Stoney Creek Memories

To help me grow in my writing,  I study the work of others and often find a line or a poem which resonates deep within me.  

The line "Only a picture from a blue tin box" and the poem it begins are such inspirations.  The poem is "Cape Enrage"  by Lynn Davies, from her first collection of poems, The Bridge that Carries the Road, published by Brick Books in 1999.

This photo of me and two of my younger sisters was taken during a stay at our grandparents' home in Stoney Creek in 1954.  They looked after us while our parents were moving our household to another city.  

Lynn's poem evoked this memory.  I appreciate Lynn Davies for the beauty, inspiration, education and challenge her work offers.  I learn much about how to write better, examining the way a poem is created by another person.  In this instance, her first line brings a memory and her poem gives me a guide, by which to write this prose remembrance. 

This is my memory-

Stoney Creek

"Only a picture from a blue tin box." The week we stayed while our parents moved to Belle River. My grandfather steadied a brownie camera, told us, "Hold still." The July sun warmed water in the steel tubs, heated the galvanized walls which held us. My little sisters splashed and jumped; drops flew to my grandfather's trousers, 'til he shook with laughter.

In the picture, I wear a red bathing suit, my grandmother found in the attic, a gaudy orange flower sewed to the strap. This tub held Peggy's drinking water when she was alive, whinnying, running the pastures. Grandfather told me she had been a handful. After a drink, she'd hold water in her mouth. When he turned, she'd dribble a shock of cold down his back.

In the slow afternoon, soaked in water and laughter, we worked wonders: raindrops on the stiff gladiolas behind us; magic liniment on bites from black flies; wet-ghost hand prints on grey cedar shingles. We were water sprites spitting water onto a gravel driveway, watching it dry, disappear, dreaming of that horse full of tricks, all mischief gone.


Words in coloured ink will take you to another site with additional information, if you click on them.  I continue to grow in my writing, am aware that I have much to learn, and am grateful to work which shines a light for me.

Memories of Home

 

 

This afternoon, my mother and I went for a drive through the back roads of Albert County, revisiting old haunts and old memories.  One of the places we stopped was the house where we used to live in Stoney Creek.  It is a large farm style home with a cedar shingle woodshed. 

When I was a child, there were vast stretches of cleared fields and orchards of fruit trees carefully tended, vegetable gardens and a view all the way down the hilly acres to the Petitcodiac River.  It was a century old house, sturdy, comfortable, well cared for, a warm fire and a welcome shared with people we loved.  It was our home.

As we grew up, moved away, it was a challenge for my mother to keep it all by herself, so the homestead was sold.  The new owners wanted the woodlots, hundreds of acres of them and had a family member who wanted to live in the house.

Plans don't always go the way one expects.  Life interferes, forces changes.

Today the grapevine that used to curl a greeting at the back door has grown over the woodshed roof and down onto the ground, five feet into the driveway itself.  The cedars, the high-bush cranberries, the lilacs are untrimmed and wild, growing into flagpoles and well covers and porch walls.

Mum's crimson shrubs are overtaken by weeds and golden rod and tall pale grasses.  The apple orchard stands up to its shoulders in alders and weeds, is surrounded by deer paths.  The oaks are fighting for sky with choking vines.  Maples in oranges and reds are visible from the mid point up; the lower portions buried in whatever nature sends to reclaim the lawns and driveways and gardens when humans have left them unloved.

To visit our former home was a shock, made a lump in our throats, an ache in our chests.

Perhaps it wasn't a good idea to go back.  Perhaps we should have held the memories and not searched out the reality.  But we didn't.

Still, we know, everywhere we've been, all the life we've lived remains within us, deep inside, held in memory.  Part of living is moving on; is letting go when the time comes to shed one place for another.

Sometimes looking back is painful because we want someone else to see the beauty and value in a home or a yard or a garden we have lived in and loved.  But everyone makes their own choices.  We do.  We did.  The new owners have.

We must let go, simply let go.

Mum and I spent the rest of the afternoon travelling back roads, enjoying the colours of the autumn leaves, acknowledging everything changes. 

That lives and homes have their seasons too.

Memories of Playing in Mud

Memories of Playing in Mud

What is it makes me smile at seeing three children stamping in the mud?  Perhaps it is this memory from my childhood of a heat-held day in August and the five of us pleading to go to the river to play. 

Five faces under twelve nagging in unison are hard to resist.  We pack our jam sandwiches and oatmeal cookies and endure the usual warnings.  “Watch out for the changing tide, don't play in the main part of the river, stay away from the quicksand behind the fence on the marsh, don’t play with skates—just leave them alone, make lots of noise to warn bears you are near and come home when you hear the whistle.”

We nod, yes, yes, and scamper off.  We walk the mile and a half to the river in the company of black flies who are happy to see us.  Fingers of alder and needles of spruce scratch at our arms and legs, but we are cooler now walking under a canopy of oak, maple and birch, as we chatter our way to the water.

We strip to our bathing suits and throw ourselves screaming down the sluices of mud.  Soon we wear sleek new skins, as we slide down and down the troughs, shrieking when our legs slip into the frothy brown river.  We scramble back up the banks grabbing toe holds in the muck, giving ourselves to the lure of the squelchy sludge, to the call of the syrupy ooze.

We are sun-warmed and wet with soft, heavy clay squishing from our feet, clinging to our fingers and clumping in our hair.  We slide and play.  We are brown shining creatures, wild and exuberant under resinous pelts.  For hours, we slide and tumble; we become river otters. 

Yet eyeing the tide, we know we soon need to leave and begin the chore of washing ourselves in the freshwater brook that spills into the river.  We try (as much as any child tries) to get clean, but the brook water is so cold it bites into our bones.  Unable to remove all the clay, we sit on the banks sunning ourselves, flaking off dried chunks and flicking them at each other, teasing and eating our lunch.  In our teeth, we catch sunlight and laughter.  The summer heat dries us like creations kilned after the potter’s wheel.

Then far away, a signal sounds.  Our grandfather’s two-fingered whistle calls us back up the wooded hill, “Come home.”  We carry our clothes.  We are still so encrusted we can’t put them over our bathing suits, now dyed the colour of dirt.

When we arrive in the yard, too bespattered to go indoors, we wait.  We know the routine.  Our grandmother sprays us with the hose, the water from the gravity-fed spring as cold as the winds of December.

We shiver as bits of mud and clay slip and plop to the ground.  Cuffing at them with our feet, we make mud mounds.  Later, we gather these globs of damp clay and create pinch pots that will bake in the sun, to hold the dandelions we love.

Bits of my childhood are preserved in mud, like the red pottery made from Petitcodiac River clay.   Memories of being river otters, enchanted with the magic of mud chutes, of splashing into the river, scrabbling up slippery banks and coming home caked with clay and laughter; these memories whistle me back to my childhood home, whenever I see children stamping their feet in the mud.

Photo and words are ©copyright 2011-2013 Carol Steel.  These are three of our grandchildren walking in the mud at The Rocks in Hopewell Cape, supervised by both their grandfather and their mother.  They were not in any danger.

If you would like more information about the Petitcodiac River, click here. 

WARNING:  The Petitcodiac River is not a safe place to play.  It has strong tides and undercurrents, quicksand and mud so sticky you can get stuck and can't get out.  This memory is from 50 years ago and involves a small tributary of the river that entered our property and provided the safer banks and slower waters in which to play.  Do not slide into the banks of the main Petitcodiac or you may not get out.  It can be dangerous and deceptive and often is.

Happy Mother's Day 2012

 

Happy Mother’s Day!

Happy Mother’s Day wishes to Julie, Pascale, Jeannette, Melanie and Melissa.  I send hugs and love, and gratitude for who you are, gratitude for all you do to make this earth a place where your children, my eleven grandchildren can grow and flourish.

Happy Mother’s Day to my mother. 

And for you a story…

On Mother’s Day, when I was ten (and for several years after that), I plagiarised a poem by Edgar A. Guest, as a gift for my mother.  The poem was called “She Mothered Five.”  Each year, I adjusted the words and the lines to make the verses appropriate for whatever was happening in our family of five children.  Guest’s sentimental verses about everyday life appealed to my ten year old sensibilities.  Mum mothered five of us for 25 years until my brother died in an accident; then there were four of us, four girls left.

When I was a teenager, I stopped stealing poems for my mother, switched to flowers or homemade offerings.  I remember going through an obnoxious stage where we called her “The Imperial Dragon”… yes, to her face.  She didn’t seem to mind.  Five adolescents required fire-breathing dragon-like parenting.  We all survived…sometimes toasted at the edges.

My Mother’s Day gifts and remembrances have evolved.  And they continue because it’s fun to remind my mother that I love her and that I am grateful for what she has taught me, for what she has given me.

Today I'm making her brunch and I’ll give her a bottle of Dubonnet; no doubt, she could have used that when we were teenagers.   I’m glad she’s my Mum and that she had the strength and the courage to mother the five of us.

I’ll tell her I love her… and, of course say "Happy Mother’s Day."

Photo is mine.

Moky, Three Years

Though I’ve never met her, sometimes I feel I knew her. 


Moky died three years ago on April 1st.  I never met her, but I have met her children, two daughters and a son.  Through them, I’ve learned about Moky.


Moky was brilliant, creative, thrifty, witty and occasionally acerbic.  She loved her garden and being outdoors, had a keen sense of justice and a wicked sense of humour, intolerance for bad art, a taste for good sherry and cheap wine. 


Moky was generous, recognized potential in discarded furniture, loved the colour blue, appreciated ballet and treasured adventure…whether within her neighbourhood or travelling afar.  She revered and supported libraries, loved old movies and great musical classics.


Moky was a strong woman, given to strong opinions easily shared. 


She welcomed the neighbourhood into her home every Christmas for a party.  What a party it was!   Food and wine, plentiful and delicious, vibrant music and shared song. 


Moky loved her children above all else, as in turn her daughters and son love theirs.   Moky will always be in the hearts and lives of her three children and their spouses, and her five grandchildren, soon to become six.


I never met Moky. 


Oh, how I wish I had.

 

This is an update of a blog I wrote last year about Moky.   May memories comfort and hold you Maggie, Sarah and Tim. 

Albert County, NB

I'm writing, writing lots or rather re-writing, creating revisions.  To escape from hours of bum-in-the-chair, I switch to bum-in-the-car.  We take a drive through places in Albert County, we haven't been for months.

It's a delight to travel through the interior of Albert County in winter.  The mountains and old-growth forest (at least, those trees that haven't been hacked to the horizon by clear cutting) hang onto the snow longer than in urban areas.  Coming around curves on the bare road lead to surprises of hard-packed snow and ice build-up, evidence of the hidden spaces in the hills, where shadow rules and sun can't reach.

With leaves gone and winter here, the countryside displays different sides of itself.  Little River almost disappears under cover of snow, yet seams of open water tell of the river's presence.

At the crossroads where Parkindale Road separates Turkey Trail Road from Sugarbush Road , there are farms, fields and forests as far as we can see.  The vistas are huge, invite breathing large and melt tensions away.  There is a sense of ease, of space and rest between the seasons of reaping and sowing.

A homestead tucked into the forest at Meadow, with the wind-farm in the Kent Hills as backdrop, makes me yearn for country living.  I remember the days of my childhood when the nearest neighbour was over a mile away and the woods were our playground.

Even, the Pollett River is hidden in winter's cloak.  It idles as it waits for the freshets of spring to swallow its snow and ice.

When we come home, we promise ourselves to return in summer, with blanket and picnic lunch and wine to explore the snow-locked spots of serenity we've seen on our drive.  We hope we can find them again once the leaves are full.

For now, we hold the magic places in memory and words, these delights that are just minutes away.  We comfort ourselves by saying that if we can't find them, we'll find others.   Albert County offers beauty and wonder no matter the season.

Words and photos are mine.

Christmas Ornaments

Over the years of celebrating Christmas, the tree decorations change.  Some special ones remain the same; much loved and each attached to a significant memory or story.  I have an affinity for sparkly decorations.  This long shiny one was given to me

by a dear friend years ago.

This handmade hobby horse was a creation from one of my sisters.

This gold sparkled blown-glass heart

is the sole survivor of a set,

 I bought for myself the first Christmas I was alone. 

I cherish the memories that accompany this delicate heart.

This glass snowman with an evergreen tree hat reminds me

of the one who gave it

and of the love we share.

This whimsical glass ball overflowing with red feathers

 was created by one of my daughters while she waited in airports,

on her journey home one Christmas.

My Christmas tree is trimmed with memories of significant times

in my life and the significant people in my life,

who light my way.

Cast Iron Griddle

Cast iron griddles and memories

last a lifetime; sometimes longer,

if passed down.

Heat griddle on burner,

acrid metallic smell, dollop of grease,

sudden sputter of shortening and steam.

Pancake batter plops circles spreading,

fragrant, bubble and coffee-colour,

crock of dark beans bakes slowly.

Brown bread cools, yeasty aromas,

frying pork chops sizzle and snap,

spatula scrapes across cast iron.

Flip pancakes and chops, add

seasonings, create pan gravy

and the Saturday nights of childhood.

Photo and words are mine.

Sweet Peas

Sweet peas climb by tendrils that search for a support to cling to, almost anything will do.  When I was a child, my grandparents grew sweet peas to cover an aged greying fence that had once been part of a sun-bathed chicken run.  My childhood job was to pick the seed pods and faded blooms from the sweet peas and to regularly cut the flowers in order to encourage them to bloom.

And bloom they did, to a height of six to eight feet covering the fence with profuse colours, filling the yard with their sweet perfume.  Sweet peas bloom for long periods from late spring to early autumn, as long as they get watered heavily and frequently so their roots stay moist and cool.  The sweet peas in these photos are from my sister’s and brother-in-law’s gardens, still blooming near September’s end.

I always believed that one had to soak sweet pea seeds or nick them to open the hard seed coating, before planting.  In Lois Hole’s Bedding Plant Favourites published by Lone Pine Publishing in Edmonton Alberta, 1994, Lois says, “Instead of soaking seed, I simply plant into warm, moist soil and use an inoculant.”  She also fertilizes regularly to increase the size and number of flowers.

Sweet peas are an old fashioned annual climber bearing clouds of frilled flowers in varieties of red, purple, white, pink and blue.  Though they are a bit of work to plant and maintain, they are worth every speck of energy and care expended.  Just look at these flowers, vibrant, delicate, opulent!

If you click on the words in red, you will go to another website with additional information.

Tamaracks

Tamaracks

When I was around nine, I became fascinated with tamarack trees.  They were different from the other evergreens, pine, spruce and fir that grew in the heavy woods around our home.  I wasn’t sure why they were unlike the others.

I was drawn to them because they felt quite welcoming when I touched them.  I could lean into the tree and spread my small arms the length of the branches without getting poked or scratched.  The needles were soft, delicate and pliable.

The needles of a tamarack are indeed soft, flexible and gentle to the touch.  They grow one-by-one in whorls along the shoots, unlike the needles of pine, spruce and fir that grow in clumps or bundles that are stiff and prickly.

Another intriguing tamarack difference, they are the only evergreens that lose their needles, deciduous conifers.  In the fall, tamaracks turn a vibrant golden-yellow and shed all their needles.

NOTE:  This beautiful photo is from the fine photography site of Josh Ellis.

You can see more of his work by clicking on this link:

http://fineartamerica.com/profiles/josh-ellis.html

In winter, their naked trunks and branches stand in contrast to most evergreen conifers that retain their dark green colours all year long.

In spring, the tamarack begins to grow new pale green needles.  By early summer, though they seem to be a paler green than other conifers, a light blue-green shade, they are again fully needled, lush and soft.

Tamaracks are slow growing hardy trees that do well in a moist, acidic, well-drained soil.  The low lying areas in our yard would be perfect.

Do we have any tamaracks?  No.  Not yet anyway.

I loved them when I was a child and love them, still.  Now I understand what makes them so unique, this magic tree of childhood.