Letting It All Hang Out

I have a thing for line dried linens, well almost a passion, you might say. My reel clothesline is attached to a post on the northeast corner of my second floor deck and extends outwards about 30 feet to another post that is about 18 feet tall. Because I live in the country, there are no buildings to block the wind so the clothes can get whipped around pretty good on a windy day. That’s what happened today. Even though I double and triple pinned each piece of clothing, the 60 km winds were just too strong and within minutes, one of my towels had ripped off the line and blown against our wire fence about 50 feet away. Luckily, everything was dry and the towel was rescued by my farmer with no ill effects. But that doesn’t always happen. I’ve had tragedies.

First, the birds. We have a lot of trees on our property, hence a lot of birds. We actually encourage them to come around by feeding them. I don’t know why they choose to drop their messy bombs just as they’re doing a flyover on my clothes. Maybe they have competitions. Who knows, it might be boring being a bird. Perching. I mean, what’s so great about that? But pooping, now that’s gotta be more fun. Maybe they get extra points for a direct hit. I don’t want to get too graphic here, however, I will confess that if the poop is not too big and quite dry, I have been known to flick it off with my finger. There, I said it and no one’s the wiser. If it’s a good day for me, one item requires rewashing – if it’s a good day for the birds, well, I like washing clothes anyways.

I’ve had the experience of pinning a full line of heavy, wet blankets on my clothesline - just to turn around to hear the gut wrenching sound as the line snaps, leaving the blankets lying on the wet, muddy ground below. A heavy, messy, cleanup and lesson learned. The line has a weight tolerance. I only did that once.

Then there was the time when our good dog Maggie followed a groundhog down it’s hole that was situated at the base of my clothesline pole. The groundhog popped it’s head out, unaware that Maggie was on alert, and quick as a bunny, well actually a groundhog, he turned tail and skittered back in his home, followed by the fastest pair of front diggers you’ve ever seen. Maggie dug and dug, throwing the dirt between her front paws while kicking it behind her with her back feet. She never let up. The hole got bigger, and the pole started to tilt to the west. By the time we were able to pull Maggie away, she had managed to uproot the pole to the point that it was leaning precariously, held upright only by the clothesline wire. The groundhog remained safe below ground….that day.

Clothesline stories - I’ve got a million of them.

Over the years, we’ve had numerous farm animals as pets.

Some success stories and some not so great.  Before my current clothesline was installed, I had tied a blue plastic coated line between two large pine trees. It was only temporary and it worked fine, until our pet calf - who wandered around the yard at will - decided to suck on the corner of my mother-in-law’s heirloom linen tablecloth, loaned to me for a family celebration. By the time I noticed, the calf had chewed her way through one entire corner. The calf-slobbered fabric was bright green, with bits of embedded grass and small holes where the grinding teeth had met.  All I can say is I had a very understanding mother-in-law. She returned the mended, impeccably pressed tablecloth to me with these kind words, “I think you should keep this now.”

Then, there are those perfect clothesline days that completely make up for the inconveniences; those clear-blue summer sky days, when the wind blows so perfectly that the clothes dry in minutes. I usually leave them to hang all day, then unpin them just before dark when they fold easily and settle softly into my basket. If I'm in the mood, the iron slides smoothly across the slightly damp fabric, a most enjoyable and thoroughly satisfying task.

Many years ago, in my mother’s era, a housewife was measured by how white her clothes were, and in the manner they were hung. Monday was always wash day, and the earlier the clothes were hung, the higher regard was given to the lady of the house. “She’s a worker, that one. Up with the birds.” White clothes were always washed first, and the same water was used to wash coloured, followed by heavier work clothes or blankets. Doing laundry was an all day job, sometimes two. I remember mom lifting huge, square washpans onto our woodstove. If dad was around, he would help, but often it was mom doing all the heavy lifting. Washing clothes for five kids and a husband without running water or electricity must have been incredibly difficult. Later in life, her greatest joy was turning on a tap to see a steady stream of hot water pour out – there was no discussing water conservation with mom.

There are as many different kinds of clotheslines as there are clothes. When I lived in Kitchener, I was the proud possessor of two reel lines and with three kids, it was easy to fill them from end to end. Years ago when we lived in Guelph, I would carry my clothes upstairs from the basement to an outdoor clothesline, that was fixed to two cross poles, five lines in all. It was a lot of lifting and carrying, but I didn't mind – I was young then. My dad used to make clotheslines from old, rusty scrap metal.  He would scrape and weld and paint until they looked as good as new.  He installed them all over the countryside; I'm sure there are still some standing today.  My daughter-in-law uses a T-line or umbrella type that folds down into a solid pole when she's not using it. It works great for their small backyard.

My big city living daughter arrives at our doorstep with a large bucket of laundry so she can hang her clothes outdoors when she visits. We've had many enjoyable deck visits while her clothes are drying in the sun, munching on cold grapes and warm, runny Brie. The grape doesn't fall far from the vine.   

Along with the obvious benefits of hanging out clothes such as conserving energy, enjoying the outdoors, and having fresh smelling clothes, there are social aspects to consider as well. If you happen to live where there are other houses nearby, the back or side yard clothesline area could be a place to meet up with your neighbor. An over the fence kind of visit where backyard gossip is exchanged.

I love to hear the snap snap of my linens as they catch the wind just right on a bright, windswept day; to see how the sun brings out the whitest of whites and sanitizes too, and I bring the clothes up to my face to inhale that perfect freshness that no fabric softener on earth can duplicate. One of life's simple pleasures, a feast for the senses. 

Russian Poulette

It’s all fine and good to say we let our chickens run free because we want them to have a happy life…and they do.  But someone forgot to think about the treacherousness, the lying-in-wait nastiness, the absolute noxiousness of the forgotten egg. 

We bought six egg layers this summer.  Little red hens. So our grandsons would have something to do when they came out to the farm.  When I asked the farmer, “Where are you housing these chickens”, he said, “I’ll just let them run free and the kids can hunt for the eggs”.  Oh, so cute, I thought.  That will be fun.  And it was.  The kids came out on the weekend, trundled off to the barn and with the farmer’s help found at least four separate hiding places where these secretive little hens had cloistered at least four to six eggs.  As we were about to leave the barn, our son noticed a hidden cache of eggs behind an old piece of wood.  Twelve, thirteen eggs were piled amidst straw and a few raggedy feathers.  Ohhh.  I wonder how long these have been here?  And therein lies the farmer’s dilemma.  Actually, the farmer’s wife’s dilemma.  Cause you gotta know the farmer won’t be crackin’ these babies anytime soon.

The farmer said, “They’ll be fine”.   And I said, “Uhuh” and rolled my eyes while the grandsons gloried in the mother lodeness of their discovery.  I do a lot of eye rolling on the farm. 

Well, there they are, all washed up nicely and looking quite innocent.  I’ve placed them in a big bowl, separate from the um…..fresh eggs and in the fridge they go.  Now comes the dangerous part.  When I need an egg, I will break each one in a saucer – outside -  while pinching my nostrils with one hand.  It will be quite the maneuver, going right along with the eye rolling feat.  No way of knowing until that egg hits the dish, if it’s fresh or, heaven forbid, rotten to the yolk!  And if you’ve never smelled a rotten egg, I cannot even begin to tell you the absolute putrid smell that will envelop you and everything in the surrounding area for at least two, maybe three kilometers wide.

Here’s the thing.  If only those food lab people had invented a chicken who laid “best before” eggs.  Wouldn’t that be phenomenal?  Every little brown egg would be date stamped or bar coded and we’d know exactly which ones to toss in the manure pile.  But no, oh no, farmer’s wives have to have our challenges, our stressors, just like everyone else.  So, tomorrow morning, picture me outside on the deck, egg in one hand, nostrils pinched with the other.  Playing Russian poulette.  And we’ll see how my day goes on from there.

What's In A Name

We begin our life with a name that was carefully and lovingly chosen by our parents to identify us as their child, a signature that will stay with us forever unless we choose to change it, inscribed on our birth certificate and farther down life’s road, in finality, on our death certificate.  Just think of all life’s in-between times when our name is spoken, written, copied and notarized.

My name was delivered to my mom via Canada Post (some might think Pony Express) in a hand written letter from her sister, Patsy who lived in British Columbia, halfway across Canada from our little northern Ontario outpost.  She had sent mom a poem that she had clipped from a newspaper, or some such periodical of the day.  And under the poem, she wrote “Barbara Rose”.  As it turns out, mom had already picked out a fine name for me.  I came very, very close to being named Veronica.  I am forever indebted to Aunt Patsy and her timely letter.  Not that I was overly fond of Barbara, but I’ve come to appreciate it over the years.  Mom added a third name “Shea” to my moniker, in honour of my dad’s mother, Annie O’Shea.  Most people call me Barb and I’m fine with that. A very few have called me Barbie on occasion and always with great affection, I know.  Mom was the only person who always called me Barbara and under certain circumstances when she wanted to press home a point, I sat up and took notice when she called me  “Barbara Rose”.

 When I asked my grown children if they liked their own names, all three said they did.  Happily for me and them, I had chosen well. I’m a serious word person.  I remember writing their names over and over again, first, middle and last.  It had to look right on paper and sound right when spoken.  Even today, it pleases me to hear their names spoken, a permanent, enduring and endearing connection from me to them.

Choosing a name for a child is serious business today.  There are books – huge books with zillions of names all laid out alphabetically.  And there’s the internet of course, and a library full of novels – so many names to choose from. Rock stars, and television personalities are renowned for naming their offspring with odd and obscure names.   Do you go back through your family history, looking for a favourable character’s name or do you look in the birth announcements in the newspaper for the ten most popular names of this era?  And then when you find one that you like, do you modify the spelling so that (you think) it will be different and unlike any other until your little one attends daycare and there are five other kids with the same name?  Poor teachers, is all I can say. 

Although first names are undoubtedly very important, I think second and third names are significant as well.  I would imagine that John Smith is very dependent on his middle initial and if he doesn’t have one, heaven help him, unless he’s a fugitive of the law and then that would work for him.  And what about the unfortunate child whose initials spell M.U.D. or A.R.S or some such laughable acronym  -  what were their parents thinking?

Some individuals can’t wait to change their name, either through marriage or legally, for as many different reasons as there are names in that big baby book. Back in my day, it was common for ladies to take their husband’s name as their own. Not only did they take his surname, they were often identified by his first name as well, e.g. “Mrs. George Brown.” Talk about becoming invisible! Some ladies accumulate three or more surnames over the course of their lifetime, depending on number of marriages - Liz Taylor comes to mind.  What a pain that must have been - all those documents and forms to fill out - but she likely had a personal assistant to do the tedious work.   Although this practice continues today, an ever growing number of modern ladies retain their individuality and their birth names by choice - saves a lot of form filling.

While researching family history, I have come across some pretty funny names that my ancestors held.  And if there are a lot of similar names in kindergarten today, not much has changed over the centuries because Rose de Lima, Joseph and Mary Louise  ran rampant (the names, that is), in my purely French Canadian family and if it weren’t for those all important middle initials, I would be spinning in circles trying to trace some of these folks.  Comically, similar names show up on both sides of my parent’s lineage which has caused me some confusion at times.  Who knows, I may at some point discover that my parents were related way back in history and that wouldn’t be the first time this was revealed in someone’s past.

Since my interest in family history began, I have found myself traversing cemeteries far and wide, and if there’s one thing I know for sure, it is the importance of placing a loved one’s full name on their headstone - not just for people like me who are doing research, although it is immensely helpful -  but because it is the final stamp that we place on this earth, our last word, so to speak.  So whatever name you were born with, whether it is one you like or not, honour it and the parents who chose it - for they gave it to you with great love.  Thank You, Aunt Patsy.

Barbara Rose Shea Forget 

Oh Glorious Kitchen

People often say the kitchen is the heart of the home.  I’d have to agree.  My present kitchen is roomy, as kitchens go, with windows facing north, east and west and a skylight facing east.  Even on a gloomy day, there’s plenty of light shining through.  I’ve grown accustomed to my view after living in the country for 24 years, but that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate looking across our snow covered fields from any window and seeing flocks of snowbirds settling and then lifting up in a mad swirl just to land again a minute later in a different spot, who knows what their itinerary could be.  And then, there’s always a chance that a few deer will cross our back field;  we saw some wild turkeys yesterday back towards our bush,  completely oblivious to the recent turkey feasting going on around them, I’d bet.  Our well stocked bird feeders are a constant source of delight for us.  Cardinals, bluejays, chickadees, mourning doves are ever present.  The feeding frenzy is spectacular during a heavy snowfall.  I guess they know when to feast to add heat to their little bird bodies. Our two housecats, Molly and Missy can perch perfectly on the windowsill overlooking the feeders.  I can just imagine their non-hospitable thoughts for their little feathered non-friends.

The windowsill over the kitchen sink is quite narrow, but still I manage to clutter it up.  This is where I keep a few of my favourite things. The little man with the pot belly has been there since we moved in.  He says, “I love you this much”, with widespread arms and a goofy smile on his face.  I gave this to Brian over 30 years ago.  It’s not going anywhere anytime soon.  It’s rare that I don’t have a tiny vase with a fresh flower in it next to the little figurine, and a sweet scented candle in a miniature glass jar that my  friend Hilda gave me years ago.  When I visit other people’s homes, I always check out the items that they keep on their windowsills over the kitchen sink.  I think it says a lot about the person who lives there.

The old maple kitchen table and four solid chairs take up one corner of the kitchen.  The table dates back to when my kids were small, and though it has sprung a crack through the middle of the tabletop where two pieces of wood were joined, it is as strong and sturdy as the day it was built and continues to be the epicenter of our home.    I bathed all three babies in a little bathtub on that table, our parents sat and visited and drank tea with us, and visitors came and went over the years.  Just imagine the meals that were enjoyed here; Christmases and Birthdays, Thanksgivings and Easter dinners;  my family, Brian’s family and hundreds of bed and breakfast guests.  There must be a million conversations stored in that old wood. If tables could only talk.

Across from the table, on the other side of the patio doors is a waist high solid wood partition that hides a narrow, steep staircase to the summer kitchen, a full basement area under our kitchen.  This is Brian’s main entrance and exit – he’s either coming up from or going down to the basement to change into his barn clothes, a constant daily flow that I have grown accustomed to.   Farther along the same wall is where my highback chair sits, the one that Brian’s mom dragged in here so many years ago; a thrifty purchase from an auction visit one summer day.  The huge brown floral pattern went the way of the upholsterer’s knife to be replaced with a much subtler cream coloured fabric that suited me much better.  The chair backs onto a bright window that lets in perfect light for reading, and reading I do, a stack of books resting on the bookcase to my right, waiting their turn to be picked up, paged through and enjoyed to the very last page.  Right next to my chair looms the big, black locomotive of a woodstove, which on occasion can belch quite a lungful of smoke, but mostly it gives off the most incredible, soothing, warming, comforting glow of heat that a person could ever wish for on a cold winter’s day.    Kettles actually do sing.  I keep mine filled to the brim and it whistles a sweet song the whole day long while the dry wood in the firebox crackles and spits it’s fiery accompaniment.

Right across from my chair is the rectangular island, cupboard doors opening from both sides and filled with crazy amounts of bowls and platters and casserole dishes that would be well suited for a restaurant kitchen and I love every one of them.  There’s Brian’s grandmother’s beautiful brown pottery mixing bowl, his mother’s casserole dishes, my mom’s pie plates, colander, and many other cooking vessels that I’ve used and continue to use to this day.  The island has the largest countertop area in my kitchen, but this doesn’t stop me from loading it up with a house plant of some kind, our ever present coffee percolator, various bowls of fruit, onions and garlic -  a kitchen staple in my house, along with a half filled dish of candy, the other half having gone missing, I know not where. Still, I leave a space for cutting, chopping, paring, preparing all the food that is presented at my table.  I’m happy here in this place, layering flavours, creating tasty dishes to please myself and others.

I suppose that a love letter that is written about a room in a house could be construed as a bit odd, however, this detailed journal of my kitchen seems perfectly normal to me, an appreciative scan of all that surrounds me, each item holding warm memories of times gone by.  While it’s true that other places hold fond memories for me as well, my kitchen space and all it contains continues to occupy a place in my heart that nothing else can claim.  Oh glorious kitchen, this room be mine!

A Christmas To Remember

It was Christmas Eve in our tiny northern village.  The year was 1957.  My family and I were fast asleep in our beds when something awakened me, I know not what.  I crept quietly from the bed that I shared with my older sister, and tiptoed into the kitchen where I was drawn to the warmth emanating from the woodstove that heated our home in the winter.  The coals shone brightly through the grate in the front of the stove, causing the tinsel on our Christmas tree to shimmer and dance in the light.  There it stood, this magnificent evergreen tree; the one that Dad and my brothers had dragged into our house the day before, with Mom exclaiming, "Edward, that tree is too big for this house".  The branches were laden with glittering strands of silver tinsel that caught the reflection of light from the stove and the shining eyes of this little girl, as I looked in wonder at the gifts that had been placed beneath and around the base of the tree.  I'll never forget the incredible joy that I felt when I bent down and spied a large, unwrapped cardboard box sitting front and centre.  Nestled in the tissue paper was a pair of brand new, white figure skates with shiny blades and bright, white laces.  They were beautiful!  I don't remember looking for a name tag, but still I knew they were mine. 

The quiet stillness of the house, the enveloping warmth from the stove, the sweet pine fragrance of the freshly cut evergreen tree, the dancing tinsel shimmering on the tree, and a little girl's joy early one Christmas morning - all captured in one never forgotten moment in time.

Over the years, I've grown to realize that the greatest gift I received early that morning had nothing to do with the presents under our tree.  The true gift bestowed upon me was knowing and feeling the true essence of Christmas at that very moment -  that would live with me forever - buried deep within my heart, taken out at will, rejoiced in, exclaimed over, and enjoyed over and over again. 

What woke me that night long ago?  Was it a crackling ember from the woodstove, or the wind in the trees outside my bedroom window?  Perhaps an angel came to call to light a spark in a little girl's heart and gifted her a life long legacy - the true spirit of Christmas.  Merry Christmas, Mom and Dad!  Merry Christmas, Phil!

Remembering Ernest

Private Ernest Montsion

Ernest was born on November 13, 1891 in Cornwall, Ontario.  His parents were Rose Delima and Marcellin Montsion.  He had 4 brothers; Eugene, Alphonse, Wilfred, and Leo as well as two sisters, Alexina and my grandmother, Philomene.  On the back of this photo, mom had written "mother's baby brother" an indication that he was very special to his family.  I thought he was a very handsome young man, and in fact, have noted a noticeable likeness to my son, Christian. It's the only photo I have of Ernest and highly treasured, to be sure.

Ernest signed up for the military service on November 26, 1917 at the age of 26 years and 4 months.  At that time, he was living in Walkerburn, Manitoba with his parents.  He was single.

 As it turned out, I have more documents on Ernest than I have on any of mom's other relatives. I am fortunate to have a letter that he had written to his parents in April of 1918, just a few months before he was killed.  Written in french, of course, some of which I can make out, and on the bottom right hand corner, his name. 

He died on September 29, 1918, barely a year after he enlisted and after researching his name on the War Archives website, I discovered his name in the First World War Book of Remembrance, commemorated on Page 473.  He is buried in Haynecourt British Cemetery, in Nord, France and it gives the exact location of the cemetery.  Ernest's brothers also enlisted in the military, but as far as I am aware, he was the only member of his family to die in action.

This letter informs a mother that her son died while serving his country at the age of 27 years.  It must have been so unbelievably painful for Rose Delima to receive such a letter. How many other letters were sent just like this one?   A soldier, a hero?  Just a young man, like so many others, so far from home,  doing what he thought was right.   A picture, some fragile, faded letters and a name in the Book of Remembrance.  Today, I remember Ernest Montsion, a soldier, a son, a hero. 

And some there be who no memorial have;
Who perished are as though they’d never been.
For our tomorrows their today they gave,
And simply asked that in our hearts they'd live.
We heed their call and pledge ourselves again,
At dusk and dawn - we will remember them!

Charles Henrywood

Tortures of Tourtiere

Tourtiere is  a fancy French word for meat pie, commonly eaten on Christmas Eve in many a Quebecois home.   It is usually made with a blend of ground beef and pork, onions, perhaps garlic and always with sage, thyme, and sometimes cloves.   Mom often made meat pies for our family in our younger years.  I’m pretty sure she always used ground beef.  It was a favourite of my dad’s, enjoyed  hot or cold, always tasty and delicious.

Throw any old piece of meat at me and I can come up with a tasty dish.  But, there’s a part of cooking that I’ve never mastered.  The ubiquitous pie crust.  Now, having said that, the truth is I’ve probably made a pie crust four times – in my life.  And every time I entertained the notion that I’d like to make a pie, it usually ended in a less than optimum experience for me and for those who sat at my table.

Never let it be said that I give up easily.  I’d been thinking about making a meat pie for a few weeks now; the picture perfect crust, with swirls of steam rising up through the slits in the top, smelling up my kitchen with the scent of sage and garlic. 

I visited my local butcher and picked up fresh ground pork for the filling. After discussing the merits of home baking, I purchased the pure white lard that he renders down himself.  He and his wife have provided our family with wonderful cuts of meat for 25 years now.  I trusted him when he said this was perfect lard for pies while trying not to stare at his rather large, pear shaped body and apple dumpling cheeks.

 Four or five cook books later, I decided on the perfect pie crust recipe.  How hard can this be?  There are only 4 ingredients.  A piece of cake.  Well, you know what I mean.  I took out my beautiful, old, pottery bowl, the one that  Brian’s grandmother used,  hoping that some of her pie making skills would still be hovering round.  I felt I needed all the help I could get.  With a silent prayer to the pastry chef up above, I measured out my flour, salt and lard. 

 I felt quite exuberant when the lard cut beautifully into the flour and created those perfect little pea-shaped  bits of joy that my recipe book stated would make the perfect pie crust.  Sprinkle the flour-shortening mix with ice cold water  and mix lightly with a fork.  Form into a ball.  OK.  Done.  They say it’s easier to work with cold dough, so I put half the dough in the fridge while I rolled out the bottom crust.

 Now, here’s where everything got shot to hell.  When I patted and tried to press down the ball of dough in preparation for the rolling pin – it shattered into a mess of little pieces of dough.  I can remember mom’s voice in my ear “Barbara, the less handling, the better”.   By this time, my shoulders were so tense you could have hit me with a tennis ball, and it would have bounced off with no impression.  My breathing was audible, and I was starting to hyperventilate.  No worries.  Calm down.  I decided to throw caution to the winds.  I added a bit more lard, (this was not going to be a healthy dinner anyway, so what difference a few more artery-clogging fats?)  The dough seemed to work a bit better, and after I added a few more drops of cold water, I actually had kind of a pie crust going on – it wasn’t round and it had a lot of thin and sometimes missing pieces, but hey, after I scraped it off the counter (yeah, I know – use flour), and threw it onto the pie plate, it didn’t look so bad.  Of course, I had to patch up a few places – well,  who’s kidding who, I created the whole friggin’ pie crust like a jigsaw puzzle with bits and pieces tacked on here and there.   Voila!   Once I poured my beautiful pork mixture over it, the whole thing almost resembled a pie!   With one episode under my belt, I felt confident, assured -  scared.  The second rolling out worked much better.  At least it didn’t crumble like an old dusty brick wall when I repeated the rolling pin scenario.  I worked quickly and efficiently, rolling out just enough to lay over the meat.  I pieced and patched as above, praying that once cooked, it would all miraculously meld together.   In the oven it went and then I turned and looked at my kitchen.  Who knew that 2 cups of flour could spread so far?  There was flour on the counter, the mixing bowl, the utensils, the floor, my elbows.  Was there any left in the pie?

The pie sits cooling on the wire rack.   It looks pretty good -  from a distance.  After a bit, I muster up my courage and cut into it.  The crust is quite flaky though the filling appears to be somewhat dry.    After my third bite, I decide the crust is quite good – certainly better than anything I’ve bought in a store – however, the meat filling is not spicy enough and too dry for my taste. 

No one is more surprised than I am.  Here, I was expecting the crust to be my failure and it turns out the meat was.  Next time I will add more spice and liquid to the filling.  Yes, I said next time.  Who knows, I just might become the tourtiere expert in my little corner of the world.  In the meantime, I’ll serve this dry pie with mashed squash and a fresh, crunchy salad.  I don’t expect I'll get any complaints from the farmer.  And I didn’t.