Tuesday, December 30, 2008

Grandma's Kitchen

Grandma's kitchen had no modern appliances, no fancy gadgets. It didn't even have electricity. It was a place that throughout my childhood, remained much the same.

As I stepped through the door of that room on a hot, sunny summer's day, the interior was cool and dark. The veranda at the side of the house kept the early morning sun from penetrating Grandma's sanctuary. When my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I would see the gas lantern hanging above the old, oak table. This was no ordinary table - nothing like the fancy chrome ones of today. It had two leaves in the center to accommodate the eight people that sat around it three times a day. In the summer kitchen against the wall, stood another eight leaves. This table was gigantic compared to the small drop-leaf table that stood in front of the window in Mother's kitchen.

I was thrilled when Grandpa offered me that old, oak table when he gave up his house to move in with my uncle. It now graces my kitchen and is my pride and joy. An oilcloth covered the coarse, grained top where scars had accumulated over the years. Around the table, like sentinels, stood six matching press-back chairs.

Besides the table and chairs, Grandma's kitchen was filled with other things that fascinated me. An icebox stood against one wall and a gingerbread clock perched high on a shelf nearby. I loved to listen to it chime out the time. Once a day, Grandma would climb onto a chair, open the glass door adorned with golden flowers and insert a key into the face. She would wind it several times, being certain not to wind it too tight, then lay the key safely in the bottom of the clock and close the door with a click. I loved that clock. We had hydro (Canadian term for electricity)at home and our clock couldn't hold a candle to the lovely, gingerbread that stood high on the shelf in Grandma's kitchen.

Against the south wall of the room, stood a monster cookstove. I would watch as Grandma blackened it with stove polish. Around the edges the chrome sparkled and a white porcelain circle in the center of the oven door bore the name "Hartland." At one end was a reservoir filled with water from the cistern. It held warm water for small tasks. But the warming closet was my favorite part of the old stove. Out of it came tasty treats - cinnamon buns, baked bread, and pancakes to be served with real maple syrup and cloverleaf rolls. Grandma made all of these with loving hands. On wash day water was carried from the cistern and heated in a copper boiler on the top of that stove.

Grandma's kitchen had many other things that were of interest to a small girl. The wainscoting fit tightly to the wall and was painted snow white - the top half of the room was always papered.
Behind the stove stood a woodbox and a butterbox for kindling. We children had the chore of seeing these were kept full - not one of my favorite jobs.

One cold morning, I entered Grandma's cozy warm kitchen to see a large, cardboard box covered with an old, flannel sheet sitting on the oven door. Grandma lifted a corner of the blanket, allowing me a peek. Eight piglets lay curled inside the box. They had been born during the night and the old sow, being an ornery critter, refused to let them suckle. Grandpa had put them in a box and brought them to Grandma, hoping she could save them. Nothing on a farm was wasted and the loss of these piglets would mean a shortage of meat and lard. Grandma did save them too. Many times a day, she sat in her oak rocker near the stove and fed those piglets with an eyedropper. Then, when they were old enough, Grandma made Cream Of Wheat and let them suck it off her fingers. The only one that didn't make it was the runt of the litter. He was just too frail.

Baby pigs weren't the only creatures that were raised in Grandma's kitchen. Grandma had an incubator. I've watched her clean eggs and place them gently into that odd looking contraption. She kept them warm for days until the wet, sticky chicks emerged from their shells. After a few weeks, I would find them in the yard, scratching up the dirt.

Most every memory of Grandma's kitchen is pleasant. There was only one exception that comes to mind. I must have broken one of Grandma's rules, though I can't remember what it was. Grandma sat me on a milkstool and told me not to get off until the long hand of the gingerbread clock was on twelve and the short hand on three. I sat there, for what seemed an eternity but in reality was probably about ten minutes. When the appointed time had passed, I was allowed to go. Never again did I goad Grandma into punishing me. Though I loved that gingerbread clock, I had no desire to sit and stare at it, watching the time pass ever so slowly.

My memories of Grandma's kitchen are happy ones and remain forever etched on my memory. I laugh now at the recollection of sitting on that stool and watching the hands of the gingerbread clock creep ever so slowly along the face. I can see the spirits of the men and women who sat around that table, laughing and enjoying food and conversation with my grandparents.

I haven't forgotten the good times Grandma and I spent in that room, or the aromas that filled the air. Homemade soup, freshly baked bread, cinnamon rolls, chicken and dumplings, fresh coffee and so much more. Whenever I encounter these smells, whether it is in a bakery or in Mother's kitchen, I take a trip back in time. Back to the good times shared by loved ones. Back to Grandma's kitchen were love abounded.

Dumpling Recipe:
Boil chicken pieces for 11/2 hours. Remove from the pot, cool and debone. Be certain there is lots of juice in the pot. If not, add water. Put the deboned chicken back in the broth.
1 cup of flour 1 tsp baking powder 1/2 cup of milk (you may have to use a bit more or less) Be sure they are thick enough to drop from the spoon in a large lump. When the broth starts to boil, put a lid on the pot, turn to medium heat and let simmer for 20 minutes. DO NOT remove the lid while the dumplings are cooking or they will be heavy.
Remove lid, lift out dumplings and serve.
Yield: 6 large dumplings

Monday, December 1, 2008

The Last Laugh

This is a story I wrote in the early 90s. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it. The character of Old Joe is based on a street person I got to know when I drove taxi. However, the story is strictly fiction. Enjoy!

The man sat on the sidewalk, in the warm sour breath of a grate’s gaping mouth. His gray, beard was scraggly and matted with dirt. His lips and chin were mottled with nicotine stains. Heavy lines creased his leathery skin, thickened from years of enduring the elements. Max was forty seven.

It’s colder tonight, he thought. Max pulled his beaten overcoat closer to his frail body. He took a dog-eared photograph from the inside pocket of his coat. He stared at it longingly. If only…! A tear trickled down his cheek. He whisked it away. He’d taken the snapshot on a Sunday afternoon, back when there had been Sundays, and there had been happy afternoons – back before the accident. He had been so proud when Helen had brought their new baby home from the hospital. Angeline they had called her. Angel for short. Now, that’s exactly what she was.
They’d been such a happy family. Then, the argument. He had wanted to go fishing with the boys for the weekend. She’d had a premonition she’d said. Something terrible would happen if he went. He’d laughed at her and gone anyway.

The next day, the police had been waiting when he and the boys came in off the lake. His wife and infant daughter were dead. Killed, when a drunk driver ran them down as they crossed the street. Both had died instantly.

He remembered nothing of the funeral. He did remember the turn his life had taken afterwards. He had lost himself in the bottle. Drunk for days at a time. He’d felt he had nothing to live for. Because of the whiskey, he’d lost everything. Within three months, he’d gone from a prominent businessman, to a skid row bum. His only possessions were the watch Helen had given him just before she died, and his precious flask.

Earlier that day, he had taken a walk up Strawberry Hill, the ritzy part of town. He went there every Thursday, their garbage day, to see what he could find. Today, he had hit it big and added to his possessions. He now owned a dirty blue blanket.

Max slipped the photograph back into his pocket. No sense worrying about what might have been. He crept closer to the grate. It didn’t help. Usually, he could get comfortable here. Not tonight. It must be the coldest night of the year. At least there wasn’t any wind.
Max had friends. Which one will freeze tonight, he wondered. In these temperatures it could be anyone.

Max had lived on the streets for over twenty years. This was the only home he had, or expected to have for the rest of his life. All over one fishing trip. The guilt still boiled deep down in his gut, like slow acting poison. He pulled his flask from his pocket, tipped it to his lips, and took a long swig. He felt the golden liquid slip down his throat, burning all the way. He looked at the bottle. Cheap rot gut! But it warmed his insides and chased the guilt into oblivion.

Carefully, he put the flask back into his pocket, wiping a trickle of whiskey from his beard. He couldn’t afford to lose any more of his friends to this freezing weather. This year alone, he’d lost three. Old Lucy had been the last. Just last week, they’d found her in an alley over on Bridge Street. She’d crept into a crawl space to get out of the sleet and snow. Someone had seen her feet sticking out of the hole and had called the police. An ambulance had come and taken her away. She was dead. Frozen to death, sleeping in a hole like an animal.

Max shook himself. Why was he thinking such morbid thoughts? Things didn’t usually affect him this way. Just old age creeping up. No use being bitter. Life dealt the cards. Some just got better cards than others.

Max lifted his arm in the faint glow of a distant street light. His watch said ten-thirty. It was still early. Every so often, he took another swig from the flask. He began to doze off. His chin drooped onto his chest.

Max woke! He listened carefully. He’d heard something. A man on the street sleeps light. Else he might not wake up. They’d kill you for a nickel out here. Then, he heard it again. The shuffle of feet. They drew closer.

"Hi Old Joe. How’s it going?" Max greeted.

Old Joe stood next to the grate. His arms stretched over it. He rubbed his hands vigorously. "Same as usual," he said, his teeth chattering. "Sure is darned cold. Takes a man’s breath away." Old Joe was wheezing.

"It ain’t got any better either," Max replied, putting his hands under his arms.

Max noticed Old Joe was more bent than usual. He wondered if Joe would make it through the night.

"I wonder which one of us will go tonight," Old Joe said. "Someone’s bound to. It’s the worst night of the year. Ya know Max, I don’t see how any of us can make it ‘till spring. They say it’s the coldest winter in thirty years. I believe it. I never had such a bad winter."

"I’ve been wondering the same thing myself," Max told him. "How many years you lived here Joe?"

Max wasn’t sure Old Joe would answer. No one knew Joe’s story.

"Don’t rightly know," Old Joe said. "Must be nigh onto forty years. I’m getting’ real tired Max. Ya know, I been livin’ here so long I can’t rightly remember how old I am. Sometimes I feel I can’t go on. For some reason I do. Life sure dealt me a lot of blows. Don’t seem fair, one getting’ all the bad while others get all the good."

Max heard the bitterness in his friend’s voice. He looked at Joe. A sense of foreboding washed over him. Was this the kind of premonition that Helen had spoken of so many years ago?
"Self preservation," Max assured him.

"Huh?" Old Joe looked up.

"Why we go on, Joe. It’s self-preservation. We’re born with it. It keeps us going even after we think we’ve given up."

"I suppose," Old Joe agreed weakly, wiping water from his eyes. "I never told nobody before Max, but bein’ here is my own doing."

"How’s that?" Max asked

"I had it all ya know. A wife, two beautiful sons - even a house that was paid for. I had money too. Lots of it. My Daddy and Granddaddy left it to me. I wouldn’t stop my wild ways. I was hooked. Booze, partying, women. My game was live for today, tomorrow you might be dead. I loved women - every woman but my wife, Jean. She warned me enough times. One night I came home, drunk as usual. Jean and the boys were gone. I never saw ‘em again. I looked for awhile. Then, I gave up. Went back to the wild life. Lived every day like it was my last. Just partied. Got into gamblin’. One day I woke up hung-over. I was dead broke. I mean every penny. I’ve lived here ever since. Sure don’t seem fair somehow."

Max looked at Joe in amazement. Joe usually didn’t talk so much.

"Ain’t never tol’ no one ‘cept you," Joe confided.

"It won’t go any further. You know that, Joe," Max said. He shifted his legs, trying to stop the numbness that crept along them.

As he watched Old Joe standing by the grate, he marveled at how a man could live like this for forty years and still have the strength to go on. His twenty some had almost done him in. Old Joe had done double that. Max eyed Old Joe carefully. His face and hands were rough and weather beaten. He wheezed constantly, a deep gurgling wheeze. His eyes ran, making them red and weepy. He wore no boots. An old pair of Oxfords he’d found somewhere partially covered his gnarled bare feet. The soles flopped as he walked, held to the uppers only from instep to heel. The pants he wore were so threadbare that his legs showed through. A summer sports coat hung over his shoulders. It was at least three sizes too big, paper thin, and had no lining. How would he ever survive these Arctic temperatures, Max wondered. It hadn’t let up for days. If rumor had it right, there was at least another week of it to go. Max sighed deeply. How could he help Old Joe?

Max knew how independent and stubborn Old Joe was - all street people for that matter. They didn’t want pity or charity. Most had accepted their lot in life. Still, Max had to try. "Where are you planning to spend the night, Joe?" he asked.

Don’ know. Hadn’t give it much thought. I’ve been tryin’ to figure out how to get another bottle. I’m a bit short. Store’s closed now. Guess I’ll have to wait ‘till mornin’. As far as sleepin’ goes, it makes no difference. One place is cold as the next." He shrugged indifferently as he spoke.

"Want to stay here?" asked Max.

Old Joe looked thoughtful. "I don’ like invadin’ another man’s territory. I’ll find a place somewhere."

"I sure would like some company." Max made it sound like Joe would be doing him a favor. "I don’t feel much like being here alone tonight. There’s plenty of room for both of us here. It’s warm by the grate. Besides, I found something today that will help us out."

Max fumbled behind a pile of trash. Old Joe stared at him in disbelief. In his hands, Max held a large, dirty blanket.

Old Joe’s eyes glimmered. He sure was cold. He could use that blanket. "Where’d ya find that?" he asked warily.

"Don’t worry, it ain’t stolen," Max assured him. "Though it would be warmer in the jail over on Echo Street. Even at that, I don’t want to go there any more than you."

"I asked where ya got it," Old Joe snapped.

"I’m coming to that." Max ignored Old Joe’s moodiness. He was used to Joe. "I took a walk up the hill today. Found it in one of those snobby people’s garbage. It’s a bit dirty but it’ll be warm.

Joe licked his lips. "But it’s yours. You’ll need it," he said, eyeing the blanket, wishing he had been the one to find it.

"It’s one of those king or queen blankets, Joe. It’s big enough to cover a horse. We both can use it. Even then, there’ll be some left over." Max held the blanket out full. Old Joe could see how big it was. "I sure was lucky to find it. You’re my friend, Joe. I want to share it with you."

Old Joe was still suspicious. He and Max had been friends for a lot of years. On the street everyone fended for himself. Why was Max all of a sudden so willing to share?

"Ah, come on Joe," Max coaxed. "It’s only for one night. A darn bitter one at that. The winds coming up. It’s going to drop another twenty degrees. Besides, I told you. I need some company."

Old Joe could feel the change in the temperature already. The wind whipped around the corner. Joe hunched his shoulders against it. The clothes he had on barely covered him. They did nothing to protect him from the deep freeze that had set in. Now, the wind was blowing fiercely. He may as well not have anything on. "Well, OK," he gave in. "But don’t expect me to do it often. Can’t have people sayin’ Old Joe’s getting soft."

"No ones gonna say that," Max assured him. "They all know you too well."

Old Joe sat down beside Max. The men sat silently for a while, each deep in their own thoughts. Finally, Max reached in his pocket and pulled out a flask.

"We’d better have a little medicine before we turn in," he laughed, tipping the bottle to his chapped lips. "Want some?"

"Got my own," Old Joe stated. He reached inside his shirt, producing his own bottle. "Sure does help to warm a body up. I just hope I can pan handle a couple of bucks in the mornin’. I’ll need another jug by then."

The two men sat chatting and drinking. Max was baffled by Old Joe’s actions. He’d talked more tonight than he had in two years. It sure was strange.

Old Joe couldn’t figure what Max was up to. He’d never seen Max so open and sentimental.
Neither of the men asked any questions. They trusted each other as much as a man can trust anyone on the streets. It was just unusual.

Max was the first to put his flask away. "Better save some for morning," he cautioned. "We’ll need it. I swear it’s getting colder by the minute."

"Sure seems that way," Old Joe replied. "We’ll freeze for sure if it keeps up."

Max scratched his head thoughtfully, looking at the crate against the wall. "I figure I got an idea, Joe. Give me a hand."

"Watcha gonna do now?" Old Joe asked grumpily. He was tired and the whiskey was starting to affect him.

"Help me move this crate over by the grate," Max said. "It’s big enough we can both get inside. If we face the opening to the grate, some heat will seep in."

"Good idea," Joe exclaimed. "It’ll be like havin’ our own little house."

The men moved the crate nearer to the grate. Old Joe began to laugh.

"What’s so funny?" Max demanded.

"I was just thinkin’," Old Joe said between chuckles. "We fooled him again."

"Fooled who?" Max asked impatiently.

"The Grim Reaper." Old Joe chortled with glee. "We fooled him again. With this little house, the blanket and our body heat, plus the heat from the grate, we’ve got him beat. He won’t meet us tonight."

Max chuckled. Once again, he held his arm into the glow from the distant street light. "That’s funny," he said, a puzzled look on his face.

"What’s that?" Old Joe asked.

"My watch says ten to eleven. It was ten thirty before you came by." Max placed his watch against his ear. "The darn thing quit," he said with disgust, tapping the face.

"Oh well," Old Joe shrugged. "Everything wears out sometime."

Max didn’t say a word. A strange feeling came over him. Ice filled his gut. The watch was his last memory of Helen, except for the faded photograph. He touched his chest. The photo was still safe in his pocket.

The two men crept into the crate and wrapped themselves in the huge blanket.

"I’m glad he won’t get us tonight," Old Joe said. "I gotta get me a couple bucks in the mornin’ to buy another jug."

The two men laughed heartily at Old Joe’s joke. They were safe for one more night. They’d cheated Death many times before. Tonight, they’d cheated him again.

They huddled together for warmth. Each went to sleep with a smile on his face, thinking of the macabre joke they had shared earlier.

Hours later, a group of people crowded into the alley on Water Street. At the rear of the alley was an ambulance, lights flashing. Nearby, there were two police cars parked by the curb.
A middle-aged officer approached his partner, looking somber.

"Which one is it this time?" the younger man inquired.

"Two of them," the officer replied. "Old Joe and Max. They froze to death, huddled together in an old crate like two animals. Their feet were sticking out. Right by a heat vent too. Probably thought they had it made. Too bad the power went out."

"Too bad," said his partner. "They weren’t bad old guys."

The senior officer continued. "In all my years on the force, I’ve never been able to figure out why these people die with smiles on their faces. I guess I never will."

"Maybe they’re just glad to be out of this hell hole," the younger man suggested.

"Maybe, but somehow I don’t think that’s it," the veteran officer said as they reached the patrol car. "It sure is strange."

Thursday, May 8, 2008

The Old Red Barn

Thoughts of childhood days on the farm in rural, southern Ontario often come to mind. On a cold winter’s day, I would push open the wooden door of the old, red barn and bask in the coziness of its dim interior. Pungent smells greeted me. As I made my way down the aisle, I would stop every few stalls and greet my animal friends. The black and white Holstein cows stood, twenty-eight in number, along the corridor. Some were ornery creatures, some meek and mild. Much like humans, each had her own distinct personality and each had been given a name. I can’t recall all of their names. Grandpa bought and sold cows frequently. But there are a special few that remain as vivid in my mind today as they were forty years ago. My favorite was Betty, the best milk producer of the dairy herd. Like most cows, she had big brown eyes and long lashes. She had distinctive black markings on a white background - unusual markings in large splotches down her sides and rump. On her forehead, was a large black spot with a white star in the center. Whenever I entered the barn, Betty would give a low moo, as if saying hello. As I approached, she’d turn her head, watching my every move. I would step in beside her and scratch her forelock. She would close her eyes and rub against me; delighted someone was giving her attention.

Behind the cow stalls, old Oscar, the Holstein bull stood next to the window to the horse barn. Now Oscar could be an ornery and temperamental creature, but he had a soft spot for this wee girl. Often, I would go into the horse barn and let myself into Oscar’s stall. He would turn his head, blow through his nose and snort. He never moved. This was somewhat miraculous as when the men tried to move him he would snort, kick and shake his head angrily. I have seen him lift my uncle off his feet while trying to lead Oscar to the creek for water. Today, I look back on my foolishness and wonder why I wasn’t killed. Possibly Oscar understood that I was only a child. Or possibly there was a soft side to his nature not understood by adults.

The calf pen was always a delight to visit. I loved to pet the calves and take them their daily pail of milk after they were weaned. They would suck the milk through their noses and when finished, butt the pail urging it to produce more, just as they had their mothers while they were suckling. One day, a calf pulled the pail from my hands pushed her head into it and it became stuck, the bail clinging to her ears. I chuckle remembering the time I had retrieving that pail.

At the back of the barn was the pigpen. Usually there were three to four sows housed here. One of my favorite things was watching the mother pig suckling somewhere from eight to ten piglets. She’d lie on her side, eyes closed, while her babies squealed and fought over a teat.

The only thing I didn’t like about the barn was the silo. Each Fall, the corn was harvested, put through the corn chopper and blown into the forty-foot silo. This would provide ensilage for the cattle during the harsh Ontario winter. One cool November day, my uncle asked me to go up into the silo and throw down the ensilage. I agreed. When the task was completed, I stepped to the entrance to descend the ladder. As I looked out, the ground swirled. Fear slithered along my spine. I stood, paralyzed. There was no way I could get down. I waited, rather impatiently, until my uncle came to my rescue. I never entered that silo again and today I still have a fear of heights.

The haymow was one of my favorite places. When I was very young, the hay was cut, thrown onto a wagon with racks, taken to the barn and pitched into the upper level of the barn by hand. In later years, it was baled. I remember helping stack the bales in the mow. Even today, the fragrance of freshly mown hay carries me back over the years to the haymow of the old, red barn.

The straw stack behind the barn was a delight to us children. When playing hide-and-go-seek, we would wiggle into the prickly straw and cover ourselves. This was the best hiding place of all. When found, we would emerge, straw clinging to our clothes and hair. If Grandpa found us burrowing into the straw stack, we would get a sound scolding. This never stopped us from returning to our refuge time after time.

One memory that I look back on with fondness involved my favorite cow, Betty. It was a dark, rainy day. When I entered the barn, instead of the usual low, gentle moo, Betty was bawling ferociously. I approached slowly, wondering what on earth could be wrong. One glance told me that Betty was in trouble. She was in hard labor and her calf was arriving in a breach position. I burst through the door of the house and in short, panting gasps told my uncle what was happening. We hurried to the barn and with some hard work, shared by human and animal, a healthy young heifer was born. That was my first glimpse of the birthing process. What a thrill to watch a new life enter the world. The calf stood on shaky legs. Betty heaved to her feet and coaxed the calf to suckle. An awesome experience for a small girl of ten.

Recently, I took a drive to the rural community where I grew up. I stopped my car on the gravel road and sat, looking at that old, red barn. Yes, it’s still standing, though the red paint has faded and it is somewhat in disrepair. But for a few moments, the sounds and smells of that cozy structure whirled through my mind. I will never forget the good times I spent in that old, red barn.

Copyright © 1999 - 2008 Mary M. Alward

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

A Glimpse of Canada

From the rocky bluffs of Newfoundland to the vast Douglas fir forests and rocky shores of Vancouver Island, Canada is truly a country of picturesque beauty. Every province from the Maritimes in the east, to the rugged shores of British Columbia in the west, has its own natural beauty.
The Queen Charlotte Islands north of Vancouver Island point, as a bony finger, into the Pacific Ocean. Called Haida Gwii by the Haida Indians, they are often called the Canadian Galapagos. Here, abandoned villages, decaying totem poles and remnants of longhouses pay tribute to Canada’s Native Peoples, who were and still are an integral part of Canadian history and culture.

In British Columbia, the paths of Stanley Park wind amidst giant firs and fragrant beds of flowers. Superbly carved totem poles reach into the sky, giving evidence of the talents of the Haida Tribe who once called the shores of the Pacific Ocean home. The little known Mohawk poetess, Pauline Johnson, spent many hours in this beautiful natural sanctuary.

The solitude of the Arctic Highlands have a desolate beauty all their own. The barren landscape, snow swirling in the wind, gives one the feeling of being completely alone in the world. On April 1, 1999, Nunavut became Canada’s newest territory. Here, you can discover the Inuit, the indigenous people who, for countless years, have called Nunavut home. You can see a variety of wildlife as well as the National Park. A great experience for those who love adventure.

In the heart of South Central Alberta lies the Drumheller Valley, often referred to as the Dinosaur Capital of Canada. It is within easy driving distance of Red Deer, Calgary or Banff and will sweep you into a prehistoric world. What is now Drumheller, once lay on the coastal lowlands of a vast inland sea. Lush vegetation was an ideal environment for a great variety of life forms. Dinosaurs roamed the area. Today, Drumheller is one of Alberta’s major tourist attractions.

The Big Valley Jamboree draws thousands of people to Saskatchewan each year. The event was inspired by an American radio show and in 1983, the Bosco Society created Saskatchewan’s first country music jamboree. 4,000 fans attended. The event has grown in popularity ever since. The nearby town of Craven, rightly proclaims itself to be the Country Capital of Canada.

The Interlake area of Manitoba has much to offer. Wildlife is abundant. Cougar, buffalo, coyote, moose, timber wolves and lynx are just a few of the animals that live in this natural wilderness. This area offers a wide variety of activities including boating, swimming, hunting, fishing, festivals, museums and history. There’s virtually something for everyone.

St. Jacob’s is an idyllic village located in Southwestern Ontario. As you stroll down the streets you have a definite feeling of stepping into the past. Though vehicles are allowed, many horse and buggies can be seen traveling on both the main and back roads in the area. The main street is a virtual smorgasbord of unique shops. A Touch Of Scotland sells handcrafted goods made by over a hundred local artisans. Gifts of every description can be purchased in this quaint rural town. Amish families live today much the same as they did a century ago. Telephone, electricity, tractors and indoor plumbing are taboo.
In culture and style, Montreal is Canada’s Paris and prides itself on being the largest French-speaking city outside of Paris. In any season this is a walker’s retreat. Shiny steel and glass towers, Neo Gothic churches and narrow 17th Century houses make this city a pleasure to visit.

Canada has seven covered bridges that have survived progress. All seven are in the Maritimes. I have visited the Wheaton or Tantramar covered bridge, which is located Northwest of Moncton, New Brunswick. A stroll in its cool interior on a hot day gave me the feeling of moving back in time to a completely different era.

The Bay of Fundy in New Brunswick has some of the highest tides in the world. These tides create a magnificent coastline. With every tide, 100 cubic kilometers of water enters or exits the bay. The Bay of Fundy is one of the marine wonders of the world.

The new Confederation Bridge that stretches over the Atlantic Ocean from the mainland to Prince Edward Island makes waiting for the ferry a thing of the past. PEI is famous for its red clay coast, crops of potatoes and the birthplace of Lucy Maude Montgomery, author of Anne Of Green Gables.

Nova Scotia’s Cape Breton Island is a magnificent place to visit in the Autumn, when it is alive with the breathtaking color of leaves that the frost has turned multiple shades of reds, yellows, oranges and browns. The Annapolis Valley is covered in a pristine blanket of white in the Spring when the apple blossom’s fragrance fills the entire valley. This area is a must for anyone who enjoys the wonder of nature.

Peggy’s Cove, Nova Scotia is one of my favorite places. I have stood on its shores shrouded in mist and watched ten-foot waves pound and polish the granite rock that the coastline consists of. A red and white lighthouse stands on the point, its beacon warning the ships at sea of the danger of the rocks. The legend tells of a woman named Peggy whose husband went to sea and never returned. Until her dying day, no matter what the weather, Peggy walked to the ocean’s edge and stared toward the horizon, waiting for the man she loved to return home. Within a stone’s throw of the lighthouse lies a quiet fishing village that has not changed much over the years. Only the old timers remain. Here and on the shore are fishing boats, nets and lobster traps. One day these too will become a thing of the past.

I hope you have enjoyed this glimpse of Canada. It is a country of rugged beauty, friendly people and a place where we live in freedom no matter our race or religion.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Harriet Tubman

February is Black History Month and I would like to pay tribute to one of the greatest Black women in history - Harriet Tubman.

The Underground Railroad was established in the US to aid slaves in finding a route to freedom. With the help of anti-slavery advocates and abolititionists, hundreds of slaves made their way north to escape the shackles of slavery. Many continued on to Canada because slavery had already been abolished here.

Harriet Tubman was born into slavery in Maryland sometime between 1820 and 1822. She was a well-known abolitionist, a nurse, a Civil War spy, a humanitarian and a suffragist, among other things. Harriet was one of the most famous conductors on the Underground Railroad, which was the means she used to escape slavery. She took her own life into her hands many times to help her people escape to freedom. She earned the name Moses because of her dedication and determination to free her people from slavery.

Tubman's master died in 1849 and it was at this time that Tubman sought out the Underground Railroad and traveled by night using the North Star as her compass. Finally, she reached Philadelphia and found work as a domestic. She saved her money to help her own family escape the bonds of slavery.

Between 1850 and 1860, Tubman conducted approximately thirteen escapes and brought seventy-five slaves to freedom. In 1850, the Fugitive Slave Act had been passed and all escaped slaves were in danger of being returned to their owners.

In 1851, Tubman brought her family to St. Catherines, Ontario. On Christmas Day, 1854, she helped her brothers escape and led them first to Philadelphia and then on to St. Catherines where she had established a home for herself. She and her brothers attended the African Methodist Episcopal Church which was just behind her home. It still stands today and is pictured below.

In 1857, Tubman brought her parents to St. Catherines because she learned her father was to be arrested for helping slaves escape. The following year, John Brown visited Tubman at her home on North St. in St. Catherines. Tubman was a strong supporter of Brown.

Tubman worked as a cook, laundress, nurse, scout, spy and teacher during the Civil War. She was the first woman to lead Union soldiers and defeat the Confederates. More than 700 slaves were freed in the raid. Tubman returned to Auburn, New York in 1857, taking her elderly parents with her.

Due to Tubman's efforts, Auburn, NY was a hub of activity in support of women's rights. She established a home for the aged and indigent in 1908. She lived there until her death in 1913 and is buried at Fort Hills Cemetery, Auburn.

I have visited the African Methodist Episcopal Church where Harriet Tubman attended a few years ago. At that time her house was still standing. I'm not sure if it still is, but I certainly hope so.

The legacy that Harriet Tubman left to the world is a great one. She was a courageous woman who was years ahead of her time and she left her mark on the world.

Photo of Harriet Tubman
Courtesy of the Library of Congress 5910
No known restrictions on publication
Photographer: H.B. Lindsay
Photo is believed to have been taken between 1860 and 1875

Sunday, February 10, 2008

Mary at Answers to the Questions has tagged me to the six things meme. I'm to tell six non-important things about me. Here are the rules:

Link to the person that tagged you.
Post the rules on your blog.
Share six non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself.
Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.
Let each random person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their website.
Let your tagger know when you entry is up
Six unimportant things about me:

1. My hair is not dyed. It's all natural. That is the way God made me.

2. I drove many years without a license until Dad made me go and try the test.

3. I was widowed young.

4. I was a single mother for 17 years.

5. My favorite color is green.

6. My first car was a 1963 red and white station wagon.

I won't tag six people, but if you'd like to participate, please leave a message so I can read your list. Have fun.

Friday, February 1, 2008

The Eagles of Squamish

It is estimated that 10,000 eagles visit the arteries of the Squamish River between mid November and mid February. The largest known group of wintering raptors of Bald Eagles on Earth was counted at 3,796 in 1994.

Because of pollution, urban encroachment, poaching and decreased salmon stocks, eagles are hard pressed to find suitable habitat. The Squamish River system offers eagles the perfect nesting and feeding grounds. The combination of old tree growth for night roosting, cottonwoods for perching and gravel bars for catching salmon during the summer “run” attracts the birds to the area.

The bald eagle is the largest of the raptors, though it usually confines its hunt to fish. Native only to North America, the bald eagle has a distinctive white head, white tail and featherless ankles. It stands approximately one meter tall and its wings often span 2.4 meters.

Young bald eagles are different shades of brown. When the bird matures to four years, the white head and tail feathers, bright yellow eyes, beak and talon appears. These eagles live as far north as the edge of the Arctic Circle and as far south as North Carolina. A pair of nesting eagles often claims a territory as large as 4,200 hectares. Abundant food supplies mean a smaller territory.

The mainstay of the bald eagle’s diet is fish. They flock to British Columbia during the annual salmon run. If fish are unavailable, the bald eagle’s second choice is waterfowl, though if the need arises, they will eat other types of meat.

The eyesight of the bald eagle is four times sharper than that of a human. Despite this, eagles are scavengers and think nothing of stealing food from other species. They are also carrion eaters and often feed on dying salmon or road kill.

Of the 70,000 bald eagles found in North America, 20,000 live in British Columbia. They usually lay two eggs each season. The first hatchling often kills the second. If both survive for three weeks, a truce is called. The young eagles leave the nest when they are ten weeks old. Half die from starvation during their first winter alone. The oldest recorded bald eagle was twenty-eight years old.

In 1995, the Squamish Estuary Conservation Society and the Eagle Watch Interpreter Program organized volunteers to teach visitors to the Squamish River area about the wintering bald eagles. They answer questions; teach eagle viewing ethics as well as eagle biology and critical habitat requirements. The goal of the Eagle Watch Program is to educate visitors so they will not disturb the wintering bald eagles. In 1998, fifty volunteers interacted with 4,400 visitors who visited the Eagle Run viewing site. Though the eagles ignore people, they require some privacy for feeding and nesting.
If you are in the Squamish area and would like to view the magnificent bald eagles, take Highway 99 to Garibaldi Way and turn right on Government Road, which runs along the dike. All sections of the road offer a view across the river where the eagles nest.

The West Coast Railway Heritage Park is also a great place to view the eagles. Take Highway 99 to Industrial Way and follow the signs.

When you arrive at the dike, seek out the information kiosks. Community groups maintain these. They offer information on the bald eagle’s habitat, biology and behavior. On weekends from December to February members of the Eagle Watch Interpreter Program are available at Eagle Run which is located on Government Road near the Easter Seal Camp. They offer information on services and amenities available in Squamish as well as tips for eagle viewing.

The Brackendale Eagle Reserve is a newly declared provincial park that is located across the river from the Eagle Run. It consists of 755 hectares of land. It stretches north to where the Cheakamus River joins the Squamish River and south to where the Mamquam River feeds into the Squamish.

The Eagle Run viewing area is on the east bank of the Squamish River and is outside the park’s boundaries.

If you are going to be in the Squamish, area between December and February, don’t miss the awesome spectacle of the wintering bald eagles. Be sure to take your camera and lots of film. Viewing these majestic birds and capturing them on film will create memories to last a lifetime.