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.

why they serve Syrian food in a Lebanese restaurant!

Muhamara - walnut dip

We were hungry, no correct that, I was starved. It felt like hours since Barb and I had wandered into this empty restaurant.  The waiter/owner/ host brought a basket of pita, (still in the plastic bag, no napkin) and a plate of olives, hot green pepper pickles and the red pickled turnip that I love.  I wasted no time and was soon munching.  With my mouth filled I returned to my surroundings.  A portion of the ceiling had been lowered and was swathed in a velvet curtain complete with tassels; their colour matched the amber crystals on the chandeliers.  And while they were over the top they were stunning.  The room was large and filled with a eclectic collection of formal Middle Eastern furnishings, couches, chairs.  A darkened corner to the right seemed to contain traditional tables and chairs. Barb had already asked for the volume on the music to be lowered, yet here it was again, a Middle East melody weaving its way through our meal.

The cold mezza arrived, too many plates for our tiny table so we piled some on a chair. There was Tabbouleh, Fattouch, Labneb (a yogurt dip), Hummus, Baba ganoush, Cheese rolls, Shanklish (Syrian cheese with toppings) and my new favorite Muhamara (Walnut dip).  Muhamara is another Syrian dish made of crushed walnuts in a spicy paprika bread base, (Yes, bread!) and drizzled with Pomegranate Sauce.

And you guessed it, we were not in Saint John, NB; but rather in GTA, think Mississauga, at   ZANOBIA.   I have been visiting my best friend Barb Dunning and this was a spur of the moment dinner choice.  Located at 1565 Dundas Street East, this is a Lebanese restaurant, night club which was to have their official opening the next evening.  We had been the sole dinners.  Then four young women who came in to smoke a hookah pipe, and lingered to eat.  Back to our meal, I would like to you were quaffed a traditional Lebanese drink however both Barb and I are alcohol handicapped.  The hot Messa arrived, Tawouk (grilled chicken kabobs} and a grilled beef kabob with more sauces and accompaniments including pita slathered in a red spicy, not hot, paste.   We ate and ate; we packed two containers to bring home. 

          Zanobia was an experience we are still enjoying.  Cost of our dinner approximately $45.00 thanks Barb!  And no one asked me why they serve Syrian food in a Lebanese restaurant!

about the homeless teens in Saint John, NB!

Our doorbell rang last night, it was eleven o’clock.   My granddaughter Marcia went down to answer the door.   As suspected, the caller was Marcia’s friend, a teen who is living on the street.  The teen was in rough shape, crying and coaxing to spend the night.  Marcia refused and sent her friend on her way.

Homelessness is an extreme form of poverty characterized by the instability of housing and the inadequacy of income, health care supports and social supports. Homelessness includes absolute (living on the street or chronic) homelessness, sheltered homelessness, hidden homelessness, and those who are at-risk of homelessness or unstably housed. from

A PORTRAIT OF HOMELESSNESS IN GREATER SAINT JOHN’, Written by: Belinda Allen, Published by: Human Development Council March 2008

This was an emotional difficult action for Marcia; to turn her back on her friend.  How does this happen in our small city that there is a homeless teen?  The scenario from my viewpoint is rebellious teen does not get along with parents, begins using drugs i.e. smoking pot.  Now some of my acquaintances tell me that smoking pot is not doing drugs and that everyone does it.  Well I don’t!  It has been my experience that in many, many cases pot is a gateway drug.  For this teen, that was the case. The teen was smoking cigarettes, then pot, then drinking and soon they committed an illegal act.  Then off to a residential drug facility.  But the teen did not last there and was evicted for not following the rules.  Fast forward a year and the teen has been in an out of every facility and sinking further.  Yet there is so little acknowledgement of teens living on the street that I could find only a few images for my blog.  The teens move from shelters to coach surfing with friends.  But as the friends are also teens the hosts are actually the parents.  The couch surfing teen invariably wears out their welcome by their actions.

Some twenty years ago my youngest daughter came home crying that one of her friends had been “kicked out” of his home. She said he was a great guy, an excellent student, had a part time job etc. I had an extra room and he moved in.  We had no real problems but this fellow’s first and foremost interest was drugs.  Yes, living with us made it possible for him to finish high school, however some twenty years have passed, he lives in a major Canadian city and his first loyalty is to his habit.  With the wisdom of time and adulthood my daughter feels we did nothing to change the course of his life.

And why did Marcia not bring her friend in, or at least coax us to let them stay?   Because Marcia knows her friend is not to be trusted.  The friend has a habit of theft and upset and Marcia does not want that for her grandparents or herself.

Homelessness for teens starts the minute a parent says “you’re kicked out”.  If you or someone you know is having difficult times with your teens I beg you to consider alternate solutions.  However, should you came home and find your house demolished, the teen physically attacking other family members or stealing/selling your possessions there is probably no other option that making them leave.  Never worry about others knowing of your problems, there are many families in the same circumstance. 

We love these children so, so much.  The last thing we want is to see them sleeping in the Market Square Parking garage.  Every parent shall act as their conscious dictates.  Remember children and teens pattern what they see.  It is impossible to preach abstinence in a home where parents are abusing substances.  There may be some cases in which non using teens from well-rounded families go off to live on the streets as a lark.  That is not the case in Saint John. 

 But no one asked me about the homeless teens in Saint John, NB!

About Eggs for Easter

 

When I was a child we had a unique Easter custom.  A contest to see which family member could eat the most eggs at our Easter Sunday Breakfast.  We must have had some small treat, and some years we dyed hard boiled eggs, however it was the egg eating competition which fired our imagination.  All of the family participated, however everyone knew that Dad, Rodney and I were the real contenders.  To train for the competition Rodney and I would eliminate eggs from our breakfast menu at least a week in advance of the event.

We had moved to my Mother’s home community when I was eight.  Soon after the move, we discovered that some families celebrated holidays quite differently than was our custom.  For the family of my best friend, Easter was a second Christmas.  They would receive a large toy, like a bike, smaller toys, clothing, a large chocolate item and many Easter Eggs.  Rodney’s best friend also received a similar haul.  But were we envious?  No, we had our Egg Eating competition.  As an adult I decided that Mother had started the competition so we would have our own special ritual.  In our church community eggs were tied to Easter as symbols of spring and new life.  What better symbolism could she have chosen?

Easter morning would arrive and we gathered at the table.  For the contenders there was no bacon/ham, toast or juice.  Rodney and I only ate the eggs.  We would start with boiled, usually I preferred soft but then I would need toast to dip in the yolk; so hard boiled it was.   We would eat about three. 

Then we would move on to the fried, over easy eggs.  But they are also best with toast so it was fried with a hard yolk; ketchup helped them down, I could eat three – Rodney could do more. 

Fluffy scrambled eggs would be our final method.  Even after six eggs it is easy to finish a plate of four or five scrambled beauties.  I aimed for a total of ten and once made it to eleven!   Dad ate fifteen that morning complete with ham and toast. 

Rodney Vail - champion egg eater

Rodney claims he only had seven but I am sure he outnumbered me. He had a hollow leg and he always followed our breakfast with a second one at his friend Brian’s.   In the Egg eating competition there was no question, my brother Rodney Vail was king.

My Mother was here yesterday for Easter Dinner and I asked her about our childhood competition.  Imagine my surprise when Mother told me that ours was not original, it had also been a ritual in her childhood.     Their competition had been done with a twist.  A pail of their own farm eggs would be boiled… Yes a milk pail that held two and a half gallons; so I am thinking they used four to five dozen eggs.  When the eggs were cooked they would assemble at the table.  As Mother was remembering a time before the Second World War there were probably ten of the twelve children home, plus Grampy and Grammy.  Then the race would begin.  Anyone who could peel an egg fast had an advantage.  The contest continued until the eggs were eaten or everyone had their fill.    Mother could not remember a winner but was sure it would have been one of the older brothers. 

It has been many years since our family held an egg eating competition on Easter morning.  Perhaps next year I will re-establish the practice.

if Jesus is Risen

It was Easter Sunday, a glorious morning, I am in church and the sun is streaming through the stained glass windows.  There is a sense of anticipation ………. then the trumpet sounds!  As one the congregation rises to their feet, the trumpet fanfare fades and the song begins, “He is risen”.   Did someone sing or did I hear the words in my head?   “He is Risen here today, he’s no longer where he lay, He is risen for I feel him in my soul!” 

Is that Christ Is see?  Raised once more from the dead and floating here before me?   I am ten, I am crying, I turn to my Grandmother.

Rewind, my Grandmother Lottie Rogers and I were visiting the Pentecostal Church in Plaster Rock, New Brunswick this Easter season.  The church was having special meetings, accommodation was provided on the church premises and Grammy and I were roomies.  Grammy had a long affiliation with this church,( more about that in future blogs), for even in the early 1960’s the Plaster Rock church was “out there”.  One of their teachings was that woman must cover their hair before God, (I am thinking, not so different from our Muslim counterparts), and there were beautiful and absurd bonnets in the congregation on that day. 

Not the bright blonde space of my memories and no stained glass, but there is a balconey - of sorts

The church building was rather grand compared to our rural churches.  In my mind it was blond wood, stained glass, sunlight and balconies.  The images available do not support my concept.  There was either a physical remodel or my fifty year old memory has blurred the image. However a church is just a building, a real church is the people and the interaction.  My interaction was with a party of one. 

I turned to Grammy and sobbed that Jesus had risen, or had come back (we called it the second coming), and I was not ready.  Grammy gave me a hanky, told me to blow my nose and that I was witnessing the Easter pageant.   I learned much later that the congregation was known for their theatre.  My beliefs started to waver that day.  It took fifty years before I could reclaim them as my own.  For ten year old Valerie Vail, Jesus did arise that Easter morning, complete with trumpet, sunshine and streaming sunshine.   How do I know?  “I can feel him/her in my heart”.

Happy Easter