BY KATE WINQUIST
Call it spring fever, but I just couldn’t bare to be cooped up in the office today. I wanted to go somewhere and shoot photos, but wasn’t sure which direction I would head.
I ended up venturing down the TransCanada and heading into the small village of Piapot, named of course after Chief Piapot – a place I had only frequented a couple of times before to have a beer at the local saloon.
There isn’t much activity anymore in Piapot. The Post Office and the RM Office being the only “businesses” that are in operation. The Piapot Saloon and Guesthouse, I am told, is only open one night a week for off-sale.
The following is a poem taken from “Piapot Prairie Trails” history book …
By Leonora McDowell
Great-grandfather sits in his old arm chair,
The stories he tells would curl your hair …
How the bold, bad Indian stole his corn,
And traded him meat and a buffalo horn
For a rusty musket and a bag of shot.
Truly, Great-gramps beat, but he thinks not.
The gun was broke, and the shot was wet …
The maize was moldy and somehow yet,
The meal from the meat is remembered well.
The horn still hangs in the entrance hall.
The poor Indian sleeps on an eastern slope.
(He died from a cottonwood branch and a rope.)
But Great-gramps in his rocker is hearty and hale.
He rejoices in telling us all the sad tale –
How the Redskins raided and stole
From the poor white settlers on the pioneer trail
My adventure continued a bit further west and then north on the Smith Road – a road I have never, ever been on in my life. I stumbled upon (quite by accident) a tiny cemetery, that I would not have seen if I wasn’t curious about a tall metal sign that caught my eye just off of the main grid.
It was the German Co-op Cemetery which was established on February 15, 1915. There were only a handful of headstones, but I walked around and paid my respects to the dead. I always wonder what their lives might have been like – could the abandoned farm house a half-mile down the road have been occupied by one of these families?