2020 – “MEMORABLE” YEAR – CATHERINE A. CAMPBELL

January 10, 2024 ~ Catherine Campbell ~ Leave a comment

No ominous vibes.

2019 ended with a trip to Welland to see family with our new poodle puppy in tow, followed by a New Year’s Eve dinner.

2020 started routinely.

JANUARY

We did make it to midnight, coughing the whole time.

I spent the first few days trying to rehome a piano for Alison (one of the writing group). It ended up going to a young relative of hers who was just starting to learn. Piano looked to be a major part of this year – 2020. I had made the decision to pursue my Associateship of the Royal Conservatory of Canada so lots of piano lessons and piano practice. An onerous undertaking.

The Forest City Wordwrights, my writing group, continued its monthly sessions. Amazing that we have been together for four years. I submitted a story about the loss of Ivy, our last Doberman, to Chicken Soup – worth doing but like most rejections today the response was “silence”.

Dog training is also a high priority for 2020 – Kohl, now 6 months old, is getting bigger and much more confident. Definitely got a mind of his own. He graduated from Grade 1 and moved on to Grade 2 – at a training centre about an hour and a half drive east of London.

Having invested in clippers, scissors and a very powerful dryer we wimped and pursued grooming services from the co-breeder who has set up a new business in Strathroy – a half hour drive west of London.

Good thing Kohl likes the car.

FEBRUARY

I celebrated my birthday at the ortho clinic (again!) seeing the surgeon for my follow-up and to celebrate the completing of my participation in a two-year study related to different types of hip replacements.

The writing group was active – checking out competitions and reviewing books on the art of writing.

In a test of my piano accomplishments – I played t the St. Thomas Rotary Festival – this time a Chopin Etude, by memory. Wish it had gone better but the adjudicator was very generous. This piece is now so much better, but it is hugely challenging and wildly fast. I played in the Festival two years ago three weeks after my hip replacement surgery, hobbling up on stage on my crutches. I played that time much better – the adjudicator just about took a header over my crutch at the end of my performance.

MARCH

There were murmurs about a virus surfacing in Europe – my recollection is that Italy was the primary focus for the first part of the month. A couple of cases occurred in the West – US and Canada – but the general response from the powers that be here in Canada was that there was no great concern. So life went on.

We attended a performance to celebrate the 250^th anniversary of Beethoven’s death – Gerald Vreman, my piano coach, played the Concerto #1 as the highlight of the event. It was well attended. I remember discussing the Italian situation with the virus with another of Gerald’s adult students who was planning to go to Italy in April to address family situations. (She didn’t go. Several of her relatives contracted the virus.)

Mid March we went to a wine tasting in Niagara – a fabulous cheese buffet spread and several wine options. But there was now a tension, a concern about the buffet and strangers in close confines. The winery had staff serve rather than everyone helping themselves. We had stopped at a Niagara distillery on the way in and a couple of small bottles of hand sanitizer were included in our order. The distillery undertook the production of large quantities of sanitizer and delivered it for free to paramedics, police and other frontline workers in the Niagara region. Many other wineries stepped up to provide more supply.

It was still several days later before all non-essential businesses were ordered closed. Schools were closed. Our beloved Covent Garden Market and Jill’s Table (our favourite kitchen store) closed – we went to both weekly. The vendors were (well still are) our friends. No more housecleaning. No more hair salon. The Club closed but reached out to the community by establishing a meal delivery service.

There was a mad rush on toilet paper.

Technology stepped in. Our dog training went online to complete the Grade 2 course. My piano lessons moved to FaceTime. Yoga went to Zoom. No dog grooming but, using Skype, the groomer delivered a lesson on coat maintenance. Our personal fitness training group moved to virtual using Physiotec.

We walked the golf course with the dog – my Fitbit recorded thousands of steps a day.

The writing group also went virtual – low tech. As if isolation wasn’t hard enough to bear additional upheavals happened. A marriage breakup (upside, the husband had bought a lot of toilet paper before he walked out and didn’t take it with him). The member I had helped with the piano – 88 years old – had just moved into a retirement home and no one could visit. The group tried to stay motivated by doing scheduled prompt writing sessions and circulating the results via email. The better efforts were added to our website. Forest City Wordwrights

In our family, our son worked from home and was “daddy day care” to a 4-year old. His wife quarantined herself thinking she had symptoms, but her test came back negative. She then went back to work, 12-hour shifts, in the dialysis unit of her hospital.

Trips planned got cancelled – my sister’s trip to Florida to join her spouse cancelled. Instead, he was trying to figure out how to get home. And her vet practice was working on a new no-touch system of treating pet patients.

We were already starting to feel guilty that our lives had changed but, comparably, we were untouched. Ergo my addition to my wardrobe –

God grant me the

Serenity to accept things

I cannot change

The Courage to change

The things I can

And the Wisdom to know

When just to play PIANO

APRIL

Everything went quiet and the atmosphere was electric. Our community Owners’ Council (I am a long-time council member) went to Zoom. Wineries and the dog training outfit got creative to keep their clientele in the loop – Zoom, Instagram Live and Facebook Q&A. Friends talked of disappointment at not seeing family at Easter. Church services went online.

We drank wine, ordered more. The writers group organized lots of prompt sessions and took advantage of virtual writing workshops.

I wrote at the time….

OUTSIDE THE WINDOW.

Coming back to life – cutting the grass. Seems almost normal. Kohl is checking out this new activity. Well not really new – back in the fall of 2019 it was normal routine. Nothing normal about today.

Well that really isn’t true either. The sun is shining, the grass is green, the leaves are starting to unfold from their buds on the trees. The bees are back, feasting on the dandelions. I rescued one from the sunroom and set him free. Something missing though.

No golfers.

The irrigation system was being checked this morning. Big sprays of water over the 1^st green. The fertilizer cart headed back from the second hole. The greens are cut, the rough is trimmed.

No golfers.

There are walkers galore. What else is there to do? Our private park. I’ve hit my 10,000 steps several times. We have videoed Kohl doing his leash work and his tugging and his retrieving. Posted it online because there are no dog training classes. We chat from a social distance with fellow residents. Introduce Kohl but no social interaction allowed. Walking carefully by fellow walkers, an appropriate distance maintained, a wave, a smile.

The eagles are soaring in the afternoon sky. A robin has nested on the pillar by our front porch. Not sure where the ducks nested this year. Kohl and I watch them come and go from the ponds. And geese, of course. The superintendent was out a few weeks ago – loud noises to spook them away. Back down to the Thames Valley Conservation area or Kains Woods. Kohl has met a muskrat and checks out the stream every walk to look for him (or her). We spooked two deer who bounced down the fairway, tails flagging white and high. Kohl would have been in hot pursuit except for the leash.

No golfers.

In a normal time, spring, warm, we would not be walking on this course soaking up the joy of renewal. We truly would be observing outside the window. So all beautiful and vibrant but all outside the window.

Outside the window.

MAY

The days are now starting to blend together, one after another, a disturbing lack of rhythm. Days, now weeks, now months.

Just in case we thought spring was actually here Mother Nature delivered a final dose of winter.

Just a week later the golf course opened. One person per cart. Social distancing. No raking of the traps. The Clubhouse was still closed. To complement the meal delivery program the Club initiated a grocery service. A godsend to some in the community who were reluctant to or unable to go to a grocery store. Social distancing at our favourite store was almost impossible so we stopped going. Masks were promoted for anywhere social distancing wasn’t possible – in a very short time both masks and social distancing were mandated.

Kohl was in dire need of a groom, but no groomers were allowed to be open. We discovered ticks. Fortunately, not carriers of Lyme disease but we combed Kohl out carefully after any walks in the fescue. Lots of deer and coyotes so not a surprise but easy to miss. End of the month Kohl got his groom. I didn’t. I looked worse than Kohl.

It was disappointing to have to celebrate a friend’s 88^th birthday virtually. Not even a cake was allowed to be delivered. So, I made her a birthday card and posted a virtual party on the writing group website. The new owner of her family homestead tried to do a visit outside her window but was discouraged by the management of the retirement home.

Just for an outing we drove to Niagara for a curbside pickup of barbecued brisket – crazy – we were getting claustrophobic. It was delicious. Kohl came on the drive but didn’t share in the brisket.

JUNE

The region started opening up. With some trepidation we went back to personal fitness training – 1 client at a time, by appointment only. We visited the market and our favourite kitchen store but our emails setting up these outings show quite a bit of angst.

And now masks – I ordered masks from a clothing store – Frank Lyman specials. One of the residents in the community started making masks, no charge except that she was the volunteer fundraiser for the London Symphonia and a donation would be much appreciated. Expensive masks. One is a keyboard pattern and the other musical notes and clefs.

Out of the blue Howard got an email from his best friend when he was ten, a woman now living in Seattle. A package arrived from her – more masks.

Mid-month in-person dog training restarted – small class, no spectators. The patio at the Club opened with masks required except at the table. Separate entrance and exit paths. Owners’ Council meetings remained virtual. Piano lessons still on FaceTime.

The writing group continued to meet “virtually”, writing prompts and just staying in touch. The birthday member had a fall and ended up in hospital. It was hard to track down how she was. Visitors were very limited and she had to quarantine because of being at the hospital.

Just to add another challenge an element in our oven burned out. It took weeks to organize a repair call and weeks to find out it couldn’t be replaced. Good thing we had the Big Green Egg. I even cooked Yorkshire puddings on it.

JULY

Our favourite July event for years was the i4C – International Cool Climate Chardonnay Celebration. The organizers put together a virtual offering including the School of Cool event. Not quite as entertaining as the in-person. Not sure whether the 2021 event will fly or not.

The virtual lecture was interesting but not in the same league as this real experience in 2018.

Mid-July, masks were made mandatory inside businesses and restaurants.

A storm went through the area knocking out power. Wind shear took out trees and twisted a garage door like a pretzel. There was other minor damage, but our property was untouched.

AUGUST

Here we are on the Hidden Bench patio participating in a dog training Zoom call (using my iPhone for data) – a treat to be in the open air, a socially distanced outing. Only a couple of people were allowed inside the tasting room at a time. Everyone was masked on the formal patio and inside. That did lend an ominous air to the occasion that we tried to ignore.

Wine and the study of wine fills hours of the days.

Not my favourite task at the best of times but we had to kick off the election process for Owners’ Council. Three vacancies, four candidates. We set up the voting process on Survey Monkey.

Our medical checkup appointment pushed out 6 weeks. The clinic was closed. Doctors dealt with non-emergency medical issues on the phone.

And for the writing group, I wrote virtual meeting notes – a truly virtual meeting as it didn’t take place even virtually.

SUMMER DOLDRUMS AND COVID-19

Although we are escaping the oppressive heat of July and early August the fresh cool mornings just exacerbate the feelings of physical and emotional constraint brought on by social distancing, masks and angst. For those of us “trapped” in relatively idyllic locations we ache for those who are confined to homes, deprived of social interaction, suffering from ailments (some serious but medical attention is hard to obtain) or working in difficult circumstances (vets, dentists, health care workers). The fear mongering in the media and amongst our political class (domestic and international) makes it difficult to define what social activity is a reasonable risk and what is not. As we mask everywhere it seems like eons ago that our public health advisors were saying masks were useless. Now you can be lynched for failing to mask and “endangering” others even if there is no-one within dozens of feet much less six. As we tentatively test a return to “normal” – my piano lessons are now in person, but I arrive at one door and leave through another, masks are worn, handwashing is required and all the door knobs get sanitized between students. Yoga is still on Zoom. Kohl’s dog training is in person – 6 students in a huge training hall, masked, no spectators and, just to be sure, social distancing. I guess this will be the “new normal” for many weeks, months. Winter is ominously lurking – another form of confinement.

The Wordwrights have supported each other’s projects and creativity for several years now. It is hard to lose the physical connection even though it was only monthly. And that is especially hard when members of the group are going through personal challenges. Let’s keep reaching out to each other, virtually for now, but, with the power of Zen, lift our spirits and energize our creativity. Share the moments of despair but also indulge the moments of accomplishment even joy.

We will get through this!

SEPTEMBER

On the Labour Day long weekend, a Foreign Affair Brisket Event was organized – a picnic. Masks to enter the picnic grounds, questionnaire and temperature taken. Kohl accompanied us to this “socially distanced” picnic. He was a very good boy. Brisket sandwiches, baked beans and chips and, of course, a glass of wine. I was the driver – Howard had 2. Seven hours from leaving home to getting back. Pooched!

Last day of August and it looks like a new range will finally be installed. In this complicated life the deliverers of the range don’t disconnect the old appliance or connect the new one. So, we had to find an electrician to come in the day before the delivery and the day after. Having strangers wandering through the house was stressful. Then the range arrived with a significant dent – the price was adjusted by $500. The dent doesn’t show because the range is set into the cabinets but still annoying.

The Owners’ Council election went ahead with only a hitch or two on Survey Monkey. Sadly, one of the council members was diagnosed with lung cancer during the summer. She voted from her hospital bed and died a week after the results were published. Still miss her presence at the meetings – bright, funny.

OCTOBER

This month it is a year since we saw our close family. We looked at the possibility of visiting. Too many “uncontrollables”, particularly the 4-year old who loves to hug. That and our son doing part-time firefighting. And our daughter-in-law still in the health care system. And we would have to bring Kohl who has never met their dog, Odi (standard schnauzer).

We roasted a turkey for Thanksgiving even though it was just the two of us. Multiple turkey dinners, turkey pies, turkey stock, stuffing for pork tenderloin…not really an ideal menu option for two.

The trials of several of the writing group members continued. Real emotional hardship. Our prompt sessions stalled – jaded perhaps.

Makes me feel guilty for chafing at the restrictions when I have access to outdoors, to good food and wine, to books, movies and playing with/training my dog. I feel badly for my sister and the difficult processes implemented in her vet practice. Her significant other would normally be on the way to their property in Florida but not this year.

Fall moves on. Golfing is still a go so our walks are around the outside of the course. Absolutely gorgeous.

So much routine too. Numerous meetings and issues with Owners’ Council. Personal training resumed. Piano continues. Seems surreal.

There is a change in email – less from friends and family and more from retailers, vendors, travel sites – constant barrage of specials and opportunities. And lots from the Tudorose Poodle group (Kohl’s connections) and McCann’s dog training (Kohl’s connection again). Most of the blog posts from writing sites and piano and music sites remain unopened. Maybe I am also jaded.

Kohl needed his vaccinations so headed for the vet. Phoned when we arrived. A technician came out and fetched Kohl. We spoke to the vet, masked and socially distanced, and paid by phone.

And another little bit of normalcy, we got our flu shots in an outdoor clinic. Never got out of the car. In and out of the parking lot in 20 minutes including the 15-minute wait to make sure there was no reaction.

I wrapped up the month with a Zoom workshop from Quick Brown Fox – How to Write Great Characters. Of course, I haven’t managed to put the info to use.

NOVEMBER

I signed up for a Jill’s Table virtual cooking class. – Marvellous Mushrooms. We picked up the necessary ingredients from the store and from the market. Then I discovered the downside. I had to do all the prep and do it all before it was needed if I wanted to keep up with the Zoom presentation. The kitchen was destroyed. No question the pre-pandemic cooking class, sitting in the store’s teaching space with a glass of wine watching the guest chef work “magic”, delivered to us to taste, was much more relaxing. Not that my culinary results were disappointing. Not at all. Just a lot of WORK.

I registered for a Mysteries and Thrillers writing course through Western. It provided a little intellectual stimulation and I did make a little progress on one of my projects.

I finally got a scheduled medical procedure (CT Colonography) after a year of waiting. Initially I was told it could be scheduled spring of 2021 if I was prepared to go to Strathroy and summer if I wanted to stay in London. I got a call in November and took a deep breath and said OK. Perverse I suppose that a hospital is the last place we feel safe today – whether a patient or a health care worker. And an illustration of the delays the pandemic wrought on non virus health care procedures.

Piano practice is taking its toll on my hands. I have started serious physio! Patients have to fill in a wellness check online before attending a session.

We actually had a dinner reservation at the Club the first week of November – oysters on the half shell. The Club is really trying to keep the residents entertained. Of course, many of them should have been in their southern destinations by now.

The US election provided some significant “entertainment”.

A military organization promoted a virtual Remembrance Day. I posted pictures on their Facebook page and on my own. These two photos pretty much bracketed my father’s military career.

Here is the first picture of my father shaking hands with Prince Akihito in 1953, Victoria, British Columbia.

And the second was a plaque commemorating his role with the Canadian delegation of the International Commission of Control and Supervision, Region 4, in South Vietnam – 1973. The Canadian delegation was pulled out in only 6 months with the observation that they had come to supervise a ceasefire but were instead observing a war.

I also posted the following on Facebook:

Military initiatives are frequently remembered by the works of artists retained to capture the nature of the mission. My mother (her artist name, Elizanne) was selected to be the war artist in Vietnam during this short stint. I have a couple of her works from this project but understood that additional pieces were held in the collection of the Canadian War Museum. My husband and I decided almost 10 years after her death to visit the Museum. The librarian I consulted found the microfiche for us – it was quite emotional to browse those images. What was perhaps more astounding was that the librarian had no idea Canada had played a role in the peacekeeping efforts in South Vietnam.

My father, Colonel Frank Campbell, retired several months after returning from Vietnam. He became employed with The Plan (then Foster Parents Plan) and returned to Saigon as director of their operations there. He was in the process of moving to a new post in Indonesia with belongings packed on the quay to be shipped when he was told to be on the tarmac the next morning to board a Canadian plane. Evacuation of Canadians was underway. I saw my dad walk across the runway to board the plane – newsman, Craig Oliver, had called to tell me to watch. Saigon was falling.

Time Fillers

Tartine bread making every couple of weeks – my starter is 8 years old, I think. Takes the better part of a day to get the loaves into the oven. Slice it up and freeze it – great for grilled cheese except that the cheese oozes through all the holes in the bread. And absolutely amazing for croutons. I have revived my fondness for Caesar salad.

We are back to driving to Flamborough once a week for Kohl’s training class. Still no spectators allowed so Howard gets to sit in the car. I recorded the class with my iPad, leaning it against a chair so that Howard could see what we were doing.

No question that over this year Kohl has provided us with an invaluable distraction. He is oblivious to the stress.

DECEMBER

Last month of a crazy year.

Worth noting the huge push of email to encourage purchasing before Christmas. Businesses trying to survive.

More trials and tribulations for members from the writing group – their friends and family. Even quarantine at the retirement home. Yet several members have finished projects, made major inroads on projects and persevered with the creative writing exercises. The Thrillers and Mysteries course wrapped up.

Family birthdays came and went – quietly – just email or cards.

A morning visitor made short shrift of one of our shrubs – 6 feet outside our sunroom door. Like the spring there was still a rhythm to life.

“Outside the Window”.

One of our favourite Niagara wineries organized a virtual tasting. The Wine Club offerings were poured into serving size bottles and delivered. Food pairing options were recommended (we didn’t try everything). Very decadent.

A selection of hard cheese with fruit compotes (Heritage cheddar from Upper Canada Cheese Company) is beautiful with the Chardonnays. Brie with warm mushrooms for the Nuit Blanche. Crab cakes with the Chardonnays. A charcuterie board will always work with many options. Duck confit bites with the Locust Lane Pinot. Shaved Roast Beef with plum compote for the Terroir Cache.

Then we were shut down again. All non-essential businesses limited to curbside or delivery. The Club closed again. So what could we do to “celebrate” the Forest City Wordwrights.

“Virtual” Christmas Lunch. With London now in a red zone we have to face the reality that Forest City Wordwrights annual Christmas lunch at the RiverBend Clubhouse is not going to happen in 2020. So it seems like the best substitute would be a wander down memory lane. https://www.forestcitywordwrights.com/2020/12/13/virtual-christmas-lunch

Christmas

I couldn’t bring myself to put up a tree. I did put the wreath on the door, lit the candle in the lantern of a ceramic snowman and put Queen Bear in her place on the piano. We cooked a prime rib for our Christmas dinner. Too much turkey still in the freezer. Lots of email greetings, a couple of phone calls.

Then on Boxing Day, the stay-at-home direction – unless absolutely essential!

New Year’s Eve

New Years’ Eve a delivered dinner from the Club. A single malt scotch for me, a martini for Howard and a nice bottle of wine. The traditional Campbell dress tartan. Good omens!

A toast to 2021 and prayers for a respite from the pandemic.

A Summer Trip on the Ottawa River (Madeleine Horton)

July 3, 2021 ~ Madeleine Horton ~ 1 Comment

I am not a water person. Growing up on a farm in the Fifties, my experience with water was limited to the once or twice Sunday trips each summer to Port Stanley where I would venture out only far enough beyond the discouraging stones to splash a little and then float.

In my late twenties, with little water in between, two friends and I took a short camping holiday in Algonquin Park. My two friends were both experienced canoeists and parked me in the middle of the craft. I enjoyed canoeing small lakes joined by rivers. The rivers I liked best for the sense of being able to almost reach out and touch the branches of overhanging trees on either side. For the sense of being in nature, to my mind. And probably for the sense of security.

On the last day of our holiday, Elsie proposed we drive to the Ottawa area and go white water rafting. It would be the highlight of the holiday for her. Sheila in her always soft and firm voice at once said she would not go. She would happily wait for us on shore. My first impulse was to decline also. But Elsie did not want to inconvenience us both. I said I would go.

White water rafting was still rather new at that time. Elsie had heard of one outfit, probably the least expensive. I knew absolutely nothing of the different rafts used nor of the different reputations of the different companies. The company we went to turned out to be one with a reputation for being the wildest. The rafts were like large rubber dinghies with no fixed oars—a feature I was later told made for a larger, safer raft.

We were issued life jackets of a sort. I spied some helmets which were not offered and asked about wearing one. I suppose this caution came from always being required to wear a helmet when riding. I asked about having one. I was given one, with a bemused smile. No one else asked for one.

The leader for our trip was a young French Canadian, not a large man but wiry and well-muscled. He spoke little, gestured extravagantly, and used the expression “it’s a real rush, man” frequently. That perhaps should have been a warning.

We were led to to see the first set of rapids. I looked down at churning, rushing waters forced through what seemed a narrow canyon. The guide said these were the strongest rapids and where people most often were flipped off the raft. Usually two or three per trip. With twelve trippers, the dreaded thirteen counting the guide, the odds did not sound great. We could choose not to do this part. Instead, cross a stream he pointed out, and meet the raft at a point a short distance away. My hand went up. He casually pointed to the stream some distance away and left with the group.

The stream flowed down a sharp incline. It was like a chute. Around two hundred yards from where I stood, it emptied into the river. I stood and looked down at it. .The water was crystal clear, several feet deep, and rushing. I looked across it. It did not look that wide. Perhaps three feet across. It must have been stepped over by others than me. The Guide had been offhand as he waved me towards it.

I did not make the opposite bank. I was swept away.

I remember that with absolute clarity. My life did not flash before me. I was on my back. My eyes were open. I remember seeing how crystal clear the water was above me. How far I was from the surface. I did nothing. It was so fast. I felt no pain. I made no struggle. I felt no fear. It was just sensation. Me and the clear water above me.

I did not think then of those many in Greek mythology who sought to confound their fate, only to be forced to endure it.

I surfaced in the river, further than I could ever swim. There were two canoes near me at once. I would not want a recording of my struggle to get into the canoe. They (I have no sense of my helpers) rowed me to the shore where the raft had pulled up. No one had flipped from the raft.

The Guide was enthusiastic in his effort to convince me to continue the trip. The rest of the rapids would be easier. He really wanted me to do it. It would be a rush.

Reader, I went. The Guide was more or less correct. Most of the rapids I do not recall. Except for one when the front of the raft went so high in the air I thought it was going to completely turn head over heels. (Would that be keel?) At the last second, the front bent forward and we continued on our way.

Later, as my friends and I drove to find our last campsite I assessed the damage. I had lost a pair of prescription sunglasses. My left shoe had been sucked off my foot. That foot was swollen and bruised. It was only when I was at home late the next day and looked in a mirror, that I saw a chain of large purple bruises down my spine that must have been caused by hitting rocks. I thought of my head and the helmet. A reluctant trip to a Walk-in Clinic confirmed a sprained ankle.

Sometimes I think of the lessons I took from that experience. I wonder if they are the right ones.

Grandma Anna’s Funeral (Alison Pearce)

June 1, 2021June 9, 2021 ~ Alison Pearce ~ 1 Comment

Grandma Anna has just died. Bless her! It was May, 1943.

Thank goodness she had presence of mind to plan her expiration date in the springtime. Had it been January, the locals may not have been able to master the snowdrifts that often filled the country roads in winter. They would have been disappointed had they not been able to see who had come to pay their respects. For everyone goes to all the funerals in the country, you know. It is simply the thing to do.

But this was a special funeral and no doubt it would be a big one. Grandma Anna was in her nineties and was the last of her generation to go. She was 3^rd generation on my father’s side of the family but she was still considered a pioneer. She was the only one left who knew full well what had come before. If anyone in the area needed to “know” something, they came to Grandma Anna. There would be an emptiness with her gone for there was no one who could fill her place now.

Grandma Anna had been born in 1850, the year that her father had built that beautiful Georgian brick house on the lake road. It was the first brick house to be built in the county. And less than a mile the other way on the lake road was the home where her husband, Leonard, had been born. His father had built that home in 1874 and it was even more elegant than the house in which Grandma Anna had been born. Leonard’s house had seventeen rooms to fill it.

Leonard, Grandma Anna’s husband had not been a physically strong man, but he provided for Anna as best he could. Theirs was a frame gingerbread house with an outdoor privy and though Anna may have longed for the bricks and mortar of the home in which she had been brought up, no one ever knew. She held her head high. Her home was her castle and she expected everyone to treat her as the queen she was, who lived in it. And they did!

Her sons Edwin and James, who rarely saw eye to eye, had agreed on one thing. Their mother would have the best casket that money could buy. Made of polished oak with brass handles, it had a quilted satin interior and satin pillow on which to lay Grandma Anna’s head. Too large for the parlour, the casket had been brought into the house through the back kitchen door and into the living room where it remained throughout the visitation. Grandma Anna’s bible, always opened on a stand in the parlour, was open to “The Beatitudes” on a stand beside the casket now. An air of peace and holiness almost seemed to prevail.

Edwin and James knew there would be a lot of people. Anna’s lane was narrow and was flanked by huge jack pines on either side. The visitor’s vehicles were to continue on down a side lane, through James’ property and out to the main road. On the day of the funeral, the procession would follow the country road down to St. Peter’s Church for the service and on to the cemetery for burial, where lay Grandma Anna’s final resting place.

On the day of the visitation, the first person to arrive was Jacob Dinsmore and his wife Effie Cusack. Everyone assumed they were husband and wife for they had lived together for years on the town’s main street. Jacob, the only townsfolk gentleman who had a horse now, kept it on the property behind his house. He came early to Grandma Anna’s house, hoping to avoid the frightening noises of the automobiles, especially that dreadful Ford car of Ernie McKillop’s. “Why he does not get his engine checked, I will never know!” said Jacob.

Just as he and Effie were about to climb into their buggy to leave, who should drive in but Ernie himself. And wouldn’t you know? Ernie drove his car and parked right up beside the post where Jacob had hitched his horse. Muttering under his breath, Jacob was forced to step back until the churning noise of McKillop’s car had ceased and his horse Prince had calmed down. “Why he does not get his engine checked, I will never know!” said Jacob.

Along with Edwin and James, Anna’s two widowed daughters, Norah and Beatrice who both lived up the road in Wallacetown, were there at their mother’s home to receive guests. as well. A number of the ladies from the Dorcas Society began to filter in and could be heard talking amongst themselves.

“Oh, haven’t they done a great job on her hair!” remarked Verna as the girls wandered over to the coffin. Some of them peered in at Grandma Anna’s peaceful face.

“She didn’t have much to work with in the beginning”, said Doris.

“And there she is, wearing her purple beads. Aren’t they the same ones that she wore every day,” chimed in Mabel.

“Don’t you like her knit dress,” remarked Grace. “I don’t think I’ve seen it before.”

At that moment Beatrice stepped over. “Mother bought this dress almost twenty years ago.” she said. “She wanted to be ready for the day when she would need it.”

Just then the girls turned around to see who was sobbing. Doris walked over and put her arm around Marion who was crying her eyes out. “We won’t have her any longer,” she sobbed, “to lead us in prayer at any of our meetings. Who’s going to do it now?”

“Well let’s get her buried first before we think about that” chirped in Mona.

“Come on Marion! Anna would not be pleased to know you are crying so much. Remember she always told us that we should rejoice in death because it’s only through death that each of us will truly meet our Maker”.

“Well, she’s surely with Him now”, Tina announced as Marion struggled to wipe away her tears.

The living room was beginning to fill up with people coming and going all afternoon. Men and women who hadn’t seen Grandma Anna, some for two or three years, came from far and wide to pay their respects. They had come to say good-bye to Grandma Anna and to catch up on local news at the same time. There was something about Grandma Anna that one could never forget once you had met her. She had a deep and abiding faith and an aura of spirituality that seemed to envelop every person who came in contact with her. She was a lady for whom deep respect was afforded by everyone who knew her

The ladies of the Dorcas Society were about to leave just as John B arrived. He wasted no time in making his presence known and was soon heard to say in his booming voice, “I wonder how much she’s left the family”. No one bothered to turn around. Everyone knew John B’s voice. He was the town bachelor who rode about on his bicycle helping the farmers when they needed him. He was a good worker but other than that, social “know-how” was not part of John B’s make-up. He always knew where he could get a good meal. On his way home from work he would often “conveniently” drop in to a home at supper time. Nothing would do but, that he had to be invited to join the family.

Disgusted, the neighbour standing beside him started to walk away but not before the minister who had heard John B’s questioning remark came over to silence him. It was not unusual for John B to speak out as he did. He had never learned to keep his mouth shut at the appropriate time.

Just then the Reverend raised his right hand and asked everyone in the room to remember Anna, each with their own silent prayers after which he pronounced a blessing of his own. “Amen” he said, as the group followed together with a second “Amen”.

The following day at noon hour, the cars were lined up on the roadside waiting to follow the hearse down the road to the cemetery. It was a lengthy procession, for it seemed as though everyone in the neighbourhood had come to bid a final farewell to this lovely old lady, the last old timer of the community.

Since her husband’s death, Grandma Anna had always sat in the front pew of the church. Now her two sons, Waltham, who had come from Halifax and Reginald from Alberta, occupied it. The remaining members of her family sat behind them.

The church which could barely seat a hundred people was filled. So was the balcony. People were standing at the back of the church and in the aisles. A few were gathered outside on the lawn, one or two of the farmers still in their work clothes since they had not had time to go home to change.

This was the church that Grandma Anna’s forebears had built over a century earlier. St. Peters’ Anglican Church which was known for its splendor and elegance had seen many visitors during the course of each year. Though money may have been scarce for a number of things in those early days, one could see upon entering this beautiful edifice that the early settlers had spared nothing to make their house of worship, a House of lasting beauty.

Several large stained-glass windows depicting biblical scenes such as “The Sower” or “Behold, I Stand at the Door and Knock”, caught one’s eye the minute one walked in. These windows were monuments of great beauty and had been dedicated to a number of the early pioneers. And the pews of solid polished oak spoke loudly of the reverence that these people held in their hearts for the wood and trees of their forests. Small wonder that the boys had chosen an oak casket for their mother.

The congregation stood when the casket was rolled up to the front of the church by the pallbearers. As the minister took his place, the choir began to softly sing “Abide with Me”. Reverend Craven’s eulogy was not long for that was the way Grandma Anna had wanted it. She was, after all, a humble woman and had told him when she was alive that whatever he had to say, it was not to be lengthy. As the service came to an end the bell began to toll. It continued ringing while the mourners filed out and followed the hearse on foot, up the road and over to the cemetery where they spread out circling the grave site of Grandma Anna.

As the minister pronounced that final blessing to the dead and the casket was slowly being lowered within the freshly dug grave, a pair of yellow warblers flew onto one of the branches of a nearby tulip tree. They began to warble so loudly that their song brought nothing but joy to all standing around, a song that seemed to be a heavenly benediction to Grandma Anna, one grand old lady and the last of the pioneers.

Note:

I was 11 years old when Grandmother died and I remember well her funeral. I am sorry that her house no longer exists. A cousin lived in it for a few years and it was eventually torn down. But it holds many memories – the row of Jack pines that grew tall along one side of the laneway- and the eerie sound when you heard the wind blowing through them.

I did not like going to Sunday School or church and I used to disappear when it was time to get ready. I would high tail it up the gravel road around the corner to Grandmas on when it was time to get ready for church on the Sundays in springtime-The first pine tree inside the gate had a bough that came straight out for a few feet. I could hoist myself up on it and sit with my legs dangling, a perfect place to observe blue sky the buttercups dancing in the breeze. As I communed with God and nature this ritual fed my soul far more than listening to a stuffy old minister- But too soon I heard my name being called as I was told that it was time to get ready..

Green Thumb: The tomato which inspired a contest, kept a family in touch, and eased a pandemic. (Madeleine Horton)

April 30, 2021 ~ Madeleine Horton ~ Leave a comment

Several years ago, I stopped at a Pick Ur Own vegetable farm. I picked some tomatoes on a row marked Heritage Varieties: Sicilian Saucers. They proved to be, to my mind, the most flavourful tomatoes I had ever tasted both for cooking and for fresh eating. The next year, to my dismay, the farmer turned his land to cash crops and planted soybeans and corn. I decided I wanted these tomatoes but cannot grow them myself in my shady yard. So I announced a Tomato Contest to my family in hopes that most of them could deliver their entries in person. For the two brothers in the West, photos were the only option. The cash incentive attracted my competition loving family, including this year both my nephews.

The Sicilian Saucer tomato is as the name suggests one that can grow very large, thus making it good for a contest. The central prize has been for largest tomato. That continues this year. Contestants have been reminded that the margins of victory can be close. Last year’s winner, my nephew in Drayton, Ontario edged out his mother by only six grams. My brother in Hope, B.C. has for the past two years submitted a photo of an impressive looking Sicilian posed beside an egg. Regrettably, the concrete scale of his rivals has overruled his subjective egg; it has been suggested he borrow a scale this year if possible.

Sicilian Saucers are the workhorses of tomatoes. Because of their large and irregular size, they do not fit neatly into commercial containers which favour a one size for all, a one shape for all. They are not a pretty face; they will never be celebrated at the Royal Winter Fair where the flashy Beefsteak tomato flaunts itself. They will never grace the cover of Gourmet magazine. They are rough and robust, the proletarians of the tomato world, never to be relegated to the regimens of a greenhouse. But they have a noble heritage, the sunny fields of Sicily, the renowned pots of masters of tomato cuisine in the Mediterranean.

But, they are a challenge to grow. Sicilian Saucers are not a hybrid tomato with all their inherent quirks engineered out of them. They are prone to blight. Because of their size, they easily crack and split. They need a longer growing season than some others.

The first year of the contest, my youngest sister, an avid and usually successful gardener discovered the difficulties. She, however, is nothing if not an optimist and in late October she appeared on my doorstep, and held out her hand holding one, small, hard, green, Sicilian Saucer, perhaps in hopes that her siblings had had even less success. We have laughed about that since then. Last year a nephew who had never gardened before produced the winner of the largest tomato. This year he emailed me in February asking about the contest because his two children were keen to help again.

This year, the third year, and perhaps the Grande Finale of the contest, some new categories have been announced and others expanded. The unassuming Sicilian Saucer will not mind and the changes will promote good will, dispelling any feelings of disgruntlement in the West that the contest favours the climate conditions of the East. Hence, there will be a new category- A Medley of Three Varieties of Tomatoes. For this the Sicilian Saucer may be called to step aside, if needed, mindful that they also serve, who only remain on their stake.

Another new category opens equal opportunity for all vegetables- A Medley of Any Three Different Vegetables. For those whose Sicilians are substantial but not the biggest, the popular Pair of Sicilian Saucers class returns. For those who have an artistic eye, there are now two prizes for Photo Presentation of Your Produce- one to include a Sicilian Saucer. Last year the sister who appeared the first year with the hard, green tomatoes presented a photo worthy of a poster- her ample Sicilian posed with rustic pottery and vintage tins.

So, what started as a simple who can grow the biggest tomato challenge has morphed into something more. Last year, with the bigger challenge of the pandemic, and already this year, as the pandemic stubbornly hangs on, this little contest has brought good natured ribbing, laughs, new interests, and a little relief to me and my family. Nice work for a modest tomato, the Sicilian Saucer.

Christmas Memory 1999 (Diane Chartrand)

December 22, 2018December 22, 2018 ~ Diane Chartrand ~ Leave a comment

I stood freezing in the long line, at the Toronto Greyhound Terminal, for over two hours at Bay 6 with my bag beside me. The bays were outside, and the wind and snow were blowing directly into us.

Being just a few days before Christmas, everyone appeared tired and ready to board their bus and sleep. The time was closing in on midnight, but I was wide awake and anxious to see my six grandchildren in Ohio and their beautiful mother, my first-born daughter.

Finally, the bus had arrived. I won’t have to change buses until we cross the border in about two hours and enter at the Buffalo Terminal. I’m excited, and sleep doesn’t come. I look out as the night has changed to a bright full moon and millions of stars. As we go south, the snow is left behind us.

I envision the scene, I’ll hopefully see, in the next few days. Getting to watch the kids open the presents I shipped down. There will be joy on their faces along with a lot of noise as the children range in age from two to thirteen.

As we arrive at customs, the driver says, “Make sure you take all your belongings off the bus. Pick up your bags from under the bus and take them with you through that door to the left. Make sure you have all your identification ready.”

I grab my backpack and a small bag from under the bus and make my way into line. A customs agent calls up one person every twenty minutes. At this rate, I’ll never make my connection in Buffalo. After about forty minutes it’s finally my turn.

“ID please. Where are you going and for how long?”

“To visit my daughter and six Grandchildren in Dayton, Ohio and will be there for five days.”

“Are you declaring anything into the country?”

“No. I already sent my gifts to their house a couple of weeks ago.”

“Okay move on to the other officers to get your bags checked.”

Customs hadn’t started using screening machines yet, so our bags were checked manually. This process always left a mess inside.

“Okay, you’re good to move on. Take your bags and go back to the bus and wait with the driver.”

I was overjoyed that was over. There were others, though, who didn’t get through as quickly. One lady had packed sliced meat and oranges, both items not allowed to cross the border. This caused a delay for over an hour while one of the customs agents searched for an interpreter because this lady, nor anyone in her family, spoke English.

After several more transfers along the way, I finally arrived in downtown Dayton. I was so relieved to see my daughter and son-in-law sitting in the waiting room. After a short drive, we arrived at the house. All the children came up and gave me a big hug.

My Christmas in 1999 was the first I had spent with my family in many, many years. It will always be the one I treasure the most. It was the beginning of many more years of special occasions with them.

Christmases to Remember (Catherine Campbell)

December 20, 2018December 20, 2018 ~ Catherine Campbell ~ 1 Comment

Well here we are in 2018 well into the “silly” season. Christmas music swirls around us everywhere we go. Christmas containers grace the porches. Christmas lights brighten the evening. Now the scramble to organize gifts, dinners, cards and notes – for so many people there is just angst, stress, guilt and loneliness. And, do we treasure the moments?

Most Christmases are forgettable and with all the emotional energy that is poured into this “festive” time that is rather sad. Still, if I am typical, there are a few special memories.

Dar es Salaam, Tanzania – 1966

I was 14 years old – my father had been assigned a 2-year tour in Dar es Salaam, training the local military pilots on search and rescue aircraft. I had been enrolled in a dance school in Cannes, France, but the educational offerings (almost non-existent) didn’t meet my father’s expectations. By November I was “home” in Dar.

Christmas to all of us had been “snow, snow, snow”. Manitoba, Labrador, Ottawa. Not tropical. My mother, an artist, took up the challenge. Her rendition of a Christmas tree was an abstract, pastel creation made out of multiple sheets of paper stuck on the wall. It didn’t need lights or ornaments! Christmas dinner was a pot luck at a park just outside of town. The lunch was to have included roast goat. However, the unlucky beast was stolen the night before the feast (probably not to meet a kinder fate) and, in the morning, the organizers scrambled to find a replacement. They did, but the roasting time was significantly diminished, and the result was decidedly unappealing.

Still there was laughter and sharing…and thanks for what we had – maybe a little more of the real “meaning” of Christmas.

We missed my brother – he was in Switzerland at boarding school – he spent a lonely Christmas.

Lundin Links, Scotland – 1967

My brother and I spent our next Christmas together, without the rest of the family! I had started boarding school in Edinburgh, Scotland. The Wests (our neighbours in Dar es Salaam) had returned to Scotland to a small town on the other side of the firth from Edinburgh. They invited both my brother and I to join them for Christmas since a trip to Tanzania was not possible.

It was a cozy cottage, the Scottish chill handled by gas fires (I did discover the joy of chilblains by toasting my cold feet too close to the heat). And Christmas music. Muriel West was a pianist (had instructed me in Africa) and the young son had a beautiful voice, a member of the King’s College choir.

The gossip mongers in town had a field day with two young people of the opposite sex – strangers – in town. I remember a hug from Brad on the streets of Lundin Links. He was laughing, happy – hard to believe he died at only 41.

Palm Springs – 1986

My husband and I headed to California for Christmas – his son was spending the holidays with the ex, so it seemed like a good idea to get away. We flew to San Diego and then drove to Palm Springs to a quaint hotel, the Ingleside Inn. It touted itself as the location for the stars and the list of famous guests was impressive. There were none to be seen when we were there but there were many signed pics of Hollywood stars, all decades old. The weather was warm, of course, belying “Christmas”. But there were festive touches. A nude sculpture in the garden had been graced with a Santa hat. Mini trees, about 8” high and decorated, were in every room. Echoing the near forgotten era of the piano lounge there was a pianist tickling the ivories on a grand piano, the food was excellent, classic tableside favourites, as was the wine – a Duckhorn Merlot.

What an absurd thing to remember!

Carlux, Dordogne, France – 1999

The millennium beckoned – maybe December was not the best time to visit the Dordogne in France but closing out the 20^th century it seemed destined. The sun was shining, and the unseasonably warm breezes made shirt sleeves comfortable out on the stone patio.

We bought two little trees and decorated them with red balls and a lacy cap.

Christmas Eve we attended mass at the local cathedral. The organ music reverberated against the stone walls, the voices of the chorists made the hairs on my arm stand up. It was mesmerizing.

Christmas dinner was planned for the house. We were joined by an Australian couple staying in Sarlat, our friends who owned the Le Fournil property, Wayne (our son) and Sharon (a friend from Toronto). We had shopped at the local butcher for a turkey and a roast of beef and the market in Souillac for oysters and vegetables. The butcher’s careful instructions unfortunately produced a barely cooked roast of beef. The turkey prepared by our hosts in their coach house was perfect. The oysters and the champagne…what can I say?

We were home by New Year. That y2k conflagration that had been forecast – didn’t happen.

Postscript:Our little trees got planted in the garden above the Le Fournil – they are now 8 feet tall! Millenours 2000 (my white bear) has gone a little yellow – I have gone a lot grey!

THE LAST GOODBYE (Maria Melillo Jones)

September 18, 2018September 18, 2018 ~ Maria Melillo Jones ~ Leave a comment

It wasn’t real.

It wasn’t real until the call arrived that David has passed on.

A little over a year he fought the beast* that took over his life. David had the hunger to live, with every last breath he fought, a battle that was meant for him to win. My beautiful Angel lost his fight on Family Day, February 20, 2011, eighteen days away from his 30^th birthday. Out of all the days, he lost his fight on family day. A day to remember, to celebrate with family, was he sending us a message? I wish I knew.

I let out a scream, a painful excruciating scream. it’s hard to describe the agony I felt. My heart had just been shattered and ripped out of my chest. I felt as though the Devil had my heart in his own hand squeezing as hard as he could in his ugly fist,

I could not get a breath of air into me. Every so often I would take a big gulp, I had the feeling of drowning without being under water. Just the thought of my sweet nephew not being around anymore, it was a raw, aching pain.

I brought up the little rascal from the time he turned one. I knew what he liked and what he didn’t. I remember all the funny things he did, and said, what made David laugh and what made him cry. He had a real sense of humor. Most of all he had a beautiful smile and a gentle personality. He loved to help and give. When he smiled, his entire soul smiled, his eyes sparkled like stars.

I was not able to hug him or tell him that Aunt Maria loved him before he passed, due to family quarrels. That was one of the saddest things besides his passing. I couldn’t let go of the thought that, perhaps, he didn’t believe in my love for him anymore. I wanted him to know that I loved him more than life. If I could switch lives with him, I would have done it in an instant, without thinking twice. My nephew, David, had a full life ahead of him, a life full of joy, laughter, and good deeds. A life with a family of his own, and a woman that loved him deeply.

Losing my nephew was the hardest thing that ever had happened to me, I cried for a month. I fell into the black hole called depression. It was dark and lonely, no one understood my desperation. I was alone. It was very hard climbing back out of that big dark hole. God stood beside me and reached for my hand. Little by little I found the courage. I pushed myself a little at a time. After many long waking nights, I admitted to myself that David was really gone.

Towards the last critical months of his life, I was no longer welcome near him, as per his mother and father (my brother) because of those family quarrels. The day of the funeral I went to the church, to give my nephew my last goodbye. I began to cry the minute the casket entered the church. My heart was aching so much. I never experienced that kind of pain before, not even when my own father passed away. That pain was real, it was poignant.

As the casket passed by me, I followed it outside the doors. Seeing him taken away forever, I collapsed in the arms of my husband. Still thinking “it’s not real he will come home.” Something inside me didn’t want to accept his departure, I kept the hope alive, the hope to hear him knocking on my door and calling my name, “Hello Zia**, how are you?” he used to say.

After a couple of years, I came to realize and accept that my beautiful and handsome nephew was no longer walking among us. I know for sure he is helping in the Heavens. He is with me every day; the beautiful memories are locked, and will forever be cherished, within my heart.

“Rest in peace, my Angel – until we meet again.”

Beast* – Cancer

Zia** – Aunt

Edinburgh, Scotland – Holy Corners (Catherine A. Campbell)

July 10, 2018 ~ Catherine Campbell ~ 2 Comments

My husband and I arrived in Leith, Scotland, July 15, 2015. The port for Edinburgh, an interesting town – we had time to walk around and lunch. Good to be off the ship. Tomorrow was ostensibly the highlight of the cruise – The Open at St. Andrews, on the other side of the link.

The real highlight for me was the opportunity, on a free day in Edinburgh, to find my boarding house and school close onto 50 years after attending – Cranley School for Girls – 1967-1968. Volunteers at the pier provided maps and directions for the usual tourist spots. No doubt the woman we spoke to was taken aback when I gave a specific residential address that I wanted to “get to”. About to send us to City Centre with multiple bus transfers she lit up and said “Over there. No 8. Tell the driver to let you off at Holy Corners.”

Holy Corners – right by the Edinburgh Hospital. A place burned into my memories of that year at boarding school.

We left the bus as directed, at Holy Corners. No surprise as to how it came by its name. The churches butted the sidewalk on each corner of Gillsland and Morningside, ergo Holy Corners. The stained-glass windows were dark with grime of decades of vehicles belching smoke into the air. Iron fences barricaded the grounds of the Edinburgh Hospital, lining the sidewalk, pinning the walkers between them and the busy street.

Gillsland was the quieter of the two roads. Old, stately homes stood well back on the lots, narrow gates opening from the low stone walls by the street. They had been built in an era where there were few cars and no need for driveways or access for vehicles. My boarding house was number 8.

A plaque with the street name was nailed into the wall at the corner, right next to one of the churches.

A gentle place with the sun shining, a dreary place in the drizzle of Scottish winters and an eerie place in the gloom of the evening. That is the memory I have of Holy Corners. A memory of the churches ill-lit and their shadows darkening the street even more than the dusk. Street lights were grimy and glowing dimly. The wet streets flickered with the reflection of car headlights. The whole of Holy Corners seemed to swirl like a living, breathing thing – crooked fingers reaching out to block the way.

Why was I trying to negotiate the way from the Edinburgh Hospital, past Holy Corners, to my boarding house on Gillsland Road on such a dark and dreary evening?

………………

Sally was older than I was, Scottish-born and bred. I had been assigned to her dorm room. There were four of us. Sally, of course, and Louise and Ellen. As the youngest (and newest) I got all the cruddy jobs like getting up on a freezing morning to turn on the space heater to take the edge off the unheated room. I was also the only non-Scot. Sally’s parents lived in or near Edinburgh but Louise and Ellen’s parents were elsewhere in the world. My parents, too, were thousands of miles away – in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania – I was very lonely.

Sally loved horses, as did I. However, Sally walked with canes, legs braced – a victim of polio at a very young age. The bones didn’t grow properly so every year her legs were broken, the bones stretched apart to create a gap and pinned in place so that the gap could fill with new bone. Every year! This year her parents had promised her a respite.

Sally had been encouraged to ride woolly ponies at a nearby stable – very staid. She was easily infected with the desire to up the ante. We found a lovely stable to try with the help of our young house mistress. The horses were trained in basic dressage, point-to-point steeplechasing and jumping and rides were available at all levels.

Our Headmistress, Miss Porteous, into her 60’s and less than fit and active (aka “Porky” – children are cruel), had some trepidation but she bowed to our pressure. Sally’s parents also caved to her pleading. Our first couple of visits were uneventful. Compared to the ponies this equestrian centre made us feel like real horsewomen. The stable hand was cautious with Sally and had put her on a big, slow-moving gelding – definitely part draft horse – a real sweetheart. His fetlocks were hairy right down to his big, flat hooves. This day he was tacked up ready to go, reins draped over his neck. The attendant had stepped away to help another rider. Sally’s parents had come to watch and no doubt showing off, Sally, in a burst of independence, decided she would mount the horse unsupervised. Crazy! Her head didn’t even reach his withers and there was no mounting block. She lifted one foot to the stirrup, hand gripping the front of the saddle.

In absolute slow motion I saw the rear hoof of that easy-going horse shift and saw him flick it forward as if to knock off a fly. Sally was right in its path. She went down like a rag doll.

I raced to her. She was sobbing in shock. Her mother scrambled over screaming Sally’s name. The stable hand whipped around and grabbed the horse, getting him out of the way. It was quickly apparent that Sally’s leg had snapped.

We lifted Sally very carefully and ensconced her in the back seat of her parent’s car. I crawled in to the same seat and supported her head in my lap. I was trembling. Sally was whimpering and I was soothing her. “It’s OK. We don’t have far to go. Just stay still.” She managed a nod. Staying still was easier said than done. Her dad, white as a sheet, was driving like a maniac. To the Edinburgh hospital right by Holy Corners.

I was left standing alone in the Emergency Room. Sally had been rushed into x-ray and her parents with a quick squeeze of my shoulder went with her. At this point I couldn’t process where I was or how to get back to the boarding house. It was now quite dark. I found a pay phone and called the house. Mrs. Todd, senior headmistress, answered. In her firm, no nonsense voice. “I understand. Sally is being looked after. Now let’s get you home.” She calmly directed me to the exit out of the hospital, past Holy Corners back to the big stone boarding house at 8 Gillsland Road.

Mrs. Todd greeted me at the lobby door. I was ushered into the Headmistress’ sitting room, across from our dining room. Several boarders were hovering at the door, Sally’s accident had already become known. The sitting room was full of over-stuffed chairs, throw rugs, cushions and a cozy gas fire (most of the rooms in the boarding house were unheated). I felt chilled to my core. I slid into a big chair that enveloped me. Mrs. Todd was stiff upper lip – “You are OK, dear. Home safe.” Miss Porteous – “You poor dear. And poor Sally. We should never have let her take the risk. Do you know – did she break the leg again?” “I think so. I didn’t get to go with her to the exam room at the hospital. She was in so much pain.” I hiccupped with the start of a sob. Both Mrs. Todd and Miss Porteous hugged me. Nauseatingly sweet, milky tea was poured into my cup. It cloyed on my tongue, the honey thick in the bitter liquid. I burst into tears.

There was no more riding for Sally and she spent that Christmas, yet again, in leg casts.

……………

And here my husband and I were at Holy Corners, walking down the road to 8 Gillsland Road and I remembered that long ago day like it had happened yesterday.

A Happy Time (Madeleine Horton)

April 18, 2018May 1, 2018 ~ Madeleine Horton ~ 1 Comment

I had been enticed by the photo of a group of trail riders wending their way through a verdant valley following a crystal-clear river surrounded by imposing mountains. The text for the ad promised home cooked food, evening campfires and singsongs, led by an experienced guide in the company of travellers drawn to the Rocky Mountains from everywhere. Despite not being able to convince my sister or a friend to make the trip, I decided to go. It was my first real holiday as a young adult after getting settled in my first teaching job. It turned out much different than I expected but even better.

When I was picked up in Banff, I was told that because I was there the week before the Calgary Stampede, no group rides had yet been scheduled. I was asked if I would consider riding alone with the guide who was checking out the trails. There would still be the two campsites to return to at night, there would still be breakfast and dinners and packed lunch for the rides as the campsites were gearing up for the following week. I would have one of the large shared tents to myself and we would do as much riding as the regular trips did. So, it was to be just the guide and me.

The situation suited me as one who is more introvert than extravert. And no this is not a romance story though it did have a handsome hero- one who could wear a cowboy hat without it looking like a costume, who sat a horse with ease and grace, and who spoke as befitted someone who grew up as one of the younger siblings in a family of seven on a rural Saskatchewan farm. He was probably younger than I realized then.

It helped that I could saddle up myself and knew my way around a horse in a comfortable if not expert manner. For six days after breakfast, we saddled up and rode for many hours, stopping at noon for lunch and a break for the horses. A simple cheese sandwich on hearty bread, brand name biscuits or cornbread soaked in maple syrup eaten with instant coffee, made from water taken from the stream we rested the horses by, never tasted so good.

And, here I was on a horse, a sturdy bay gelding, nothing to look at but honest and sure-footed and tireless and I was riding through mountains, mountains on both sides off me, mountains behind me, and mountains ahead of me as far as I could see. Sometimes we were negotiating switchbacks, my steady horse sweated up but dogged. Sometimes we were high enough a brief snow shower wetted us. Sometimes we were snaking through trees, sometimes following the path of a silver river and then splashing through it to the other side, a delight unlikely with a large group inevitably with some who had never been on a horse before. The same for a quick canter back to camp down an old lumber road- an unexpected treat. I cannot deny that I felt lucky to be asked if I was game for doing some scouting of a new trail. Throughout those days on horseback, I never heard any traffic, saw a single plane overhead, and only once in the distance saw another group of riders going the opposite direction.

Every evening after a full dinner usually with some cut of local beef, I was invited to sit around a fire. I still remember these fires as a time when I laughed more and harder than I have ever since. I find many things funny, yet I do not laugh easily but I remember laughing so much then that my jaws ached. It turned out that the local park ranger who was stationed on fire watch all day came over to the camp in the evening. He was a natural story teller and my guide a keen acolyte, and they had a well of stories. Most concerned bears and tourists, tourists and bears, and among tourists the most amusing to them were the hikers, usually assumed to be some type of hippy. I remember them waxing on like ancient philosophers about the theories of what to do if confronted by a bear. As in the telling of all good stories, it was in the manner of it, the art of it. The park ranger was gifted in this and perhaps he spent his solitary days honing his stories for the night.

When I withdrew to my tent, I looked up at the stars, so many and so bright, felt embraced by the darkness so deep and a blanket of quiet that lured me into heavy untroubled sleep. No wavers signed, no GPS tracking systems on alert, no cell phones near for comfort. No fear, none.