How we loved the foods of August. On hot August days at the cottage on Dalhousie Lake, the Bell girls ate a lot of peaches and corn on the cob. Weekly trips to Perth always included a stop on the side of the highway to buy freshly picked corn on the cob. Straight from the pot and smothered with butter and salt, the taste was fresh and mouth watering. Baskets of peaches, likely transported from Niagara, would not make it back to the cottage. The Bell girls thought nothing of each eating two or three peaches on the car ride home.
I wonder if we realized that such delicacies meant that fall was approaching and school was going to begin?
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Fishing With Charles E. by Mary Spring
He never really knew how hard it was to be so quiet.
Grandfather Daw, Charles E as my parents called him, was an avid fisherman. He and my grandmother, Ruth Daw, spent many weeks each summer at our family cottage on Dalhousie Lake. Early each morning, or just past dusk in the evening, Charles E would head out in the little aluminum fishing boat, eager to catch a trout. Grandfather would occasionally invite one of the five grand-daughters to join him on the fishing excursion. There was always excitement at the thoughts of catching a fish for breakfast…but there was one problem. Grandfather never knew how hard it was to stay quiet. His rule, and one that could never be broken, was that if we went fishing with him, we needed to be silent. No talking, ever.
“Sid down, you’re rocking the boat,” he would warn anyone who uttered a word.
Upon return, Charles E would lay the fish on a plank of wood. With all of the grand-daughters peering over his shoulder, Grandfather would begin to clean the fish. His knife was razor sharp and he was quick to remove the fins and bones. Scales flew through the air. Flies always seemed to hover over the fish as he cut. The smell would make us feel ill so he would be left to complete the cleaning, just Charles E and the flies.
He would wrap the white fish in wax paper, ready for the hot frying pan. A little flour, a bit of salt and lots of butter. Nothing tasted better than pan fried fish caught by Charles E.
Grandfather Daw, Charles E as my parents called him, was an avid fisherman. He and my grandmother, Ruth Daw, spent many weeks each summer at our family cottage on Dalhousie Lake. Early each morning, or just past dusk in the evening, Charles E would head out in the little aluminum fishing boat, eager to catch a trout. Grandfather would occasionally invite one of the five grand-daughters to join him on the fishing excursion. There was always excitement at the thoughts of catching a fish for breakfast…but there was one problem. Grandfather never knew how hard it was to stay quiet. His rule, and one that could never be broken, was that if we went fishing with him, we needed to be silent. No talking, ever.
“Sid down, you’re rocking the boat,” he would warn anyone who uttered a word.
Upon return, Charles E would lay the fish on a plank of wood. With all of the grand-daughters peering over his shoulder, Grandfather would begin to clean the fish. His knife was razor sharp and he was quick to remove the fins and bones. Scales flew through the air. Flies always seemed to hover over the fish as he cut. The smell would make us feel ill so he would be left to complete the cleaning, just Charles E and the flies.
He would wrap the white fish in wax paper, ready for the hot frying pan. A little flour, a bit of salt and lots of butter. Nothing tasted better than pan fried fish caught by Charles E.
Moths at Dusk by Mary Bell
As night approached
On the point
At Dalhousie Lake,
The moths
Began to fly.
Fluttering here and there
Toward the light
On the porch
Of the Bell cottage,
Millions of moths
Saying
Good night light
Welcome night fall.
On the point
At Dalhousie Lake,
The moths
Began to fly.
Fluttering here and there
Toward the light
On the porch
Of the Bell cottage,
Millions of moths
Saying
Good night light
Welcome night fall.
The Bell by Mary Spring
At the cottage on Dalhousie Lake, outside the front door, sometimes called the side door, there hung a brass bell. Attached to the bell was a cowhide cord. The ring of the bell meant that the Bell girls were to hurry home. Suppertime, perhaps bedtime or time to head to Perth, five rings meant that the five Bell girls came running. If we were far away, the Barette’s cottage or Mr. Duncan’s farm, the sound of the bell was faint but you needed to run. If you were wandering through Bologne Island or swimming at the beach, it was a short jog back.
For me the Bell meant routine. It reminded me of going to school or camp. Such a feeling comforted me and ensured reconnection with mom.
For me the Bell meant routine. It reminded me of going to school or camp. Such a feeling comforted me and ensured reconnection with mom.
Rasberry Mornings by Mary Spring
No one knew that we had left the cottage. No one was really concerned that our beds were empty when they woke up. Those were raspberry mornings.
Early some summer mornings, my sister Andrea and I would sneak out of bed, fetch our metal pots and head down the road toward the raspberry patch. The gravel road ached the soles of our feet, but as summer wore on, our soles became like leather. We passed the sandy beach where we spent most of our time on hot summer days. We passed the gravesite of Sandy, our daschund who had died too early in life and whom we buried on this sacred spot. We strolled past Bologne Island, a magical land where our imaginations took us to a different world. Sometimes we passed Daisy the cow, grazing in the pasture. We would pick a daisy from the field and place it into Daisy’s poo. Sometimes they were sploshy plops and other times hard, pancake like plops. We carefully tread over the cow -catcher.
“Sorry Daisy”, I would call. “You can’t come with us.’
Just over the dusty hill, on the right hand side of the gravel road, was a thick patch of prickly raspberry canes.
We waded through the thorny bushes, filling our pots with sweet, red raspberries.
We didn’t talk much. It was a perfect time to think.
Andrea ate as she picked.
“Look out for the bugs,” I would warn.”
But I relished every berry, anxious to be the first one to fill my pot. Mom always said that I was the best berry picker.
Early some summer mornings, my sister Andrea and I would sneak out of bed, fetch our metal pots and head down the road toward the raspberry patch. The gravel road ached the soles of our feet, but as summer wore on, our soles became like leather. We passed the sandy beach where we spent most of our time on hot summer days. We passed the gravesite of Sandy, our daschund who had died too early in life and whom we buried on this sacred spot. We strolled past Bologne Island, a magical land where our imaginations took us to a different world. Sometimes we passed Daisy the cow, grazing in the pasture. We would pick a daisy from the field and place it into Daisy’s poo. Sometimes they were sploshy plops and other times hard, pancake like plops. We carefully tread over the cow -catcher.
“Sorry Daisy”, I would call. “You can’t come with us.’
Just over the dusty hill, on the right hand side of the gravel road, was a thick patch of prickly raspberry canes.
We waded through the thorny bushes, filling our pots with sweet, red raspberries.
We didn’t talk much. It was a perfect time to think.
Andrea ate as she picked.
“Look out for the bugs,” I would warn.”
But I relished every berry, anxious to be the first one to fill my pot. Mom always said that I was the best berry picker.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
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