The Little Shack

There was another big rain last night which you could hear pounding on the roof. It reminded me of staying in the little shack at camp. There is a whole history to the shack that pre-dates me and I encourage others to share (if they dare), but I thought I would start with some of my memories.
When I was little, Rosie and Jim were the main occupants of the shack (at least when we came to visit.) It was exciting to be asked to come inside. The memories are fuzzy but I think there was a big metal frame bed in the middle and there seemed to be stuff everywhere (which has nothing to do with the occupants).
By the time we were old enough to start staying in the shack, it had been set up for multiple occupants – a bunk bed and a single. There was nothing fancy about it – wood floor, wood panelling walls and a peaked roof. In all these years, the screen door and the main door have not changed.

Staying in the shack was a rite of passage. It made you feel much more grown up. We were in our own little world over there. There was always stuff everywhere probably because there was no closet and just a small dresser and we were three girls who changed outfits multiple times a day.

Staying in the shack was much closer to camping then being in the main house. This had its pros and cons. Having to run to the biffy on a rainy night was not fun; sometimes you just held it in. Running to the biffy in the dark also meant risking an encounter with a skunk or the bear! There also seemed to be more mosquitoes in the shack then the main house – that screen door was not completed sealed. I hated the annoying buzz of the pesky mosquitoes in my ear and was obsessed with killing them all before turning out the light (we always tried to clean up the smudges on the ceiling).

But, the pros were big. You could hear every boat pass by; you could hear the creatures in the woods (well at least in your mind!) and you could hear the rain on the roof. There was nothing like the sound of rain on the roof in the shack. Not the big storms – that is a different story which I am sure Eliza will elaborate on. But when it was a gentle steady rain, the sound on the roof was melodic and soothing and put you right to sleep. It made the shack magical.

I arrived one summer to find the little shack all done up (I don’t think I would call it renovated). New panelling on the walls, carpet on the floor and a tiled ceiling. Moe was all about improvements at camp which you cannot fault him for. But with the tiled ceiling you could not hear the rain on the roof anymore. I still loved staying in there I did miss the sound of the rain on the roof and a small bit of the magic was lost.

My Life in Cars

This month, the lease for the Dodge Ram comes to an end. It was definitely not my first choice when we got it three years ago but it certainly has served its purpose and of course I have now become a bit attached to it. I also love telling the guys at work that I drive a Ram 1500 with a Hemi engine. They are impressed. I will be a bit sad when we return it next week.

We are replacing the Dodge with two vehicles – a truck for the farm and a car for the city. Marty found the new farm truck in an online Richie Bros. auction in Texas which was an adventure in itself. The new car remains a bit of a mystery at this point but I am feeling the pressure to make the right choice. Every car we have marks a period of time in our lives. It reflects our needs at the time, the styles of the day, and is forever caught in pictures and memories.

My life in cars is not very long. It starts with the White Parisienne. I don’t remember it at all but I was around when it was!

Next up was a blue sedan with a white top, bought second hand from my grandparents. I do have a vague impression of the back seat of that one.



Next came the Buick Skylark. It had metallic brown/bronze paint and a light beige interior (which I am sure Nancy thought was impractical!). It looks a bit like a 70s muscle car so I wonder how much you could get for it now?

After the Skylark was the 1973 orange VW Westfalia camper van. We had the VW van for years and it defined my childhood. It was like a member of the family. Sticking with us when we moved house, going on vacation with us, travelling to Headacher, being there when we learned to drive. I sort of wish we still had it! What most people do not know is that there were two orange vans but I will let George tell that story.

We became a two car family in Kamloops when Nancy needed a car for her business. She ended up with a 1981 red 4 door Honda civic hatchback. This was another car that we had forever. It was what we really learned to drive in and it was the car of choice for Janeen and I as teenagers. When we were in university Nancy permanently loaned us the car and it served us well. It just kept going and going and going.

At some point, George got a gold Honda accord. This was our first manual car and learning to drive a stick is not as easy as it seems but it is a great life skill. The gold Honda eventually morphed into a maroon Honda accord which Nancy and George still drive today (I don’t know two people who drive their cars longer than Nancy and George!)

The first car I ever got for myself was a 2001 Black VW Jetta with black leather seats. To me it was pure luxury. I only put 20,000km on that car – most of it driving to the grocery store on the weekends! I met Marty when I had that car and we started driving up north on a regular basis. After a terrible car accident, we decided that we needed something bigger and safer. The next car was a 2004 red Volvo XC70. I loved that car. I really loved that car. In a million years, I never could have predicted what came next. When the lease on the XC70 came up I wanted to get another one but we needed a truck for the farm and a way for Marty to get supplies for the house. We knew that a truck was the only logical vehicle but I was heartbroken. Once again, a lease is coming to an end and although I am not heartbroken this time, I have come to like the truck and I will miss it a bit I think.

We are done with leasing so I am actually going to buy my first car! I won’t spoil the surprise as to what it will be but I am sure there will be some stories that will come with it…

Green Door

Green Door was # 1 on the billboard charts in 1956. The lyrics describe a nondescript establishment with a green door behind which “a happy crowd” play piano, smoke and “laugh a lot” inside. The upstairs of the boathouse at Headacher was dubbed “The Green Door”. I remember happy crowds, laughing a lot however the Head sisters did not smoke.

My first recollection of the top floor of the old boathouse is watching my grandfather (Henry Head) sitting in a rocking chair looking out the front window. It seemed he spent hours and hours up there. The scenery forever changing with the coming and going of boats, tugs pulling log booms, trains and sometimes rowers from the Kenora Rowing Club. I can remember how soothing the sound of the water was lapping against the dock and sometimes gushing up in between the deck boards.

The wallboard that covered the walls was warped with time and dampness and green in colour, hence the nick name of the Green Door in 1956. One needed to be careful around the walls as the paint would rub off on your clothing. The linoleum floor was green squares with black lines. At the back of the boathouse on one side there was a sink with cold running water. At the other side was a trap door to the lower part of the boathouse. Climbing down through the trap door was a challenge. As a little kid it was a special event under the careful supervision and watchful eye of Maurice.

The top floor of the boathouse was also over flow sleeping quarters. I remember the old metal frame beds with very thin dusty smelly mattresses on open mess wire “springs”. Even way back then there was a double bed that made up into a couch which was very uncomfortable. I do not remember sleeping up there. Now, I wonder how anyone could sleep up there.

I seem to remember there was at least one other room which housed things like bear skins and the old white canvas tent. The bear skins were dirty and dusty. Who knows how long they had been around. It didn’t seem to stop us from playing with them. I remember the tent very well. Once or twice a season there was great excitement when Dad brought out the old tent for a sleep out in the back yard or just play time. Please notice in the picture of Elaine and I how the old tent is black with mold. I couldn’t stand the smell of the old thing so sleeping in it was not something I enjoyed. The poor old thing also leaked and in those days the remedy was to put your finger on the drip and draw the finger down to the edge of the tent and the water would follow. It seemed to work for a while.

As time went on I seem to remember playing up there. A great attraction was an old wind up gramophone. Now operating this was also a challenge. Great care needed to be taken when winding it up. If over wound, the handle would snap back at you. If you didn’t get your hand out of the way quick, zap you got hit. The handle would fly around backwards until it had unwound itself and then we would try again.

The top floor of the boathouse became the hang out for us as pre-teens and teenagers. We would sit up there for hours and hours watching boats, log boom tugs, trains and sometimes rowers from the Kenora Rowing Club.

As young teens we hung out up there with neighbourhood kids and the “young men” who worked at Coney Lodge as boat boys and grass cutters.

Later, we often hung out the front window waving at the locals whizzing by in their boats and more often than not, they would stop by to chat and join us “behind the green door”.

Travelling with my Dad.

I grew up in an era where the way of life and the related experiences were very different. There was a certain level of technology in the those days but nothing like the miracles of today. Those days were in the mid forties to the late fifties. As I reflect back on my childhood I remember the many experiences my Dad provided me as a way to learn and remember.

These memories were brought to mind as we bought Taj a toy grader for his birthday coming up soon.

I was 11 years old when my Dad took me to his work. He was a travelling salesman for The George McLean Company, a wholesale grocer. He had two territories that he serviced in between Lake Manitoba & Lake Winnipeg known as the inter-lake region. Dad arranged for me to travel with him to the Eastern Territory. We left on a Monday morning in the summer of 1948 and returned on Friday after a week on the road. It was all very exciting, overwhelming and fun. We never seemed to drive very far before we made another stop at one of my Dad's customers store. After several stops I began to see a pattern that my Dad followed when in a customers store. Over the years he had established such a high level of trust with the customers that he moved up and down the aisles making note of what the customer needed. Before we left the store owner would check the list, add to it and sign it. When I realized how much respect my Dad had with his customers my pride burst at the seams.

Three events stand out in my mind that I will never forget. The first being filling up the car with gas. Simple you say. Not in those days. My first task was to move a tall handle back and forth filling the glass tank above. Thus the term "pumping gas". When it was full I then put the hose nozzle in the fill pipe of the tank. My Dad gave me the amount of gas he needed and I squeezed the handle letting the gas flow into the tank. I had to watch the glass tank to make sure I put the right amount in. Far different from the city gas pumps and the pumps used today. There aren't many individuals who can remember filling a car with gas like that.

On Monday night we stayed in the Lundar Hotel in Lundar. This town is where my mother was raised. My Dad took me to the Post Office Building where the telephone operators worked to send in his daily orders. He pointed out that my mother was a telephone operator and this is where they met.

On the same trip on the Thursday we were staying overnight at a town called Ericksdale. After we had dinner my Dad met the operator of the Road Grader. My Dad knew him of course because he had often met him on the roads leveling and grading and in particular in the winter when he kept the roads clear. The grader operator was going out for an hour or so to work on some roads. Whether it was my Dad who asked if I could go or the operator himself I don't recall. All I know is I was in the cab of the grader and for sure I had my hand on the wheel standing in front of the operator. It was dusty and dirty but it was fun. A lot of my friends of the day were envious of my experience.

George

Canada Day Fireworks

Happy Canada Day! All across the country, people will be watching fireworks tonight. Whenever I was at Headacher for July 1 or any other holiday, we would always watch with interest to see what the Town of Kenora managed to pull off for a fireworks display. When we were in Kenora a couple of years ago on the August long weekend, the town put on a very impressive display; a professional fireworks show that was coordinated, multi-layered and lasted for about 20-30 minutes. It was not always the case.

When I was younger and spending summers at camp, the fireworks displays were on a much lesser scale. They were more along the lines of one burst at a time and pretty standard stuff. We would still ooohhh and aaahhh with enthusiasm as it was the spirit of the show that was most important.

There was one exception to these modest firework displays. One July 1 we gathered on the dock to watch the show. It started as usual with a few bursts here and there. Nothing fancy of course. After a long break between two bursts the show picked up speed. There were groups of fireworks going off, some were high, some were low and they were all colours. This went on for about 5 minutes before there was a break. A loud cheer when up all over the lake; it was the best fireworks show that we had ever seen in Kenora. We were waiting for more! We would wait in vain. That was it; it was over. 5 minutes of glorious fireworks display was all we got. Maybe the town was taking a new approach – bigger but shorter?

It was not until the next day that we learned the change in format had not been intentional. Nope, we had been witnessing a pyrotechnic boo boo. The firework barge had caught fire! Intentional or not, it was a great show and every time we watched fireworks at the lake we remembered the time the barge caught fire!

The Canadian

A couple of weeks ago we were on our way home to the city and listening to the Vinyl Café. Stuart McLean was hosting the show from “The Canadian”. They were somewhere in northern Ontario on their way to Toronto. It made me realise how lucky we were to have experienced that train when we were kids and made the trip through the mountains and across the prairie to Kenora. Not many Canadians these days have the opportunity to experience their country from the Dome Car.

We were pretty young so the memories are spotty. For example, I have no recollection of eating on the train at all. Maybe we fasted the entire way? No, wait, there were granola bars and maybe some chewy bears? I am sure we ate in the dining car and had our three meals a day but I can’t remember it!

I do remember the scenery (which probably says a lot about the beauty of this country if it made an impression on a kid!), the dome car, the challenge of walking between the cars and rolling into the stations we stopped at. Nancy, Janeen and I got on in Kamloops, joining Eliza and Elaine who boarded in Vancouver. I have memories of the mountains and the spiral tunnel so we must have travelled through them during daylight. I also have memories of getting off somewhere on the prairies at twilight and walking around. Otherwise, we spent hours up in the observation car or in our seats, watching the country rock by, reading, playing games and spending time together.

As we travelled through towns and urban centres people would watch us pass by. Freight trains and commuter trains are common in this country but everyone stops to watch the cross country passenger train go by. Then, as these days, it was something special. Thanks Nancy and Elaine!

Hot Rocks

My first entry into the blog is about mothering, even though Mother's Day has come and gone for this year. I know that this may appeal more to the female readers of our blog, but Jim really understood what I felt about this topic, so I'm hoping that all can relate.
I am reading a book that I bought some time ago, but never read. Now that I am retired (?) I have finally gotten around to it. It is called Simple Abundance, A Daybook of Comfort and Joy by Sarah Ban Breathnatch. I will be ready to pass this book along on February of next year as there is a reading a day to complete. It is fairly spiritual in nature. although not religious at all. Some of it I read and think, "Well, I'll never do that or that's kind of silly." But then other readings are bang on. The reading for May 13th, Honouring the Great Mother, was one of those and it moved me to tears. It is a section about Homecrafting, and Getting Your House in Order. Rather appropriate for us at the moment, don't you think? Anyway, I would like to quote two paragraphs to start.
"Many women I know share a seldom-expressed yearning to be comforted. To be mothered. This voracious need is palpable-and often unrequited. Instead, we are the ones who usually provide comfort, caught between the pressing needs of our children, our elderly parents, our partners, our friends, even our colleagues.
Though we are grown, we never outgrow the need for someone special to hold us close, stroke our hair, tuck us into bed, and reassure us that tomorrow all will be well. Perhaps we need to reacquaint ourselves with the maternal and deeply comforting dimension of Divinity in order to learn how to mother ourselves. The best way to start is to create-as an act of worship-a comfortable home that protects, nurtures, and sustains all who seek refuge within its walls."
Since Mom died and actually well before, I have struggled with allowing myself to be mothered by me or any one else. I am very much ready for that to happen now and have realized that building the new house is my permission to do so.
As we struggle through this patch of extremely cold weather and snow, my thoughts turn to Mom (and Dad too, as he always played a role in the excercise) and the hot rocks. The patience and caring they showed through the careful heating of those stones on the old wood heater, the wrapping of the stones in layers of old sheets (even though sometimes they were so hot, they singed the sheets that were on the bed) and then the delivery of those toasty warm stones to the bottom of our beds before we even got there on those chilly nights at camp was a gift beyond love. It was a lesson on creating the perfect environment for us.
I can flick on my electric blanket in the little house now (and that works unless we have a power outage), but as I plan the new Headacher, I am consciously throwing in little percs for me and those who "find refuge within its walls". I am having heated flooring in the main floor bath, and I hope a heated towel bar. May not be as good as "hair stroking" that we all remember, but something I can do for me. We are having Central Vac. And that allows me more time to do more for others.
I am so enjoying stories of gardens, canning, old clothes and bacon. I could go in any of those directions and probably will eventually. For now, I am going to enjoy bacon and eggs tomorrow morning Andrea, one of the camp specials. And I'll probably do a Granz and make a 1/2 sandwich with the piece of bacon left. Not quite an Amma sandwich, but close. How wonderful it is that everyone has memories of special people in their lives who for a space in time, makes us feel mothered.

Hmmmmm, Bacon

As a kid, staying with Amma was like being wrapped in a warm hug. No one else showered such constant affection and attention on us. In her eyes we could do no wrong and what kid does not love that! Amma was even able to tame the scariness of Grandpa Alliston.

Their house was so different from our house and the Head households. It smelled different, it looked different (is it my imagination or was there plastic on some of the furniture?) and it was filled with what seemed to be exotic and unusual objects.

One of the things that Amma did well was feed us everything that we were not allowed to eat at home. The details are a bit fuzzy but one thing I remember clearly are the breakfasts. After being allowed to sleep as long as we wanted, Amma would let us have whatever we wanted for breakfast which was a strong contrast from the healthy eating that was routine at home.

I believe that Janeen was taken with the sugary cereals that would never be found in our cupboards. As for me, I was hooked on bacon sandwiches. Three pieces of buttered toast layered with a few pieces of bacon inbetween. No egg, no lettuce, no tomato – just bacon (!?!?!?). How I came up with this for breakfast I will never know but I thought they were delicious and I was allowed to have them every day!

I am sure that a daily bacon sandwich would not pass muster today as far as child nutrition goes. I am also sure that my mom cringed when she saw what we were eating but held her tongue and let Amma spoil us. I don’t know why these sandwiches were so good. I think that it is mostly because there is something special about being spoiled as a kid and being showered with unconditional love. All I know is that although I have never had a plain bacon sandwich since and will probably never have one again, my stomach is growling at the memory.

Grampa would love this

Eliza just sent me this picture and tells me that the Viyella shirt that she has on belonged to Grampa. He gave her two shirts about fifteen years ago. She has worn the red one to tatters and has this blue one remaining to remind her of her grandfather's tender hugs.

Funny, the night that Dad died, I slept with Mom at Pinecrest. I took one of his shirts out of the closet to wear. Somehow it eased the pain and was a way for me to stay cuddled up to him for a few more hours.

It is so interesting to me that of all the men that Dad was and all the roles he played, business man, volunteer, chorister, it is the images of him as outdoors man, fisherman, gardener that remain most poignantly for me. I suppose this is because he spent his long retirement and aging years in these pursuits, but it seems to me that these are also his strongest legacies for me and my daughter, perhaps all of us. He seemed to be happiest and at peace when he was out in the clean fresh air and doing the hard labour of growing and catching food for the family table.

Today I am remembering his pride at coming through the kitchen door at camp, with some produce, dirt encrusted carrots perhaps and Mom's peeved sighs, knowing that they would need to be cleaned and cooked for dinner, even if they were iddy biddy baby ones and we would only have a taste each!

A year or so before Dad died, I think the last summer he and Mom spent any time at camp, I knelt beside him, he on is little gardening stool and we weeded and talked. It was slow going, both the weeding and the talking, but moments that I will always treasure.

Would love to hear your stories about the garden too.

Elaine

Eeewww Gross. What is that in my suit?

Anyone who has been swimming at Headacher in August knows what I am talking about. Those slimy green bits that fill the lake towards the end of summer – ALGAE. Some summers it is so thick that down the lake it looks like green pain rather than water! Not that it stop us from diving in.

Of course, you can’t just jump in. Before submersing yourself, it is best to sit on the end of the dock and using either your feet or hands, push away as much of the surface algae as possible. Deep down you know that this doesn’t really work but it sure makes it easier to get in.

Once you are in, you can’t really notice it too much, although it is probably not the best idea to be gulping water as you swim. Up to you whether you open your eyes underwater or not. I for one don’t.

It’s what happens when you get out that is the gross part… One glance down the inside of your suit reveals streaks of green slime sticking to your skin. If you happen to have an ample bosom most of it has collected beneath your breasts. You don’t want to think of the other places it may be lurking.

You need to get rid of it or you can end up with a nasty rash (just speaking from my personal experience). Typically, you have three choices:
1. Garden hose down the suit. This is a good option depending on how hot it is outside and how cold the water is from the hose.
2. The wipe down. You take care of the green stuff with your towel. This will only work for a day or two before you start to notice a ripe pungent smell wherever you go. You realize its you and your towel and you are due for a shower.
3. The shower. Sometimes, this is the only option. It seems to defeat the purpose of going for a swim to have a shower afterwards but for those of us with sensitive skin or those of us going out in public, it’s a must.

Despite the grossness and the rigmarole, a dip in the lake is somehow always worth it.

Blogging, Facebooking, Skyping and Tweeting....wow!

Hi everybody!

Well I just wanted to say that I think this is a great idea. Since we cannot get together everyweek for dinner or even see eachother during the holidays, I think this is the next best thing to share all the stories and memories we have. Though I am definitly a blogger "newbie", I think this is something that I will really enjoy; as most of you know I like to talk. Though I am only familiar with Facebook and do not have not yet entered the "Tweeting" world and do not plan to this and Skype seem to be great means of communication. I am excited to be a part of this and share my stories and memories with everyone as well.

I also wanted to reply to Andrea's post about Headacher because I could not agree with her more. I thought the tear-down would also trigger some emotion for me but I was surprised when it really didn't, it was more of an excitement. I made a comment to Rosey that without the people in it, it was just a building or structure to me. Each family member or friend that had been through the camp or stayed at the camp really made it "The Camp". When we are all there having a drink on the dock or playing cards in the living room, or just relaxing on the swinging chairs in the front porch, that is the camp to me. I know that this may be different for some people and they may not share the same feelings that I do. I know that regardless of the building we are in, the same memories and stories will be there with us. I will never forget the smells of baking in the kitchen, the smell of the shed and the smell of the bedding in early spring (you know the mothball one).

I could go on and on but it might turn into a novel of some kind and would not be good. So in closing, I am excited use this and share whatever I can. Love to everybody near and far!

Adventures in Canning

I am trying for the life of me to remember an Easter story but.... nothing. However, on the drive yesterday we were listening to Jian Gomeshi on Q interview Gordon Ramsey about his book A Healthy Appetite. They were talking about eating locally and in season. Well, that got me thinking about our canning and freezing adventures in Kamloops; summer weekends spent driving around the Okanagan picking up the fruit or vegetable in season and bringing it back to the house to be preserved. 30 years ago, Nancy was way ahead of her time and although it did not seem like a cool idea at the time, with the steam swirling around us in the kitchen in the middle of August, what we were doing was quite remarkable and let us eat naturally and locally throughout the year.

It would start with asparagus in May or June. I think that the asparagus came from Armstrong but I don't remember much about going to get it so I could be wrong (or I was in school). I do remember that we would get to have fresh asparagus on toast with cheese sauce for dinner that night. The asparagus was like a warm-up before a marathon.

As I write this, I am also realizing that I don't remember much about any of the vegetables. I guess that they were not as exciting as the fruit. The exception would be the zucchini. Let’s just say that Nancy’s Zucchini looked nothing like the ones you get in the grocery store. These were monster Zucchini and deserve an entry of their own one day.

After the asparagus there was a bit of a lull as we waited for the strawberries in late June or early July. Picking your own strawberries (or any other produce) is such a romantic notion; in reality it is back breaking, hot, dusty work. It only took one season for Nancy to quickly realize that pick your own plus preserve your own would result in strike action by her work force (us). On our part we were sure to complain as much as possible so it never happened again. After that we left the picking to the professionals.

As far as fruit goes, the strawberries were an easy way to start. They just needed to be washed and trimmed and frozen - some whole and some sliced. What I never understood is why the whole strawberries needed to be set out in perfect little rows on baking sheets and frozen individually before being put into bags. They all turned to mush anyway when they were thawed. I have since learned that its the recommended best practice but at the time I just thought that Nancy was doing that Head perfection thing. A bag of strawberries would be pulled out of the freezer periodically through the winter to be eaten plain or for a treat with a bit of ice cream.

July brought blueberries, cherries, raspberries. There had to be some vegetables that month but as I said, I can't remember - maybe beans? Blueberries and cherries were my favourites and still are to this day. Blueberries came from the Fraser Valley while the cherries required a trip down to Vernon or Kelowna. Janeen and I would sit in the back of our orange VW bus, strategically situated near the crates of fruit. We would gorge ourselves on the bounty the entire way home. I won’t describe the effect that this had on our digestive systems. Let’s just say that it wasn’t pretty but we didn't care and we did it every year.

The blueberries and raspberries were pretty easy - they just needed to be sorted and washed. The strange ritual of laying the fruit out on baking sheets was repeated. These frozen berries featured prominently in George’s Sunday morning pancake breakfasts.

The cherries required the additional step of pitting. This took forever and we were always in search of the ultimate cherry pitter. The cherries were both frozen and canned and they looked so beautiful packed into jars and sitting on the shelves of the cold storage room. Cherries jubilee around Christmas time became a tradition during this period.

So with the berries all packed away in the freezer and in jars we would head into August, lulled into a sense that this was not so bad and that we were half way through. How wrong we were because now the peaches, pears and tomatoes were ready and the hell began... We went through a lot of peaches, pears and tomatoes (especially tomatoes!) and they all had to be peeled and canned. Anyone who has blanched one of these suckers in order to get the skin off will quickly realize why, as a child, I thought it was hell.

It would be the height of summer and in Kamloops that meant HOT. All four of us would be elbow to elbow in the kitchen and there would be pots on every element on the stove plus a kettle or two filled with boiling water. It was an assembly line. Someone would be blanching the peaches and peeling the skins off, another would be cutting, pitting and slicing them to various thicknesses, someone would then be packing them into jars, filling them with juice or syrup and putting the lids and rings on that had been sitting in boiling water and finally, someone would be manning the canning pot, putting the precious jars into the bath, taking them out at the designated time and setting them on towels to cool.

Each of these positions had its drawbacks. Blanching and peeling the fruit required a high tolerance for scalding your hands; cutting and pitting the skinned fruit was messy and sticky; the jars needed to be packed just right – not too full and not too empty or you would not get a good seal; manning the bath was the most pressure as a messed up batch was an expensive and time consuming mistake. Doing some would not be so bad but we did a lot. Between the peaches and the tomatoes, it seemed like it would never end. However, it did end and after a few months, we would forget the worst of it, especially when the peach crisp came out of the oven in January.

Sometime in late September or early October we would have our ritual weekend with the apple press. For a couple of weeks building up to the big day, Nancy would be out collecting as many windfall apples as she could from local apple farmers. The apple shredder and press would arrive early one Saturday morning and we would begin. George would move the van out of the driveway to make room for the press and the shredder. This was not a small implement nor a small endeavour. Janeen and I would be tasked with throwing the apples into the shredder which was basically a wood chipper for fruit. The shredded fruit would be collected and placed into the press. Once the press was full we would put the lid on and then crank it down by circling the press and pushing on a wooden handle. Out would come a stream of the most amazing fresh apple juice. We would take it up to the kitchen where Nancy was pasteurizing the juice and sealing it in big jugs for the store room. It was hazardous work what with the wood chipper and the swarm of wasps that were attracted by the sweet smell of the apples. It was worth it though as that apple juice kept us going through the winter.

Apples marked the end of the season and I am sure we were all relieved when it was over. It was such a part of our lives at the time that I never realized how unusual it was to have a 28cu.ft. freezer filled to the brim and a cold store room with jar upon jar of fruit and vegetables that sustained us through the winter. As a result, I am sure that I was not as appreciative of my parents efforts then as I am now. Looking back with the perspective of adulthood, it was a great opportunity to bond as a family and a wonderful learning experience. I hope that someday (soon) I will have the chance do some of what we did, albeit on a (much) smaller scale.

Stairs to Heaven

As I viewed this picture all I could think of was a stairway to heaven because if we didn't jump off & fly, it would be a hard fall. However when Elaine talked about the cottage as a safe haven, memories of rainy days upstairs cuddled under the heavy dark stiped blankets with red binding on the beds came to mind. Memories of hiding in bed under the same blankets thinking I was safe from the thunder and lightening.

Our Story Archive

Throughout this week, Rosie has been sending pictures of the old cottage demolition at Headacher. She expressed the mixed emotions that are coming with this project and how hard it is to see the old place go. My response to her was that the essence of Headacher will remain and all that is happening is that camp is getting a new dress and a new pair of shoes!

I was thinking about the changes on our way up to the farm today. The reason that the essence of Headacher will remain no matter what structures are on the property is because of the stoires and the memories. Nancy is our photo archivist but we don't have a story archive.

I have been toying with the idea of setting up a blog for awhile but did not really know what I would talk about. Big-city-lawyer-girl turned farmer/renovator came to mind but there is almost too much material! Today on the drive I had one of those ah-ha moments. We were listening to Spark on CBC and I was inspired set up this blog as our story archive. As the KM professional in the family, this probably should have occurred to me earlier but hey, better late than never!

Blogging is not that hard, as Elaine and Bruce have demonstrated with their wonderful postings from Vietnam. I am hopeful that the rest of us can pick up the blogging habit and build our family threads for the enjoyment of those of us reading them now and those of us who will read them in the future. The stories can be long or short, old or new, first hand or family legend and about immediate or extended family. Several of us have edit rights to the blog to add posts and stories. If I left you out and your story genie is dying to get out, let me know.

That's it. I am now unleashing the blog! Go forth and tell your stories...