No one asked me …. Who poured the booze in the spring?

It was July 1958, in Fielding (a dot on the road) in rural Carleton County, New Brunswick. The occasion was the 50^thwedding anniversary of Nelson and Lottie Rogers. Their nine surviving children, down from the original fifteen, were assembled with their spouses and children. Aunts, Uncles and cousin both first, second and once removed were also in attendance. To judge by the photos it was a fine time.

 

Valerie centre left, Brenda centre right

From my perspective, at the ripe old age of eight, I had a new dress and many new cousin playmates.  From the many, Brenda was my cousin of choice.  Although cousins we had only seen each other a few times.  This was our opportunity to bond.

 

We found a grassy spot behind the house and went toe to toe;

“I’m older than you!”  From Brenda

“I’m bigger.”  That was me.

“I am two years ahead of you in school”, Brenda.

“I lived in British Columbia and travelled all across Canada, twice!”

“I ..”  We never knew what came next for I hissed “Sshhh!”

I could hear the sounds of men talking around the corner. And they were discussing liquor, which was verboten with this Pentecostal family.  It appeard that two of the uncles and two older cousins were making a trip to Perth.

”Why Perth?”  I mouthed to Brenda.

“Liquor Store”, whispered back my worldly wise accomplish.

We had a mission for the day, while the older cousins simpered and had tea with Grammy we watched out for the debauched renegades.  In the afternoon we saw the four return, bags in hand. We watched from a vantage point as they set their purchases to cool in the spring. 

Lottie and Nelson

Now I must explain about the spring.  Since time immortal there has been a wonderful, gravity feed spring on the property where my Mother’s family made their home.  Modern conveniences came late to this part of New Brunswick, electricity has just arrived a year or two before.  My grandparents, like most of their neighbours, brought their drinking water in from the spring in a galvanized pail.  Now their children had united to purchase a pump, dig the line, hire a plumber and install a sink and taps and viola running water in the kitchen.  A ribbon cutting, arranged by Aunt Eva was happening soon.

 I do not think that Brenda and I went immediately to the spring. We probably visited the outhouse and talked to the pigs.  Then ….we went to the spring.  I remember no discussion; we just opened the bottles and poured them in the water.  One was 40 ounces of gin or vodka (clear at any rate) and we refilled it with water.  We returned the bottles to their original place and scampered away.

We were just time for the ribbon cutting, and the ceremonial drinks of water as the dipper was passed around. Every one proclaimed on the quality of the water and the phrase Adam’s ale was oft heard.  Brenda and I exchanged a gleeful glance.  We spent the next few hours running in and out of the house and drinking as much water as we could possibly hold!  After we were banished from the house for our silliness, we rolled around on the grass convinced we were inebriated!

The evening meal was eaten, darkness fell and the parents who lived nearby were gathering their children.  From the vantage of the back shed Brenda and I were plotting our course.  Then we heard a roar from the direction of the spring, followed soon after by the call of our names.  We were watching out the back shed window and could see the four angry men nearing, yet we were frozen to the spot.  As the first man reached the steps we were grasped by two large pair of hands.  Our fathers, both of whom did not condone drinking, grabbed us in their arms.  I cannot remember what happened after that.  My Father held me and protected me, like wise Brenda and her father.  Soon I was in Uncle Earle’s car with Brenda and her family, off to spend the night.  I think Charlotte inquired about the dust up. “A misunderstanding”, replied Uncle Earle.

And no one ever asked me ….. who poured the booze in the spring?

No one asked me ……why this day is not like the other?

Remember the song/game from Sesame Street “One of these things is not like the other; one of these things just does not belong....”?  My day was like the displaced item in the song, but in a good way.  I have not written a blog of late because …. My word program ceased to open.  Whenever I attempted to open a document I got the error message “Microsoft Word Open 2010 cannot open - fix in control panel”!  As if!!

Therefore I have fiddled and diddled and considered calling my family and tried remedies to no avail.  Yesterday I completed the T3210 (E)’s and mailed them to Revenue Canada, another story.  Today I was going to catch up on some written work, if possible.

 

I was not always computer literate, in my day I was the office software go to girl. I was competent in DOS programs!  But the stroke of 2005, sounds like a natural disaster, threw up road blocks in my mind. Some days I operate quite nicely; others, not so much.

Today I was determined. I did a system restore back to the time this computer was purchased. No luck.  Then I typed a Facebook query, but did not post, for as my fingers flew over the keyboard I thought “go on line”. I did.  In seconds I had the info, deleted the problem “Opener” (who knew), reinstalled and was up and running. I revised a letter for a friend, I seldom have problems writing or editing, and cleaned up files.

Should tomorrow bring a computer problem will I know how to handle? It is anyone’s guess; No one asked me ……why this day is not like the other?

No One Asked Me about Sharing

 

Our city, Saint John, New Brunswick is having a romance with Play it Forward.   This is an action on the concept that you do a good deed for someone, not know to you, and they in turn will play it forward and do a good deed for something else.  The local paper has made much of a Tim’s coffee paid for by a member of City Council.  I am sure there are more weighty gifts but at this time I am not really to participate.   For you see I have my own personal gifting program, I Share.

Sharing was the first social trait instilled in me by my parents.  Part of the Vail family lore tells of Talmage (my Father) and little Valerie trotting home in the horse and buggy.  Yes, I am that old!  We had been to the local grocer and as Dad was purchasing flour and sugar Mr. Dykeman had given me a small bag of penny candy.   Up to that point there had been little candy in my diet.  “Did you save some candy for Mummy” my Dad inquired?  I checked the bag, it was empty.  I took the last candy out of my mouth, wiped it off and put it back in the bag. 

This story has been told now for sixty years, with reinforcement like that why would I not share?   I love to give, choosing just the right gift and imagining the recipient pleasure on the opening fills me with joy.  Yet sharing has another special pleasure.  When I talk about sharing I do not mean my French fries with my husband or my hair spray with my Granddaughter.

My most recent share was to a family member who had been my house guest.  They found their own apartment but had absolutely no furniture and little funds.  Of course I gave them the bed in which they had been sleeping, and the bedding as well.  It was my spare bed but I shall find another in time for my next “guest”.  This is not the first time that a guest has decamped with a bed.  I think of it as the admonishment made in the Bible, to paraphrase “should you have two coats and your brother has none, give your brother a coat”!

I share family heirlooms, my personal clothing, books, furniture, groceries, meals, and cash ….in fact just about anything I possess can be given away if another’s need is greater.  I do not always share out of need, when I gave a table and chairs to my nephew it was because my dining room was bursting at the seams.   My cousin did not need our grandmother’s recipe book, however I had used and cherished it for thirty years and wanted to share.  Ditto for the jug with a family history I passed on to my brother or the silver plate toast rack to his wife. 

For a bit I was worried about this sharing.  I have been quite ill and wondered if the passion for divesting my possessions was an unconscious way of preparing for a personal demise.  But no, my recollection is that I have been like this all my life.   And I try not to worry what happens to the item once it is passed on.  The moment I made the decision to share, it was no longer mine. 

Now I have some items in my tickle trunk I would like to regift …… sorry, they do not meet the sharing criteria.

No one asked me about getting caught in the power take off!

 

I met a man this week from Missouri; the first thing I noticed about him was that he had a hook rather than a right hand. Then I realized his entire right arm was prosthesis.  He was standing in front of my table where I was selling LeisaB jewellery to the cruise ships, so I asked him about it.  

He explained that he had become caught in the power take off of a farm machine and lost his entire arm.  “Oh my”,  I exclaimed “the same thing happened to me but quick thinking on the part of a truck driver saved me from losing a limb”.  And we shared our stories.



I would have been standing at the place of the girl in red
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was fifteen that rainy fall Sunday when I became entangled in the Harvester.  We were employed by McCain Produce and did not normally dig on Sundays. However it had been a rainy difficult fall and there were still a lot of potatoes in the ground.  It was cold and drizzly and I was wearing a green oil cloth slicker that was popular in the sixties. 

 

Perhaps I nodded off, over reached to grab a rock at any rate I realized that the sleeve of my jacket was caught in the power take off at the end of the conveyor belt and it was slowly chewing me in!  I screamed and pulled.  The harvesters are very noisy, no one heard me and I made little head way in my battle with the machine.  Soon I was on my knees, my glasses had disappeared and my hair was caught as well.

 

Everything went black.  When I opened my eyes the machinery had all stopped and men were cutting me out of the auger.  My jacket was ripped to shreds, and a section of hair from behind my right ear was missing, scalp and all.  The blood poured, I was sure I was dying.  I don’t remember much more. I think they took me to the hospital and patched me up.

after my hair cut!
 

 

McCain’s shut down all the harvesters and sent out mechanics and sheet metal. Not a wheel rolled until all the augers and power take offs were enclosed. 

I later learned that Laurence Claire, a neighbour from Gordonsville, had been driving the truck under our harvester.  Laurence was wonderful in the field and was always checking on people and machines. He saw my plight, jumped from his truck and ran to the tractor, which was pulling the harvester, and shut it off.  Laurence definitely saved my arm and maybe even my life.

 

I did not go back to the field that year; in fact I did not go back for many years. McCain’s paid me for every hour the harvesters were in the fields.  And no one ever asked me about getting caught in the potato harvester!

No one asked me about driving combine

 

It was the fall of 1966.  Potato break was fast approaching. For the uninitiated Potato Break is a three week school holiday in Carleton and Victoria Counties in New Brunswick, Canada.  The potato break, for which students begin classes in August to make up the time, had been instituted in 1960 and I was glad to have the opportunity to work in the harvest and earn some much needed money.   I was really anxious for this fall as it would be my second year working on a potato harvester for McCain Foods.  This was a major step up from picking potatoes.  But it was not to be.

 

A few days before the beginning of potato break we had a visitor. A car rolled in, a man got out and went to the barn or the field or where ever my Father could be found. This was normal practice in our community; however this time the male visitor soon came to the house and asked for me.  Leslie Bell was the visitor, he was a friend and neighbour and as a young teen I had followed his courtship and marriage with great interest.   Now there were one or two cute little Bell boys in their big house on the hill.

 

Leslie and Mona Bell

“I have a job for your,” Leslie said.

“Oh no,” I thought, “I do not want to babysit!”

“Oh…..”

“Yes, I want you to drive my new combine.”

“But I am going to work on the harvester for McCain’s”, I replied.

“I really need you”, said Leslie “and I will pay you an extra dollar an hour more than McCain’s”!!

“Well …………I am flattered but why me?  There are lots of men available!”  I have never heard of a woman; much let a girl, driving a harvester.  They are big machines which cut down standing grain, thresh out the oats (in our case) and spew that grain out into a truck which drives alongside.  The harvester also bales the straw and kicks it out to the other side. Multi functions, many opportunities for break down.

 

 

“I could get a young guy”, said Leslie, “but they would tear the machine apart and older men will not listen to my instructions.  Actually Mona (his wife) suggested you.  I have my grain to cut plus many others, including your father’s.”

Early one crisp fall morning saw me waiting for Leslie, yes he picked me up and delivered me and supplied me with lunches and snacks and water and chewing gum!  The combine was everything he said; it had a cab, a comfortable seat and even a radio.  Laurence Clair was driving the hopper truck and we were good to go.  Leslie gave me the instructions for the first field.  This is not as easy as it seems, some fields were cut working back and forth, some you worked all four sides.  It was important that the field was planned out so you dropped you baled straw on cut area and made the most efficient use of the grain.  I followed instructions. 

Driving combine was perfect job for me.  I drove slow and steady, actually just putted along.  Laurence or Leslie changed the rolls of baller twine before they ran out so we had no fouls in that area.  The days whizzed by, it was a perfect fall and we missed no time for rainy days or days to let the grain dry.  A windy weekend made one field a challenge and Leslie had to drive the tricky bit where the oats had gone down.  I was happy with my job and my employer and Leslie was happy with me. I could not believe my hefty pay when the three weeks were over. 

I never again drove a harvester, by the next fall I was married and pregnant, and I do not think Leslie ever hired another female, (although Janice Bell would have been a good driver when she was in her late teens).  And no one ever asked me about diving combine.

No one asked me about Talmage’s Tomatoes

 

I was picking up a few groceries tonight and decided we needed ripe tomatoes.   I debated over the ones in the cyropack, hot house grown or the ones on the vine, still hot house.  Then I rounded a corner and there they were in all their glory ……….  Local ripe tomatoes, supreme in their imperfection’s and packed in a woven wooden basket.   Memories flooded back, I added the basket to my cart.

 

While we waited for Bumpie to bring around the van I asked my granddaughter if I had ever told her about the time we only had tomatoes for supper.  

 “Yes,” said Marcie. “That was when you were a kid and your father brought home the basket of tomatoes and the bottle of Miracle Whip because you never had that in your house.  Yes you told me.” 

And so I had!   For me that experience was indelibly etched in my memory.  I was eight, the year was 1958 and we lived at the Narrows, in Carleton County, New Brunswick.  One day my Dad went to “do business” and did not return until almost dark.  For some reason we had not eaten supper, as we called our evening meal.  Perhaps Mother was sick or we had a late lunch, at any rate I was hungry then Dad came bursting through the door with a bushel of ripe tomatoes and a big jar of Miracle Whip.  He called to Mother to bring bread, butter, salt and pepper and milk.  I scurried to set the table.  As quickly as Mother could slice her wonderful homemade bread Dad slathered the slices in butter and mayo and topped with the tomatoes.  Soon all had a sandwich.  And as we ate Dad started to talk about his day, a visit to Maugerville, getting his cows from the island, selling those cows, some financial discussions and then stopping at the fruit stand where he purchased the tomatoes.  

 



 “Taste what you are eating, “said Dad, “this is a gift from the land. You can taste the sun in these tomatoes!” 

And I could.  We spent an hour or more at the table, eating tomato sandwiches, discussing gardening and growing, complimenting Mother on her wonderful bread, drinking milk.  It is one of my fondest memories.

 

 

 

Talmage Vail, my father, loved tomatoes in any form.  Beefsteaks were his favorite ripe tomatoes and he knew their secrets long before the chic chefs.  He would slice his tomato thick, sprinkle with salt and pepper and leave for the juices to loosen as he prepared the rest of his meal.  When in season tomatoes were eaten for breakfast, lunch, suppers and snacks.  For Dad they were often accompanied by a piece of old cheddar cheese. 

Dad also loved what he called tomato stew, canned tomatoes heated with milk with a little baking soda (makes them fizz and prevents curdling of the milk).    Mother was no fan of tomato soup but she knew the usefulness of the red fruit and in my teens she often canned at least fifty bottles of our own garden tomatoes.  To this day my 87 year old mother has a ripe tomato every morning for her breakfast. 

Tonight I followed my Father’s lead.  I selected my tomato, after carefully examining each one in the basket, and sliced it.  Toasted my bread, from Soleil Bakery – not as good as my Mother’s was, but …..  No fat counting here, I lathered on the Becel and low fat Hellmans, topped with the tomatoes; I had a snack fit for a king.

No one asked my about a dowry

My youngest brother, Bruce Vail, was married on Friday August 10^th, 2012. Bruce and Trudy Broad were united in a civil ceremony at the Woodstock court house. While the service might have been undemonstrative, the emotions were not. Bruce and Trudy were, and are, high on love and the promise of a bright future together. Assembled family and friends were there to support them in that goal.



love Trudy's hair and bouquet

While it is still summer for us, the newlyweds were planning ahead when choosing their attire. A fall theme was in place and the bride looking smashing in full length mocha champagne, two piece gown. Trudy carried lush orange roses which were repeated by the ones carried by her maid of honor and worn by the groom and groomsman.

Broad and Vail family members

After the ceremony, and a few candid photos in the court room, we adjourned to the couple’s home in Fielding.  Now Fielding is Bruce’s birth place and he lives next to the ancestral land.  As we pulled into the driveway I could view the hard work and careful thought that preceded the event.  There were containers of flowers and balloons, the lawn was manicured and the road sign scrubbed.  Even the vegetable garden was picture perfect and included flowers as well as veggies.

A lovely picnic reception was served from the deck, the food prepared in advance by the bride and the groom.  There was cake and a speech or two.  Then my brother called for the Bride’s Father.  Bruce proceeded to explain dowries, their history and use.  (There is not a Vail or Rogers, our Mother’s family, who cannot make an impromptu speech at any public occasion.)  “Usually a dowry would be a horse, or several cows, or a flock of sheep”, Bruce explained.  “But I have no horse, no cows no sheep.  However I truly want Mr. Broad to understand how much I value his daughter Trudy, so here is my dowry of a pair of chickens!”

Like is not always happy, love does not always come early (Bruce is now fifty), but laughter and a sense of humor will see you through.  Many happy returns Bruce and Trudy; there is no doubt in my mind that your marriage will stay the course.  And if you have an argument – go fishing!

And no one asked me about the dowry.