April 5, 2009
Willard Schute got drunk one night. On the way home in his Volkswagon Rabbit he cut across Wiley's field. They found the car next day, crashed in a freshly dug eight-foot basement. Willard had abandoned his ride and walked home, surprised but still drunk. This was in the 70s, when Mr. Wiley built that house.
There's a ghost on the train tracks near Hafford. A light, floating. If you're lucky you can walk right up to it. It moves backwards and forwards, and makes a quiet, squealing sound. The mayor talked about it on the radio. He laughed. I understand why, but wish he wouldn't have.
There are crooked trees nearby. They're normal pine, but crooked. For a hundred feet they grow twisted and then the forest is normal. Someone roped it off and built wooden paths. There's a small sign, says, The Crooked Trees of Hafford, Saskatchewan with a painting of a tiger lily underneath.
Hafford's not much of a town.
The gas station has a restaurant attached. They serve eggs until 11am every day of the year except Ukrainian Christmas.
Some American hunters shot a goat just outside it at 5am last year. Nearly scared the owner, old retired Mrs. Scurfield, to death.
Hafford, Saskatchewan. Population: 853. We've sent 13 men to the NHL.