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
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Dougie Greer
His figure is as wiry as I remember but he is smaller, wizened. Sitting on the side of a shallow crate provides him a view of the front gravel drive, the horse’s yard and the autumn woods beyond. Both workers’ hands rest symmetrically on his knees.
These are the hands, those of my older cousin’s, which played guitar to me and my teenage friends. This was back in time, of course, back when summers were long and adults were scarce; when, what mattered were music and friendship and leisure. There was time to think of things, like what the world was about. There was time to wonder if we were important in the scheme of things, or not, really. Perhaps we were just a speck like the many specks of light in the night sky? And it was time to ponder the manic, hypocritical, unhappy sometimes malevolent nature of adults; not that we didn’t love them but they seemed to carry that heavy baggage with them.
Back then, Doug was an adult of 24 but he was taking a hiatus from the adult world. He was living for the time in his grandparent’s cottage at the lake, a 100 year old structure up the hill and away from the crowded beach. Appealing was the family connection I missed as a result of being the youngest child. The grandparents who raised Doug were too old to know me by the time I arrived. So Doug provided the connection. This was perhaps the sabbatical that separated Doug’s wild youth from his adult life. From here he moved on to a career in IT with the university and a major bank. He moved on to meet his partner, Maryanne and settle north of Toronto with their horses, dogs and cats.
On this autumn day, thirty five years later, Doug has his ears to the ground. He notices things, and is a bit distractible. On occasion he talks to either of the labs, acknowledging their keen senses or their service as watchdogs. Like an old dog, himself, he basks, on his crate, in the autumn sunshine. Behind his sunny perch is the open garage which is his workshop. Doug has taken up welding. He has collected a plethora of tools and materials for the trade. He tinkers and putzes about, not really accomplishing much now. Before his illness he built artistic pieces, an apparatus for hanging cooking pots, an attractive picnic table supported on each end with old metal wagon wheels. He is a passionate cyclist so there are interesting bicycles, ones with heightened frames, and gearless courier bikes. But, “Today”, he declares, “is a thinking day”. Doug is very weary from the cancer that has attacked his lungs and brain. He can’t muster the energy to fight gravity.
As we sit in the glorious sunshine I chat as one does when you haven’t seen someone for years but have come for a prolonged visit. In fact, I am babysitting; he and I know but don’t speak about this fact. I learn that as early as a week before he took part in a Critical Mass ride. He was not pleased that the cops had shut it down, shown their muscle to insure the Friday home commute was not inconvenienced by rebel cyclists. This fact led to his voicing disdain for the G20 police last summer. Doug never appreciated authority. After all, he was raised by our grandparents, the same people who had my father in medical school by the age of 18. They had high expectations. I doubt whether he was ever understood by anyone but his mother and sister. His schooling was long before the days of Differentiated Instruction and Multiple Intelligences; his required tortuous sitting for six hours a day. Keenly intelligent, perhaps he was somewhat learning disabled. My parents thought of him as a hopeless seeker of risk and fun but I sensed the inner anger. A very private rebel, that’s what he had become, this cousin of mine. Now he was too old to “mess up” by driving recklessly, or to require any adult to bail him out of trouble in a general sense. He learned to be a quiet insurgent. Not really against anyone in particular, although he keeps abreast of the news and it is clear he doesn’t like Stephen Harper‘s Conservative government.
Maybe this doesn’t matter anymore. Doug speaks very gently to me on this balmy autumn day. Looking around at his things, his tools and bikes and dogs, he sometimes utters a “yeah” quietly to assure himself that all is as it should be.
And when Maryanne arrives a few hours later, they have gentle kisses for each other in greeting. They aren’t wasting time getting that message across.
These are the hands, those of my older cousin’s, which played guitar to me and my teenage friends. This was back in time, of course, back when summers were long and adults were scarce; when, what mattered were music and friendship and leisure. There was time to think of things, like what the world was about. There was time to wonder if we were important in the scheme of things, or not, really. Perhaps we were just a speck like the many specks of light in the night sky? And it was time to ponder the manic, hypocritical, unhappy sometimes malevolent nature of adults; not that we didn’t love them but they seemed to carry that heavy baggage with them.
Back then, Doug was an adult of 24 but he was taking a hiatus from the adult world. He was living for the time in his grandparent’s cottage at the lake, a 100 year old structure up the hill and away from the crowded beach. Appealing was the family connection I missed as a result of being the youngest child. The grandparents who raised Doug were too old to know me by the time I arrived. So Doug provided the connection. This was perhaps the sabbatical that separated Doug’s wild youth from his adult life. From here he moved on to a career in IT with the university and a major bank. He moved on to meet his partner, Maryanne and settle north of Toronto with their horses, dogs and cats.
On this autumn day, thirty five years later, Doug has his ears to the ground. He notices things, and is a bit distractible. On occasion he talks to either of the labs, acknowledging their keen senses or their service as watchdogs. Like an old dog, himself, he basks, on his crate, in the autumn sunshine. Behind his sunny perch is the open garage which is his workshop. Doug has taken up welding. He has collected a plethora of tools and materials for the trade. He tinkers and putzes about, not really accomplishing much now. Before his illness he built artistic pieces, an apparatus for hanging cooking pots, an attractive picnic table supported on each end with old metal wagon wheels. He is a passionate cyclist so there are interesting bicycles, ones with heightened frames, and gearless courier bikes. But, “Today”, he declares, “is a thinking day”. Doug is very weary from the cancer that has attacked his lungs and brain. He can’t muster the energy to fight gravity.
As we sit in the glorious sunshine I chat as one does when you haven’t seen someone for years but have come for a prolonged visit. In fact, I am babysitting; he and I know but don’t speak about this fact. I learn that as early as a week before he took part in a Critical Mass ride. He was not pleased that the cops had shut it down, shown their muscle to insure the Friday home commute was not inconvenienced by rebel cyclists. This fact led to his voicing disdain for the G20 police last summer. Doug never appreciated authority. After all, he was raised by our grandparents, the same people who had my father in medical school by the age of 18. They had high expectations. I doubt whether he was ever understood by anyone but his mother and sister. His schooling was long before the days of Differentiated Instruction and Multiple Intelligences; his required tortuous sitting for six hours a day. Keenly intelligent, perhaps he was somewhat learning disabled. My parents thought of him as a hopeless seeker of risk and fun but I sensed the inner anger. A very private rebel, that’s what he had become, this cousin of mine. Now he was too old to “mess up” by driving recklessly, or to require any adult to bail him out of trouble in a general sense. He learned to be a quiet insurgent. Not really against anyone in particular, although he keeps abreast of the news and it is clear he doesn’t like Stephen Harper‘s Conservative government.
Maybe this doesn’t matter anymore. Doug speaks very gently to me on this balmy autumn day. Looking around at his things, his tools and bikes and dogs, he sometimes utters a “yeah” quietly to assure himself that all is as it should be.
And when Maryanne arrives a few hours later, they have gentle kisses for each other in greeting. They aren’t wasting time getting that message across.
Purpose
This blog is a place for the Bell sisters and their friends and offspring to share memories, stories and artwork.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)