Fans of Agatha Christie's Miss Marple would recognize Ruby at once. Tall, slim, barely a hundred and ten pounds, posed, the epitome of style and grace. Happily serving tea and crumpets during the bridge session.

That was the woman I saw when I first met my future mother-in-law. A lady far above my raising or experience. How could I ever rank in her mind?

I realize now that I have been blessed with the best of father and mother-in-laws. Ruby was always a treasure as well as a source of amazement and amusement.

Ruby was born and raised on a farm in Lena, Manitoba, Canada. I know little of her childhood but Ruby left a few notes and stories to help me. I am happy to reproduce them here.

"I never really saw a prairie fire which could get out of control but I have memories of what they might have been like.

One time on a hot afternoon I was about 10. I remember my mother raising the alarm then a "toot" on #31. That was part of the many acres my father farmed. "Bring the milk can full of water and sacks." Didn't make much sense to me but you did what you were told.

Mom gave us some more instructions that didn't make much sence but my sister and I got in the old Ford and off we went to #31.

We were told to stay on the road and wait. Off went Mom across the field. Sure enough fire was heading for our wheat crop. Dad and others were beating the fire with something, could have been someone's clothing.

The rest of the day is pretty vague but when Mom finally took us home we knew she had been brave; ready to help and could tell us a little about what had happened that hot dry day. As I matured I realized wet sacks had probably stopped many a potential runaway prairie fire."

"Sometime about 1925, we had a Dodge touring car, and a black dog called Jack. my brother had reason to take the car to Killarny for a small repair and spent some time away from Jack. Time to go home, no Jack! Neighbors and fiends helped to scourer the town but it was eventually necessary to go home hoping Jack would turn up somewhere.

"When I was about 10 I had my first experience driving a team of horses hitched to a hay rake. The purpose of the hay rake was to glean all missed crops which was not bound into sheaves by the binder. This didn't amount to much where wheat, oats and barley were concerned but flax was a different matter.

It doesn't grow very tall and was apparently not tied into sheaves. Have you ever seen a field of several acres of flax in bloom? Delicate blue flowers reaching for the sun. If you have not seen this, you'll have to wait til you get to heaven. There is sure to be such there.

I don't like to quote figures for fear of making a liar out of my mommy. But I do know that when wheat may have been worth 60 cents a bushel, flax was worth at least twice as much and a farmer would not leave gleanings to waste in the fields.

Kids on a farm could be quite useful but there were not many ways the four of us could earn some spending money. That's where the hayrake came into being for me. I could have what ever money Dad got for the gleanings of the flax field. Of course the operation required additional work for field hands because the piles raked up had to be loaded on a hay rack and added to the rest of the crop.

Looking back I realize my Dad had found a way to salvage the gleanings and to salvage my pride in feeling I really earned the money from the flax. How generous he was in the estimate of what I raked up. I will never know but I learned a good deal about my dear Dad in so many such incidents in later years.

I look now at some skinny little ten year old girls and wonder how they would feel sitting high on a hayrake guiding two normal sized horses up and down winrows raising the rake at the end of the row and lowering it again at the beginning of the next. I guess it must have had a foot control because I don't think I could have done it by hand. I was never afraid where horses were concerned and I know my Dad never put me in jeopardy."

Ruby might have found a suitable farmer-husband and never left the plains of central Canada but as she was reaching the age of adulthood, she ran full face into the Great Depression. Rather than seeking a husband, she went to work in a clothing and sewing shop. She learned how to sew clothes, all about fabrics, and upholstering furniture. This enabled her to support herself and help the family. For nearly ten years, she and Canada struggled to recover. Those who might be interested in this period should find a copy of Ten Lost Years.

As recovery loomed, on September 1, 1939, Germany invaded Poland and plunged the world into war. Again, Ruby had to put off any personal plans she may have had. And again, she left us a memoir of what the War Years were like for her.

I need to go back in dates to get my first thought about enlisting in a military unit. As I remember it was Labor Day, September 9 or 10, 1939, in Calgary, Alberta. Hitler had invaded Poland. Of course war storm clouds were all over Europe but no one wanted war.

Britain seemed to stand alone at the threshold of Europe. We knew the time had come: England declared war on Germany. Canadians stood at the ready and mobilization was stepped up. CWAC was formed as a volunteer unit but full military status was to follow with Major Jean Ritchie as commander.

War preparations were in full swing in New Westminster. Troops marching in the streets, coffee centers to welcome the soldiers, church organizations opened Hostess Houses where refreshments were served and most importantly messages could be relayed from the boys in barracks to family. This was somewhat like the USO which soon adopted the slogan for all service men.

I'll have to add a little romance there; a very attractive soldier began hanging around the piano where I was attempting to give a little pleasure by playing familiar songs and dance tunes that were popular then. Don't Fence Me In. Blueberry Hill. Do You Remember? Winter Wonderland.

After coffee and conversation a time or two around the piano we did exchange names and addresses. However, Bill mysteriously left the group. Quite soon after, I heard from him. He was in Britain on a special training program. That was the beginning of other trips to and from until he was posted to a unit preparing for D-Day. We kept the postal service very busy from then on. We eventually married and had garnered 44 years of much happiness.

For myself, I hadn't thought of enlistment but the call was there. Our boys must be released from jobs that women could do.

Finally in April, 1942, I joined the army, the CWAC that is. (The Qwacks). Enlistment was easy. You just got in line and from then on for a few days you lost most of your individuality. You were issued a Reg. number and you were "in." My number was W11500; B.C. being the eleventh district in Canada.

Our platoon was to train in St. Anne de Belview, Quebec. We were advised what to take with us and what to leave behind. That seemed like stepping into a whole new world. I had traveled some in Canada and was aware of the great distances. We were on the train about four days when we finally got to the camp with about 300 arriving daily.

We were assigned barracks space in the lovely old McGill University and College. Externally it seemed as though we had arrived in a wonder of park that ended at the front door. Metal double decker bunks 2 to 4 in a room (depending on the size). If you had a buddy you grabbed her and hung on. You needed at least someone who had been using your first name the last week or so. Three other girls and I were assigned to #151 and as we drew near our room, we could hear little else than French being spoken. Our Sergeant (Miss Fink) could speak both languages fluently. We three raw recruits had gone through high school at the time that French was required for two or three years. I was completely deflated at that point. I hadn't spoken French for 8 or 10 years and then it was Parisian French, not Conversational. Miss Fink was our guardian angel. She soon learned as I did that the few nouns that stuck in your mind in a foreign language were very little help in talking to all the French recruits. They tried and we did, a lot of miming and gesturing and laughing. However, we were too busy to worry about such things. Our class room study covered Canadian and British history, very (vague) speech protocol, when and to whom to speak, behavior with a hat or without (pertaining to when to salute). Gas mask drill, on paper and actual. Quite horrible. After our uniforms arrived we began to feel like soldiers. The next two or three weeks were very hard work but it was marvelous to feel you were gaining something every day. Even if it only taught you the very basics of living as part of a military platoon.

Pride in your uniform, pride in discipline that resulted in a trained squad. (My first time of living in any kind of team was a very scruffy basket ball team in our big navy blue bloomers.) Glad I don't have any pictures of that.

I always marveled at how easily I got a lump in my throat when watching military parades. It took me a while to gain that "esprit de corps." I was too old to be pushed around and too young like others to be venturesome and daring. However, you learned to "fit in" when you are just a Reg. number.

After Basic training we were split up into platoons in preparation to work. Quite a number of us went to Ottawa which is the capital of Canada and of course all the administrative people were there. In some ways it is interesting to know when you might be enmeshed with the "head honchos." But after a few weeks of frequent special parades it all became rather routine. I was a Lance Corporal and had many duties pertaining to parades. That meant keeping your uniforms pressed and buttons, badges and shoes shining like glass. That eased up some when I was given permission to live on subsistence. Barracks space was running out so those of us who appeared to be reliable were assigned to private homes. My first billet was with an English couple, Mr. & Mrs. Conibear and their daughter Ruby, who was a civil servant. That was one of the luckiest day of my army career as we made so many lasting friends from these delightful people. After being away for training as Sergeant, I had to be assigned a new billet. Mr. and Mrs Carter adopted me and spoiled me for another two years.

Sunday breakfast in bed or in my room. Can you believe that. Their time for worship services were different from mine so they chose to do it this way.

Our offices were just any place space could be found. Schools, business places that had been closed, ballrooms, gymnasiums, etc. After I got my sergeant's stripes, I was posted to a unit where most of the accounting was recorded. I had then about 30 girls in my platoon who all worked in one building. It was my responsibility to know who was on duty, who may be on sick parade, keep posted all complaints and concerns each day. All requests for leave or promotion went through my office to the Orderly Officer of the Day. There was seldom a day when I had time to write a letter to Bill. Of course when the Captain (CWAC) was roaming the work place, we kept our noses to the job at hand. Most associations were quite congenial. Others never forgot if you outranked them.

My last promotion came through one of the nicest Majors I have known. I had the misfortune of having to be told my father had died very suddenly. Major McLeans' office left no stone unturned to help me. My sister was in the Air Force. She was notified and telephoned to me almost momentarily. Leave for both of us was quickly arranged. She was in Kingston Ont. I was in Ottawa and the burial was to be in Calgary Alberta. We met almost by magic the next afternoon in Toronto with tickets and passes, with accommodation on hand. We were in Calgary in three days.

It was the same Major McLean who had my name on the list for officer's training. Not long after I was on my way there and believe me I was a very proud girl when I was promoted to 2nd. Lt. And three months later to full Lt. To come all the way little by little from a lowly private meant so much to me. I returned to Ottawa and was there until demobilization began in 1946. After VE and VJ Days.

Ottawa is a wonderfully beautiful city. The Rudiau Canal almost surrounds it and there are endless parklands. The Parliament Building sit high above the business area to the east, south and west. To the north the view from the back takes in the whole city of Hull. The Roman Catholic Church and Cathedral are pure gold (real gold) on the domes.

In peace time, I walked the halls of the Parliament Buildings and saw familiar names among my ancestors. I hope many of you will pay a visit there and get to know and love your neighbor Canada."

Ruby and Sargent Major William D. Pratt were married in Vancouver, BC, on the 4th of July, 1946. She was nearly a foot taller than he and out ranked him, Lt. to Sargent Major. But they lived a long and happy life together. Once they had come to the States, they always belived the fireworks on the Fourth was to celebrate their marriage.

In 1997, we moved Ruby from California to Reno, NV where she lived out her last two years. She was a remarkable woman and mother.