Anatomy of a Northern Ontario Roadtrip (Summer)

Start: Lake A.  Your own after a morning swim.  Stupid o’clock in the morning — unless drinking with buddies the night before.

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On the Road.  Trans-Canada Highway.  10 a.m.  (because was drinking with buddies the night before)

Cruising speed: 105km/hr

Speed limit: 90 km/hr

Speed at which the cops will pull you over: 106 km/hr

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Coffee break, pee break, and toasted everything-bagel with herb cream cheese

 

Timmy’s parking lot (summer)

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End: Lake B. Your friend’s.  11:30 a.m.

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22:00.  Reverse order.

(P.S.  That last picture is supposed to say large fluffy clouds, but I’ve already flattened it and I can’t be bothered starting over again.  I’m sure you understand.)

 

Snapshots of an afternoon at camp on Big Basswood Lake

 

Allen Family Camp - Definition

Camp (noun):

• a hot day’s retreat on the lake; archaic: a hot day’s retreat on the lake after the day’s haying;
• Includes: canoes, inner-tubes from old tractor tires, spare bathing suits from the ’70s “just in case”, small children who are adamantly not cold, four decks of playing cards — none of which are complete, two decks of Uno, bucket of water outside the cabin door for dipping sandy feet into; one outhouse with spiders (toilet paper with mouse nest optional), mosquitoes, pic mosquito coils, adults telling children to stop sniffing the mosquito coil smoke; a fire pit (outside); oil lamps (inside), friends and family;
• Cuisine: potato salad and/or pasta salad, hot dogs, Delmar chicken with JoJo’s and DJ sauce (large), Thelma’s [raspberry/blueberry/strawberry/peach/insert name of fruit] pie, Terry’s and/or Lynn’s butter tarts; [note: used cutlery to be scoured with sand in between swigs of beverage of choice];
• Beverage: pop, beer, wine, coolers — all of which have been placed in the lake to maintain optimal temperature.
• Synonym: the good life

P.S.  Forewarned is forearmed.  For all you people out there with slow broad-band (or no broad-band), the next post contains 11 pictures.

 

Ahhhmogla

This place has been a part of my life since I was 14, thanks to my friend Mar.

14 was a long time ago.

More than half my life, actually. Well-more than half of my life. So much past half my life that the term checking out a boy’s bum holds a whole new meaning.

* * * * *

I arrive at Amogla and the tension seeps out of me and dissipates into the sweet smelling air.

Until, that is, on this latest trip when Mar ever so casually mentions on our walk next to the woods that not only was a mama bear and her cubs spotted nearby the other day, but so was a cougar.

Timing is everything.

By the way, Mar, this next picture is entitled Ode to a frog.

 

The Barn – Part III

Implements from the past.  In the walls, waiting.

The granary. I remember burying myself in the bins of grain during hide-and-seek.  I remember being fascinated watching the grain being sucked into the auger as the bins were filled.  I remember being told stories of farmers’ children losing hands and having to wear a hook for life.  In the mind of a very small child, I’m not sure that’s a deterrent, mind you.

The Milkers.

 

The Barn – Part II

Remember where I mentioned jumping from the beams of the barn in the hayloft when I was young and stupid lacking in judgment?   Well, here’s a picture from up on top of the beam I jumped off of.  That’s my sister, in the pink, below.  She’s 5’3″ — which is a tiny bit taller than one of those bales of hay.

And here’s a picture of the beam from the ground.

Just to let y’all know, my mother had a long and difficult labour with me.

 

The Barn – Part I

This is my parents’ barn (and their tractor).  It used to be my grandparents’ barn (and tractor).  Sadly, it’s unlikely to become my parents’ children’s barn.  (Diaspora, y’all.)

This is my parents’ barn up close.  How gorgeous is that texture?

(Now close your eyes if you don’t want to read the next part.)

See this next picture?  This next picture shows where my second earliest traumatic memory was created.

Picture a small child — say five years old.  Picture a large board, just a bit shorter than the child, leaning against the north side of the new milkhouse (which is actually old, but newer than the old one).  Picture said small, curious child peaking behind the board.  See the little girl in her black rubber boots recoiling in horror because she’s just seen one of the barn’s cats (orange tabby) eating the brains of one of the (ex-) kittens.

You’re welcome.

 

Canadian, Please.

Stumbled across this on youtube the other day and just had to share it coz despite the cheese — or perhaps because of — it’s fun on so many levels.  And the chorus rocks.

 

The Old House – Memories

Jean is my grandfather’s niece.  She lived in the Old House until she was two years old, and it was where she had her first dog, Freckles.  She doesn’t remember him, herself, but has a picture of her and Freckles curled up beside the kitchen’s old-fashioned wood-burning stove — the white enamel, load it with wood by lifting off the top burners, stove-pipe out the top kind.

My dad?  He remembers running down to the kitchen on cold winter mornings and dressing in front of the same wood range in the kitchen, the only warm place in the house.

That old stove was still there when we lived in the house.  It played a central role on cold days for us, too.  My sisters and I remember coming in from playing in the snow and mom would have hot chocolate ready for us.  Then she’d open the oven door and pop us in to warm us up.

Just kidding.

We’d sit on chairs and stick our feet, wrapped in wool socks, into the oven, sipping our hot chocolate.  Normal Rockwell would be in the corner, painting.

Of course, this could be one of those false memories you hear researchers talking to journalists about.

That old woodstove came in handy during Hallowe’en one year, too.   I put on my checked shirt.  Mom put my hair up in a multitude of braids and rags, then off to the stove for some soot to smear over my face so that I could go out for Hallowe’en as Black Boy.

Hey, it was the ’70s.  PC hadn’t been invented yet.

 

The Old House – Final Images