed as a measure of incomplete democra­ cy and ofdifferential citizenship capacity. Students of citizenship theory and prac­ tice have suggested that governance by an elite strains the notion of democratic representation, while it demonstrates unequal citizenship capacity among differ­ ent social categories. Federal New Democratic Member of Parliament Lorne Nystrom (Regina­ Qu'appelle Riding) has proposed that proportional representation be adopted to better reflect the democratic will of Canadians, and has introduced his proposal in the House of Commons as a private member's bill in the 2001 legislative sitting; at the time ofwriting, this bill had not received the necessary support to pass to sec­ ond reading. Yet proportional representation is widely understood to improve rep­ resentation ofwomen and marginalized others (Heimstra andJansen 1998). Those who ran in the 1999 election were far above the Saskatchewan popula­ tion's average in educational achievement and income. Respondents were more likely to have postsecondary education, with more than 75 percent having some form of postsecondary training. Only 9 percent of candidate respondents did not have a high-school diploma, compared to 43 percent ofSaskatchewan adults. A sig­ nificant majority of candidates (66 percent) who responded to the income ques­ tion were relatively wealthy, with household incomes ofmore than $50,000; and 44 percent had annual household incomes over $70,000. The average household income for Canadians was $48,552 in 1996, and was almost 12 percent lower, at $42,541, in Saskatchewan. The majority of respondents had higher household incomes (in some cases almost twice as much) than the average Saskatchewanian. This indeed reinforces the belief that politics is a "rich white man's game." Race, gender, and class (income and education) appear to be significant factors in one's ability or willingness to enter politics. These categories are also indicators of oppression, identity, and filters for "choices" (Vickers 1997a: 62-63). The same type ofpeople (wealthy, white, and educated) are getting elected, but most ofthem are men. If Saskatchewan's legislature were to mirror the province's demographic mix it would have: 50.6 percent, or 29, women; 11.4 percent, or 6, Aboriginals of either gender; and 2.6 percent, or 1, visible minority member of either gender, with the remaining 22 being non-Aboriginal, non-visible minority men - in other words, white men. As a result of the 1999 election, there are 12 women, 2 Aboriginals, no visible minorities, and 44 white men sitting in the provincial legis­ lature. White men therefore hold twice the seats that their demographic represen­ tationjustifies in the Saskatchewan legislature. Even controlling for gender, both the electoral winners and nonwinners came from similar demographic backgrounds. Women candidates are typically middle­ aged, with a level of education superior to that of their male counterparts, and no dependent children. Both men and women are predominantly rather affluent, and white. Interestingly and predictably, political success for women is strongly correlat­ ed with women's transcendence ofthe social expectations and norms for their gen­ der, while men's success is consistent with the social expectations of their gender. Our data showed several factors which made a difference in whether a candi­ date won or not. Financial support was crucial because it determined whether the candidate could incur expenses such as travel and childcare. The motivation of campaign workers, tied to perceptions of ability to win, made a difference in whether or not an individual could devote all of his or her energies to the cam­ paign. The respondents stated that the campaign schedule was grueling in itself, and having to maintain one's employment at the same time made it almost impos­ sible. Some who had to hold down their jobs while campaigning said they were unable to attend crucial campaign events; this, they felt,jeopardized their chances of winning. Sufficient financial support also allows the candidate to mount a sig­ nificantly better campaign. The presence of a supportive spouse also made a difference in whether a can­ didate was successful or not. Almost all successful respondents were married can­ didates, with all male respondents who won election being married. A wife is an asset to a male candidate since she typically can take over the domestic duties and leave the man free to concentrate on campaigning. While nomination for a winnable party helps, it seems that male gender and married status are also tied to electoral success in Saskatchewan. There is an overwhelming correlation between white skin privilege and electoral success: while whiteness doesn't guarantee suc­ cess (many white candidates were unsuccessful), it seems to embody the precondi­ tions (such as financial and educational goods) for success, as well as fit what pri­ marily white voters see as an appropriate politician's characteristics. These condi­ tions construct a political filter that accepts white, male, middle- and upper-class political candidates far more readily than others. The work of democratic repre­ sentation has yet to be made possible by genuine democratic inclusion of "others" in the political process.

References Arscott, Jane and Linda Trimble (eds.). 1997. In the Presence of Women: Representation in Canadian Governments. Toronto: Harcourt Brace & Company Canada Ltd. Black, Jerome and Lynda Erickson. Forthcoming. "Similarity, Compensation or Difference? A Comparison of Female and Male Office-seekers." Brodie,Janine. 1985. Women and Politics in Canada. Toronto: McGraw-Hill Ryerson. Bowles S. and H. Gintis. 1976. Schooling in Capitalist America. New York: Basic Books. Caldercup. 1999. http://www.caldercup.com/CNEWSSaskatchewan Election/facts.html Elections Saskatchewan. 1999. Twenty{ourth General Election September 16, 1999 - List of Candidates Nominated. Heimstra,John L. and HaroldJansen. 1998. "Getting What You Vote For." In Mark Charlton and Paul Barker (eds.), Crosscurrents: ContemporaryPolitical Issues. Toronto: ITP Nelson. Mansbridge, Jane. 2000. "What Does a Representative Do? Descriptive Representation in Communicative Settings ofDistrust, Uncrystallized Interests, and Historically Denigrated Status." In Will Kymlicka and Wayne Norman (eds.), Citizenship in Diverse Societies. New York: Oxford University Press. Norris, Pippa. 1997. Passages to Power: Legislative Recruitment in Advanced Democracies. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Norris, Pippa andj oni Lovenduski. 1995. Political Recruitment: Gender,Race and Class in British Parliament. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Phillips, Anne. 1998. "Democracy and Representation: Or, Why Should it Matter Who Our Representative Are?" In Anne Phillips (ed.), Feminism and Politics.New York: Oxford University Press. Schouls, Tim. 1996. "Aboriginal Peoples and Electoral Reform in Canada: Differentiated Representation Versus Voter Equality." CanadianJoumal'ofPolitical Science29, no. 4: 729-49. Statistics Canada. Census of Canada 1999a. Earnings. http://www.statcan.ca/english/ Pgdb/People/Labour/labour04.htm --. 1999b. All Workers, Percentage Class, Average and Median Income. http://www.statcan.ca/eng­ lish/ --. 1999c. Statistics Canada Census of Canada 1996, Saskatchewanhttp://ww2.statcan.ca/English /profil /DetJAna& CSDNAME =Regina&CMA= 705& CMANAME=Regina Vickers,jill. 1997. ReinventingPolitical Science:A Feminist Approach. Halifax: Fernwood. Voyageur, Cora andjoyce Green. 2001. "From Many Peoples, Strength: Demographics and Democracy in Saskatchewan's 1999 'Harvest Election'." In Howard Leeson (ed.), Saskatchewan Politics: Into the Twenty-first Century. Regina: Canadian Plains Research Center. Wessels, Bernard. 1997. "Germany." In Pippa Norris (ed.), Passages to Power: Legislative Recruitment in Advanced Democracies. London: Cambridge University Press. Notes 1. While the notion of "races" within the human species is a false one, believing and behaving as if it were true produces the very real consequence, racism. 2. White women were able to vote federally in 1921 and in Saskatchewan provincial elections in 1916; status Indians ofboth sexes could not vote federally or provincially until 1960. 3. Only minutes after the polls had closed, the "Decision Desks" at CBC and CTV announced an NDP majority government; the anchors then had to retract and explain as the voters decided otherwise. 4. Neoliberalism is an economic ideology that advocates an economic arena free ofgovernment regu­ lation or restriction, and free of government participation in the marketplace via public ownership. It advocates a more limited policy role for government than that of the welfare state in the provision of public services and entitlements. Neoconservatism is a social ideology that prefers a more hierar­ chical, patriarchal, and authoritarian (or "traditional") society, with well-defined, state-supported and regulated roles for men, women, and the patriarchal nuclear family. 5. We categorized respondents into 3 age groups: younger (less than 20 years to 34 years); middle (35 to 54 years) and older (55+). 6. The income categories used were as follows: under $20,000; $20,001-$30,000; $30,001-$50,000; $50,001-$70,000; and over $70,000. 7. These interpretations are merely speculation at this point, and are not tested by our data. Agricultural Extension and Resistance: Rural Governance as Spatial Practice

Rod Bantjes

ABSTRACT. Michel Foucault, Anthony Giddens and others have renewed attention to the spatial char­ acter of governance in modern societies characterized by impersonal relationships that take place at a distance. I have shown in previous work that principles of governance at a distance which were devel­ oped in the nineteenth century were applied in Western Canada in the twentieth. The prairie provinces posed new spatial problems since they encompassed enormous areas containing dispersed populations with limited mobility and, most problematically, because the "open-country" pattern offarm residence provided no tangible, ready-made spots with which central offices could establish links. How and where farm people regularly gathered became the subject of a kind of "politics of assembly" which was both about the making of organizations and the making of places and "communities." In this paper I docu­ ment the different tactics of Saskatchewan's agricultural extension services and various farmers' organ­ izations in this politics ofassembly. My focus is on spatial practice - the logistics ofcoordinating action in space and time on the prairies before the building of all-weather roads. I show how the Extension Division ultimately failed where farmers' organizations succeeded, and I speculate on the significance of this outcome for understanding the well-known history of agrarian radicalism leading up to the suc­ cess of the CFF in 1944. SOMMAIRE. Michel Foucault, Anthony Giddens et quelques autres ont attire l'attention sur le carac­ tere spatial du gouvernement dans les societes modernes marquees par des relations impersonnelles prenant place adistance.J'ai demontre ailleurs que les principes de gouvernement adistance develop­ pes au 19ieme siecle furent appliques a l' ouest du Canada au 20ieme siecle. Les Prairies posaient de nouveaux problemes spatiaux car elles comprenaient d'enormes regions contenant des populations dispersees peu mobiles, et, de facon plus problematique, parce que le modele "rase campagne" de resi­ dence fermiere n'offrait pas d'endroits tangibles et tout trouves avec lesquels les organismes centraux puissent etablir une liaison. Comment et ou les fermiers se rassemblaient regulierement : cela devint le sujet d'une sorte de "politique d'assemblee" concernant a la fois la creation d'organisations et la crea­ tion de localites et de "communautes't]e decris ici pour la Saskatchewan les diverses tactiques des serv­ ices logistiques agricoles et des organisations de fermiers dans cette politique d'assemblee. Je me penche sur la pratique spatiale, c'est-a-dire la facon de coordonner l'action dans l'espace et le temps, avant la construction de routes praticables en toutes saisons. Je montre comment la Division de logis­ tique a finalement echoue la ou les organisations de fermiers ont reussi, etje reflechis sur la significa­ tion de ce resultat pour la comprehension de l'histoire bien connue du radicalisme agraire qui mena au succes du CCF en 1944.

In our colonies there is but little machinery at the seat of government for evenpretendingto operate at a distance. 1 One of the most strikingly modern contributions of turn-of-the-century rural reform discourse in North America was its treatment ofrural community as a prob­ lem in design, as though it were an artifact rather than a natural feature of the landscape. In a paper entitled "Benthamism in the Countryside," I contrasted Canadian and American prescriptions for the reform of the architecture of rural community and argued that both should be understood within larger projects of rural "governance."2 Planners in British North America produced designs for rural "closer communities" that embodied anachronistic features of Bentham's nineteenth-century "panopticon:" the well-known prison, as well as his designs for other sites "commanded by buildings." These were built environments that held permanent assemblies of population and placed them conveniently within the compass of the "censorial eye of the governing class."? "Closer community" designs were very tangible determinations of space, many of which featured the annular, radially segmented ground plans of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century spatial utopias. Foucault insists that European "panoptic" projects were never formulated as identical with the machinery ofthe state, and should not be represented in these terms. Rather, they were complementary to state-making in that they fostered "cit­ izenship" or the capacity of responsible self-government such that "state appara­ tuses," to use Foucault's words, "rested on" panoptisms, and, by avoiding the tremendous costs ofdirect administration, accomplished unparalleled efficiency in governance at a distance.' Closer communities were, like the panopticon, never built. However, the prob­ lem ofgoverning dispersed populations in Western Canada remained, and projects addressed to it continued to be conceived in terms of spatial reforms of rural life. A tremendous variety ofwhat Foucault would call "small scale, regional, dispersed panoptisms'" were promoted as autonomous institutions in civil society or as more or less explicit "extensions" of the state into the realm of voluntary association. Here I focus on one - the agricultural extension program of the Saskatchewan Department ofAgriculture." Danbom and others have made a case for the impor­ tance ofAmerican Extension services - particularly the county agent system and the American Farm Bureau Federation - in shaping agrarian class-formation and co-opting incipient farmer radicalism.' What makes the Saskatchewan case inter­ esting, and, oddly, a confirmation of Danbom's thesis, is the almost complete fail­ ure of the Extension service as an avenue of Department influence in rural civil society before 1944. It failed because many farmers resisted the extension message, just as they had in the United States, but also because the Department was tem­ porarily outmaneuvered in an organizational struggle whose "tactical and strategic terms'" were largely spatial. The spatial problems of administering a territory as vast as Saskatchewan and a population "so far-flung and sparse" were frequently remarked upon." The sparse settlement was an artefact ofdryland wheat farming and cattle ranching, and a fea­ ture shared with the Great Plains states - North Dakota in particular, whose land­ use geography was almost identical to that of Saskatchewan. But Saskatchewan's boundaries encompassed a larger area than these states. From the offices of gov­ ernment departments in the capital (Regina), the distant spaces were obscure and the details oflocal goings-on sometimes entirely opaque. While officials did employ the "statistical idea" of centralized fact-gathering, its results were not always illumi­ nating." The Department ofAgriculture struggled to get farmers to fill out census returns. "They understand," reported a rueful Secretary of Statistics in 1911, "that the information will be used by marketing companies.'?' Yearly crop reports could be gathered only through the voluntary assistance ofover a thousand amateur local correspondents. The annual reports of local agricultural societies were a constant source of disappointment to the deputy minister. The missing or perfunctory reports reflected indifference or in many cases incompetence. Learning that incom­ ing secretaries typically inherited no records, the deputy of 1901 issued an exas­ perated memo demanding that they procure some simple filing equipment: "one or more Shannon files, which can be purchased with perforator attached at any book store for one dollar a piece..."12 Reliable local informants were scarce. The use ofthe travelling field staffof the Department - a rural inspectorate - posed different but equally challenging obstacles to governance-at-a-distance." Any attempt to visit farmers one-on-one would be futile, since it would, as the deputy minister foresaw in 1901, "necessitate a huge staff, and a lavish expenditure of public money, and the results would, in nine cases out of ten, be discouraging, demoralizing to the people, and ruinous of that spirit of self-help which characterizes all progressive communities.?" Meeting more than one local inhabitant at a time was much more difficult to co-ordinate than it would have been in an urban setting. It was notjust a question of going to the spot (although this was difficult enough given the desperate state ofrural roads before the 1950s): since most farmers did not live in villages or clustered settle­ ments of any kind, there were no definite places for an inspector to visit and find them all assembled. The case was quite different for inspectors of rural local gov­ ernment sent out by the Department of Municipal Affairs since rural municipali­ ties had a physical presence in the form ofan office and staff. The inspector could turn up unannounced during office hours and expect to find the municipal secre­ tary at his desk. Infrequent, erratic visits could produce the continuous pressure of surveillance featured in the ideal of panoptic design: The result ofour inspector's call at any time on a municipal secretary can­ not but help to encourage that official to see that his work and corre­ spondence is never allowed to lag, while uniformity is greatly assisted in municipal administration generally. 15 Representatives of the Department of Agriculture could make official visits only through advanced planning that depended for its success upon the co-operation of often recalcitrant farmers. The Department still had to depend upon the local knowledge and organiza­ tional work of "someone on the spot" to bring these meetings off. This was to be one of the crucial roles of the local secretary of the state-sponsored "Agricultural Society." Secretaries were to inform the Department in general terms of the opti­ mal timing and placing of events "in order to secure a numerous attendance.'?" In addition, they were to handle all of the immediate arrangements "respecting such details as local advertising, the use and heating of halls, etc., which it is absolutely necessary to have a local man become responsible for."" The problem of notifying potential audiences and getting people out to attend required intimate knowledge of local networks of interaction. A poster might be noticed at the local elevator only in the fall when farmers were making weekly trips to deliver grain. Or it might be better placed in the open-country schoolhouse, since the children went there daily, at least in the winter. Much of the notification would be by word of mouth and would depend upon the extent and quality of the organizer's local relation­ ships. Department staffcomplained ofthe precarious nature of these lines oflocal communication; it made the work of touring representatives of any sort of organi­ zation very discouraging. Louise Lucas, a campaigner for the United Farmers of Canada (UFC) , recorded the frustrations of local organizing in her diary of 1932: Arrived at - No one to meet me. No station agent. Spoke to postmaster getting the mail, who said 'Yes, there is a meeting advertised in the hall.' Walked with him to the store.Just a small, out-of-the-way place. One grain elevator. Met a man who took me to a home for dinner. No restaurant in town.

.. .Next day a long cold drive to - Hall. Arrived 2:45 p.m. Hall locked. No house near. Finally a man climbed in the window ... At last someone came with a key. Five men appeared and we sat around the stove and talked until 5:30 p.m. They were very interested and I think I sowed some good seed. This meeting also wasn't advertised, the men said they hadjust heard ofit from the school children. No collection.IS Lucas's experience may have been better than that ofmembers ofthe Department staffsince UFC locals were more numerous and had more active open-country net­ works than the Agricultural Societies." Any provincial organization that sought to mobilize farmers in Saskatchewan had to solve this problem of assembling points of contact on an otherwise blank territory. Organizations like the Department of Agriculture, the Saskatchewan Grain Growers' Association and its successors, the UFC and the Wheat Pool all played this "politics of assembly," employing an array ofimperfect strategies which were constantly being reconsidered and revised. It was not entirely a question of deploying organizational resources in time and space to synchronize local and cen­ tral movements, as though one could design organizational machinery perfectly attuned to the idiosyncratic rhythms of the local. The "open-country" local was amorphous and dynamic, and the politics ofassembly was about giving it shape and permanence. The tactics were spatial - involving struggles to define areas and boundaries of the local and fix its institutional memory in physical embodiments such as meeting halls, permanent offices, and "Shannon files." They also had a tem­ poral trajectory. Both Lucas's metaphor ofsowing seeds and the 1901 deputy's ref­ erence to fostering a "spirit of self-help" refer to the hope that their infrequent contacts would have continuous and lasting effects upon local bodies. The Department ofAgriculture struggled, against opposition from farmers, to enlarge the boundaries ofAgricultural Societies. Through successive amendments to the Agricultural Societies Act it increased the minimum membership and geo­ graphic spacing of Societies. A minimum membership of 150 was established in 1909 and remained in effect despite repeated efforts by delegates to the Agricultural Societies Association Convention to have it reduced. For reasons of economy, the Department preferred a small number oflarge societies because that involved less correspondence and fewer grants to distribute; it also cut down con­ siderably on the amount of travel that field staff and extension workers had to do. Society headquarters were meant to be market towns on the main rail lines. Iffarm­ ers wanted a representative to venture into the open country, they had to pay the extra expense." To save time the representative would try to cover a whole district in a single circuit. But the larger the number of stops in a district, the more of a headache it became to arrange a convenient itinerary, especially as this depended on the co-ordained efforts of unreliable local secretaries. In theory, automobiles should have allowed greater flexibility in route planning, but before "all-weather" roads were built and regularly ploughed in winter, automobile travel was highly erratic: cars got stuck in mud and snowdrifts, where horse-drawn conveyances did not. In fact, so unreliable was it that as late as 1950 automobile travel was simply banned for instructors at Extension schools when punctuality was essential." While it was difficult for agents of the state to visit the open country, farmers, using slow but reliable technologies, were quite capable of visiting the market town. They had to make this trip, at least occasionally, in order to shop and to sell farm produce. Nonetheless most organizations, including the Department, recog­ nized that it was easier to get farmers to meetings in schoolhouses or community halls in the open country than in town." This is not surprising since school districts formed the core of most open-country networks. Schoolhouse meetings were just one of a number of regular routines of travel and exchange that brought together "neighbours" from two or three adjacent school districts. The size of these neigh­ bourhoods was variable, but constraints of travel tended to limit ongoing face-to­ face interaction within a three- or four-mile radius. The resulting area was close to that of the familiar "township" or six-mile square defined in the survey grid throughout the West." When provincial offices called upon local agents to organ­ ize meetings, they were likely to get a "schoolhouse" assembly that did not draw much further beyond this four-mile catchment area. The reason for this was not that people could not travel from further afield; rather, these were normally the limits of the primary contacts of local organizers. Organizing at the level of these 'found' networks would have been an insurmountable burden for any provincial organization since there were between 3,000 and 4,000 townships in Saskatchewan (and over 5,000 school districts in the 1920s and 1930s). The Department refused to contemplate this alternative, and legislated not only minimum memberships, but also minimum distances of 30 miles between offices of agricultural societies, which translated into minimum areas of at least 20 town­ ships and a provincial maximum of about 200 societies. In fact, there were never more than 170 agricultural societies. Farmers' organizations were much more will­ ing to accommodate smaller-scale "local networks" and consequently to maintain larger numbers of locals - up to ten times more. Their discussions of organiza­ tional design emphasized that "other side" of Bentham's two-way principle of 'transparency' - the accountability ofgoverning officers to the governed.24 As one agrarian agitator argued in 1935, the face-to-face quality of local networks insured that assemblies based on them could control their representatives: It is to this kind of a delegate the common man and woman can express his displeasure with the action of the council. And it is this kind of dele­ gate that can be disciplined when necessary....In other words "All power is with the Soviets.?" The UFC insisted on the primacy ofthe local school district as a basis for organ­ ization and representation. While it fell far short of its aim of "a U.F.C. local in every school district.'?" it did maintain roughly 1,000 locals throughout this period. The Wheat Pool maintained well over 1,000 units of assembly or "Wheat Pool Committees" based in the shipping points where the Pool owned grain elevators"; however, the "units of representation" that sent delegates to conventions where policy was determined were the rather larger "subdistricts." After two years in oper­ ation, the Pool reorganized the subdistricts and reduced their size to a radius of about fourteen miles in the hope of capturing (or perhaps creating) circles of acquaintanceship at this level: By reducing the size ofthe sub-district it will be possible for the delegates to become known to the great majority of Contract Signers in their dis­ tricts, and will enable the Delegates to better represent the views of the Growers and get acquainted with actual conditions." At three times the normal radius of most rural networks, the subdistrict was too much of a stretch. Voting for delegates was done at a distance by postcard ballot, and many farmers did not recognize the names of candidates from other Pool committees within their subdistrict." Despite the Pool's claim that its organization was as "delicately sensitive to the control of its individual members as human con­ ceptions of democratic control can make it,'?" many members wanted to tinker with this structure and shift power from the subdistrict to a version of "the local" that they found more tangible - the Pool Committee." Defining the spaces ofassembly had important implications for class formation. The UFC chose to organize in the schoolhouse rather than the "city hall" because it was attempting to build a "militant and class conscious" organization," and the city hall and market town were dominated by representatives of classes thought to be antagonistic to the interests offarmers and other workers." The Department of Agriculture, and later the Extension Division, attempted through the Agricultural Society to construct cross-class "communities." Society membership was open to people of all occupations." Inclusion of market towns within society boundaries allowed for the co-operation with urban business people and professionals that was thought to be beneficial for farmers." The society was to provide an occasion to work toward common purpose: The Agricultural Societies Act ... provides activities in which every person in every community may be engaged, and by enlisting the interest and support of the village and town folk as well as a large percentage of city folk in one or the other ofthe various activities, the societies are building up people on a social plane oflife where all work together for the accom­ plishment of a single purpose with a spirit ofmutual respect." Common purpose was to be the basis for a common identity, an "imagined com­ munity" encompassing notjust the local, but the province as a whole." While the societies were successful in attracting urban members, this urban presence and the focus of society administration on urban space undermined their attractiveness to farm people. The two groups tended not to "mix" socially. The resistance had less to do with explicit class politics than with anxieties over cultural capital and the presentation of self '(the wearing of "work clothes" at meetings, for example) .38 Farm people had to go to town, but in some cases chose the times or the paths that they threaded through urban space in such a way as to avoid townspeople." UFC locals met occasionally in small towns and hamlets, but more often in open country halls or schoolhouses as well as in farm homes (particularly in the 1930s). Here whole families could attend meetings. Informal day care was provided, and business was invariably followed by entertainment that often lasted into the small hours of the morning. The Wheat Pool was a marketing co-op whose members or "contract signers" were by default (largely male) wheat producers. Committees met in towns and hamlets where their elevators were located, typically in the class-exclu­ sive space of the farmer-owned elevator office. The interest of the Department of Agriculture in the integration of rural and urban populations in what American rural sociologists called "rurban" communi­ ties" was to improve self-governance "on the spot." Agricultural societies were also to provide a window into the life of these communities - a channel of communi­ cation and influence that would facilitate governance at a distance. The deputy minister of 1901 had hoped that societies would deliberate upon and discuss mat­ ters of local concern, and then relay the results of these discussions to the Department through annual reports." But societies proved a poor source of intel­ ligence on the political life ofrural communities: not only were secretaries' reports disappointing, but total membership was small and its representativeness doubtful. The annual convention, held at the University of Saskatchewan in Saskatoon, offered another "discursive moment" where officials could hear resolutions and debates among delegates. It was also a rare opportunity for both the director of Extension and the deputy minister ofAgriculture to speak directly and simultane­ ously to an audience normally so far flung. In a province where communication between the centre and periphery was so difficult, annual conventions were crucial events for all organizations. Size was meaningful as an expression of collective will, and as an indicator ofthe density and representativeness oforganization: the annu­ al convention of the SGGA, which in the 1910s and 1920s drew thousands, gained tremendous prestige as a "farmers' parliament." Attendance at the Agricultural Societies Conventions was small, in part because there were relatively few societies, but also because so many of them failed to send delegates. Delegates' fares were paid for them, and societies risked the loss oftheir charter and annual grant ifthey were not represented," but still attendance was spotty. In 1931 when only forty-five delegates showed up, morale was so low that organizers decided to cancel the next year's convention." The difficulty ofestablishing discursive links with societies was one ofmany indi­ cators of their failure as a governmental project. They also neglected most of their agricultural improvement mandate, with the exception of the annual country fair or "agricultural exhibition." The complaint that these rather mediocre fairs took up too much of Societies' attention runs like a refrain through the Reports of the deputy ministers and later the directors ofExtension from 1898 to 1940. Theywere not regarded as sufficiently instructive, and featured too many midways and sideshows, and too much unimproving recreation. While these fairs were recog­ nized as an instrument of "rurban" integration, they also revealed one of the dan­ gers of that strategy. As one society complained in 1917, societies and their resources were easily captured by small-town boosters: nine out often societies organized under the present act are organized by or through the activities of the Board of Trade, or towns people, mainly for [one object only] ... that is for the holding of a fair," The fair was an opportunity to promote the town and draw in the surrounding farmers to spend money. Local implement dealers, for instance, welcomed the opportunity to sponsor the farm machinery exhibit, which invariably attracted large crowds. Since a significant portion of the societies' funding came from the exclusively rural tax base of the "rural municipality," there was potential conflict over its use for largely commercial purposes." The higher moral ideal of"rural civ­ ilization" extolled in a 1915 Reportwas rarely exhibited at these events: The pastor of the church should be asked to make an exhibit ofwhat he thinks is his best equipment or methods for community uplift. The school teacher should be encouraged to make her exhibit ofthe embodiment of practice which makes for educated minds, disciplined and orderly. So with the banker, the blacksmith, the tailor, the hotelkeeper, and the homemaker, as well as the tiller of the soil and the stockman. Monetary rewards might be abolished and merit recognised by diplomas." When sources of government money dried up in the 1930s, not enough "commu­ nity spirit" had coalesced to preserve the fairs, and they were abandoned. Their numbers dropped from 138 in 1930 to 23 in 1934. 47 As early as 1908 another troubling trend was evident. The seed trials, plowing matches, "farmers' institutes" and other activities that made up the remainder of the societies' mandate were taken over by other organizations. Fewer than halfof the speaking engagements ofDepartmentfield staffwere organized by Agricultural Societies in 1908. The majority were sponsored by locals ofthe Saskatchewan Grain Growers Association, boards of trade, or "some leading farmer in the district.?" In many cases farmers supplied their own speakers. The Department and Extension Division struggled to continue working through their "own channels" with some success during the 1920s, but during the 1930s and 1940s they were simply outma­ neuvered by farmers' organizations vying for hegemony within the rural con­ stituency," The Wheat Pool in particular had developed its own field staffwho did "extension work" on a scale that must have been galling to the understaffed Extension Division. Unlike Extension workers these Pool "fieldmen" had relatively uncontested access to a huge network of active locals." Wheat Pool committees became the primary vehicles through which "agricultural improvement" work was carried out, and Extension Division lost control of the discursive framing of these activities. While Extension Division provided programs and personnel, the Pool committees had no obligation to submit annual reports or attend annual conven­ tions. The hollow core of the "rurban" agricultural societies was exposed when grant money became scarce in the first years of the Depression. Membership fell a spec­ tacular 82 percent - from 28,880 in 1930 to 5,300 in 1932. 51Postmortem analyses focused on the theme of the breakdown of "community." The director of Extension advised in 1932 that societies "should concern themselves more with community life than with agriculture.?" The deputy minister ofAgriculture spoke of "the need of restoring a sense of civic and social responsibility, which must ... have been forgotten entirely in some rural districts.?" The editor of the farmers' weekly Western Producerreported these words with some bemusement: from the per­ spective offarm people, "community life" had never been more active and intense than during the hard times ofthe 1930s.54While Agricultural Societies in the 1930s were "awaiting some favourable announcement regarding grants,"55 scores ofsmall groups in the open country were building rural institutions - forming co-opera­ tives, constructing co-operative community halls, meeting and socializing.56 Department officials were out of touch; or perhaps they were right to mourn the loss of "community" as they had envisioned it. While Extension Division failed to achieve hegemony in the open country, farmers' organizations did not supplant it without struggle. The organizational machinery, which had relied upon paid staff and organizers in both the UFC and the Pool, faltered in the 1930s. The UFC lost members. For years its weekly column in the Western Producer was called "Rebuilding the U.F.C." and the central office barely had funds to stay open. Notwithstanding occasional complaints oflocal apa­ thy in the "Open Forum," the "U.F.C. Lodge Notes" still contained ample evidence of active autonomous political life in the open country. The 1936 report from Major, Saskatchewan, hints at the scale and isolation, but also captures the politics and the,pleasures, of open-country meetings: Major.-The annual meeting ofthe Raymore Local Lodge was held at the home of Mr. W.R. Moscrip, on January 6. Notwithstanding 25 below weather there was a good attendance of members. [Elections were held.] ... A good discussion on relief took place, introduced by Walter McLeod and James Moscrip. Mr. McLeod is one of the councillors [of the rural municipality] , and gave a full explanation as to how reliefis administered, while James Moscrip recited some of the mistakes made with regard to relief. It was decided to order copies of the book 'Democratic Distribution' for study by the members....A delicious buffet supper was provided by the hostess, for which a charge of ten cents was made, the proceeds to go to lodge funds. After supper the radio was put into com­ mission to hear the address by Mr. MJ. Coldwell, M.P [CCF]. This was fol­ lowed by cards and a social evening, which continued till the early hours of the morning.57 The Pool had to cut back on its field staff and reduce contact with local com­ mittees." While many Committees may have felt disenfranchised in terms of their ability to influence Pool head office, they were extremely active locally. They were the primary sponsors, not only ofExtension activities, but also ofa new wave ofco­ operative organization - particularly ofsmall consumer and "community service" cO-OpS.59 Lodges of the UFC and Wheat Pool Committees provided for their parent organizations that Benthamite ideal ofefficiency that so fascinated Foucault. Their organizational structures could be light, "non-corporeal," because the burden of government was self-assumed by the "governed" who allowed it "to play sponta­ neously upon" themselves." This ideal was clearly the aim of the state in its project of constructing "rurban" community through the Agricultural Societies. The chronic failure of that project prompted the efforts, already discussed, to tinker with the legal machinery of the Agricultural Societies Act. Other ideas for extend­ ing the influence ofthe state invariably demanded greater institutional "weight" ­ paid staff and physical offices - that could not be supported across a large, thinly settled territory. One plan that was tried in various forms from 1914 onward was to supplement itinerant staffwith a resident inspectorate stationed in local offices ­ the District Representative service. Itinerant staff often had difficulty, as we have seen, in making contact at the local level; but they were inexpensive. A handful of field staff could be flexibly assigned to tasks and locations as required, or else their numbers could be supplemented by part-time or term appointments. District rep­ resentatives could potentially provide a physical presence "on the spot" where the Agricultural Societies had failed; but they required a rather large fixed investment. Persons hired were meant to have professional qualifications (a bachelor's degree in Agriculture, or BSA) and physical resources - an office and library." To be effective their employ had to be long term so that they could build up local knowl­ edge and relationships. The funding model taken from the American county­ agent system, wherein local government (the county) shared the cost, did not work in Saskatchewan." The spatial design of rural municipalities - local gov­ ernmental units erected in 1908 in Saskatchewan - was largely at fault: they were too small to provide sufficient tax revenue. Also, unlike counties, theirjurisdiction excluded all incorporated places, that is, all urban space. Farmers had less enthu­ siasm than townspeople for hiring agricultural experts, since they were less likely to accept that "rural problems" could be addressed by instruction on "better farm­ ing" techniques." The problem ofsize could be addressed by combining municipalities. A district representative could manage at least four, according to prevailing wisdom; but it was hard to get four adjacent municipalities to co-operate on such a scheme," par­ ticularly as the district representative once hired was to be answerable to the Department rather than the municipalities." Rural municipalities were also unreli­ able sources of funding since they had trouble collecting taxes in periods of agri­ cultural depression: in 1929 they only collected 64 percent of taxes levied and by 1935 collection had fallen to an astonishing 21 percent." The Department never had enough money to go it alone: it is doubtful whether it could even have co­ financed the four-municipality scheme. The number of district representatives required to cover the whole province (75) would have been too many and would likely have cost close to the entire annual expenditure of the Department." In the end, the project was rescued through the deus ex machina of federal assistance. Keynesian deficit spending on "reconstruction and rehabilitation" after 1935 made the expansion of centrally controlled administrative machinery possible." District representatives became useful as local administrators of new provincial and feder­ al state programs. By 1940 the province had been divided into 21 districts, most of which were staffed by full-time resident representatives"; but as the deputy minis­ ter complained in 1943, these districts were still far too large to afford staffwith the direct "intimate" contact with farmers that had eluded the Department for so long." In his 1943 brief to the Saskatchewan Reconstruction Council, the deputy min­ ister, reviewing the failure ofextension work, reiterated an ongoing faith in spatial engineering." He recommended enlarging the boundaries of rural municipalities and making them correspond with the districts of agricultural representatives and the boundaries of revitalized Agricultural Societies. This was not a new idea,"but an evocative one: state and "community" harmonized in a single spatial figure, a rural panoptism. While the figure was utopic in the sense that it was never realized - at least in Saskatchewan - it was not impossible. No aspect of prairie space was immutable: it was all so recently conceived and constructed, and all so easily dis­ solved or transmuted. The density ofsettlement and distance between neighbours was in constant flux as farm size and numbers changed. The system of open coun­ try schools and all of the patterns of interaction and exchange that focused upon it waited only for an advance in engineering for it to "melt into air." Once roads could be kept open year-round to safely accommodate school buses, open-country schools could be closed and the buildings torn down or moved away. There was no reason to presume that these movements could not be co-ordinated with some ele­ gantly simple architecture of governance.73 The challenge that Saskatchewan posed to the state as well as to farmers' organ­ izations was the problem of governance at a distance central to all twentieth cen­ tury statecraft. It was amplified by the thin density of population and, more deci­ sively, by the lack of physical points of assembly that was characteristic of "rural" space in much of North America. What made Saskatchewan unique was the scale of these features and the limits of existing spatial technologies - the small rural municipalities and bad roads." These specifics offer a means to explain why state­ sponsored organizations such as the Agricultural Societies and Farm Bureaus, as well as rural inspectorates such as the county agents and district representatives failed here but succeeded elsewhere. In North Dakota, where farming conditions were closer than anywhere else to those in Saskatchewan, roads were improved ear­ lier and "rurban" communities gained a foothold in the large counties." North Dakota counties, because of their size and "rurban" character, had both the politi­ cal will and resources to support county agents. No doubt North Dakota's resident inspectorate extended the scrutiny and influence ofthe United States Department of Agriculture to this otherwise obscure region. But even there state hegemony remained incomplete: the Farm Bureaus which were supposed to give agents access to countywide networks of sympathetic farmers were usurped by an independent farmers' organization with locals of a similar scale and density as those of the UFC and the Saskatchewan Wheat Pool.76 By representing rural governance as spatial practice, I mean to show that spa­ tial tactics - attempts to shape the geography of local "communities," govern­ mental units and the links between the two - made a difference, one that has been largely overlooked in histories ofthe Prairie West. But I also wish to emphasize that governing is a hazardous exercise with uncertain outcomes. As Foucault reminds us, "the analysis of power-mechanisms has no built-in tendency to show power as being at once anonymous and always victorious.''" The efforts of the Department ofAgriculture and the Extension Division to govern in the name of the state were resisted and ultimately usurped by organizations of the governed. Farmers' organ­ izations had, like their state rivals, to contend with the challenge of prairie geog­ raphy, but theywere more successful in employing the principle ofself-government in order to overcome it. Their determination to stretch institutional resources and organize at the open-country level ensured that their locals were small enough to set in motion face-to-face networks that were self-sustaining. Farmers' locals were "self-governing" in the sense of being relatively autonomous, but also in the sense of actively facilitating links with the centre. Only on the strength of these "sponta­ neous" elements could central offices manage organizational machinery that was so "dense" - with so many points of contact across such vast distances. Danbom was interested in American extension services because he saw them as working to deflect agrarian discontent from the path of radical social transforma­ tion envisioned by the Populists of the late 1800s. Saskatchewan holds an enduring fascination as one of the few places in North America where the reformist imagi­ nation of farmers remained unchecked, and the only place where (in 1944) a farmer-supported party came to power advocating a socialist vision of a "co-opera­ tive commonwealth." In his classic study of the CCF victory, Agrarian Socialism, Seymour Martin Lipset argued that the UFC and the Wheat Pool along with other rural co-operatives formed the basis of a class-conscious movement that supported the new party. The decentralisation of farmers' organisations made the agrarian rank and file difficult to govern and unwilling to accept political compromise at the level ofparty politics. According to Lipset, the density of locals (their number and small scale) ensured that a high proportion of farmers were called upon to fill executive offices and thereby acquired the political skills necessary to challenge or replace leaders who wavered in their commitment to building the new social order. Much has been written about the attempts ofthe traditional parties, the Liberals in particular, to co-opt the leadership of the Saskatchewan farm movement. So far no one has addressed the failure of the Department ofAgriculture and the Extension Division to co-opt the movement at its source through the kind of hegemonic con­ struction of community and local organization that was so successful for their American counterparts. While this has not been my main objective here, it would be a worthwhile aim of future research to assess more systematically how' this failure might be used to explain why agrarian socialism succeeded where and when it did.

Notes The author gratefully acknowledges the financial support of the University Council for Research, St. Francis Xavier University.

1. E. Wakefield, "Art of Colonization," Collected Works (London.]W Parker, 1849),869. 2. R. Bantjes, "Benthamism in the Countryside," Historical Sociology 10 (1997): 249-69. 3. J.Bentham, "Outline of Pauper Management Improved," Works ofJeremy Bentham, Vol. VIII, edited by J Bowering (New York: Russell & Russell, 1962),372. 4. M. Foucault, Power/Knowledge (New York: Pantheon Books, 1980), 72. For a discussion of the use of Foucault to analyse the state or rather "governmentality," see G. Burchell and C. Gordon, The Foucault Effect: Studies in Governmentality (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991). On efficiency see M. Foucault, Discipline and Punish (New York: Pantheon Books, 1979),206. 5. Foucault, Power/Knowledge, 72. 6. From 1910 onwards, the Extension Division of the Department of Agriculture of the University of Saskatchewan was formally responsible for extension work. However, many ofits programs, in partic­ ular the activities of the Agricultural Societies, were funded by the Department of Agriculture. The director of Extension also reported to the minister of Agriculture and drew upon Department of Agriculture personnel as well as university stafffor educational fieldwork. 7. D. Danbom, The Resisted Revolution (Ames: Iowa State University Press, 1979), 112. 8. Foucault, Power/Knowledge, 163. Foucault stresses that power is not "at once anonymous and always victorious" and that it is important to focus on agency and "resistance" (p. 164). 9. Department of Agriculture, Memorandum Regarding Agricultural Representatives, 1915 (Saskatchewan Archives Board (SAB», 2. 10. Saskatchewan Department of Agriculture (SDA), Seventh Annual Report, 1911, p. 75: "Modern con­ ditions have made the collection and compilation ofstatistics essential. ..". On the "statistical idea" see P. Corrigan and D. Sayer, The Great Arch (Oxford: Blackwell, 1985), 124-29. 11. Only 25 percent of the forms had been returned in 1911 (SDAReport, 1911, p. 74). In 1913 munic­ ipal secretaries were drafted to assist in collecting returns from farmers, but the following year there was no improvement in the number of returns filed (SDA Report, 1913, p. 100). 12. North West Territories Department ofAgriculture, Report, 1901, p. 115. The deputy minister for the North West Territories defined the relationship between the Department and the Agricultural Societies, which remained essentially unchanged when they were transferred to the newly formed Saskatchewan Department ofAgriculture in 1904. 13. SAB, letter from the deputy minister to the Minister ofAgriculture, W. R. Motherwell, May 1,1912: "It is becoming a problem how to keep intimately in touch with the development, the needs and the condition of our many hundreds of communities which no person or several persons, charged with executive duties, can hope to visit personally even at long intervals." 14. NWTDA, Report, 1901. 15. Saskatchewan Department of Municipal Affairs, Annual Report, 1913-14, p. 7. 16. SAB, Circular from the deputy minister ofAgriculture to the Agricultural Societies.january 9, 1902. 17. NWTDA, Report, 1901, p. 110. 18.]. Wright, The Louise Lucas Story (Montreal: Harvest House, 1965), 102. 19. For examples ofsimilar problems for field staff and district representatives see SDA Report, 1910, p. 220; the Report ofJ.G. Raynor, district representative, SDA, Report, 1918, p. 11; SAB, letter from L. M. Olgilvie to J.G. Raynor, director ofExtension, March 18, 1942: "the ... risk ofsending a man from the University [as a speaker] is fraught with expense and uncertainty." 20. At least in winter; see "Report of the Superintendent of Fairs and Institutes," in SDA, Report, 1909, p.123. 21. L.C. Paul, "Extension at the University of Saskatchewan, Saskatoon, 1910-70: A History," Manuscript, University Archives, University of Saskatchewan, 1979, p. 54. 22. NWTDA Report, 1901, p.110; Circular from the deputy minister of Agriculture to the Agricultural Societies,January 9, 1902 (SAB); SDA Report, 1910, p.220. The open country was the preferred meet­ ing place for farmers through the 1940s (see unpublished reports, Saskatchewan Wheat Pool, Country Organization Division, 1941, Saskatchewan Wheat Pool head office, Regina, Saskatchewan) and into the 1960s (D. Willmott, Organizations and Social Life ofFarm Families in a Prairie Municipality (Saskatoon: Centre for Community Studies, University of Saskatchewan, 1964), 56). 23. For more detail on patterns of open-country exchange see Bantjes, "Improved Earth: Travel on the Canadian Prairies, 1920-1950,"Journal ofTransport History 13 (1993): 115-40. 24. See "News of the Saskatchewan Wheat Pool," Western Producer,January 22, 1925, p. 6: "The form of organization of the Saskatchewan Wheat Pool is as democratic in the true sense of being delicately sensitive to the control of its individual members as human conceptions of democratic control can make it." 25. W. Bentley, letter to "The Open Forum," Western Producer, October 3, 1935, p. 9. 26. "Farmers Must Organize" (UFC Publicity) Western Producer, December 12,1935, p. 5. 27. Saskatchewan Wheat Pool Third Annual Report, 1927, pp. 22-23 (1,055 committees); "Study of Co­ operative Principles Will be Made Via Pool Committees," Western Producer, May 5, 1932, p. 8 (1,182 committees). These committees were to provide "local points ofcontact" for the Pool field staff, much in the same way that Agricultural Societies were to have done of Extension workers (Wheat Pool Seventh Annual Report, 1932, p. 22) 28. Saskatchewan Wheat Pool, Third Annual Report, 1927, p. 23 29. C. Evans Sargent, letter to "The Open Forum," Western Producer, April 11, 1932, p. 9. 30. "News of the Saskatchewan Wheat Pool," Western Producer,January 22, 1925, p. 6. 31. Letter to "The Open Forum," Western Producer, March 5, 1931, p. 10; letter to "The Open Forum," Western Producer, March 24,1932, p. 9; letter to "The Open Forum," Western Producer, April 11, 1932, p.9. . 32. "News and Views of the Farmers' Union of Canada," Western Producer, October 30, 1924. 33. On the political, class-conscious nature of rural-urban antagonism in Saskatchewan, see Willmott, Organizations and Social Life, 52. 34. The 1910 Act stipulated that at least 75 percent of members had to be "bona fide farmers living on farms," but the director of Extension made much of the fact that the Society membership included "practically every profession represented in the province... " SDA, Report, 1930, p. 78. 35. The value of urban leadership is explicit in American "country life" discourse (Danbom, Resisted Revolution). American rural sociologists stressed mutual advantage. See for example C. Galpin, Rural Social Centres in Wisconsin, Wisconsin Agricultural Experiment Station Bulletin no. 234, 1914, p. 7;J. Kolb, Service Relations ofTown and Country, Wisconsin Agricultural Experiment Station, Bulletin no. 58, 1923, flyleaf. 36. Address of L.M. More, Secretary-Treasurer of the Agricultural Societies Association ("The Convention ofAgricultural Societies," The Public Service Monthly 11, no. 7 (February, 1923): 1). 37. Report of the Director ofAgricultural Extension, 1925, p. 332: "This thought [that the Societies could express a unified "community consciousness"] carried a step farther visualises the 154 societies (work­ ingjointly under the College ofAgriculture and the Agricultural Societies' Association) accomplish­ ing splendid things for the larger community known as Saskatchewan." 38. See Bantjes, "Improved Earth"; Willmott, Organizations and Social Life, 60. 39. ]. Burnet, "Town-Country Relations and the Problem of Rural Leadership," Canadian Journal of Economics & Political Science 13 (1947), cited in Lipset, Agrarian Socialism, 49. 40. This term is Galpin's, from his classic The Social Anatomy ofan Agricultural Community, University ofWisconsin Agricultural Experimental Station, Bulletin 34, 1915. It is never used in official discourse in Saskatchewan, although the concept is the same. 41. NWTDA Report, 1901, p. 114. 42. See "Report of the Superintendent ofFairs and Institutes," in SDA, Report, 1908; SDA, Report, 1918, p. 37. In 1916 the director of Extension resorted to a roll call of societies at the convention (SDA, Report, 1916, p. 36). 43. SDA Twenty-seventh Annual Report, 1932, p. 28. 44. Proposed resolution to the Annual Convention of the Agricultural Societies Association on the "Reorganization ofAgricultural Societies" (SAS). 45. On conflict over fairs, see Willmott, Organizations and Social Life, 52. 46. SDA, Report, 1915, p. 16. 47. SDA, Report, 1936, p. 23 48. "Report of the Superintendent of Fairs and Institutes," in SDA, Report, 1909, p. 123; see also SDA Report, 1916, p. 7. 49. The director ofExtension provides historical statistics in his Thirty{ourthAnnualReport, 1944, p. 12. 50. In 1926 the Pool had 18 field staffwho conducted 1,650 meetings with a total attendance of 70,000 and visited 24,500 farmers (Saskatchewan Wheat Pool, ThirdAnnualReport, 1927, pp. 22-23). On their enthusiastic reception in open-country communities see I. MacPherson, "Missionaries of Rural Development: The Fieldmen of the Saskatchewan Wheat Pool 1925-1965," Agricultural History 60 (1986): 91. 51. "Agros. Well Represented at Societies Annual Convention" Western Producer,February 9,1933, p. 19. The title of this article is misleading - there were only 40 societies in attendance, but this was better than the convention of 1931. 52. Ibid., p. 19. 53. F. Hedley Auld's address to the Agricultural Societies Convention as reported by the rather unsym­ pathetic editor ofthe WesternProducer ("Agricultural Conventions," WesternProducer,February 6, 1936, p.6). 54. James Gray, The Winter l'ears (Toronto: MacMillan, 1966),210. 55. Twenty-sixth Annual Report ofthe DirectorofAgricultural Extension, 1932, p. 26. 56. The growth in the number of local co-operatives, particularly co-operative community halls and other "community service" co-ops was modest between 1930 and 1936, but striking in contrast to the decline and retrenchment of other rural organisations during this time (Report ofthe Commissioner of Co-operationand Markets, 1931, 1936) 57. "D.F.C. Lodge Notes," Western Producer,January 23,1936, p. 8. 58. Saskatchewan Wheat Pool Seventh Annual Report, 1932, p. 23. 59. Report ofthe Commissioner ofCo-operationand Markets, 1936, p. 73. 60. Foucault, Discipline andPunish, 202-3. This purpose is revealed in the remark ofa Pool fieldman, for whom the role of the Pool Committees was not to afford direct democracy, but to "... eliminate many of the problems of Management" by instilling "a personal responsibility for ... " the success of the co­ operative venture (MacPherson, "Missionaries," 82). 61. See letter from the deputy minister, J.H. Auld, to John M. Trueman, acting director ofAgricultural Agents, Truro, Nova Scotia, April 28, 1926; on the nature of permanent headquarters see Memorandum, 1915, in "Correspondence on Agricultural Representatives" (SAB); on the degree qualification see SAB, letter from acting deputy minister to T.C. Vanson, March 29, 1916. 62. Saskatchewan officials corresponded concerning the issue offunding with officials in similar states, such as North Dakota (see SAB, letter, A.F. Mantle, deputy minister to Thomas P. Cooper, state leader, Experimental Station, Fargo, North Dakota, March 20,1915), butwere aware ofthe limitations ofthe design of rural municipalities (SAB, letter from Mantle to C.F. Bailey, assistant deputy minister, Ontario Department ofAgriculture, April 6, 1915). 63. On the resistance offarmers to "better farming" instruction see SDA, Tenth AnnualReport, 1914, pp. 102-3; "Report ofAgricultural Societies," in SDA, Report, 1916, p.39. On the enthusiasm of Boards ofTrade see SAB, North Battleford Board ofTrade Council Resolution,july 10,1913. For an idea of why this enthusiasm might offend farmers, see SAB, letter from the secretary of the Saskatchewan Retail Merchants' Association to H.A. Atkinson, cc. to F.H. Auld, deputy minister ofAgriculture, April 4, 1930, that recommended the hiring ofdistrict representatives as a remedy to "the economical con­ ditions that now exist in the Province and which in many cases is [sic] the result ofunsound farm prac­ tices and misdirected effort and which shows a need for promoting more diversified farming..." 64. See for example, SAB, letter from the superintendent of the Credit Department of the Weyburn Security Bank to F.R. Auld, August 17, 1928; the more pressing priorities for Saskatchewan rural municipalities at this time were municipally financed hail insurance, municipal doctors, and union hospitals (Bantjes, "Governing the Great Plains," Studies in Political Economy 48 (1995): 71-106). 65. "Memorandum Respecting the Status and Duties of District Representatives of the Department of Agriculture," 1915 (SAS). 66. Saskatchewan Department of Municipal Affairs, Annual Report, 1932, 1936. 67. The calculation ofthe cost ofone district representative is based on a salary of$2,500 and travel and other expenses of $2,000. North Dakota county agents were paid between $2,000 and $3,300 (SAB, letter to the deputy minister, F.H. Auld from "Ernest," Extension Division, State College Station, Fargo, North Dakota, August 6, 1927). The Saskatchewan Department spent as much or more on trav­ el expenses as it did on salaries of representatives (Saskatchewan, Public Accounts, 1916, pp. 148-49; 1936, pp. 146-47). This estimate of the cost of one representative multiplied by the total number of possible four-municipality units in Saskatchewan equals about $337,500. The budget of the Department from 1911 to 1926 was in the range of $300,000 to $400,000 (Saskatchewan, Public Accounts, 1921, historical summary table, p. 26; 1926, table, p. 24). 68. On the increase in state powers in the 1930s and the responsibility of district representatives for administering them see F. H. Auld, Submission of the Saskatchewan Department of Agriculture to the Saskatchewan Reconstruction Council, 1943. 69. Interestingly, the Wheat Pool fieldmen were rechristened "district representatives" in 1935. They were, like the Department's district representatives, resident in their districts. There were 18 ofthem in the 1940s (MacPherson, "Missionaries... " 78, 88). 70. F.H. Auld, Submission of the Saskatchewan Department ofAgriculture to the Saskatchewan Reconstruction Council, 1943, p. 87. 71. Ibid., pp. 92-93. 72. Arguments for "county-style" local government were made at the time that rural municipalities were formed. See the platform of the Saskatchewan Provincial Rights Party, Canadian Annual Review (Toronto: n.p., 1908), 496; see also T. Patrick, The County Systemfor Saskatchewan (Yorkton: Enterprise Pub. Co., 1921), reprinted in The Western Municipal News (1921).; for earlier proposals for the har­ monisation.of all three elements of local governance see "Fourth Annual Report of the Director of Agricultural Extension," in SDA, Report, 1913, pp. 6-10. 73. As early as 1914 the American rural sociologist Charles Galpin had proposed precisely this sort of "social architecture" (Galpin, Rural Social Centres in Wisconsin, p. 9). Throughout the next three decades his followers elaborated on specific techniques. See R. Bantjes, "Improved Earth: Land Settlement, Community and Class in Rural North America, 1900 to 1960" (Ph.D. dissertation, Department ofSociology, Lancaster University, UK, 1991), 306ff; and Bantjes, "Benthamism"). 74. For a more systematic, comparative discussion of the province's uniqueness see Bantjes, "Improved Earth." 75. Bantjes, "Governing." 76. Willson (Social Organizations and Agencies in North Dakota, North Dakota Agricultural Experiment Station, Bulletin no. 221, 1928, pp. 59-60) argues that the North Dakota Farm Bureaus failed because of "a lack of local community units with definite social programs." He also points out the open-country focus of farmers, organisational activity (Social Organizations, p. 55) as well as of the North Dakota Farmers, Educational and Cooperative Union (E. Willson, Rural Community Clubs in North Dakota, North Dakota Agricultural Experiment Station Bulletin no. 251, 1931). On the density of Farmers, Union locals see K Limuere, Economic Democracy for the Northern Plains (Jameston, ND: North Dakota Farmers' Union, 1980),32, and Willson, Social Organizations, 59. 77. Foucault, Power/Knowledge, 163.

Fictional Manawaka and Tangible Neepawa, Manitoba

Sarah Payne and Paul Simpson-Housley

ABSTRACT. A more nuanced understanding of literary tourism requires an investigation of the role imaginative literature plays in the reconstruction and preservation of particular localities. This article explores how the desire to experience early twentieth century Neepawa, Manitoba, birthplace ofprairie writer Margaret Laurence (1926-1987), is influencing efforts to reconstruct the cultural heritage ofthis small prairie town. Through her literature Laurence has transformed Neepawa into the fictional Manawaka, and it is these literary associations that modern visiting tourists are anxious to experience in the town of Neepawa.

SOMMAIRE. Une comprehension plus nuancee du tourisme litteraire necessite une investigation du role que la litterature imaginative joue dans la reconstruction et la preservation de certaines localites, Le present article montre comment le desir de faire l' experience de Neepawa (Manitoba) au debut du vingtieme siecle influence les efforts de reconstruction du patrinioine cultureI de cette petite ville, OU naquit Margaret Laurence (1926-1987). Par sa litterature, Laurence a transforme Neepawa en un Manawaka imaginaire, et ce sont ces associations litteraires que les touristes modernes recherchent dans la ville de Neepawa.

Introduction When geography has been celebrated in literature, one has a unique opportu­ nity to connect with its past- places, the events, the people's successes and failures. Throughout her canon of Canadian fiction, Margaret Laurence's prairie town of Manawaka and in particular its geographically marginalized landmarks could pro­ vide that opportunity for the actual town of Neepawa, Manitoba. When one probes beneath the surface ofLaurence's own childhood experiences and impressions, her fictional town of Manawaka and its surrounding prairie landscape become an emblem for life's social, economic and, most importantly, geographic divisions. Literary tourism is comprised ofa merger between imaginative literature and the geographical (re)construction ofcultural heritage. As MacCannell (1976) explains, modern tourists in particular share with social scientists their curiosity about those people and places on the margins.' What is of interest to the researcher about the literary tourist site found in Neepawa, Manitoba, is that the proponents of literary tourism in this small prairie town have assembled their own images of cultural her­ itage that are void ofmost of the experiences and impressions found in the literary works of Margaret Laurence; and it is these landmarks on the margins that many tourists expect to visit. This case study, therefore, provides a strong example of a quandary clearly stated again by MacCannell (ibid.), who describes how: Just as the modernizing areas appropriated by tourism are free to assem­ ble their own images in advance of the arrival of the tourist, the individ­ ual tourist is also free to make his/her own final arrangements of sights and markers." Today, these divisions still. exist between visiting tourists whose expectations of Neepawa include Laurence's literary landmarks and those local residents who openly oppose the notion of revering or exploiting Laurence's literary geography of marginality. It is perhaps because Laurence's Manawaka illustrates a geographic and social history of divisiveness and hypocrisy that these local residents are still uncomfort­ able with Neepawa's literary associations. Maybe Laurence herself has not been dead long enough to be revered posthumously or the economic profits of her lit­ erature have not been realized by local residents who struggle to sustain this aging small town. Possibly too few incentives exist that might encourage adaptations of Laurence's literary geography to be recognized and presented as part ofboth local and national Canadian prairie heritage. More conceivably, unlike so many success­ fulliterary tourist sites, Neepawa lacks those continued efforts from tireless indi­ viduals whose research and fund-raising efforts promote the essence and most especially the literary geographies of such acclaimed writers. While the exact rea­ sons why Margaret Laurence's fictional Manawaka geography has not yet been developed remain unclear, it is certainly not because tourists do not expect and anticipate these sites of marginality. In fact quite the opposite is true, as the find­ ings from our current survey research demonstrate. The aim ofthis research is to promote discussion about the development ofpar­ ticular literary tourist sites in an effort to meet better the expectations ofvisitors, using the birthplace and literary inspirations of a celebrated Canadian icon as a case example. In the case of literary tourism it is the writer's literary associations and in turn how these are internalized by visiting tourists that allow for particular landscapes to be valued and/or popularized more for these associations than for their physical form. While in theory tourist impact and degree ofmeasurable satis­ faction are both possible and highly desirable, in practice few local institutions take advantage of this information source. This paper is intended first to provide a dis­ cussion on the history of Neepawa, Manitoba, in order to familiarize the reader with the birthplace, literary inspiration and final resting place of Canadian writer Margaret Laurence. Second, a comprehensive description and series of examples will contribute to a clear understanding of Margaret Laurence's marginalized geography. Finally, an illustration ofjust how important her fictional landscape is to the expectations of those who visit the small prairie town is presented using the findings from a survey questionnaire. History of a Small Prairie Town: Neepawa Today the small prairie town of Neepawa has 3,500 permanent residents. It is located in the southern region of the province of Manitoba, approximately 150 kilometres west of Winnipeg (see Figure 1). The cultural history of the establish­ ment ofthe town of Neepawa itself is a familiar one. The area is a fertile park-like district, drained principally by the White Mud River and its many tributaries. Free land grants or homesteads were made available to settling farmers. Provision was also made for the purchase of additional land or pre-emption, at $1 per acre. Homesteaders moved into the sur­ rounding area in 1872, and settled in the Arden district around Burnside on Rat Creek. The first Neepawa settlers were a group of thirty colonists arrived from Listowel, Ontario, in 1877. Fourteen of the people in this group were members ofthe Graham Clan, who settled on a section, now the Riverside Cemetery, within the Neepawa town lim­ its. In 1880, two businessmen from Palestine (now renamed Gladstone), John A. Davidson and Jonathon J. Hamilton, arrived at the settlement, purchased land and surveyed town lots. 5G 100kM 1 f They established a general store just south of the Graham family homestead. In 1882 the Manitoba and Northwestern Railway (later leased by the CPR) was planning to extend the rail line further west. Davidson and Hamilton owned land near the Graham homestead Figure 1. Regional map ofNeepawa. where the proposed M & NW line was to be built. The community was incorpo­ rated on November 3, 1883, and given the name Neepawa. A railway track and depot were built just within the northern limits of the town, almost a kilometre away from the Davidson and Hamilton General Store. The result was the develop­ ment of two rival commercial districts: the North End, or Old Town, centred on Railway Street, and the South End, situated near Hamilton Street and Mountain Avenue. The rivalry was short-lived, however, as the South End began to surpass the commercial activity along Railway Street. Neepawa's first business centre was locat­ ed along Hamilton Street. However, the construction of the Davidson Block in 1889, on the northwest corner of Hamilton Street and Mountain Avenue, precipi­ tated a westward shift in the establishment of business enterprises. With the con­ struction in 1902 of a second rail line by the Canadian Northern Railway on Hamilton Street West, the South End emerged as the commercial heart of Neepawa, and remains so today. The town's grid pattern reflects a standardized town design and structure used at the time: streets running north-south were numbered while streets running east­ west were named after townspeople. Railway tracks mark both the town's western border and northern perimeters. The residential architecture in Neepawa is diverse, representing the large Ukrainian and British ethnic groups. Within the town, there is a small population of French-Canadians, who have a long and rich local history in Neepawa. The development of Neepawa reflects the town's progress from a rough, mud­ spattered prairie village to a community of tree-lined streets. Early buildings were typically utilitarian in design and constructed mainly from wood. Brick - a mate­ rial which brought a sense of permanence and stability to prairie communities - was a scarce commodity in Neepawa until 1889, when William Currie & Co. estab­ lished a brickyard north ofthe town. This brickyard has had a lasting impact on the town's streetscape along Mountain Avenue and Hamilton Street. The Davidson Block (1989), the B.R. Hamilton Hardware Store (1891), Knox Presbyterian Church (1892), and the Hamilton Hotel were all built from Currie bricks. In 1905, a second brickyard was established providing bricks for the construction of the Neepawa Post Office (1908-1909) and the Bank of Commerce (1907). Neepawa's church architecture reflects a clear expression of the town's ethnic diversity. Buildings like the First Baptist, Knox Presbyterian, Neepawa Methodist and St. James Anglican reflect the English, Scottish and Irish origins of the town's earliest settlers. Spires, stained-glass windows and decorative interior woodwork are traditional British church characteristics. St. Dominica's Roman Catholic Church and, later, St. John the Baptist Ukrainian Catholic Church, reflect a different wave ofimmigrant populations arriving in the early twentieth century. In 1896, the town's population consisted of 1,500 residents, and today the pop­ ulation is stable at approximately 3,500 people. Farming remains one of the main economic activities around Neepawa, but with almost one-third of the town's resi­ dents being senior citizens (over the age of sixty), convalescing homes, retirement villages and apartment buildings form a growing industry in this community. The Institutionalized Tourism Efforts by Local Residents Fifteen years after Dorothy Campbell-Henderson and several other earnest Neepawa residents, calling themselves the Margaret Laurence Home Committee (herein referred to as the MLH Committee), bought the house Laurence referred to simply as "the brick house," the building has become one of the community's most popular tourist attractions. As Dorothy Campbell-Henderson, who met Laurence once before becoming the president and curator of the home, com­ mented, "it's of utmost importance to the town both for economic reasons and pride;" But pride was not always Neepawa's first reaction to Laurence: indifference and outright indignation more accurately described local attitudes towards the famous Canadian writer. When her Manawaka novels were first published many local residents found the books too realistic, even "crude," because of their biting descriptions of the town and its people. Ivan Traill recalled, with humour, Laurence's old music teacher sum­ ming up her former pupil's literary works as, "Wonderful! I just wish she wouldn't use such bad words." Traill stated further that "most people are not ready to accept the language she used, but it was the language used by people in this area. She said it the way it was and she was condemned for it."" Prior to the MLH Committee's purchase of the house in 1985, Neepawa resi­ dents had adopted a mostly apathetic attitude towards Laurence, and some of this still remains amongst a few of the older residents. In one of the many Neepawa retirement residences, for example, lives one-hundred-year old Ethel Cawston, formerly Ethel Davidson, one of the Davidson family for whom the notorious "stone angel" monument was purchased. In an interview last summer she told us that she "resented the way her family's plot and headstone were gawked at and vis­ ited by strangers because of Laurence's books." She did not believe, "the bad lan­ guage was necessary in her books in order to make a point." These sentiments, still held by some of the local residents, are slowly changing as the number of visits increases steadily each year. Proponents of tourism in the town have only realized over the last fifteen years what this Canadian literary figure has done for tourism and for the Neepawa economy," Her birthplace, the setting for Margaret Laurence's Manawaka canon and her final resting place, the small prairie town ofNeepawa, has, since her death in 1987, received international recognition as a literary tourist attraction. Some of the ini­ tialpublicity given to this town and Laurence emanated from her Governor General's Award winning novel The Diviners (1974). Religious fundamentalists labelled the book's sexual references as pornography, blasphemy and immorality. Communities around Neepawa and Laurence's adopted town of Lakefield, Ontario, sought to have her book banned from the grade thirteen curriculum. While the indignation generated by this novel eventually died down and the book was accepted as suitable reading for senior-grade high-school students, media attention (Toronto Star, Globe and Mail, Toronto Life Magazine, Winnipeg Free Press, Weekend Magazine, Vancouver Sun, Calgary Herald, Peterborough Examiner, Reader's Digest and the Neepawa Banner) introduced Margaret Laurence and her association with the town of Neepawa into popular culture as a symbol of opposition to cen­ sorship in Canadian literature. While this was a bizarre introduction to the writer and her inspirational literary setting for much of the general population, those in the academic community (students and teachers, literary critics, and Canadian publishers McClelland and Stewart) were already familiar with the author's previ­ ous literary accomplishments, highlighted by her Phi Beta Sigma award in 1961 for This SideJordan, and her earlier Governor General's Award in 1967 for AJest ofGod. Long before the scandals surrounding The Diviners, Laurence had already estab­ lished herselfamong the academic community, both at home and abroad, as one of Canada's great literary figures. Since 1961, when her story "A Gourdful of Glory," was awarded the President's Medal by the University ofWestern Ontario, Margaret Laurence had won numerous literary prizes and received several honorary degrees (including an honorary doctorate from Trent University). She was made a Companion of the Order of Canada in 1971, and received a Molson Prize in 1975. She served as a Writer in Residence for several universities, and was appointed Chancellor ofTrent University from 1981-1983. In 1968, Laurence's novel, AJest of God, was made into a Hollywood film renamed Rachel, Rachel, which starred Paul Newman and his wife Joanne Woodward as "Rachel." Laurence attended the London premiere of Rachel, Rachel and was very pleased that in the eleventh hour, the planned title of the film, Now I lay Me Down, had been dropped. When the title was changed abruptly, Panther Publishing, whose release of the novel in paperback coincided with the film premiere, was left with masses of wrongly titled books. According to James King, "Margaret, always shy in any public gathering, was timid about seeing the film, but she found it a more than adequate rendition of her fic­ tional world."? In May 1979, an hour-long documentary film, "Margaret Laurence­ First Lady of Manawaka" was produced by the National Film Board of Canada, and premiered in Winnipeg. This NFB film was followed by a shorter version, Our Kinda Talk: An Introduction to Margaret Laurence;and then, in 1984, A Writer in a Nuclear Age: A Conversation with Margaret Laurence, was produced. It was also during the late 1970s that her works were (re)published in a variety of paperback editions and in several languages (including German andJapanese). This was done in part to respond to the growing interest in Laurence's Manawaka novels by high schools and universities. Though the many literary accomplishments of Margaret Laurence did not impact directly on Neepawa's tourism industry until 1983, in 1975 Ivan Traill, then principal ofthe local school, invited Margaret Laurence to visit her home town and be honoured by its residents for her contribution to Canadian literature. In 1983, a Margaret Laurence Room was set up in the Neepawa Post Office building by the Viscount Cultural Council, an organization already dedicated to the promotion of events within Neepawa. Members of the Viscount Cultural Council were the first Neepawa residents to realize the importance of a tourist site which would honour their famous citizen. It was at this time that Dorothy Campbell-Henderson, found­ ing member of both the Viscount Cultural Council and the MLH Committee, designed the first brochure (still used today) which announced "Margaret Laurence ... a Prairie Person at Heart."? By 1985, when the Margaret Laurence exhibit of Laurence artifacts in the Post Office building had outgrown its room in the building's basement, some members from the Viscount Cultural Council branched out to form the MLH Committee. The purchase and restoration of the Margaret Laurence Home commenced in 1985. At that time, the house at 312 First Avenue, which was built by Laurence's grandfather in 1895, was a boarding house for mentally handicapped girls. It was about to be sold to a developer, who planned to demolish it. Laurence had lived in this house from 1936 until 1945, the year she left Neepawa tostudy at university. The house had come to symbolize in Laurence's novels authority and power, along with the perseverance and intrepidity of pioneers like her grandfather. The Neepawa Area Development Corporation, dedicated to the growth and promotion of tourism, offered $10,000 to any group interested in buying and developing the house. The MLH Committee decided to buy the $40,000 house from Muriel Mackenzie in October 1985. Laurence herself showed a genuine concern for how the home restoration would develop. She wanted it to be used rather than become a stuffy museum. In 1986, Laurence wrote to the committee saying: "I was delight­ ed to learn that the Old Simpson House has been purchased. It means a very great deal to me that the old brick house will remain in the town and will survive;" She continued to donate many of her own artifacts to the Home's museum until her death onJanuary 5, 1987. During the first years of renovations, the committee took in paying tenants (local artists) to offset the costs. The home's kitchen became the temporary head office and showroom of the Viscount Cultural Council, which used the space to promote other local artists. The Viscount Cultural Council donated all of its col­ lected Laurence artifacts and eventually moved into a building called the Manawaka Gallery, along Hamilton Street. This arrangement suited both organi­ zations, as they now had the abundance of space needed to fulfill their particular mandates. Today, the kitchen operates as the Manawaka Books, Gifts and Souvenir Shop, and the parlour, now restored with hardwood flooring and antique furniture bought or donated from the local surrounding area, is the home of many of Laurence's memorabilia and artifacts, which have since spread into the upstairs area. The home was designated a Provincial Heritage Site in 1989. In 1991 a past committee president, Brian Curtis, convinced CBC Radio's Peter Gzowski to interview him about the Margaret Laurence Home on his popular show "Morningside." During the interview, Curtis mentioned that the committee was raising funds through private donations and the sale of Laurence's own memoirs, which had been posthumously published by McClelland and Stewart in 1989. The final payment on the mortgage ofthe house was then made through the sale ofthe five hundred hardback copies ofLaurence's Dance on theEarth donated to the MLH Committee in 1990 by McClelland and Stewart publishers. OnJune 24,1992, the MLH Committee burned the mortgage to the Margaret Laurence Home in a ceremony dedicated to Margaret Laurence's contributions to the town. At this time, the then president, Lawrence Hargreaves, thanked "all board members and other volunteers who helped make 1992 a success," stating that "We must continue to fulfill our mandate to promote, develop, and preserve historical biographical property, both real and personal, relating to Margaret Laurence and promote ... education and tourism.?" Earlier that year the Laurence children, David andJocelyn, donated to the home university robes, fourteen cere­ monial hoods, honorary degrees, and Laurence's old Remington typewriter on which she typed almost all of her novels. In 1997, between May and October, the Home received over 4,000 visitors, sug­ gesting it had developed into a very popular spot for tourists. During the school year, tours are conducted for student classes from Winnipeg and other neighbour­ ing cities. In October 1996, Neepawa's mayor, Roy McGillary, declared Margaret Laurence Week, commemorating Laurence's life and work. The week included a Gala Evening at the Neepawa Yellowhead Centre, video clips of the renowned author, and Canada Post's unveiling, in her honour, of a special postage stamp which featured the Margaret Laurence Home symbol. All proceeds from this event were directed towards the continued operation of the Home. Besides these one­ time grand events, literary workshops, book launchings, Elder Hostel educational programs and conferences occur regularly; and the MLH Committee raises funds from the local Neepawa residents through its annual antique auction held on the Home's front lawn. Proceeds from this annual event have traditionally been in the range of $5,000. Books and souvenirs are sold also inside the home to offset the home's upkeep costs. The latest project, initiated by the Laurence Home Committee, is a plan to improve and expand the Home's wrap-around porch, in response to summer visitors' requests to sit and have tea there. The popular and commercial tourist brochures for Manitoba and in particular the Yellowhead Highway Route have, since the early 1980s, promoted the town's association with the famous Canadian writer; and Neepawa's fifteen hundred vari­ eties of flowers are available for viewing in July and August. Historically, the Lily Nook Festival took precedence over the Laurence Home as a tourist attraction. The last three years, however, have seen a dramatic increase in the popularity of Margaret Laurence's life and writings about the town. This rise in popularity coin­ cides with the broader attempts of regional and provincial proponents of tourism to promote and preserve Manitoba's heritage. Popular tourist publications have marketed, since 1990, the province's 150 commemorative plaques, and over 160 museum and heritage sites. Prominent among them is the Margaret Laurence Home. The Museums in Manitoba 1997brochure highlights this marketing strategy with such statements as, "Manitoba's museums offer a wonderful opportunity to experience the best of our memories and our rich heritage."?" Local visitor guides (in existence since 1993), created through advertisement space and published by members ofthe local Chamber ofCommerce, now place Margaret Laurence on the front page, highlighting her former home as open to the public and containing much of her memorabilia. Other recent regional publications, developed out of the city ofWinnipeg, also actively promote the town's Margaret Laurence Home as a "living museum of the famous Canadian author's life and work."" Commercial publications, such as the most recent 1997 publication, An Architectural and Lily Walking Tour, produced in collaboration with Neepawa's Viscount Cultural Council, the Board ofDirectors for the Beautiful Plains Museum, the Historic Book Committee, McClelland and Stewart publishing house, the Margaret Laurence Home Committee, Chamber of Commerce, and the Legislative Library of Manitoba, offer an historical illustration and narrative of Neepawa which incorpo­ rates the Margaret Laurence Home as both the childhood home of a famous Canadian author and a historical heritage building. Once concerned only with the alleged scandalous paragraphs from one ofLaurence's novels, tourism proponents have, particularly since her death in 1987, promoted both her status as a writer and her heritage connection with the town of Neepawa. Today, this prairie town attracts almost 10,000 visitors annually. Numbers have increased greatly as a result ofincreased promotion in the area's cultural heritage and ecotourism which is now marketed through the town's Lily Week, historical walking tours, and other promotionalactivities (see Figure 2). Laurence's geographical construction ofManawaka's cultural heritage, however, does not coincide with the cultural heritage reconstructed through the town's lit­ erary tourism industry. It is not Laurence's passionate emotional relationship with Neepawa that is being commodified; instead, it is the qualities associated with the birthplace of "Canada's most successful novelist?" that are mainly promoted. Her use of specific locations as 'metaphors and symbols of small-town attitudes and hypocrisy has been deliberately overlooked. The constructed cultural heritage of Neepawa does not reflect Manawaka's images. Instead, it is designed to represent a pioneer town, established and popu­ lated by immigrant farmers long before the turn of the century. The former Neepawa CPR station, whichaccelerated immigration from the East and abroad by bringing Ukrainian, Polish, Scottish and German settlers onto the prairie, has been preserved in the Beautiful Plains Museum. There colourful displays pay tribute to the early immigrant settlers and attempt to replicate the General Store, Post Office, Barber Shop and authentic artifacts from the Riel Rebellion. The museum also houses an "authentic" chapel, equipped with wooden pews, silver sacrament trays, and even an early casket. Laurence's descriptions of Manawaka's early settlers emphasized, however, not only the isolation of small groups of immigrants in a harsh climate and vast land as they were struggling to build a respectable and financially successful Protestant community, but also the flaws produced by such an existence. Laurence also carefully outlined the town's social and physical divisions in her novels. Manawaka's social structure is a rigid hierarchy based on money and race. The geography of the town and outlying countryside reflects and reinforces this social structure. Its main areas include the quiet residential Main Street, lined with brick houses and inhabited by the affluent. She also depicts a commercial centre of office buildings and stores owned by affluent professionals, businessmen and merchants of mainly European descent, as well as an area of poorer houses near the Canadian Pacific Railway tracks, which cut across and further divide the town. Removed from the town's boundaries were impoverished farms which lay isolated, "...§Ja 0 ~ ~ ~ ~ 4 ~&-u! # ~ ~ e :e 1;.~~ 0 E \94- i)~ ~ E Cf) ~~ ~ Q,~.; ".~ q' at Elizabeth St.

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1 MargaretLaurence Home I .Adelaide Cr. 28eaOO101 PlainsMuseum 3NeepawaTown Hall McGilSt. 4 RiversideCemetery Q~' \JJ--v..e SRiverbend Park \ o 500m, I I o 1500 ft. Figure 2. Existing tourist sites in Neepawa. particularly in winter, and the huddled shacks of the Metis, who inhabited the val­ ley beyond. Noticeably absent from the reconstruction ofNeepawa's cultural heritage is the native Metis population. The origins of native peoples in and around this area of the prairies, and the early racist attitudes depicted in The Diviners and The Stone Angel, are not indicated anywhere in the tourist literature or on any of the land­ marks. Similarly, the Neepawa town dump, known in Laurence's fiction as the "Nuisance Grounds," is also carefully tucked away at the east end ofthe outskirts of town. To literary tourists, the landmarks which Laurence used to reveal another side of small-town prairie life - the 'stark and sickening reality offilth and disease, the facts of death that her grandfather's funeral parlour and the town's cemetery were designed to conceal- remain obscured. Yet, ironically, it was these very land­ marks that evoked such an incredibly strong emotional sense of this town for the writer, and which have consequently drawn thousands ofvisitors annually. The Fictional Manawaka's Marginalized Geography While it is true that there are several landmarks in the town ofNeepawa that are geographically consistent with Laurence's Manawaka (the cemetery, the Brick House, the railway tracks, the numerous churches and the stone angel monu­ ment), the community seems to prefer a disinfected version of its history and pio­ neer culture to the "warts and all" version found in Laurence's prairie fiction canon. Laurence's five novels explore how the insular life created through Manawaka's social mythology and harsh depictions ofdysfunctional relationships, chronic alco­ holism, unfulfilled dreams, loneliness, and despair. These images become indelible representations of Laurence's small-town prairie landscape. Her meticulous descriptions of the town of Manawaka, its precise geographical landmarks and their corresponding events and emotional experiences, shape and influence the visitor's anticipation of the actual prairie town of Neepawa. The fictional Manawaka is, like Neepawa, a small prairie town, somewhere west ofWinnipeg. Laurence intertwines the fiction with the actual so that her Manawaka descriptions mirror similar statements made about Neepawa; she emphasizes the isolation of small groups of immigrants in a vast land, struggling to build a respectable, financially successful and Protestant community. This was, for Laurence, the settlement and land that were my first and for many years my only real knowledge of this planet, in some profound way they remain my world, my way ofviewing. 13 The town's social and physical divisions are carefully outlined in Laurence's inter­ views and novels. She recollected a childhood experience in Neepawa which showed her that all of us cast stones in one shape or another. In grade school, among the vulnerable and violet girls we were, the feared and despised were those few older girls from what was charmingly termed "the wrong side of the tracks."14 The Stone Angelwas published in 1964. Throughout this story of ninety-year-old Hagar Shipley's last days, Laurence, inspired by her own childhood and adolescent prairie experiences and memories, explored the causes of Hagar's loneliness: her personality, gender alienation, and, above all, her fear of death. The protagonist's problems in this novel seem to reflect Laurence's own concerns with the religious ideology and issues of class and gender identity in which she had been raised. Consequently, she can be said to use the physical landscape of her fictional Manawaka to express the theme ofhuman divisiveness. The next two novels, the Governor General's Award winners AJest ofGod (1966) and TheFire-Dwellers (1969), explore other inhabitants ofManawaka. In AJest ofGod, characters like Rachel Cameron's mother are used to depict all that is insidiously wrong with the small-town outlook. Laurence describes these second- and third­ generation people as having lived in Manawaka long enough that they prefer not to be disturbed. They have been socialized to remain emotionally inhibited gossips. When at last Rachel partially overcomes her emotional inhibitions and mistakes a tumour for pregnancy, she sees herself as a victim of God's sense of humour. This act of recognition of herself as a fool when viewed from a wider perspective liber­ ates her from the small town's constrictive and petty behavioural norms and beliefs. Rachel leaves Manawaka for Vancouver, not sent into exile as the town's people would like to believe, but rather to a life beyond the petty attitudes and lifestyles of Manawaka and its people. It would appear from the novel that, as an emblem of human divisiveness, Manawaka exists as much within a person as it is a physical landscape to be lived in. Her next two Manawaka publications, A Bird in the House (1970) and the Governor General's Award winning The Diviners (1974), clearly show the relation­ ship Margaret Laurence bestows on both geographical and social marginality in her writing. A Bird in the House focuses on childhood memories of Neepawa, and The Diviners associates untended land with liberated desires and a source of spiri­ tual renewal. The most powerful expression of marginality is in The Diviners. The Neepawa town dump represents the awkward, embarrassing, but actual disorderli­ ness of much of human life; referred to in the novel as the "Nuisance Grounds," the dump becomes the burial place for aborted fetuses, the town's unofficial ceme­ tery," Margaret Laurence's literary relationship with the town ofNeepawa began at an early age. In a 1982 Toronto interview with Helen Hutchinson, Laurence stated that she believed a writer's material was collected at an early age: when you're a child the physical environment makes a strong impact on you, although you don't recognize it at the time. As a child you look at things very carefully, you notice a great many things about the environ­ ment and the country that you wouldn't notice later on. The country, the land is after all, very close to a small town; it'sjust beyond the brow ofthe town hill. So that, although I didn't actually ever live on a farm I lived very close to open country ... and this stands out in my memory... 16 This prairie was also Laurence's childhood playground. Her impressions of this place and the people who lived, however, required her own unique set of images to represent them in her fictional writings. The voices of Laurence's Manawaka speak a Canadian vernacular. Many of the local characters who inspired characters in her stories are represented as self-sufficient, inward-looking and conservative people who turn their backs on an outside world which they perceive as an over­ whelming threat. What Margaret Laurence did in her writings was to ,..,§J' tJi ~ 4 ~~ ~ 1'(t ~ 0 . ~ ~ .c ~ ~~~! .1:: # E 1-~ '\. ~ en C ~. ~ 6 ~~~~ == 8izabeth St

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Figure 3. The geography of Manawaka's marginal tourist places. store her experiences ofNeepawa and transmute what she knew and what she felt ofit into a created fictional world. All the history ofher town had been woven into the fabric of the Manawaka works...17 The particular vision of a prairie town which appears in this fabric reveals a place whose inhabitants are all: victims of the prairie's Manawaka culture, its bigotry, its Calvinist self­ repression, its dedication to a few limited and life-denying truths which may have sustained the pioneers but which stifle the next generation and isolate them from the life which should be accessible to them.IS By intertwining imaginative storylines with actual Neepawa landmarks, Laurence has created a compelling correspondence between real life and fiction. This combination of make-believe narrative and factual setting imaginatively trans­ posed in her writing enables Manawaka to take root in both heart and mind: This is where my world began. A world which includes the ancestors both my own and other people's ancestors who became mine. A world which formed me... A world which gave me my own life work to do, because it was here that I learned the sight of my own peculiar eyes." If the literary influences of Manawaka resonate so deeply because of the fictional town's specific historical and geographical authenticity, what are the actual refer­ ences which generate such verisimilitude? The literature is dense with references to places, objects and characters related to Neepawa. As Clara Thomas states: No town in our Canadian literature has been so consistently and exten­ sively developed as Margaret Laurence's Manawaka. Through five works of fiction, it has grown as a vividly realized, microcosmic world, acting as a setting for the dilemmas ofits unique individuals and also exercising its powerful dynamic on them. Manawaka is also specifically, historically, and geographically authentic, dense with objects and true to its place." The following discussion identifies many of the important literary landmarks that comprise Laurence's Manawaka world. These landmarks are predominantly located on the margins of the town, which is not accidental. They include: the social divi­ sions in the town's layout, the Air Force training base with its dance hall, Clear Lake, the "Nuisance Grounds," the valley with its shacks for socially outcast occu­ pants, the Wachakwa River with its trestle bridge, the funeral parlour, the Riverside Cemetery with its celebrated "stone angel," and the Brick House where Grandfather Simpson lived. Figure 3 indicates most of these literary landmarks. These references will be elaborated on in detail to show how they relate to Laurence's Manawaka writings and, at times, her own life experiences. The town of Neepawa possessed social and economic divisions that became clear to Laurence at a very young age. Neepawa's grid pattern of residential and business streets was intersected by two railways, the CPR and CNR, at right angles; Laurence applies this division metaphorically in her novel The Diviners: The Scots-English equivalent of The Other Side of the Tracks, the shacks and shanties at the north end of Manawaka.... Hill Street was below the town; it was inhabited by those who had not and never would make good... Occasional labourers, men whose tired women supported the family by going out to clean the brick houses on top of the hill on the streets shad­ ed by sturdy maples, elms, lombardy poplars. Hill Street, dedicated to flops, wash-outs and general no-goods at least in the view of the town's better-off." Along the Neepawa main street are further reflections of the "divisions" in this town. At the north-east corner there is the cemetery which overlooks the valley along with the numerous churches found in the town. At the south-east end there are the old Nuisance Grounds since relocated on a plateau farther east. On the eastern edge of Neepawa lies the town garbage dump where children, including Laurence, played. In a 1984 interview with Ralph Phyllis, Laurence said of the dump: "the 'Nuisance Grounds', as they were described, were one of the main things to play at, where you would find lots ofgood stuff."22 Some literary licence is taken with the location of these Nuisance Grounds. In The Diviners, for instance, they are placed nearer the cemetery at the opposite end of town: "Ifyou drove out there most occasions you'll find someone going through the garbage."23 In The Stone Angel, childhood memories of play at the Nuisance Grounds are used dramatically to reveal contrasting character traits between high- and low-town children: Here were crates and cartons, tea chests with torn tin stripping, the unrec­ ognizable effluvia of our lives, burned and blackened by the fire that sea­ sonally cauterized the festering place... Then we saw a huge staggering heap of eggs, jarred and broken by some wagoner and cast here, unsaleable. July was hot that day... We saw, with a kind of horror that could not be avoided, however much one looked away or scurried on that some ofthe eggs had been fertile and had hatched in the sun. The chicks feeble, foodless, bloodied and mutilated, prisoned by the weight of bro­ kenshells all around them, were trying to crawl like little worms, their half-mouths opened uselessly among the garbage. I could only gawk and retch, I and the others, all except one.

Lottie, light as an eggshell herself ... took a stick and crushed the eggshell skulls, and some of them she stepped on with her patent-leather shoes." But it was a scene in The Diviners describing Christie Logan's reading of the garbage that transformed the dump into a powerful symbol ofhypocrisy exposed. It was through the Nuisance Grounds that Laurence passed judgment on Manawaka society: "By their garbage shall ye know them," Christie yells, like a preacher, a clowny preacher. "I swear, by the ridge oftears and the valour ofmy ances­ tors, I say unto you, Morag Gunn, lass, that by their ... garbage shall ye christly well known them. The ones who eat only out of tins. The ones who have to wrap the rye bottles in old newspaper to try to hide the fact that there are so many of them. The ones who have fourteen thousand pill bottles the week now. The ones who will be chucking out the family albums the moment the grandmother goes to her ancestors ... they think muck's dirty. It's no more dirty than what's in their heads.?" The valley, located near the Nuisance Grounds, was home to many unfortunate Manawaka characters whose circumstances and personality were inspired by actual Neepawa people. The social pariahs and Metis lived in this part of both Neepawa and fictitious Manawaka. Here is how the place was described in an interview with one of Neepawa's residents, Catherine Simpson Milne: There's a valley just below... That valley - the Willartons lived down there. Mr. Willarton was the man who collected the garbage. Of course, this was (in the mid-1930s) before the waterworks. So there was soil to be

taken care of. All this went with the idea of the Nuisance Grounds.26 Another of Laurence's fictional characters is based on a real Neepawa inhabitant, namely "Pat the Breed." Gerald Murray, another Neepawa resident, confirmed in a 1980 interview the actual existence of the inspiration for this character when he explained: Margaret Laurence specifically wrote about some people that I can relate to ... They lived down in the flats, down where the garbage collector lived ... The flats are still there. Their condition may be a little bit, but not an awful lot better. There was a small group of Metis who lived there." The valley is used in three of Laurence's prairie fiction novels as the place where the Metis family, the Tonnerres, lived. Each time, it is associated with pover­ ty and discrimination. In her accounts of the Tonnerre family, Laurence particu­ larized her knowledge of the deplorable conditions of many of the Metis by creat­ ing images that resonate deeply within the readers of her fiction. The fictional Wachakwa River and the trestle bridge are also important land­ marks in The Stone Angel. The river is described as the place where Dan fell through the ice, caught pneumonia and died." In the same novel, a trestle bridge carrying the railway tracks over the river is identified as the place whereJohn, another char­ acter, played dare with the Tonnerre boys and where a fatal accident killed both himself and his girlfriend." In the collection of short stories, A Bird in the House, Vanessa MacLeod.serves to explain further the vividness of this river landscape: Just below Manawaka where the Wachakwa River ran brown and noisy over the pebbles, the crub oak and grey-green willow and chokeberry bushes grew in a dense thicket. In a clearing at the centre of the thicket stood the Tonnerre family's shack. The basis of this dwelling was a small square cabin made of poplar poles and chinked with mud... Jules Tonnerre had only intended to stay the winter in the Wachakwa Valley, but the family was still there in the thirties, when I was a child. As the Tonnerre's had increased, their settlement had been added to, until the clearing at the foot ofthe town hill was a chaos oflean-to's, wooden pack­ ing cases, warped lumber, discarded car tires, ramshackle chicken coops, tangled strands of barbed wire and rusty tin cans." In three of her prairie novels, Laurence makes reference to Niall Cameron's Funeral Chapel. This setting was inspired by another Neepawa landmark, the Simpson Funeral Home. The family residence on the second floor was where the father of Catherine Simpson Milne, a cousin of Margaret Laurence, was born. He later took over the funeral business. In her childhood, Margaret Laurence would visit and play at this place, conveniently located next door: The funeral parlour was right next door to my home... This was a very mysterious house to all of us because it was the undertaker's. We used to watch the mourners in black coming out to go with the hearse to the church and then to the cemetery." This personal childhood experience was the inspiration for similar fictional situa­ tions in The Fire-Dwellers and A Jest ofGod: Stacey, seventeen, coming in late from a dance behind the Caragana hedge to avoid encountering her mother, who had come downstairs in her dressing gown and was trying to open the mortuary door, which was locked. "Niall-you come upstairs and quit drinking. I know what you're doing in there. I know you." And the low gently terrifying voice in reply - ''You really think you do?"32 In The Stone Angelthere is another important incident associated with a funeral par­ lour. This time it is the Telford Simmon's Funeral Parlour, where Hagar was threat­ ened as a child by her brothers that if I told they'd take the saw-toothed bread knife that hung in the pantry and open my throat and I'd bleed to death and be left as empty and white as Hannah Pearl's stillborn baby that we'd seen in the Simmon's Funeral Parlour in its white satin box." Yet another place in Neepawa and her fictional Manawaka is the cemetery where, as a child, she often went walking with her stepmother. The Riverside Cemetery in Neepawa has peonies over most of the graves. Laurence disliked peonies because of their association with death, especially the deaths of her par­ ents. One ofthe monuments in the cemetery, the Davidsons' stone angel, was actu­ ally ordered to commemorate the town's first female doctor. When Margaret Laurence wrote and named her novel The Stone Angel, she had no knowledge of a monument of the sort in Neepawa's cemetery. The impression made by stone angels in a cemetery in Genoa, Italy, which she had seen on her voyage to Africa, stayed with her, to be resuscitated and used in her novel. In this novel, the fiction­ al marble statue becomes the first, largest and certainly the costliest tombstone in the cemetery, marking her mother's grave: Above the town, on the hill brow, the stone angel used to stand. I wonder if she stands there yet, in memory of her who relinquished her feeble ghost as I gained my stubborn one, my mother's angel that my father bought in pride to mark her bones and proclaim his dynasty, as he fan­ cied forever and a day.34 The fictional monument, like the real stone angel, was also brought from Italy at terrible expense and carved from pure white marble by stone-masons who were the cynical descendants of Bernini, gouging out her like by the score, gauging with admirable accuracy the needs of fledgling pharaohs in an uncouth land." As in the real Neepawa, so in the fictional Manawaka, settlers wanted to leave mon­ uments to their wealth and status. Laurence used the memories of her childhood home extensively in her Manawaka fiction. How she tried to use them is conveyed in a 1968 letter to Clara Thomas: One would like to convey a feeling of flesh and blood immediacy, and feeling that this was what itwas like to be this particular person in this par­ ticular place, with all the complexity and detail that implies." Many of these memories centre around the time Margaret, and her step-brother Robert, first arrived at Grandfather Simpson's home after the death of her father. Margaret's stepmother was not allowed to unpack or use any of her own dishes or possessions. Laurence stated her feelings about this move into the brick house in her memoirs, Dance on the Earth (1989), where she explains that For reasons of practicality and finances, my mother and brother and I moved to the big house... I felt very odd about that move. I had loved that house all my life, but it was for visiting, not for living in. It was my grand­ father's stronghold and he ruled it like Agamemnon ruling Mycenae or Jehovah ruling the world. It had its secret comers, its fascinations, but it was his domain, not mine. It did become mine, in time... In fact when I think of my childhood home, it is that one more than any other that comes to mind." Laurence's grandfather's attitudes are paralleled in her portrayal of Grandfather Connor in A Bird in the House, when Vanessa's mother is not allowed to unpack her china, the barrels going into storage in the basement: "I don't know why you're unpacking all that stuff, Beth," Grandfather Connor remarked. "It'll just have to go back in again... We've got no room for it here," my grandfather said decidedly. "It'll have to go in the basement... No buts about it... we don't need no china ofthe MacLeods. We got plenty ofour own. I'm not having it up here.?" Margaret Laurence consistently portrayed her real life grandfather as the most powerfully realized portrait of the patriarchal pioneer, the self­ made man. He is proud, tough, self-disciplined and demands obedience from others... He never shows love ... only ... anger." Consequently, the childhood home on First Street does not translate into fiction as a place ofwarm and loving memories. That Brick House in her Manawaka fiction is referred to as the "Old Connor Place." It is described in A Bird in the House as being as plain as the winter turnips in its root cellar, sparsely windowed as some crusader's embattled fortress in a heathen wilderness, its rooms in a perpetual gloom except in the brief height of summer. Set back at a decent distance from the street, it was screened by a line of spruce trees whose green black branches swept down to the earth like the sternly pro­ tective wings of giant hawks ... on the lawn a few wild blue violets dared to grow, despite frequent beheadings from the clacking guillotine lawn mower, and mauve-flowered Creeping Charley insinuated deceptively weak-looking tendrils up to the very edges of the flower beds where hel­ meted snapdragon stood in precision." Margaret Laurence's Brick House has now been restored so that the public may visit one of the principal locations which inspired her Manawaka literature. Laurence's fictional Manawaka and its surrounding area are a fully realized, three-dimensional place with its own history and social ambiance. We can easily orient ourselves to its social structure, to its streets and buildings, to the geography of its surroundings. Yet, if one visits Neepawa, the inspiration for this imaginary world, and looks for a reconstruction ofits literary heritage, the experience would be incomplete.

What Do Tourists Want? During the months ofJuly and August 1997, we conducted and completed 103 surveys designed to ascertain the particular expectations and degree ofsatisfaction associated with Margaret Laurence's town of Neepawa, Manitoba. Findings clearly demonstrated that it is the expectation of experiencing the fictional town of Manawaka and its numerous sites, portrayed in The Stone Angel (1964), AJest ofGod (1966), TheFire-Dwellers (1969), A Bird in the House (1970), and The Diviners (1974), that draws most visitors to this town. Further, many stated that it was Laurence's fic­ tion which served as the respondent's first interpretation and production of the values and emotions attributed to this Canadian region, as it was the first trip to the prairies for some of the visitors. As stated earlier, the institutional or official version of the prairie landscape is a very different "place" from the Manawaka described in the writings of Canadian author Margaret Laurence. According to the survey findings, most tourists were anticipating a Manawaka experience, one that included Laurence's marginalized geography, but visited only Neepawa instead. By means of the survey questionnaires, tourists' anticipation ofand encounters with Margaret Laurence's town of Neepawa and the prairie region were estab­ lished. Socio-demographic data indicate that the tourist respondents conform to a profile ofhighly educated, older, middle-class vacationers. The majority ofrespon­ dents had traveled to the site from within their own country and many from with­ in their own province. A high percentage of these tourists were retired. A smaller sub-group identified from the responses to questions of employment status con­ sisted ofyoung students. Seventy-three percent oftourist respondents were female. Questions addressed directly the issue of what expectations tourists had of Neepawa prior to their visit, and of what kinds of emotions they attached to this town and its surrounding prairie landscape after their visit to the Margaret Laurence Home. The first set offindings were categorized under four main headings (see Table 1), revealing that visitors do have clear anticipations for their experience of Neepawa. The descriptions given indicate that Neepawa is expected to present the physical appearance ofa "typical small prairie town," but with an emphasis on par­ ticular physical features such as "the cemetery," "churches," "isolated location," "well treed," and a positive appearance described as "lovely" and "clean" and "well kept." These expectations of the town's physical appearance spill over into a range of adjectives that clearly define the social ambience of Neepawa; "homogeneous," "Protestant," "very conservative," "respectable," "closed community," even, "insidi­ ous small town" with divisions between social status which may be reflected through the town's physical appearance. Examples such as these seem to inject a critical tone into the expectations. Many tourists made direct references to the town's literary connections by declaring prior knowledge of Laurence's books. They made comments such as "[I] wondered if the town was like the books described" and "[I expected from reading] some ofher novels that it would look like Manawaka." Evidence of the existence of literary influences was alluded to in 39 percent ofthe responses from Neepawa. The responses to this question represent important findings in the relationship between tourist expectations of "place" and the influence of literary figures. Other responses, however, demonstrate little or no connection between the town's literary associations and visitor expectations. In Neepawa, 27 percent of the tourist respondents wrote "no comment," 7 percent explained that they were resi­ dents of the town, and 3 percent indicated previous visits to Neepawa. These num­ bers are significant because they may indicate the influence ofother important fac­ tors which caused tourists to visit these small towns. Table 1: Expectations of Neepawa

Expectations of Town's Physical Features Referenced Expectations of Margaret Laurence's Town small prairie town (12) I wanted to see the M.L. home (9) pretty town (5) wasn't sure, maybe Manawaka (3) the cemetery (4) Came to learn about M.L's Manawaka prairie town isolated (3) To see where M.L. grew up rural town (2) M.L's Neepawa older homes (2) saw the sign to M.L. home and was curious the lily nook (2) to see M.L. home town clean country town, respectable (2) Neepawa that M.L. wrote about churches (2) M.L. connection centered on the prairies (2) M.L's relationship with this place a beautiful communityw/ lots ofhistory ''Vanessa McCleod" and "Morag Gunn's" home town grey town some ideas from her novels that itwould look like Manawaka well kept, very conservative homogeneous quaint Anticipated Emotional Response to Town expect to see small insidious town depressed (2) flat landscape and small town anxious closed community, one main street hard to integrate, lots ofgossip Protestant prairie town wonderful religious divisions between social status dusty and dry upstanding No Comment (28) lovely well-treed area Neepawa Resident (7) farming town Previous VISit (3) "normal" southwestern Manitoba small town with the clash of th e modern gas station and obsolete farming way oflife pile of salt large trees on most streets big and thriving The second question to be discussed solicited descriptions of the way respon­ dents felt about the prairie landscape. The responses show that the emotions evoked by the Manitoban landscape were powerful and mixed. The feelings asso­ ciated with the landscape in Neepawa did contain significant feelings of"love" and "appreciation" for the "beauty" of Manitoba. Twenty-four respondents expressed such views; one even described the landscape as "colours on rolling landscape ­ like a puffy quilt." Twenty-two respondents showed a strong preoccupation with a sense of "isolation and loneliness." Only eight respondents referred to "dryness" and "harshness," or mentioned the natural surroundings of "wheat fields" coupled with a belief in the "strength," "health," "resilience," "heartiness," "courage," "adventurousness," as well as the "friendly" and "hard-working" characteristics of the inhabitants. Fifteen respondents declared that the prairies gave them strong feelings of "home." Responses which allude to or state directly feelings ofnostalgia or a longing for the past were not forthcoming in Neepawa. Instead, the ambience of a small town and its inhabitants was expressed in nine responses, which characterized the place as "insular," with "stifling attitudes," "secretive," "religious," "conservative," "quiet," and "unpretentious." There were seven direct references to emotions inspired by memories ofMargaret Laurence's life and her Manawaka writings. One visitor even referred to her visit as a type of "pilgrimage." The number of "no comments" for this question was relatively low at 7 percent, which, again, emphasizes the emotive Table 2. Tourist responses for each site in the town of Neepawa and its surrounding area

Official Tourist Site Responses Grandfather's Brick Home (Now good tour of home itself Official Margaret Laurence Home and Museum) could have been restored to original condition interesting, nicely restored representing- many memories of days g-oneby different than I imagined more real objects from Margaret Laurence needed beautiful veranda nice brick home I liked the tour, but it could have been longer more affluent than I expected very detailed I thought it would have more to itlike more furniture and artifacts from its generation beautiful It's nice to see this house so well treated very nice - g-reatold homes very pretty - beautiful homes big-g-er, people friendlier than expected busy and more modern than expected looked inviting feeling-nostalgia about how this town used to be neat tidy and colorful smaller than expected and I didn't think it would be so well kept from the outside more upscale than I expected expected more discussion about her life here this house, even thoug-h it's a private residence, should have a sig-n needs some recognition a map to this place!! where was this? didn't see this too hard to find Laurence's Museum within Home Better shape than I expected, really well restored thought it would be bigger thought it would be set up as if she lived there enjoyable tour more artifacts magical Laurence's Typewriter did not expect to see this nice surprise, touched by seeing her creativity expected a computer very humble Neepawa's Riverside Cemetery (not too orderly not 'wild' or abandoned like I imagined an official Laurence tourist site) larg-erand prettier than imagined interesting more crowded than expected I liked the stone angel well looked after needs a Mar garet Laurence sig-nfor tourists the stone angel needs to be washed should be better signs and maps to this place I have never encountered anything-like this in Neepawa residents should be proud this place was quite moving- magical place wonderful emotional place too neat, I expected it to be more rustic it was bigger and more manicured than expected Neepawa's Mainstreet (not an typical small prairie town features official Laurence tourist site) clean should look more traditional very active no sig-nsof Laurence at all expected it to look less prosperous nice, quaint small town thought it would be more rundown, instead of beautiful with old trees (Outlying Landscape surrounding I haven't seen any, only fields ofwhea t Neepawa) I thought the crops would be more lush I thought the landscape would be flatter powers ofthe landscape. Emotions were varied and generally not passive: Neepawa was either strongly admired, or regarded with contempt. Many of the respondents of this question acknowledged the part that different sources played in shaping their emotional expectations. The third question dealt with tourist encounters with Neepawa and its official tourist sites, artifacts displayed within the Margaret Laurence Home itself and the town's streetscape more generally. These responses reflect some interesting degrees ofsatisfaction. While some people felt that the town's sites exceeded their expectations, many others felt disappointment at the manner in which the site was presented to tourists. Table 2 is a detailed account oftourist responses for each site in the town of Neepawa and its surrounding area. Many of the sites listed received minimal comments. From this we deduce that either congruency existed between people's expectations and their encounters, or the sites did not resonate as part of a visitor's expectations and so were deemed insufficiently important for comment. What was mentioned by many visitors was gratitude for the Laurence sites that were made available, but also disappointment in the lack of opportunity to view her many vivid literary references to Manawaka. Conclusion We have attempted to provide a comprehensive understanding of Margaret Laurence's marginalized literary geography and most importantly an understand­ ing of the many factors involved in the cultivation and development of literary landmarks for tourism. Still, the exact reasons why Margaret Laurence's fictional Manawaka geography has not yet been developed fully remain unclear. It is cer­ tainly not because tourists do not expect and anticipate these sites of marginality. Perhaps, as MacCannell states, there are patches ofsocial reality growing out ofthe collective experience of tourists and this constructed social reality is eventually assembled by the proponents of tourism. In the case of Margaret Laurence's Neepawa, further research applying a similar methodology and taking place sever­ al years down the road would prove quite rewarding in being able to gauge whether or not the local proponents of tourism have responded to the collective experi­ ences and expectations ofvisiting literary tourists as expressed in this study.

Notes 1. Dean MacCannell, The Tourist: A New Theory ofthe Leisure Class (New York: Schocken Books, 1976), 5. 2. Ibid., 53. 3. Ken Waddell, "Editorial" in The Banner (weekly Neepawa publication),July 30, 1996. 4. Interview with Ivan Traill, February 17, 1998. 5. Interview with Dorothy Henderson-Campbell, August 27, 1997. 6.James King, The Life ofMargaret Laurence (Toronto: Vintage Canada, 1998),259. 7. Neepawa Tourist Brochure (Neepawa Development and Tourism Association, Margaret Laurence Home Archives, 1983), 1. 8. Brandon Sun, September 8, 1995, p. 3. 9. Margaret Laurence Newsletter2, no. 2 (1992): 3. 10. Museums in Manitoba 1997 (Winnipeg: Association of Manitoba Museums and the Ministry of Culture, Heritage and Citizenship, 1997), 2. 11. Bill Stillwell, Western PeopleMagazine (January 30, 1997): 9. 12. George Woodcock, "Many Solitudes: The Travel Writings of Margaret Laurence," in Christyl Verduyn (ed.), Margaret Laurence: An Appreciation (Peterborough, ON: Broadview Press, 1988),29. 13. Margaret Laurence, Heart ofa Stranger (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1978),237. 14. Ibid. 15. Margaret Laurence, The Diviners (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1974),24. 16. Helen Hutchinson, "Margaret Laurence in a Personal Interview" with comments from Professor Walter Swayze, Mrs. Anne Ross and Professor A.G. Bedford (1982), reprinted in the Margaret Laurence Review (December 1994): 68-69. 17. AG. Bradbury, "Canadian Fiction ofMargaret Laurence" (M.A thesis, McMaster University, 1987),4. 18. Ralph Phyllis, "Personal Interview" (July 25, 1982), reprinted in the Margaret Laurence Review (December 1994): 6. 19. Walter Swayze, "Remarks," Margaret Laurence Review 1, no. 1 (1991): 45. 20. Clara Thomas, "The Town - Our Tribe" in The Manawaka World of Margaret Laurence (McClelland and Stewart, 1975), 173. 21. Laurence, The Diviners, 28. 22. Greta M.K Coger, "Margaret Laurence's Manawaka: A Canadian Yoknapatawpha," in Colin Nicholson (ed.), Critical Approaches to the Fiction of Margaret Laurence (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1990),234. 23. Laurence, The Diviners, 70. 24. Margaret Laurence, The Stone Angel (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1964), 26-28. 25. Laurence, The Diviners, 122-23. 26. Coger, "Margaret Laurence's Manawaka," 235. 27. Ibid., 240. 28. Laurence, The Stone Angel, 23-25. 29. Ibid., 239-241. 30. Margaret Laurence, A Bird in the House (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1970), 114. 31. Coger, "Margaret Laurence's Manawaka," 240. 32. Margaret Laurence, The Fire-Dwellers ( McClelland and Stewart, 1969), 44. 33. Laurence, The Stone Angel, 6. 34. Ibid., 1. 35. Ibid., 3. 36. Clara Thomas, Margaret Laurence (Toronto: Macmillan Press, 1969), 10. 37. Margaret Laurence, Dance on the Earth (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1989), 127. 38. Laurence, A Bird in the House, 175. 39. Coger, "Margaret Laurence's Manawaka," 238. 40. Laurence, A Bird in the House, 3. 41. MacCannell, The Tourist, 5. The Origins and Development of Manitoba's Provincial Park System

John C. Lehr

ABSTRACT. Manitoba's system of provincial parks was initiated in 1960 in response to increasing pub­ lic demands for recreational access to public lands. After 40 years of development, four generations of provincial parks may be identified. Each generation responded to different social, economic and polit­ ical circumstances. The first generation of parks in the early 1960s established multiple-use areas man­ aged under the classic "wise-use"philosophy ofthe Gifford Pinchot school of conservation. Second gen­ eration parks were created in the late 1960s and early 1970s, mostly as by-products offederal-provincial conservation projects. Third generation parks moved towards systems planning, and fourth generation parks, created since 1985, have reflected changing philosophies of conservation and acceptance of a preservationist role for provincial parks. The geography of Manitoba's provincial parks system is explained in terms of shifts in public attitudes and the response of government to changing philoso­ phies both within and beyond Manitoba. SOMMAIRE. Le systeme de parcs provinciaux du Manitoba fut mis en oeuvre en 1960 en reponse aune demande accrue pour l' ouverture du domaine public aux activites de loisirs. Apres 40 annees de developpement, on peut distinguer quatre generations de parcs provinciaux. Chaque generation repondait ades circonstances sociales, economiques et politiques differentes. La premiere generation, au debut des annees 1960, etablit des espaces polyvalents regis par la philosophie "usagejudicieux" de l' ecole de conservation Gifford Pinchot. Les parcs de la deuxieme generation furent crees a la fin des annees 1960 etau debut des annees 1970, et derivaient en general de projets de conservation federaux/ provinciaux. La troisieme generation se dirigea vers la planification des systemes ; et les parcs de la qua­ trieme generation, en existence depuis 1985, refletent les changements de philosophie ainsi que I'ac­ ceptation d'un role de conservation. La geographie du systeme de parcs provinciaux du Manitoba s'ex­ plique en termes de changements dans I'attitude du public et de la reponse du gouvernement a des changements.de philosophie au Manitoba aussi bien qu'a l'exterieur,

Introduction Access to publicly owned wild land for recreation is now so commonly regarded as an intrinsic right by Canadians that few could conceive ofa situation where gov­ ernment at all levels did not set aside land for that purpose. It was not always so. The first national parks were established in the United States and Canada only in the closing decades of the nineteenth century.' These first parks were spawned by the great political and social debates of the time: the issues of publicly-owned land and its management. Led by Gifford Pinchot, conservationists in the "enlightenment" camp advocated the wise man­ agement, conservation, and multiple-use of resources, whileJohn Muir and fellow transcendentalists argued from a quasi-religious standpoint that wild lands fulfilled a vital spiritual role and should be set aside for the public good." Both agreed on the need for national parks but differed on the question oftheir purpose. This con­ flict was never fully resolved and is enshrined in the confused mandates ofnational parks in both countries. This environmental debate also affected the genesis, devel­ opment, and geography of the provincial park system of Manitoba. This article has three objectives: first, to identify the antecedents ofManitoba's park system; second, to explain the system's development as it responded to a vari­ ety of economic, political, and social stimuli; and third, to assess the impact of changing public attitudes on the role and geography of the provincial park system in Manitoba. Federal Land Policies Like most other provincial park systems, Manitoba's is relatively young, estab­ lished only in 1960. 3 Its antecedents, however, lie in the land policies of the feder­ al government in the late nineteenth century when the Canadian West was in the process of being settled. In the last decades of the nineteenth century the federal government set aside tracts offorest land in western Canada which it deemed unsuitable for agricultur­ al settlement. Designated as forest reserves, these were intended to be managed under the principles of scientific forestry favoured by the Commission of Conservation chaired by Clifford Sifton. The objectives pursued by the Commission were to optimize resource use by regulating grazing, capping gas wells, controlling timber harvesting and so forth, so as to manage land efficiently and use resources wisely. In the forest reserves, multiple use was encouraged but regulated to maximize long-term benefits. Mining, lumbering, quarrying, grazing, haying, reservoirs, and hydro-electric sites were all permitted but agricultural homesteading and tourism were not.' Although the federal government had no interest in developing recreational opportunities for the small population some independent private cottage areas were developed on lake fronts within Manitoba's forest reserves. Most of these were established by local residents, as at Clear Lake in Riding Mountain, Lake Max in Turtle Mountain, and Island Lake in Duck Mountain, and to a lesser extent in the Porcupine, Sandilands and Spruce Woods Forest Reserves." The idea of creating a national park in Manitoba was considered as early as 1919, but the impending transfer ofall federal lands to provincial control triggered federal interest in doing so while it held control ofall Crown lands in the province." The first area earmarked for designation as a national park was a portion ofthe Whiteshell Forest Reserve in southeastern Manitoba.' Opposition to a park in this area centred on the routing of a proposed Trans-Canada highway through the middle ofthe park - and the economic loss incurred by restricting exploitation of the minerals in the area. Another forest reserve, Riding Mountain, was proposed as an alternative and better site. This area was not considered to have mineral potential and was not about to be bisected by highway developments." A commissioned reconnaissance of both areas concluded that neither site was worthy of designation as a national park but national political concerns required designation of a national park in Manitoba. A well-organized campaign by seventy rural municipalities, towns, and villages in central Manitoba, promoting Riding Mountain Forest Reserve as a national park, cited its superior scenery, its big game, its accessibility, and the economic benefits of its central location, which would oblige tourists to spend more time and money within the province." After Premier Bracken visited Ottawa in 1929 to complete negotiations on the terms of the Land Transfer Agreement, the federal government agreed that Riding Mountain would be the better site." Following the Land Transfer Agreement of1930, provincial legislation placed most federal lands under provincial jurisdiction. Former federal forest reserves were assigned to the Forest Branch of Manitoba's Department of Mines and Natural Resources under the auspices of the ForestAct (1930), and the Manitoba Provincial Lands Act (1930). Creation of the Whiteshell Provincial Forest Reserve the follow­ ing year laid down the legal foundation for what was to become Manitoba's provin­ cial park system thirty years later," EarlyRecreational Management 1950-1960 During the 1930s, public demand for park and recreation areas in Manitoba grew slowly. Cottage development and camping were most prevalent in the Whiteshell Forest Reserve. The scenic beauty of the rugged shield country, its forests, rivers and lakes, and its proximity to Winnipeg made it a popular destina­ tion for Winnipeggers bent on outdoor recreation." Recreational use of the other provincial forest reserves increased only slightly in the 1930s and 1940s, and was always very localized. Increased prosperity of the 1950s gave new mobility and increased leisure time to the middle class. The popularity of the mass resorts developed by the railways along the southern basin ofLake Winnipeg waned as the population turned to the automobile." These changes became evident as early as 1950 with significant increases in the recreational use of the Whiteshell Provincial Forest Reserve and Riding Mountain National Park. The steady rise in visitors to Whiteshell Forest Reserve was partly due to the completion of the Trans-Canada Highway from Winnipeg to the Whiteshell forest. It soon became the most important recreation area under provincial control.vUse was concentrated on a small number of popular lake shores where overcrowding, poor sanitation and inadequate facilities drew public criticism. The Department of Mines and Natural Resources found it difficult to keep up with a seemingly insa­ tiable public demand for recreational facilities in what, after all, were still provin­ cial forest reserves. J.D. Somner, deputy minister of the Department of Mines and Natural Resources, suggested centralizing the administration and development of recreation areas under a separate Provincial Parks Branch, and that a Provincial Parks Act be introduced: re-organization is urgently necessary if forestry and recreational develop­ ment are not to suffer more seriously... whatever facilities are developed will require additional staff, who are properly qualified for the work at hand... 15 After some heated debate within the provincial bureaucracy, an agreement was reached to change the administrative structure of the Department: the Forestry Branch would take over responsibility for all sixty-six developed recreational areas on provincial lands outside the provincial forests as well as maintain its management of all recreational areas within the forest reserves." This was implemented in 1961 following the passage of the Provincial Parks Act on March 26, 1960. 17 This created a coordinated and coherent system for the provision and management of outdoor recreation in Manitoba. First-Generation Provincial Parks The new Provincial Parks Actclearly espoused a conservationist multiple-use phi­ losophy, which envisioned the provision of recreational opportunities while still retaining established patterns of resource extraction. In essence, the new parks were little different from the forest reserves from which they had been carved. Provincial parks and recreational areas were to be for "the use, benefit, health, enjoyment, recreation and education ofthe citizens ofManitoba and visitors to the province.'?" Preservation ofwilderness was not listed as a function of the parks. Four provincial parks were established in 1961 under the authority of the new Act. Whiteshell (1056 sq. miles), Turtle Mountain (73 sq. miles), and Duck Mountain (492 sq. miles) were carved out of former provincial forest reserves; Grand Beach (9.5 sq. miles) was a former CNR resort area on the east shore of Lake Winnipeg noted for its splendid beach. In addition the government officially established forty provincial recreation areas, a host of tiny wayside parks and a few heritage areas (Fig. 1a) 19 Administration of the newly created parks and recreation areas taxed the resources of the Forest Branch, hence a Parks Branch was created within the Department ofMines and Natural Resources. This new Branch assumed responsibility for all provincial recreational lands in 1963. Its creation led to the formalization of the park planning process in Manitoba." Reconnaissance surveys were initiated and a general policy statement articulated the mandate awarded by the Provincial Parks Act.21 This policy maintained the multiple-use concept previ­ ously practised by the Forestry Branch in its forest reserves. It stressed development for recreational purposes, utilization of forest resources, conservation of fish and game and preservation of the scenic and natural attractions of the parks, but the stress was on development, rather than preservation. The recreational values of the parks were emphasized only to the extent that they were to be given preferential treatment. The proponents of the Provincial Parks Act, firmly schooled in conservationist philosophy, intended active develop­ ment of park resources, believing that "it is very difficult to maintain a healthy for­ est without utilization." The Act was crafted so as to ensure that it would not become a vehicle to block resource extraction: Most of the areas contemplated to be made parks have geological forma­ tions favourable to mining or oil production. Many ofthe proposed Park areas are not yet fully explored for minerals and therefore we don't want to enact legislation which would block such explorations. The [Provincial ParksAct] will allow for special controls in respect to the location ofmine shafts, etc. so that these will not interfere unduly with the predominant recreational use." C.H. Whitney, the minister then responsible for administration of provincial parks, was a stalwart conservationist with little time for the transcendentalist phi­ losophy of Muir and the Sierra Club: Ifwe are to dwell in semi-religious philosophy of renewable resources, I contend the Good Lord gave us wealth not to be wasted or treated casu­ ally. What we have been given must be cherished and preserved, wise use Figure 1. The growth of the provincial parks system in Manitoba. Figure la (left), first-generation parks 1962; Figure Ib (right), second-generation parks 1965-1972

Figure lc (left), third-generation parks 1975-76; Figure Id (right), fourth-generation parks 1985-2000 and management will please the Creator more and serve his purpose intelligently ... the Province cannot afford to isolate forever potential forest and mining revenue despite the tourist revenue that ... Parks engender," Nevertheless he was a strong proponent of parks which embodied the multi-use concept." The wording of the Provincial Parks Act was somewhat vague but it made clear that although recreational values were to be protected whenever possible, there was no immunity from other development or resource extraction."

Second-Generation Parks During the later 1960s and early 1970s Manitoba's provincial park system was expanded in a rather haphazard fashion. Lands were turned over to the Department ofNatural Resources for recreational development for a variety of rea­ sons, most ofwhich had little immediate bearing upon the needs ofthe Department or the recreational needs of the population. There was consistency, however, in the character of lands that were brought into the system. With few exceptions, all new provincial parks were created from lands that were of no great economic value in that the land involved was Crown land of marginal agriculturalquality, generally with little potential for mineral extraction and oflimited forestry potential." In 1964 the province announced its intention to create three new parks as a centennial project: a 5,500 acre park by the Shellmouth reservoir (Asessippi Park), a 57,700 acre park in the Assiniboine Valley between the north and south blocks of Spruce Woods Forest Reserve (Spruce Woods Park), and a 9,300 acre park in the

Birds Hill area alongside the Red River Floodway (Birds Hill Park) (Fig. 1b).27 Each of these parks was sited with less regard for recreational potential or local demand than for the desire to seize an opportunity to create provincial parkland from otherwise marginal territory. Asessippi Park, for example, was a by-product of the building of the Shellmouth Dam on a tributary of the Assiniboine as a regula­ tory and conservation measure. Birds Hill Park had a similar genesis. During the 1960s the provincial government became increasingly aware of the need for land­ use planning to reduce conflict between resource use, recreation and wildlife con­ servation." It saw potential to create provincial parks close to Winnipeg to serve the burgeoning urban demand for recreation, a strategy earlier successfully employed by Ontario in the Bronte Creek "near-urban" park development.v'Winnipeg had a good potential near-urban park site in the Pine Ridge area, a rugged area of mar­ ginal farm land on fluvio-glacial deposits near to the village of Birds Hill, some twenty kilometres east of the city," Spruce Woods Provincial Park was also funded partly by Agricultural and Rural DevelopmentAct (ARDA) money. The core of the new park was Crown land between the north and south blocks of the Spruce Woods Forest Reserve, but 10,105 acres of private lands were acquired from thirty-five private owners with ARDA assis­ ranee." The original concept of Spruce Woods Park was for limited development "to provide for the nature enthusiast" and to let cultivated agricultural land revert to a natural state, for this was the area celebrated by the renowned conservationist and prolific writer Ernest Thompson Seton in The Trail ofthe Sandhill Stag, and it was the outdoor laboratory of the Criddle family of pioneer naturalists." It was soon realized that with some boundary changes Spruce Woods could embrace a primary role within the parks system." Grass River and Clearwater Lake, established shortly afterwards, were both located in the north of the province and were the first parks established with the idea ofrepresenting specific ecosystems. A suggestion to establish these parks, one at Athapapuskow (Grass River Provincial Park) and the other at Simonhouse in Cormorant Forest Reserve (Clearwater Provincial Park), was given enthusiastic sup­ port by the Minister of Mines and Natural Resources." Although both areas had some cottage developments serving The Pas and Cranberry Portage, both were seen primarily as parks representing either a unique ecosystem (Clearwater Lake) or a typical northern riverine environment (Grass River). In both cases, because the lands were "unencumbered Crown lands," parks were established with relative ease. In 1969, the Hecla and Grindstone areas of Manitoba's Interlake region were set aside as a provincial park and recreation area respectively (Fig. 1b) .35 Part ofthe rationale for turning over these areas was to complement the efforts being made to revitalize the depressed rural economy of the region under the auspices of a Fund for Rural Economic Development (FRED) program." Indeed, the original suggestion originated from the people of the community in 1964. Their proposal envisaged creation of a recreation park, a cottage site area and wildlife manage­ ment as ways to revitalize a dying community. It was also felt that pressure ·on the more congested resort areas in the Whiteshell forest would be relieved by estab­ lishment of a high-class Interlake resort area." In 1966 the Parks Branch was transferred from the Department of Mines and Resources to the Department of Tourism and Recreation, reflecting a heightened concern with recreation, conservation and preservation. In 1972 a new Provincial Park Lands Act broadened the mandate of the Branch and widened the range of park types. Parks were re-dedicated to the people of Manitoba for the "healthful enjoyment and the cultural, educational and social benefits that may be derived therefrom," but the new Act did not change the stance of the previous Act insofar as exploitation of the resource base was concerned." To accommodate this new mandate the Parks Branch was empowered to create parks or facilities as appropriate in any of twelve classifications: i) provincial natu­ ral parks; ii) provincial wilderness parks; iii) provincial recreation parks; iv) provin­ cial recreational trail ways; v) provincial parkways; vi) provincial recreational water­ ways; vii) provincial heritage parks; viii) wayside parks; ix) marine parks; x) access sites; xi) information centres; and xii) seasonal dwelling areas.

The Third Generation: Towards a Planned System By the early 1970s it was clear that the haphazard acquisition of parks had cre­ ated a geographical and ecological imbalance in the parks network which was incompatible with effective management of park resources. If this was to be recti­ fied, long-range planning and efficient management policies had to be introduced. Provincial parks had to be planned from a systems approach." Systems planning aims to achieve a balanced park system which represents major ecological zones, reconciles the demands of the various recreational users, and minimizes conflicts between recreational and resource use. It considers the parks as part of an integrated system to enable resource managers to plan effec­ tively and to identify gaps in the delivery of recreational opportunity or in the preservation of specific topographies or landscapes." A systems plan was initiated in 1974. As a first step, Manitoba's natu­ ral regions were identified (Fig. 2). The basic components ofrelief, geology, geo­ morphology, soils and vegetation were mapped and then combined by overlay to produce twelve discrete regions. The preservation ofan area representative of each of these regions became a major element of the subsequent plan." Regional imbalance in the system of parks was immediately apparent. Four of Manitoba's twelve natural regions ­ the Arctic Tundra, Hudson Bay •• Provincialand HeritageParks _ NatlOnf1lPark Lowlands, Pembina Tiger Hills and the Nafutal RegIOnS OfMamtoba Northern Transition Forest - were not 1. Nol1bem1i'ansitlofI F«e$t 2.Areticiunch. .. HudsonBayl..oWlarKls represented by any of the major natural 4. Precambri8n Bema!Forest /i.ManllcbalAwlend$ "~JOllkPa.tfchlnclll or recreational parks. r.weateitlUplIUld .. Soun.TllIPltlln t.1lIlIGRlftPmlrllJ 1G.TurUeMoun1alrl n.Pemblna/Tlgel'HilIs The Ideological Clash 1t.~DeIIa Nevertheless, the Parks Branch still A reacted to opportunities placed before

o ttft'--100 it rather than adhering to a clear policy Figure 2. Manitoba's natural regions and provincial ofpark development. For example, land and national parks. at the confluence of the La Salle and Red Rivers was acquired, and later developed as St. Norbert Heritage Park, when the owner approached the government with an offer to sell to the province at a reduced price if the land was used as a provincial park.42 Land along the Assiniboine River at Headingley, immediately west of the limits of the city of Winnipeg, was purchased in 1975 to establish Beaudry Park "to protect the scenic qualities and particular floral/faunal characteristics of Assiniboine River bottom lands," and to encourage the development oflinearly oriented recreation activities such as cross-country skiing, hiking, and cycling by providing a destination for par­ ticipants from Winnipeg (Fig. 1c).43 Clearly, planning issues relating to Winnipeg's urban field prevailed over the ecological values of the systems plan. Nopiming Park, north ofthe Whiteshell forest, was established in 1975 for polit­ ical and recreational management reasons. By the mid-1970s, pressure to expand cottage subdivisions in Whiteshell Provincial Park threatened to erode its scenic qualities, hence, Nopiming was established as a multiple use park, to provide for intensive recreational development around the more accessible lakes while con­ tinuing"traditional resource use," including trapping, wild rice harvesting, hunt­ ing, and mineral exploration and extraction." Nevertheless, even this park pro­ posal drew protests from the Department ofLands, Forests and Wildlife Resources: Benefits to the area to local people and to Manitoba would ... be greater if the area was developed according to the multiple use concept rather than as a provincial park. Multiple use development would allow recre­ ation and resource use to be integrated so that neither use would be unduly affected and maximum benefits from the area would be obtained." The Parks Branchjustified the park not by any philosophical appeal for wilderness preservation but on economic grounds, citing the benefits of multiple-use of resources and the creation of 90 year-round and 250 seasonal park-relatedjobs," The multiple-use concept for parks was firmly entrenched in the land-use poli­ cies of successive Manitoba governments regardless of their political orientation. Such views ofdevelopment and resource management were widely held in Canada in the 1970s. Parks Canada had then only recently articulated a policy which embraced the preservationist model of parks - namely that a major function of national parks was to preserve the ecological value of the land rather than to pro­ mote tourist and recreational development." Indeed, resource extraction was then permitted in a variety of national parks: stock were grazed in Prince Albert National Park and parts ofWood Buffalo National Park were logged. At the provin­ ciallevel in Manitoba, the situation was similar. Provincial parks were seen by most politicians as natural resources and hence open to an array of non-recreational activities including logging, mining, grazing and so forth. As in most of Canada, the survival ofwilderness in Manitobawas mostly "a result oftechnological and eco­ nomic limitations on development and exploitation," rather than a result of any widespread perception of wilderness as a valuable asset in its own right.48 Wilderness was seen as superabundant- more ofa threat than threatened - until well into the 1960s. Even today when wilderness preservation is widely regarded as not only desirable but necessary, there is far from unanimity on the issue. Ironically, whereas conservationists in the 1920s and 1930s fought to save parks for tourism, the 1970s they have been fighting to save them from tourism." The debate over the role of Manitoba's provincial parks parallelled this. Advocacy groups espousing restriction of development in parks and preservation of wilder­ ness areas increasingly conflicted with those committed to the scientific manage­ ment model of resource conservation. This was clearly seen in the long battle to establish a wilderness park between Lake Winnipeg's east shore and the Ontario border. The struggle to designate Atikaki Provincial Park in 1985 pitched the wise­ use resource conservationist lobby against the preservationists bent on protection ofwilderness under the rubric of the provincial parks system.

The Fourth-Generation Parks: A Shift to Preservation? In 1964 Sterling Lyon, minister of Mines and Natural Resources of the Progressive Conservative government, suggested the development of a second national park in Manitoba along the Lake of the Woods shoreline." Subsequently a federal study concluded that two areas in Manitoba warranted consideration for national park status: the Cranberry Portage region near The Pas, and an area east ofLake Winnipeg embracing the Bloodvein River. Cranberry Portage was ruled out by the numerous mineral claims registered in the area; but the Bloodvein area was unencumbered in this regard as human activity was limited to 4 commercial fish­ ing sites, 3 tourist camps, 2 outcamps, a shooting lodge, and 21 wild rice harvest­ ing permits. Habitation was then limited to 59 summer homes and 29 Metis and squatters at Hole River and Loon Lake." Despite the low levels of economic activity, the pristine nature of the area, and its clear merit for designation as a national park, successive provincial governments hesitated to transfer the land to federal jurisdiction. The opportunity cost of a national park is far greater than that ofa provincial park since all potential mineral and forestry resources pass from provincial to federal control. The senior econo­ mist with the Department of Mines and Natural Resources argued that the province wouldbe better advised to concentrate on the Hecla Provincial Park pro­ posal, where it was hoped that the FRED would pick up 90 percent ofthe costs and Manitoba would still retain control of all the resources in the area." Although all indications were that the Bloodvein region had low mineral potential, the province fretted that no detailed geological survey of the area was available nor would the federal government finance such a survey. Premier Schreyer hoped that the province could retain mineral rights even if the area became a national park. This is impossible under the terms ofthe National Parks Act. The proposal eventually fell into abeyance, a victim of politicians wedded to a nineteenth-century conservation philosophy who were reluctant to measure natural heritage in anything but eco­ nomic terms, and, it should be added, the opposition of area residents fearful of adverse economic impacts." That a provincial park rose like a phoenix from the ashes of this proposal was due to the efforts ofa loose coalition ofactivists advocating the creation ofa wilder­ ness area east of Lake Winnipeg. This "Atikaki Coalition" suggested that the Province create a 4;950 square mile wilderness park encompassing the Bloodvein River, to lie adjacent to a similar wilderness park proposed for the Ontario side of the border.54 Although this proposal received widespread public support, provin­ cial politicians in both Ontario and Manitoba regarded the issue as a political hot potato." The issue, once again, was "wise use," or rather multi-use of the resource base as specified in the Park Lands Act, matched against the preservation of wilderness areas. Put bluntly, it was jobs or aesthetics. The Reed Paper Company objected to the wilderness concept, as did the Ontario-Minnesota Paper Company, which alleged that the Atikaki Coalition wanted to take over "half of Northwestern Ontario" and create an "economic disaster for the Kenora area.'?" What momen­ tum this wilderness park proposal had achieved quickly dissipated when Ontario backed out ofthe scheme, apparently convinced by the economic arguments ofthe resource industries. A change ofgovernment in Manitoba saw the Atikaki initiative sputter to a halt when, in May 1979, the provincial government signed a secret agreement granting timber rights to a large tract of the proposed Atikaki park." Resurrected by a subsequent government, Atikaki was set aside as a park reserve in 1983 but shortly .thereafter the secret agreement with the Abitibi-Price Paper Company came to light, throwing the entire legitimacy of the area's wilderness sta­ tus into question." The government, sensitive to potential loss ofjobs in the paper industry, balked at renegotiating the logging agreement with Abitibi-Price. The then minister of Mines and Natural Resources stated that "I am not interested in fighting Abitibi-Price, I'm interested in satisfying their needs and accommodating society's nceds.?" Not surprisingly a vigorous debate erupted, fuelled by the revelation that the area to be logged within Atikaki would keep the pulp mills operating for only two days." Public opinion, now swinging in favour of the preservation of Atikaki's wilderness status, placed sufficient pressure on both the provincial government and the paper company that a compromise was reached whereby alternative cut­ ting areas were granted to Abitibi-Price and the wilderness status ofAtikaki was pre­ served." Atikaki was designated as a Provincial Wilderness Park, but its integrity remained fragile until the passage of new legislation in 1993 (Fig. 1d). Interpretations of the meaning of "wilderness" by the provincial government then allowed for the incorporation of trapping, forestry and some lodge operations, with virtually no restrictions on the use ofaircraft or powerboats within the park." Indeed, in the initial proposal to establish Atikaki as a provincial park in 1983, the minister of Mines and Natural Resources stated that "existing fly-in lodges [were] an integral part ofthe park reserve and expansion within the limitsofresource car­ rying capacity and economic feasibility would be encouraged.?" Other government departments were more direct. Officials of the Forestry Branch saw no reason why logging operations should not continue in Atikaki right up "to the banks ofany river or stream with no adverse effect upon any user group, with the possible exception of 'Wilderness Naturalists' who ... should get in closer touch with reality."?' Subsequent legislation specified that "logging, mining or the development of oil, petroleum, natural gas or hydro-electric power" is not permit­ ted in wilderness parks or park zones; but other activities which many feel com­ promise the integrity ofwilderness areas are, or may be, permitted: access by pow­ ered vehicles, lodge development, fly-in fishing, and so forth." Nevertheless, given the economic and political pressures brought to bear by the resource development lobby it seems remarkable that Atikaki achieved provincial park status, let alone designation as a wilderness area. The "Greening" of the Parks System The battle to create Atikaki as a wilderness park drew attention to the multiple­ use strategy of the Provincial Parks Branch at a critical time. Internal studies con­ ducted by the Branch revealed that although all types of resource harvesting allowed in Manitoba parks were permitted by one or more provincial park juris­ dictions, Manitoba was the most wide-open system in terms of the range and inten­ sity of resource harvesting in the parks. At the same time, with the publication of The State ofthe Parks and the GreenPlan in the early 1990s and, on the internation­ al stage, the publicity from the Brundtland Report after the "Rio Summit" of 1987, attention was focussed on the need to protect more of Canada's lands.66 In Manitoba this new ethos was reflected in a determination to set aside substantial areas as wilderness reserves and provide them with immunity, albeit limited, from development." In the mid-1990s the province designated Sand Lakes and Numaykoos Lake as provincial parks and, pending resolution ofFirst Nations land claims in the region, Caribou River and Amisk as provincial park reserves (Fig. 1d). These new parks were all in the northern part of the province; remote and inaccessible, they were in areas oflimited forestry or mineral potential, and clearly had little attraction for the mass recreation market. Whether their creation was politically opportunistic or not, their designation was certainly reflective of a new determination to protect what could be protected within a complex economic and political milieu. Their creation enabled the provincial government to move toward fulfilment of its sys­ tems plan, to approach its goal ofprotecting 12 percent of the province, and, inci­ dently, to receive a coveted higher grade from the World Wildlife Fund in its annu­ al appraisal of governments' ecological records. Conclusion Four generations of provincial parks may be identified in Manitoba. First-gen­ eration parks were based on provincially owned lands with a history of recreation­ al use. Second-generation parks were by-products of conservation projects or grew out of attempts to rationalize the rural and urban system. Third-generation parks ostensibly arose out of the embrace ofsystems planning, though the evidence sug­ gests that expediency was the principal force behind their creation; they marked the beginning of more systematic planning, but paradoxically their designation owed a great deal to expediency. Fourth-generation parks reflected a new concern with preservation ofwild lands in their natural state. Successive park legislation has reflected shifts in public attitudes. A once uncrit­ ical acceptance of the "enlightenment" view of conservation has given way to a grudging recognition of preservationist philosophy. The debate over the purpose and management of provincial parks has transcended conventional political align­ ments because labour and capital both share the same economic paradigm where­ in long-term environmental issues are eclipsed by immediate concerns for jobs or profits. The debate has been more often polarized along urban-rural lines because most wilderness preservation beneficiaries "are urban residents whose individual stake in its preservation is small," whereas those whosejobs are forfeited as wilder­ ness is protected, pay a much higher price." The "sustainable development" concept embodied in the most recent (1993) provincial parks' legislation attempts to balance the multifaceted demands placed on the provincial parks. Early generations of parks were carved out of working landscapes. It is clear thatwithin these parks long-standing activities, which include resource extraction, are not likely to be discontinued in the near future. If preser­ vation of Manitoba's wilderness is to be seriously undertaken within the existing framework of the provincial parks system, then it will be in the fourth generation ofparks where resource extraction and intensive recreation activity are not already entrenched. Since its inception, the Manitoba provincial parks system has seen areal and geographical expansion. Equally significant has been the expansion in its vision and its accommodation of new paradigms of land management, as it has responded to the shifts in perception and the changing demands of the people it serves. Notes 1. The world's first national park was Yellowstone, established in the United States in 1872. Canada was the second nation to create a national park when it established Banff National Park in 1885. Argentina followed in 1905 when it first set aside land as a national park. 2. See, for example, S. Hays, Conservation and the Gospel ofEfficiency (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1959); R. Nash, The Rights ofNature: A History ofEnvironmental Ethics (Madison: The University of Wisconsin Press, 1989); and D.M. Taylor, "Disagreeing on the Basics: Environmental Debates Reflect Competing World Views," Alternatives 18, no. 3 (1991): 26-33. 3. Ontario, Quebec, and British Columbia established provincial parks in 1893, 1894, and 1911 respec­ tively. Most other provinces' systems were created considerably later. See, Kenneth Morrison, Thomas R. Walls, and Janice Bloomfield, "The Alberta Provincial Park System, A look at its development," Parks and Recreation 16, no. 3 (1980): 8-12; see also Revised Statutes ofNewfoundland 1952. Vol. 1, "The Provincial Parks Act," Chapter 49, pp. 379-381; New Brunswick Acts 1960-61, "Parks Act," Chapter 14, pp. 71-75; Nova Scotia Laws 1959, "Provincial Parks Act," Chapter 7, pp. 44-49; Laws ofPrince Edward Island 1956, "The Provincial Parks Act," Chapter 25, pp. 79-81. 4. L. Bella, Parks for Profit (Montreal: Harvest House, 1987). 5. Canada, Sessional Papers, "Interior" 1914-24; H.D. Moffat, "Policy and Practice in Manitoba Provincial Parks," in J. Jack and JJ. Keleher (eds.), Parks for Manitoba: Policy and Practice (Manitoba Environ­ mental Council, Study No. 14, 1981),4. 6. Canada, Order-in-Council, PC 612, April 19, 1928. 7. Ibid. 8. Provincial Archives ofManitoba (PAM), F. Kennedy., to PremierJohn Bracken, Winnipeg, 10 March 1928, MG 13 12, Box 19, Premier's Office Correspondence 1927-28, File 230; ibid., j.n, Brodie, to PremierJohn Bracken, 6 April 1928, MG 13 12, Box 19, Premier's Office Correspondence 1927-28, File 230; ibid., R W. Cautley, "Investigations of Suggested Sites for a National Park of Canada within the Province ofManitoba," unpublished ms. 1928. 9. J.N. McFadden, The Advantages of the Riding Mountain ForestReserve as a National Park for Manitoba (Dauphin, MB: Riding Mountain National Park Committee, 1928); PAM, MG 13 12, Box 19, File 230. 10. Canada, Order-in-Council, PC 2510, December 28,1929. 11. Province ofManitoba, Annual Report, Department ofNatural Resources, 1931. 12. Province ofManitoba, Annual Reports, Department of Natural Resources, 1950-1951. 13. lC. Lehr,. HJ. Selwood and E. Badiuk, "Ethnicity, Religion, and Class as Elements in the Evolution ofLake Winnipeg Resorts," Canadian Geographer35 (1981): 47-56. 14. Province of Manitoba, Annual Report, Department of Natural Resources, 1959. 15. PAM,J.G. Somner, to J.C. Cowan, Deputy Minister, Department ofMines and Natural Resources, 30 July 1956, MG Al4-2. 16. Province ofManitoba, Annual Report, Department of Natural Resources, 1961, pp. 55-56. 17. Province ofManitoba, Statutes: Provincial Parks Acts 1960, c 53 Elizabeth II, 425-432. 18. Ibid., 425. 19. Province ofManitoba, Annual Report, Department of Mines and Natural Resources, 1962, p. 27. 20. Province ofManitoba, Annual Report, Department of Mines and Natural Resources, 1964, p. 50. 21. Ibid., 51. 22. PAM,J.G. Cowan to Hon. C.H. Whitney, "Introductory Notes on Parks Act," 18 March 1960, GR 147, Box 1, TR Parks, Provincial Parks Act 1960. 23. PAM, C.H. Whitney, Minister of Mines and Natural Resources, "National Parks," 5 December 1961, Copy ofMemo, GR 147, Box 1. TR Parks. 24. PAM, C.H. Whitney, Minister ofMines and Natural Resources, to j.C, Cowan, 29June 1960, GR 147, Box 28 File 206.4. 25. Province ofManitoba, Statutes, 1960. 26. Provincial recreation areas were added in much the same fashion. St. Malo Recreation Area, for example, was a spin-offfrom a water management project. A PFRA reservoir flooded a part ofthe Rat River creating an artificial lake. The province was left with a 10-acre surround of expropriated lands of little value other than to provide access to the new lake and to artificial beaches developed along the earthen dam. With the addition of a further 160 acres of purchased land, an area for camping and day-use activities was set up enabling the province to create an ideal provincial recreational area only 60 kilometres south ofWinnipeg. See PAM, Rene Toupin, to Land Value Appraisal Commission, 2 August 1974, GR 147, Box 35, File 2-21; and Provincial Secretary, "Major Four-year Parks Program is Outlined," 13 April, 1964, GR 147 Box 4, TR. 27. PAM, "Manitoba to Create Three Centennial Parks," 13 April 1964, Department of the Provincial Secretary, Tourism and Recreation, Minister's Office Files, GR 147, Box 4. 28. PAM, George Hutton, Minister of Agriculture and Conservation, Winnipeg, to Maurice Sauve, Minister ofForestry, Ottawa, 9 April 1965, GR 147, Box 4 (Provincial Secretary). 29.J. Marsh, "Near Urban Parks, " Alternatives 5 (1976): 25-29. 30. Within the boundary of the proposed park, about 2,000 acres (about 25 percent) were already Provincially owned Crown land, about 2,000 acres were municipal land and the remaining 5,000 acres were owned by 157 private landowners. The costs of expropriation by the province were eased some­ what by a cost-sharing agreement with the federal government. Under the ARDA program, the fed­ eral government paid one-half of the cost of acquiring submarginal land in order to remove it from uneconomic agricultural production, and the Birds Hill area seemed to fall under that category of land, PAM, Hutton 1965; Davidson 1965. The proximity ofBirds Hill to Winnipeg caused land values even for submarginal land to be pushed higher than the $50 an acre limit later set by ARDA - even "raw bush" was assessed at $75 an acre - and the province was dismayed to receive only $300,000 from Ottawa, not the $450,000 it expected. Indeed, the southern boundary ofthis new parkwas deter­ mined by appraised land values rather than by any recreational or ecological rationale. PAM, "Birds Hill Park Landowners Association," Mines and Natural Resources, Minister's Office, 8 March 1965, GR 147, Box 4 (Tourism and Recreation, Minister's Office Files); ibid., Sterling Lyon, Minister of Mines and Natural Resources, "Recommendation to Cabinet," 16 March 1964, GR 147, Box 6, File on Expropriation Notices; ibid., Sterling Lyon, Minister of Mines and Natural Resources "Recommendation to Cabinet," n.d. [1964?], GR 147, Box 6, Birds Hill, and Minutes of Review Committee, Birds Hill Provincial Park "Re-compensation for expropriation of landowners," n.d., GR 147, Box 4 (Provincial Secretary); ibid., A. Davidson, Assistant Deputy Minister, Rural Development, Department of Forestry, Ottawa, to Hon. George Hutton, Minister ofAgriculture and Conservation, Winnipeg, 20 April 1965, Box 4 (Provincial Secretary). 31. PAM, W.W. Danyluk, Director of Parks, to S.W. Shortinghuis, A.D.M., 11 December 1964, GR 147, Box 1, TR Parks - Provincial Parks; F.B. Chalmers, Director of Lands, to Stuart Anderson, Deputy Minister, 3 December 1965, GR Box 147, Box 1, TR Parks - Provincial Parks. 32. PAM, "Cabinet Paper," Department of Natural Resources, 5 May 1965, GR 147, Box 1, Parks ­ Provincial Parks; ibid., W.W, Danyluk, to Ben Hanuschak, "Memorandum," 12 October 1976, GR 147, Box 53, File 2 - "Spruce Woods." See also Ernest Thompson Seton, Ernest Thompson Seton in Manitoba 1882-1892 (Winnipeg: Premium Ventures in cooperation with the Manitoba Naturalists Society, 1980); Ernest Thompson Seton, The Trail ofthe Sandhill Stag (New York: C. Scribner's Sons, 1900); and A. Criddle, Criddle-di-diddle einsis: A Biographical History ofthe Criddles ofAweme, Manitoba Pioneers ofthe 1880s (Winnipeg: the author, 1973). 33. PAM, "Spruce Woods Preliminary Development Plan," 25 November 1965; GR 147, Box 1, Parks­ Provincial Parks; ibid., "Cabinet Paper," Department ofMines and Natural Resources, 5 May 1965, GR 147 Box 1, Parks - Provincial Parks. This decision to expand the area and role ofSpruce Woods was undertaken with some trepidation, for the presence of some seven sections of Hutterite farmland formed an enclave within the park and the government had no wish to become embroiled in a com­ petition for park.lands with agricultural potential either with Hutterites bent on expansion or with local farmers seeking extension of grazing lands. Nor did the government wish to risk driving away the Canadian armed forces from the adjacent Department ofNational Defence (DND) training range at Shilo (yet the open sand dunes of the Bald Head Hills fell within the bounds of the DND proper­ ty, and this area was coveted for inclusion within the park). Desire to incorporate this area into the park, fuelled by the recognition that the Bald Head Hills were ecologically interesting and scenically spectacular, was tempered somewhat by the fact that for the previous 25 years the area had been used as a firing range and the military cautioned that live ordnance could be buried to a depth ofup to 30 feet. It was only in 1975, after extensive "decontamination" and the posting ofwarnings on all inter­ pretive trails that the Bald Head Hills section was incorporated, thus completing Spruce Woods Park. PAM, G.T. Somers, Assistant Director, Agricultural Crown Lands Section, to W.P. Janssen, Deputy Minister, 6 April 1976, GR 147, Box 53,2.2; ibid., C.H. Whitney, to Reg. Lissaman, MLA, Brandon, 9 July1963, GR 147, Box 1, TR Parks - Spruce Woods; Rene Toupin, to T.C. Martin, 10 April 1975, GR 147, Box 44, 2.2; ibid., W. Anderson, Chief Park Naturalist, Spruce Woods, to Martin Shoesmith, Chairman ofShilo Environmental Committee, 13 April 1974, GR 147, Box 35, File 2.2. 34. PAM, C.H. Whitney, Minister of Mines and Natural Resources, to J.C. Cowan, Deputy Minister, 29 June 1960, GR 147, Box 1, Parks and Recreation Areas - General; ibid., "Briefing notes - Clearwater Provincial Park, "n.d. [july 1969?], GR 147, Box 39, File F. 35. PAM, "Cabinet Paper," Department of Tourism and Recreation, 16 July 1969, GR 147, Box 9, Minister's Correspondence, TRCA, 900-940-9. 36. PAM, Sterling Lyon, Minister, Department of Mines and Natural Resources, to Secretary, Treasury Board, "Lake Winnipeg and Winnipeg Beach," 10 May 1968, GR 147, Box 8. 37. PAM, ReneToupin to Bob Wilson MLA, 25 February 1976, GR 147, Box 53,2-10, Hecla; PAM, and "Announcement, - Hecla Island Provincial Park," n.d. [july 1969?], GR 147, Box 9, Hecla Island Provincial Park. 38. Province of Manitoba, Statutes Provincial Park Lands Act, 1972, 21 Elizabeth II, Statutes ofManitoba. 39. R. Nuxoll, "Park Systems Planning in Manitoba," typewritten ms. (Winnipeg: Department of Tourism, Recreation and Cultural Affairs, Parks Branch, 1975). 40. See J.E. Gardner, "Park system planning: limitations in the pursuit of rationality," Plan Canada 30, no. 5 (September 1990): 12-15; and Environment Canada, National Parks System Plan (Ottawa: Environment Canada, Parks Service, 1990). 41. R. Wilson, Park SystemsPlanning in Manitoba: The Natural Regions Component (Winnipeg: Department ofTourism, Recreation and Cultural Affairs, Parks Branch, 1977). For a comparison of the Manitoba and Alberta Provincial Parks' approach to systems planning, see R.W. Trotter, "A Review ofProvincial Park System Evaluation in Alberta and in Manitoba" (B.A. dissertation, University ofWinnipeg, 1987). 42. PAM, H. Moody to Edward Schreyer, correspondence February:July 1976, GR 147, Box 53, File 2-21, Land-Acquisition-General. 43. W.W. Danyluk, "Submission of Management Committee to Cabinet," 1975, Province of Manitoba, Parks Branch; see also, Moffatt, "Policy and Practice... " The decision to proceed with the Beaudry project was spurred by a realization that land values along the Assiniboine River could climb dramatically if the local municipality were to approve a I-acre sub­ division plan. Furthermore, three of the four owners of property earmarked for the proposed park were willing to sell, hence only one expropriation ofa 250-acre parcel ofland would be necessary. The provincial agreement was somewhat wary of lengthy expropriation proceedings for park creation, afterthe Birds Hill experience where 195 separate land appraisals and expropriation proceedings had been required, and were anxious to secure the land before the legal and financial picture changed. Hence Beaudry Park was seemingly first mooted in 1973 and was designated as a provincial park in 1976. Sidney Green, Chairman of the Economic and Resource Development Sub-Committee of Cabinet, Submission to Cabinet: Potential Park Land, n.d. Park Designations File; David Johns to Wilson Parasiuk, Secretary, Resource and Economic Development Sub-Committee of Cabinet, 7 February 1974, Park Designations File, Province ofManitoba, Parks Branch. 44. PAM, Rene Toupin to W. Wedel, 19 December 1974, GR 147, Box 35, File 2. 45. PAM, Harvey Bostrom to Rene Toupin, Memo: Proposed Provincial Park and Cat Lake Road, 27 January 1975, GR 147, Box 43, Parks BranchJanuary:June. 47. PAM, Rene Toupin to Harvey Bostrom, "Re: Proposed Provincial Park at Cat - Long Lakes Road [Nopiming P.P.] 7 February 1975, GR 147, Box 43, Parks Branch,January:June 1975. 48. Leslie Bella, "The Politics of Preservation: Creating National Parks in Canada, and in the United States, England and Wales," Planning Perspectives 1 (1986): 189-206, Bella, Parks with Promise, 106-8. 49. Norman Henderson,'Wilderness and the Nature Conservation Ideal: Britain, Canada, and the United States Contrasted," Ambio 21, no. 6 (September 1992): 396. 50. Bella, Parks with Promise, 127. 51. PAM, Arthur Laing, Ottawa, to Sterling Lyon, Winnipeg, 10 June 1964, GR 147, Box 28, File 206.4, 1965-1971. 52. PAM, F.B. Chalmers, Director of Lands, to Stuart Anderson, D.M. Mines and Natural Resources, 9 March 1966, GR 147, File 206.4,1965-1971. 53. PAM, David Young to Stuart Anderson, 3 March 1966, GR 147, Box 28, File 206.4,1965-1971. 54. Legislative Assembly ofManitoba, Debates and Proceedings [Hansard], Elizabeth II, Vol. 21, 19 March 1974, 1583-1585, 2373-2375; PAM, W.K. Webster, Director of Forest Management, to O.S. Eagleton, Executive Assistant, 3 March 1966; ibid., Peter Burtniak, Minister of Tourism and Recreation, to Edward Schreyer, Premier, 27 May 1970; ibid., Lloyd Brooks, Assistant Deputy Minister, to J.1. Nicol, Director, National Parks Branch, Ottawa, 12 November 1970, GR 147, Box 28, File 2064. 55. Winnipeg Tribune, September 27, 1974, Winnipeg FreePress, September 27, 1974; E.G. Wong, Acting Director ofParks, to Derek Doyle, ADM, "Background on the Proposed Bloodvein National Park," 24 March 1982, Atikaki Documentation File, Province of Manitoba, Parks Branch. 56. Winnipeg Tribune, March 6, 1976. 57. Ibid.; ibid., July 9, 1977. 58. Winnipeg FreePress, September 21, 1985. 59. Derek Doyle, ADM, toJames Patton, Director ofParks, Memo: "Proposed Land Use Guidelines for a Designated Bloodvein Provincial Park Reserve, 16 September 1983, File F45-2, Province of Manitoba, Parks Branch. 60. Winnipeg FreePress, November 29,1985. 61. Ibid. 62. Winnipeg FreePress, December 21, 1985, and October 8, 1986. 63. R. Turenne, "Atikaki: The Promise Betrayed," Manitoba Parks and Wilderness 1, no. 2 (1992): 6-8. 64. A. Mackling [Minister ofMines and Natural Resources], "Submission to Cabinet," 25July 1983, Park Designations File, Parks Branch. 65. R. Wilson, Park Systems Planner to GordonJones, Head, Systems and Master Planning, 3 September 1982, Parks Branch. 66. Province of Manitoba, Statutes: Provincial Parks and Consequential Amendments Act, c 39, Elizabeth II, Statutes ofManitoba, 7 (5), 1993. 66. Gro Harlem Brundtland, Our Common Future (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987). 67. Roger Schroeder, "Manitoba's Provincial Park System: A Case Study in Linking Protected Areas and Working Landscapes," paper presented at The Third International Conference of Science and the Management of Protected Areas, Calgary, Alberta, May 12-16, 1997. 68. World Wildlife Fund, Endangered Spaces Progress Report No.4 (Toronto: World Wildlife Fund, 1993), 3.

ESSAY

Returning to a Little Prairie Town

Audrey Pihulyk

It was spring, the purple crocuses dotted the prairie landscape, and the breeze blew softly from the east. The town was buzzing with excitement as the children left the only schoolhouse for a weekend of fun. The inhabitants, 296 of them, I know because on a boring afternoon I stood at my attic window and counted them, were about their daily chores. This town was one of the many hundreds of small towns that dotted the prairie landscape across western Canada whose main purpose was to serve the farming community. In addition to the 296 inhabitants, the local busi­ nesses included a blacksmith shop, a garage, one hotel, a nurses house, two grocery stores, one school, and a few other nondescript businesses. I vividly remember the schoolhouse standing like a sentinel on the flat prairie landscape, dedicated to the task oflearning. Like the thousands ofstudents in sim­ ilar prairie towns, each day we waited in anticipation for the recess and lunch bells signaling a reprieve from our studies. Like a small army of ants we poured out of our classes onto the playing field with our best friend in tow. The playgrounds were sparse in comparison with those of today, no climbing apparatus, sliding chutes and swinging tires, only swings, a teeter-totter, and a baseball diamond. Nevertheless, games such as tag, red rover, and drop the handkerchief kept some of us occupied until the dreaded bell called us back into class. The memory ofenormous spiders is one I would rather forget. In a child's eyes these insects were nothing short ofgigantic as they watched all the goings-on from their lofty position in the rafters of our outhouse. Garter snakes were plentiful on the prairie, and it was a great sport for us to catch them as they slithered through the wheat stubble. The bravest of us would catch the snakes and let them wind themselves over our bodies, while the meeker ones would look on with admiration. Garter snakes and mothers, though, were not a good mix. There was the day that one snake escaped captivity and managed to get lost in our house. Immediately the entire family was gathered to recapture the slippery intruder. We looked every­ where, no snake. Early the next day a shriek was heard coming from the kitchen. There was Mother standing by the stove, stirring our oatmeal and looking wide­ eyed at the landing to the basement. Slithering up the stairs was our snake. After spending a quiet night among the coal and potatoes, he was probably wondering what all the commotion was about. Saturday night was always a special evening as preparations were afoot for church on Sunday. Baths needed to be taken, shoes polished, and Sunday clothes ironed and laid out crisp for the morning trek across the yard to church. Two other special events occurred on Saturday, one of which was viewed with joy and the other with apprehension. Early Saturday afternoon Mother cut up the fruit and prepared the dough for the baking of the pies. This was a much anticipated event as we enjoyed smelling the pungent odor of cinnamon and sugar which permeat­ ed the house. Three hungry faces watched intently as the pans were taken from the oven and three pairs of hands eagerly reached out for their share. Then came the less anticipated activity of Saturday night, the weekly bath. Father lifted the large galvanized tub from its hook on the wall and on cold winter nights set it in close proximity to the hot kitchen stove. Buckets ofwarm water were poured into the tub with strict orders to stay out of the kitchen until it was your turn. In those days the railroad was the link to the larger communities on which goods, especially grain, was transported. The rail gangs, who lived on the trains, went from town to town maintaining the tracks. The part of the train that interest­ ed us children the most was the caboose, mainly because this is where the kitchen was, housing the friendly cook. I remember Mother warning us to stay away from the caboose and not to bother the cook. My, but, those cookies she offered sure tasted good. Four years ago my desire to return to the prairie town became a reality. As I drove into the town, to my right were the same grain elevators standing stark against the prairie sky, empty now, and to my left, a vacant lot where our house once stood. To my surprise, the general store that we often frequented was still open for business. In anticipation I opened the door and entered. My senses. took me back to the days of my childhood. The smell of the oiled floor and the leather goods brought back pleasant memories. There upon the shelves I saw the canned goods, overalls, boots;gloves, shirts, candies, all in the place as I had remembered them. Looking around I saw the original cash register, and there behind the counter was the owner I had known years before. I introduced myself to him, and as we talked ofthe olden days we reminisced ofthe times he and my father would go duck hunt­ ing and also of how the little town had changed. After saying goodbye, I wandered down the almost deserted streets, feeling a sense ofloss but also experiencing a type ofclosure, As I neared the edge of town, I found myself in front of the old school, now empty and sadly unkempt. Fortunately, I found someone with a key, and upon entering the school, my mind took me back once more to my childhood. I still remember the smell of the oiled wood floors, the chalk dust, and the musty, stale air that greeted us on the first day of school. Wandering outside, I could almost hear the sounds of happy voices of friends I used to know playing out on the playground. This little town, like so many that dot the prairies, once echoed with the happy voices ofchildren playing; the ringing of the school bell calling them back to class­ es; the beating of the blacksmith's hammer; the nostalgic ring of the cash register; and the lonely, haunting whistle of passing trains, are all but silent now. Just a few families remain. The school, the hotel, the blacksmith shop, the garage, and the trains have long since gone. Even the new recreation centre built recently to attract residents stands empty, another silent witness to a dying town. But the clink of money in the register belonging to the only grocery store will be heard until every­ one is gone and the little prairie town is deserted. BOOK REVIEWS

''Peace, Progress and Prosperity": Biography of Saskatchewan's FirstPremier, T. WalterScott, by Gordon L. Barnhart. Regina: Canadian Plains Research Center, University of Regina, 2000. Pp. 188.

Walter Scott was Saskatchewan's first premier. While no single individual may be credited with founding the province, Scott, more than anyone, was responsible for laying the foundation of institutions .and policies that carried Saskatchewan through good and bad times for some decades. That is one of the themes of Gordon Barnhart's book, and explains its title. Nearly a century later, Sask­ atchewan is a have-not province with a stagnant population. But during Scott's career as premier (1905-16), it ranked third in population after Ontario and Quebec and, until the twin calamities ofdepression and drought during the 1930s, possessed great expectations. A second, darker theme to Walter Scott's story concerns his illegitimacy, chron­ ic illness, depression and, finally, confinement to a mental institution, where he died twenty years after leaving public office. His was a private life that appeared to have little emotional sustenance: a grade-eight education to which he made fre­ quent and depreciating reference; financial success as a newspaper owner but no evident satisfaction as ajoumalist; a remarkably undemonstrative relationship with his wife and adopted daughter even when allowing for social conventions that lim­ ited expression of personal feelings. A manic depressive, Scott spent" inordinate time as premier in search of cures for his illness. Remarkably, political accomplishment accompanied personal anguish. Despite emotional instability, Scott's public legacy is one of restraint in policy, accommo­ dation and consultation with the public, and a civic expansiveness manifested in sound institutions and magnificent public buildings such as the legislative building in Regina, the University of Saskatchewan in Saskatoon, and a series of imposing court houses and other facilities across the southern half of the province; Barnhart says these buildings "reflected the attitudes of the people and helped shape attitudes and beliefs of the generations to come." However, there is more portent than revelation in the comment, since he offers no evidence to support this causal connection. Nonetheless, it is an intriguing proposition, if only because the interposition of the public and private spheres is a continuing theme of Saskatchewan history. For the last half century, the province's politics have oscillated between the two spheres, as represented on the one hand by the Cooperative Commonwealth Federation (CCF) and its successor, the New Democratic Party (NDP) , and on the other by the Liberal, Progressive Conservative and Saskatchewan parties. The distinctive feature of Scott's tenure in office was his capacity to harness these rival forces. The Liberal parties of the adjacent prairie provinces proved less adroit, succumbing to the pressure of the organized farmers on several fronts not least the electoral. The triumph of the CCF in 1944 marked the triumph of the public over the private and signalled a realignment in provincial politics. Since then, in 1964 and 1982 (and in all likelihood in the first election of the new cen­ tury), the defeat of the NDP has been followed by a reassertion of the private over the public. This lurching from left to right and back again was foreign to Scott and his immediate successors as premiers of Saskatchewan. The reason for that differ­ ence remains underexplained in this biography, perhaps necessarily so since the answer lies in the complex simplicities of federalism, the national party structure, a one-crop economy, an immense immigrant population and a culture of rapid development that depended for support upon government by whomever led. Scott's is a complex personality, and it is no great criticism of this book to say that the source of his strengths and weaknesses remains a mystery at its end. How did a man himself so emotionally insecure, win the loyalty of colleagues and pub­ lic? How did he, a man Barnhart says knew no personal peace, instil a political cul­ ture of moderation and administrative stability?

David E. Smith Department of History University of Saskatchewan

AlbertaSociety ofArtists: TheFirstSeventy Years, by Kathy E. Zimon. Calgary: University of Calgary Press, 2000. Commissioned by the Alberta Society ofArtists (ASA) to celebrate their seven­ tieth anniversary, this book both satisfies and exceeds that mandate. Kathy E. Zimon does her duty to the ASA by collecting and preserving the documents of a fragile history but she also enriches the project by including tantalizing glimpses into the less public side ofher narrative ofart-making in Alberta. The combination of thorough research, biographical sketches and behind-the-gallery shenanigans, makes for an informative and entertaining history. The ASA was founded in the early years ofthe Depression (1931) as the result of an aesthetic struggle between two British immigrants, A.C. Leighton, a champion of the academic, English watercolour tradition, and Harry Hunt, a modernist (he liked the Group of Seven). Both men contemplated organizing a fraternity of Alberta artists. But, while preliminary discussions were going on, Leighton pre-empted the inevitable debate - about whether the academic or modernist approach would set the society's standards - by forming the society without Hunt and his associates. Significantly, Hunt was an Edmontonian and Leighton a Calgarian. Artist societies, an English tradition, were a means ofimproving art production through agreed-upon notions of quality, a standardized education, and control by a small elite ofpeers. While Zimon does not underscore Leighton's colonial ambi­ tions, it leaks through the factual accounts of his perpetual frustration with local artists - frustrations which ultimately led to his resigning from the presidency and the ASA, returning onlywhen the membership promised "to undertake a work pro­ gram with monthly meetings for criticism." To be fair, there seems to have been in those early days, a strong desire for "improvement," professionalization and pres­ tige among those who joined the ASA. And who better to carry out this program than a member of the Royal Society of British Artists. It is important to remember that when the ASA was founded there were few artists and collectors in Alberta. There were no commercial galleries, art museums, funding agencies, curators, journals or even art newsletters. Dedicated to the advancement and promotion of art, the ASA helped to develop the cultural insti­ tutions ofAlberta through its support of art instruction at the Technical Institute in Calgary, involvement in Coste House and the Allied Arts Society, numerous exhi­ bitions and workshops, and a publication, Highlights. During their hey day, from the 1930s to the early 1960s, the ASA was linked to nearly every significant event in the visual arts. Its members' art works cover the walls, and their names are in brass and bronze, on many buildings in Alberta, especially Calgary: A.C. Leighton, J.M. Stevenson, Nicolas, de Grandmaison, Euphemia McNaught, Carl Rungius, Illingworth Kerr, H.G. Glyde, Maxwell Bates, Jock Macdonald, Stan Perott, Luke Lindoe, Marion Nicoll, and others. The waning ofthe ASA's influence can be linked to a number ofrelated factors: internal conflict over how to deal with the changing art world, the rise of inde­ pendent curators and (later) artist-run centres, and the explosion in the number of artists with a diversity of practices. While Zimon does not spend many words on the latter elements, she outlines in often amusing detail the battles between aca­ demic and modernist forces. The great art debate ofthe 1940s and 1950s was the challenge ofabstract art to ideas about quality - ideas entrenched in the very organization of the ASA. It is interesting to see this almostworldwide aesthetic crisis being played out (somewhat belatedly) in our small pond. Zimon captures the flavour of the crisis by making it a running theme through much of the book, and through short snapshots - such as when she explains how the two camps collided in the Nicholl family. Jim Nicholl, the conservative editor ofHighlights, was married to Marion Nicholl, "the pioneer automatism among Alberta Artists." Unfortunately, Zimon only alludes to the con­ flict rather than illustrate it. The reader is left to fill in the blanks. One result ofthe conflict was a short-lived two-jury system whereby artists seeking to exhibit their work could apply to either a traditionalist or modernistjury! Gradually, this specific division weakened, which was welcome news to Maxwell Bates. He had allegedly been excluded from the ASA, by Leighton, because of his modernism. After a time in London and five years as a prisoner of war, Bates returned to Calgary and warm acceptance by the ASA and was to become a semi­ nal figure in the region for many years. But other divisions over quality lingered. Art history, even regional accounts, tends to tell the stories not only of the vic­ tors but of the victors during their time of fame and currency. However, there are several poignant moments in Zimon's accounts where she (helpfully) becomes more of a sociologist than typical historian. This is particularly true when she describes the feelings of early members of the organization who, as the art world continued to evolve not only felt out, but that their dreams and institutions were beingperverted. She quotes Illingworth Kerr's 1963 resignation of membership after one of his paintings was rejected by an ASAjury: older members have felt that they were no longer compatible with the changing standards ofthe Society (as evidenced bythe rulings ofjuries).I believe that it was best that such members retire. So in my case when paintings which I have regarded as having the greater content and significance are rejected in favour of slighter efforts, I feel that I have lost all relationship to the exhibiting group. This sentiment is repeated in numerous forms throughout the book. It is sad, per­ haps inevitable, and an important lesson. Alberta Society ofArtists: The First Seventy Thars is carefully written and researched. The prose is lean and the narrative unfolds neatly - which is a remarkable feat given the amount ofinformation and large cast ofcharacters. But too often the text gets mired in minutiae, making it a responsible history but a trying read. Zimon does very little speculating and offers no gossip. She records the facts "from a neu­ tral perspective... reserv[ing] judgment on both the personalities and the artistic achievements of the protagonists." This would becompletely tedious if it were not for the occasional arresting image that reminds the reader of the fragile nature of the idea ofart and artists.on the Prairies during the Great Depression. The author, for example, not only explains the potential threats from the Social Credit gov­ ernment to withdrawal funding from "frivolities like art instruction," and the chal­ lenge to nude model classes by "the ladies of the Baptist Church," but gives the period a human face when she recounts the fact that one of the models fainted from hunger while posing. While many of the incidents reported here seem petty, against this occasionally glimpsed background one senses the urgency ofthe events and issues for that time. This book is clearly addressed to posterity, to members of the ASA, and anyone involved in the mainstream Alberta art world. Appropriately then, only 121 of its 273 pages are devoted to history - which is well supported by black-and-white reproductions of documentary photographs, illustrations and works of art. The next 80 pages contain invaluable documents for future historians: extensive notes, an index and various appendices, including lists of presidents, members and exhi­ bitions. The remaining 72 pages are filled with good colourimages ofart works by ASA members and are ofinterest to most everyone. The first part of the book contains seven chapters that plot the birth and his­ tory of the ASA. The final three chapters develop important themes: the role of women, the predominance of landscape, and the eclecticism of the Alberta art scene. The first section is chronological, factual, thorough and, at times, just a bit dull. Much ofthe flavour has been boiled out and set aside for the final three chap­ ters. This is unfortunate because the first section would benefit from a greater sense of who these people were, apart from their presence through the minutes and formal letters. And to have more descriptions of the work they were champi­ oning early on would add colour. (Having been a member ofthe Calgary art scene, knowing some ofthese characters and having heard about the others, I long for an informal history of these fascinating people before the stories are lost.) Also in need ofexpansion is how these works and the organization were received by those outside the ASA. Zimon endevours to present the facts in a lively way. While she does not shy away from presenting the various turmoils the society has been through, herjudge­ ments are rare and gentle. In a brief chapter on women in the ASA, "Token No Longer," she discusses Marion Nicoll, a catalytic artist whose talent was recognized by the likes of Barnett Newman and Will Barnet during a brief residency in New York. Barnett encouraged her to stay in a city she loved, but, Zimon notes, her hus­ band "didn't like New York.... One is left to wonder, if their roles were reversed, what decision would he have made?" Despite Zimon's earlier claims to neutrality, this supplemental chapter reveals a point of view that would have been welcome elsewhere. Kathy Zimon has a duty to perform for the ASA, which she does more than admirably. This is a remarkable well-researched history. It is an elegant resource that will be ofgreat use to historians, artists and interested prairie folk for years to come.

David Garneau Visual Arts University of Regina

Legends ofthe Elders, byJohn W. Friesen. Calgary: Temeron Books Inc., 2000. Pp. 64. Legends of the Elders, an instructive, enjoyable and memorable read, took me back to my childhood and to the way of teaching that I experienced in the com­ pany ofElders. Almost all the stories in this collection are familiar to me and those that are not, are known to me in that the concepts they teach are consistent with those I was taught growing up surrounded by extensive family from the Sandy Lake Reserve (aka Ahtahkakoop First Nation) in the Treaty Six area of Saskatchewan. Dr. Friesen is a Calgary writer, professor and minister. He holds a joint profes­ sorship in the faculties of Education and General Studies at the University of Calgary, and has served as minister at Morley United Church on the Stoney (Nakoda Sioux) Indian Reserve since 1986. The storiesJohn Friesen has gathered in this collection are abbreviated consid­ erably in comparison with those I remember. The stories I remember were spoken, and were often embellished with many anecdotal stories woven in to enhance and reinforce a central point. This was the historical way stories were told by First Nation peoples. The narrative devices within that storytelling tradition were delib­ erately circuitous, and were intended to foster attentiveness and analytical thinking in the listener. Those who did not make the mental effort required to follow this multi-dimensional approach would lose the thread ofthe story as all strands had to be gathered in order to stitch the lesson together. This method of oral storytelling so well known to members of my generation made the stories we were told not only more interesting, but also more memorable, because the method engaged our minds in such a way that we felt we were on a pic­ torial journey with the storyteller. Plains Cree - which is my first language - is very precise and full ofvivid imagery. A story told in Cree seems to take on actual form and motion as it is told. This vividness is due largely to the language itself, although it is eternally difficult to explain this to non-Cree speakers. No story I have ever heard in English creates the moving pictorial mental journey experi­ enced listening to a Cree storyteller. Legends of the Elders is divided into three major sections: "Entertainment Legends," "Teaching Legends" and "Moral Legends." In his introduction, Friesen provides a context for the significance ofIndian legends and reminds readers that at one time, "all cultures relied solely on the oral tradition." In a world that lately seems so sharply divided along the lines of the validity of oral versus written histo­ ry, this is an enlightening reminder of the common origin of all peoples. "Entertainment Legends" contains the trickster stories but the word "trickster," we must not forget, has now been so long in circulation that even we, as Indian peo­ ple, use it despite the fact that it is something ofa misnomer. The characters at the centre ofthe stories in this section - known by various names across the continent as Friesen informs us - teach not so much through tricks, but through negative and humorous example. By listening to stories about the trouble these characters get themselves into, we benefit by their mistakes. These stories are always funny and this is part of their teaching method. Humour has been key in storytelling as the stories in this section confirm. There are no stern warnings or criticisms in the plot­ lines or behaviour of the characters, but rather lots of funny antics and repercus­ sions that entertain listeners, thereby enabling them to remember and learn! The stories in "Teaching Legends" are somewhat more instructional as com­ pared with those in the previous section and animals often do the teaching. In fact, animals were long considered to be teachers and healers by our people which may be the original reason our old stories contain animal-centred rather than people­ centred plots. First Nation peoples knew they could learn from the animals as it is the animals that are more in harmonywith the earth and its cycles, and that as part of Creation they are our relations just as inanimate objects are valued - because they are the historical repository of all life in Creation. Here we find stories about why the crow's feathers are black, and why the bear has a short tail; we also learn why it is important to persevere, and how to make the best of our mistakes. The stories in the final section, "Moral Lessons," contain plots and characters who confront issues relating to tolerance, fairness, self-confidence, self-determina­ tion, gratitude, sincerity and with keeping trusts. These stories inform the listener of the values of ideal or proper behaviour. Legends ofthe Elders is sparely but tastefully illustrated with black and white line­ drawings ofpeople, animals, cultural objects, and scenes from nature. The cover art - a beautiful leaf print - is credited to Dean Macdonald and Alvin Choong, but there is no record, unfortunately, ofwho drew the illustrations that accompany the stories. Friesen also mentions the categories ofstory not included in this collection: the sacred, or spiritual stories, but there is another category of story that is curiously perpetuated as not existing in the general cache ofold Indian stories. These are the stories perceived to be somewhat "ribald" by the members of the mainstream cul­ ture. Notably, the ravenous appetites of some of the characters - especially per­ taining to sex! Why those particular stories were left out is curious. Were none of these stories told to Friesen or did he consider them to be in the same guise as the sacred or spiritual stories? Some of the stories in this collection may well be in print for the first time but all ofthem will resonate with readers across the continent, particularly First Nation readers who will be familiar with some or all of the stories. I did wonder about the origins of the stories - where each came from, who it was who shared their stories with Friesen, and I regretted the absence of this vali­ dation. Acknowledging sources is very important in the tradition ofpassing on sto­ ries as many are considered to be the "property" of an individual or family. Some people may give a story away as a gift but overall the process ofvalidation is impor­ tant as it occurs when the storytellers are named. Because of this omission, the missing information about the storytellers may be considered to be something of an oversight in the book overall. Finally, I wondered if the storytellers Friesen sourced had concerns about how their story loses conceptual imagery as it is trans­ lated from the original language, but there is no indication of the storytellers' thoughts anywhere in the text. In the last two decades we have witnessed an unprecedented increase in the vol­ ume of old stories that have been taken from our oral histories and committed to print. The earliest of these were recorded by anthropologists upon first contact with First Nation peoples. Many of us are grateful for those early European inter­ ests in preserving our stories, but more recently we have experienced the rewards to be gained from the recording and translating of the old stories by translators who are fluent both in their mother tongue and English. Freda Ahenakew, trans­ lator and scholar of Plains Cree, is the paragon in this area. Her work was preced­ ed by Edward Ahenakew, who published Trickster Tales, and who recorded the sto­ ries of Chief Thunderchild with the editorial assistance of Ruth Matheson Buck after his death. Legends of the Elders is a welcome addition to the growing body of printed oral stories. It will be ofinterest to young and old alike and to students and scholars at every level. Postscript: I was moved by Dr. Friesen's dedication of these stories to his grand-daughter, Victoria. His gesture is in theproper spirit of FirstNation value-based sharing. It signifiesa gesture of respect whichserves to bridge ratherthan separate our seemingly disparate cultures. I couldnot have imaginedI would witnessthe day when a littlegirl named Victoria might be gifted with the written wisdom our Elders imparted in telling our old stories. Because of the tangible record Friesen's book is, shein turn maypass themon to hergrandchildren and hope- fully shewill sharestories from herown culturewith them too. This is the only way our stories can live on. These are the blocks to build our bridge-with stories that will benefitthe mem­ bers of all cultures.

Ekosi Elder C. Wilna ("Willy") Hodgson MooseJaw, Saskatchewan Treaty Elders of Saskatchewan: Our Dream Is That Our Peoples Will One Day Be Clearly Recognized As Nations, by Harold Cardinal and Walter Hildebrandt. Calgary: University of Calgary Press, 2000. Pp. 84. Bounty and Benevolence: A History of Saskatchewan Treaties, by Arthur Ray and Jim Miller. Montreal: McGill Queen's University Press, 2000. Pp. 299. Indian Treaty-Making Policy in the United States and Canada, 1867-1877, by Jill St. Germain. Toronto: University ofToronto Press, 2000. Pp. 243. The publishingyear 2000 saw the addition ofthree importantworks to the avail­ able literature that addresses the issues of treaties in Canada. Two were a result of Saskatchewan's Office of the Treaty Commissioner (OTC) the other the reworking of an MA thesis. Both TreatyElders ofSaskatchewan and Bounty and Benevolencewere the result of research reports commissioned by the OTC and concentrate on Saskatchewan, while Indian Treaty-Making Policy compares policy in the United States and Canada and is a reworking ofJill St. Germain's 1998 MA thesis from Carleton University. Both Bounty and Benevolence and Treaty Elders ofSaskatchewan resulted from the second mandate of the OTC which began in 1997. As a way to illuminate the his­ torical context ofthe treaties so that modern-day discussions could take place it was necessary to come to an understanding ofthe treaty process. As part ofthis process, in the fall of 1997 Frank Tough was approached to provide a research report. Tough subsequently invitedJim Miller and Arthur Ray to participate in the project. In their study they were expected to incorporate both oral history and written his­ tory in order to provide a more rounded interpretation. Judge Arnot, treaty com­ missioner for Saskatchewan, points out in his foreword of Bounty and Benevolence, "it was soon discovered that the amount of information could not be adequately contained in a single report" (xi). As a result, a second report was commissioned and authored by Harold Cardinal and Walter Hildebrandt that took the published form of TreatyElders ofSaskatchewan. The authors of Bounty and Benevolencein their introduction also indicate that the use of oral history will be left to Cardinal and Hilderbrandt and state that "to embody both oral and documentary evidence in a single account proved to be impossible given time constraints" (xvi). This reviewer is unsure as to why the oral history material could not have been included in Bounty and Benevolence, as the TreatyElders ofSaskatchewan publication totals only 71 pages of narrative, ofwhich the majority has pictures or illustrations which even reduces the amount of text further. It is unclear to this reviewer how this amount of infor­ mation could not have been integrated into the text of Bounty and Benevolence (this is not to distract from the value of TreatyElders ofSaskatchewan as stand-alone pub­ lication). At the same time the reason of a time constraint is also somewhat prob­ lematic as Judge Arnot, in his foreword, states that the authors were able "to pro­ duce a manuscript draft and final report in a timely fashion" (x). Bounty and Benevolence attempts to provide a comprehensive history of treaty making in Saskatchewan by concentrating on the documentary evidence. For the most part the book is successful at providing this comprehensive account. The authors, in their introduction, outline the documentary record that they consult­ ed in the writing of the book. They consulted widely from government archive records, Hudson's Bay Company records, personal papers of treaty negotiators (notably Sir Adams Archibald and Alexander Morris) and government officials (notably Sir John A. Macdonald Edgar Dewdney and Hayter Reed), official gov­ ernment published materials and secondary works. Interestingly enough the authors point out Hayter Reed as the most important of government bureaucrats (quite rightly), but a perusal of the index shows reference to him on only three pages. This is partly due to the fact that the book only devotes one chapter to the implementation of treaties and it was during the implementation of treaties that Reed had the most influence. A reader not familiar with. the history of the treaty and posttreaty period however would assume from the singling out ofReed that his policies would be detailed in this book, which they are not, as his influence was concentrated in the period ofimplementation especially around treaties 4 and 6. The book is divided into thirteen chapters the first four deal with the pre-treaty period and include very useful chapters on Aboriginal/Hudson's Bay Company relations, the Selkirk Treaty, the Eastern Treaties as well as the Rupert's Land trans­ fer. The middle seven chapters concentrate on the negotiations, signing, and terms of the treaties. The last two chapters examine implementation and reflections. Overall this work is a very useful study. It has brought together an important peri­ od of history into one volume. Although there is little new interpretation that results from the analysis I would suggest that this was not the purpose of this work. As is pointed out in the foreword it was to provide, as unbiased as possible, a his­ torical framework from which dialogue about the treaties can progress, and the authors have done a commendablejob of accomplishing this task. The book has a number of photographs and illustrations that depict both Indian and government leaders as well as maps and a number ofillustrations. This reviewer found one glaring error in the photographs depicted. There is a photo­ graph of an individual identified as Ometoway (The Gambler) spelled Ometaway on the actual photo. The caption under the photograph reads that he "vociferous­ ly objected to the Hudson's Bay Company's sale of Rupert's Land to Canada dur­ ing Teaty [sic] talks ..." The caption then goes on to state that the picture is cour­ tesy of the Provincial Archives of Saskatchewan. As the caption indicates, the indi­ vidual pictured is Ometaway (The Gambler) however this is not the same individ­ ual who was present at the Treaty 4 talks. The individual at the talks was Otahoman (The Gambler) as is indicated in the text and index ofthe book. The individual in the picture was from the Muscowpetung Reserve and the photograph was taken by Edgar Rossie, it is believed, in 1919.1 Additionally, credit is given to the Saskatchewan Provincial Archives when in fact the Saskatchewan Indian Federated College owns both the original negatives and the copyright to those negatives. Overall Bounty and Benevolence is an important contribution to the available lit­ erature that deals with the history of treaties not only in Saskatchewan but in Canada as well. It is a good starting point in coming to terms with the reasoning and actions of government and Euro-Canadians around the treaty process. Although a more detailed analysis of the eroding of treaty rights in the posttreaty period would have been useful, the pretreaty and treaty periods are sufficiently pre­ sented. Despite the lack of oral sources, some minor spelling mistakes, a limited posttreaty analysis and the photograph issue, I would highly recommend this book to students, university faculty and the general public. As I found using the book as a text in a 200-level Indian Studies class, the authors have created an important and handy reference that one can turn to in attempting to explain and understand the treaty process. One very valuable portion of the book is a number of charts that appear at the end ofthe book that depict the important players in the negotiations as well as the terms of the treaties and other important information. Treaty Elders of Saskatchewan is a much different book than Bounty and Benevolence, not only in content and writing style but also physical appearance. TreatyElders ofSaskatchewan is a coffee-table-style book filled with direct quotes from many Saskatchewan Elders and many colour and black-and-white photographs. This book is a very important contribution to the available literature on treaties because it is one of the few titles that brings a truly Indian perspective and voice to the topic. The only other title in recent times to attempt this was The True Spirit and Original Intent of Treaty 7, a work that Hildebrandt was also involved in. The information presented in Treaty Elders of Saskatchewan is a result of a number of Treaty Elders forums that were held in Saskatchewan and chaired by the GTC. Cardinal and Hilderbrandt have taken what was recorded at these forums in both video and audiotape format, and sometimes both, and produced a highly read­ able and informative book. Rather than just a collection of reminisces, the book is filled with numerous important enunciations by Saskatchewan Elders, and Cardinal and Hildebrandt have provided important narrative text to provide con­ text to the Elder's comments. Additionally, throughout the book are references to the Cree terms as a way to provide even more context and understanding to the Elder's perspectives. The book is divided into twelve chapters, all ofwhich reinforce the spiritual sig­ nificance of the Treaties and thus the obligation that surrounds these agreements for both Indians and non-Indians who are party to both the written and oral records of these agreements. Topics range from but are not limited to: discussions of conceptions of land, getting along with others, origins, sacred promises to one another, living together, to the evolving interpretations of treaty rights. This book opens up the reader to a vast array of interpretations and history of pretreaty life, treaty negotiations and posttreaty life that previously only a privileged few had the opportunity to learn about. The examples are far too many to list or provide in this review; this reviewer, however, found in practically every quotation provided in the book of a Saskatchewan Elder, a new interpretation, factual account or alternative interpretation was provided that one would be hard pressed to find in other treaty literature. I would highly recommend this book to anyone with an interest not only in treaty issues but also to those interested in the province ofSaskatchewan in both historical and present-day contexts. That is not to suggest that this should be orwill be the last word on the Elders' interpretations ofthe treaties, but rather should be, as the Elders indicate in the book, the beginning ofan understanding by others of their perspectives. Much more work needs to be done; nonetheless this is an excel­ lent start to the process of understanding the treaties. The Treaty Elders of Saskatchewan read in conjunction with Bounty and Benevolencewill give a reader a well-rounded knowledge base from which to begin exploring the multitude of lay­ ers that surround the issues of treaties in Saskatchewan and Canada. Jill St. Germain, in her book Indian Treaty-Making Policy in the United States and Canada, 1867-1877, takes on the challenge ofcomparing the policies surrounding treaties in both Canada and the United States and for the most part does a com­ mendablejob. St. Germain admits that her study is one ofcomparative government policy and emphasizes why both the Canadian and American governments took part in treaty processes. St. Germain admits that this is only one side of the story and that Indians were also proactive and often times willing participants in negoti­ ations. Shejustifies limiting her study to government policy because, as she puts it, "A proper understanding ofthem (Indian perspectives), a task deemed outside the scope of this undertaking, would require as thorough a knowledge of the several Indian nations represented at the treaty councils as ofthe Canadian and American government themselves" (xxi). This is not to suggest that Indian input is not con­ sidered in the book, but that it plays a secondary role in the analysis. Similar to Bounty and Benevolence, evidence from oral history is not included. The central goal ofthe book is to respond to Wilcomb Washburn's call to deter­ mine where and how Canada and the United States differ in their treaty policies. St. Germain also challenges the assertations made by Canada in 1877 that its poli­ cies in comparison with the United States were "humane,just and Christian" (xxii). St. Germain attempts to reach her goals through ten chapters that compare the approaches that both Canada and the United States took to various issues. These topics include, but are not limited to, discussions of precedents that led to treaty signing, the context in which treaty making took place, reserves, "civilization," the buffalo, and Indian status. St. Germain addresses her topics through the treaties of Medicine Lodge (1867) and Fort Laramie (1868) in the United States and the numbered treaties 1-7 (1871-1877) in Canada. She concludes that both govern­ ments, through the above-mentioned treaties, attempted "to address particular problems in both countries" (165). She admits that American treaties were less effective, as was demonstrated by the warfare that continued for another decade, and that Canadian authorities were at least able to obtain title to the land they sought. She goes on to argue that both governments believed that they were con­ cluding a chapter on Indian relations but "in both cases ensured a rebirth for the very peoples they sought to absorb" (165). Overall this an interesting and welcome addition to the literature. The com­ parative approach that is taken means that there is not as much attention paid to detail as there might be if the study were examining only the Canadian or American situation. As a result I would recommend this book to those who already have some background knowledge in the area of treaties. The book is full ofvery useful charts that compare the above treaties both within in each nation and between the two nations. These useful charts will make this book an important ref­ erence tool to people on both sides of the border.

Rob Nestor Library Saskatchewan Indian Federated College University of Regina

1. Brock Silversides, Brock. 1989. "Edgar Rossie: Dean of Saskatchewan Photographers," Saskatchewan History42, no. 1 (1989): 11-27. SocialDiscredit: Anti-Semitism Social Credit and theJewish Response, by Janine Stingel. Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen's University Press, 2000. Pp. 280, index. The Depression-era Social Credit movement in Alberta has generated a prolif­ eration ofscholarly views regarding the movement variously in terms offree enter­ prise success story, Depression-era dynamics or radical economic theory. Scholars have been less eager to examine the movement as a history ofintolerance and anti­ Semitism. Those who have by and large take the position that because Social Credit's anti-Semitic ideology was never translated into anti-Semitic policies, it was therefore not anti-Semitic. Despite Social Credit's successes during a crisis in Canadian history, author Janine Stingel examines the darker side of the move­ ment's history, unafraid to take the position that the movement was unequivocally anti-Semitic. She is not unique in this view. What she claims makes this book unique is her examination of Social Credit through the eyes of the objectified party, CanadianJewry, arguing that giving a subjective voice to the dehumanized, reveals the full extent of the anti-Semitism within Social Credit. The seven chapters in this book unpack in a riveting way the major thesis of the book that the dissipation of anti-Semitism in Social Credit after the war was insti­ gated by Ernest Manning for reasons that had nothing to do with his concern with race hatred, and essentially had nothing to do with efforts of the CanadianJewish Congress to eliminate the anti-Semitism. All the education, good-will and diplo­ matic efforts to combat anti-Semitism had failed. Yet, in the postwar period, the CanadianJewish Congress "experienced a certain success in defeat," finally moving toward a legislative approach that ensured that anti-Semitic rhetoric would not be translated into action. Social Credit was a British phenomenon exported to Canada in the early thir­ ties by its founder, Major C.H. Douglas. One of the central doctrines of the Social Credit movement, based on the infamous and spurious Protocols oftheEldersofZion, included the belief in theJewish conspiracy to dominate the world through inter­ national Jewish finance. Social Credit also embraced Douglas's appeal to the age­ old charge ofdeicide:Jews as Christ-killers. In 1942-43 Douglas wrote thatJews had not only caused World War II, but were planning a third world war through inter­ nationalJewish finance allied with Communism. It would not be until after the war that the explicit similarities of some of his rhetoric with that of Hitler's would be made evident to the Canadian public by the press. The success of Social Credit in Alberta was due in a large part to the popular radio evangelist, Bill Aberhart. By incorporating Social Credit philosophy into his sermons, hecreated a kind of religious-political crusade that offered comfort to Depression-era Albertans in their poverty. As premier of the province from 1935­ 1943, Stingel avers that Aberhart promoted provincial rights and led the province out ofa debilitating depression. Yet she does not absolve Aberhartfor Social Credit's darker anti-Semitic side, which scapegoated theJews as the traditional enemy, inter­ national financiers responsible for the economic misery Albertans were experienc­ ing. Aberhart's own personal ambivalence concerning the Jewishness of interna­ tional finance and the veracity of the Protocols, as well as his denials that neither he nor his party were anti-Semitic have led scholars to give him the benefit of the doubt. But Stingel argues that it was precisely this ambivalence that allowed anti­ Semitism to flourish within the party. For example, his rhetoric around the notion of an international financial conspiracy paralled that of Douglas and the anti­ Semites within the movementalbeit avoiding the word 'jewish" (p. 46). Aberhart also capitalized on the deicide charge accusing old-line politicians of being like those who betrayed and crucified Christ. "The moneychangers .. . [who] ... cruci­ fied the Christ ... have been crucifying everyone since who follows in the steps of the Saviour," Aberhart concluded (p. 20). Stingel's readers will note that this was stated, remarkably, on the eve ofthe holocaust ofsix millionJews. Furthermore, he expressed his conviction thatJews would never reclaim Palestine as their homeland because they had not accepted Christ. Like Aberhart, Ernest Manning - premier from 1944 onward - avoided the word 'jewish" in his indictment of international finance which he regarded as an anti-Christian conspiracy. But by linking the battle against anti-Christian forces to battle with the "criminals" who crucified Christ, it did not take a lot ofintelligence to figure out to whom he was referring (p. 23). Manning's persistent denials that neither he nor his party were anti-Semitic allowed its anti-Semitism to become more vocal. These denials also made it difficult for Jewish agencies such as the Canadian Jewish Congress to confront anti-Semitism. In 1944 the party's official position was stated in its party organ, the Canadian Social Crediter, as a concern with "our way of life, the free, Christian way - as opposed to the godless, regimented way" and as opposition to the "groups of international financiers..."(p. 67). Though the word 'jewish" was absent, the use of code language and innuendo, Stingel observes, made this kind ofanti-Semitism insidious and difficult to combat. Albertan and CanadianJewry felt distressed and defensive in light of the anti­ Semitism in Canada and in Europe. The election of Adolf Hitler as chancellor in 1933 and Prime Minister King's friendly visit with Hitler in Germany in 1937, as well as Canada's closed-door policy with respect to GermanJewish refugees creat­ ed further anxiety. Not surprisingly Canada's anti-Semitism thrived during the des­ perate economic conditions of the Depression. Given these conditions Stingel describes with sensitivity and insight the lack of concrete response of Canadian Jewry in general and the Canadian Jewish Congress in particular. Relying on heretofore unexamined material from the Congress's National Archives in Montreal she recounts in detail the institution ofCongress in 1919, its demise, and its reactivation in 1934 in response to the increasingly virulent anti-Semitism in Quebec and Alberta. It is difficult for a reader to be reminded of Canada's anti­ Semitic history; it is even more painful for a Jew:i.sh reader to hear how practical responses to that anti-Semitism were thwarted by inertia and inaction. Stingel judges Congress's early responses to anti-Semitism as those of educa­ tion, public relations and diplomacy to be "naive" (p. 33) since anti-Semitism in Social Credit was only increasing due, in part, to the influence of one of Social Credit's most notorious anti-Semites, NormanJacques. At the same time, she con­ cedes, Congress's primary concern with EuropeanJewry, and the geographic dis­ tance between Congress's national headquarters in Montreal and efforts of Congress in Alberta, were primary reasons for Congress's "passivity,"(p. 32) a word she uses several times to describe Congress's posture vis-it-vis anti-Semitism. Overt confrontation with Social Credit came in 1943 from the leader of the Labour-Progressive Party in Alberta with an expose in the Canadian Tribune ofanti­ Semitism within the Social Credit Board. Yet Congress did not take advantage of this, Stingel observes (p. 50), nor of the confrontations from other organizations and individuals. Stingel recounts chillingly how Social Credit's anti-Semitism increased after the war despite the realization of the destruction of two-thirds of European Jewry and the nearly complete silence of the non:Jewish world. Social Credit undermined the severity of the Holocaust by questioning, for example, the destruction of EuropeanJewry, accusingJews of fabricating their own destruction in order to further the cause of Zionism, which Social Credit opposed. This made that party the only democratically elected party in Canada actively engaged in Holocaust denial. This development spurred Congress on to move from its educa­ tional approach concerningJews andJudaism to a broader program which empha­ sized, in theory, the protection of civil and human rights of all groups. Yet, as Stingel points out, putting an assertive philosophy into practice is difficult at the best of times. Continued duplicity within the Social Credit party and its vehement denials of anti-Semitism would make execution ofan effective policy all that much more difficult. Consequently, by the autumn of 1947 Congress still had not exe­ cuted concretely any policy to combat anti-Semitism. The end of Social Credit's anti-Semitism came from within the party itself in late 1947 when Ernest Manning conducted a purge of the party for political and economic reasons and banned the publication ofanti-Semitic material by the party. Manning's responsibility for the party's housecleaning has motivated scholars to idealize him as one who refused to tolerate anti-Semitism and to absolve him ofthe promotion of anti-Semitism while he was premier, Stingel notes. She rejects this position given the political,and economic motives for the purge and Manning's ambivalence concerning theJewish financial conspiracy to rule the world. Stingel notes that by 1949 the repudiation of anti-Semitism had permeated Social Credit philosophy. The death of NormanJacques in 1949 also signalled the death of the party's anti-Semitism. By the time of the Keegstra affair in the 1970s and 1980s Congress would have entered its third phase of confronting anti-Semitism, a legislative and legal orient­ ed public relations approach to society's prejudices. However, during the critical periods ofSocial Credit's anti-Semitism, Stingel gives little or no credit to Congress for eradicating anti-Semitism from the party movement. While indicting Congress for its,ineffective and passive stance vis-a-vis anti-Semitism in Canada, she simulta­ neously seems to absolve it because of the climate of intolerance toward Jews in Canada at the time (p. 188). Similarly, while crediting the untiring efforts of Congress's Western Division vice-president, Louis Rosenberg, Stingel is critical of his continued, and in her view unmerited, distrust of Ernest Manning after the purge of the party (p. 161). Stingel ends her studywith the words "Congress's frustrating and negative expe­ rience with Social Credit became a powerful motive to create new solutions to one ofJewry's oldest problems." This is surprising since she is cognizant of the tradi­ tional meaning of the phrase "the Jewish problem," used widely by the Nazis (p. 35). For example, on January 20, 1942, Reinhard Heydrich had called the senior officials ofthe German government to the Wannsee Conference in order to decide upon the "Final Solution of theJewish Problem." It is even more surprising given that she applauds Congress's extension of its sole concerns with anti-Semitism to include race hatred in broader society (p. 6). Anti-Semitism is not only a Jewish problem, it is a world problem. It is a problem for Christians in the awareness of Christian complicity in the Holocaust. The understanding of difference and its effects are a shared responsibility. I also find unsettling her repeated use of the words "passive" and "passivity" to describe Congress's reaction to anti-Semitism within Social Credit. It is reminiscent of language used to describe Jewish victims of the Holocaust; it harkens back to insinuations from various sources thatJews assisted in their own demise during the Holocaust by allowing themselves to be led, as it were, like lambs to the slaughter. A final reservation has to do with Stingel's claim that she is giving a "voice" to the group under attack at a time when it lacked one, making Congress the "subject of its own discourse" (p. 7). It seems to me she does not allow Congress a voice in defending itself from her charges of its passivity and inaction. She has examined Congress and found it wanting, perhaps legitimately so. But I doubt whether this can be equated with giving a voice to the voiceless victim. Despite these reservations, I found the book to be extremely well written and impeccably documented. It is an uncompromising indictment of the overt and covert anti-Semitism of Social Credit and, all in all, a sensitive examination of organized CanadianJewry not so much from its perspective, as Stingel claims, but from her own.

Jackie Kuikman Religious Studies Campion College University of Regina

Manitoba Commercial Market Gardening1945-1997: Class, Raceand Ethnic Relations,by Avis Mysyk. Regina: Canadian Plains Research Center, 2000. Pp. 108. For the better part of the twentieth century, wheat dominated the political economy of the prairie region and captured the attention of scholars concerned with rural life. There were and remain exceptions. In south-central Manitoba, market garden­ ing expanded since 1945, providing a base for an active processing industry. Mysyk's study of this sector of agriculture is welcome for this reason alone. The author's aim is ambitious and commendable: "to examine how class, race and ethnic relations have manifested themselves in Manitoba commercial market gardening." Her theoretical stance is daring. Embracing Marxism, however appro­ priate, has never been fashionable in the social sciences. The question follows: does she pull it off? Yes and no! Mysyk has pulled together some useful statistical data on market gardening. The description and analysis of seasonal, migrant labour is to be noted. The bibliogra­ phy of secondary sources is comprehensive. The chapter on bilateral and trilateral trade relations is speculative, raising several interesting questions concerning the future of market gardening in Manitoba, and indeed on the northern plains. This said, the theoretical contribution of the book is flawed. Her classification of theoretical orientations into Marxist dependency theory and non-Marxist theo­ ry is in error. Dependency theory has both a Marxist and a non-Marxist tradition. Insofar as the Marxist tradition is concerned, one must acknowledge that agri­ culture - its changing forces and relations of production - never received the attention and imagination Marx and Engels devoted to manufacturing. It is there­ fore necessary, if one is to work in this tradition, to be theoretically innovative, as Chorayshi' has been. Mysyk does not follow this example. Indeed, she is, in places, unustifiably dismissive of Ghorayshi's work. Finally, the theoretical chapter does not dominate the rest of the book. It is as though it was written as an afterthought, and not very well written at that. This is a pity, as I concur with Mysyk that an innovative, Marxist approach to the history and political economy of market gardening is appropriate and full of promise.

James N. McCrorie Professor Emeritus University of Regina

1. Parvin Ghorayshi, "The Identification of Capitalist Farms: Theoretical and Methodological Considerations," SociologicaRuralis26, no. 2 (1986). CONTRIBUTORS

ROD BANTJES is an associate professor in the Department of Sociology and Anthropology, St. Francis Xavier University, Nova Scotia. He has published in the areas of social geography and state formation, as well as environmental social movements. IAN DYCK is Curator ofPlains Archaeology at the Canadian Museum of Civilization. His current research interests include comparative archaeologies of grassland regions and the history of Canadian archaeology. JOYCE GREEN is an associate professor of Political Science at the University of Regina. She specializes in Canadian politics, citizenship theory, and the politics of media, including feminist and post-colonial critiques. JOHN LEHR is professor of Geography at the University of Winnipeg. His research interests lie in the historical geography ofwestern Canada, with particular empha­ sis on ethnic settlement and the early development of tourism and recreation. SARAH PAYNE graduated from York University, Toronto, in 1998 with a doctorate in cultural geography. She currently resides in Calgary, Alberta where she continues to research and publish papers on literary and heritage tourism in North America. AUDREY PIHULYK is an author who speaks at conventions and for organizations on "Winning Strategies for Life." She can be reached at 1-866-484-2197 or by email at [email protected]" [http://possibilitiesnetwork.com]. PAUL SIMPSON-HOUSLEY is a professor of Geography at York University, Toronto. His most recent book, co-edited withJamie Scott, is entitled Mapping the Sacred:Religion, Geography and Post-Colonial Literatures and was published in Amsterdam in June 2001. ERIC STRIKWERDA took his M.A. in History at the University of Saskatchewan. He entered the Ph.D program in the History Department at York University in fall 2001. CORA VOYAGEUR teaches Sociology at the University of Calgary. Her research focuses primarily on the Canadian Aboriginal experience in terms ofwomen's issues, jus­ . tice, politics, employment, education, and economic development.