Our Canada Our Country Our Stories

by Our Canada Magazine a Division of Reader's Digest

  It requires at least 40 gallons of sap to produce one gallon of maple syrup, and we collect each bucket by hand. Large gathering tanks are placed on a wagon and pulled behind a tractor, stopping often for the happy, excited young—and older—people, who fill gathering pails and carry them to the wagon. They are emptied into the tanks, then each person refills their pail.

  The tractor operator drives the tanks to the sugar shack, emptying them into holding tanks, and then slowly into the evaporator. A wood fire is built under the evaporator pans. The sap boils under close supervision so it does not boil over or burn. A syrup thermometer is used to determine the correct thickness. Next, it’s filtered into large cream cans and containers for our family to share.

  At the end of the season, each bucket, spout and lid is removed from the trees, thoroughly washed, dried and put away until next spring. The gathering pails, tanks and evaporator are also thoroughly cleaned and the smokestack is taken down. All in all, it’s a lot of work for a short season, but it’s something we look forward to each year. It’s our sign that winter is over and spring has arrived.

  As children, we’d listen to the stories of when my father, uncle and grandpa were younger and cooking sap. It’s important for our children to hear and know those funny, heartfelt tales—even more so now, as my father passed away suddenly in his sugar bush several years ago.

  So many memories have been recorded and shared every season as we come together to tap, collect and boil our sap. The old sugar shack has more stories and more memories to make. If only those old boards could talk, what stories they might tell!

  —by Sue Weiss, Bloomingdale, Ontario

  Summer Dreaming

  Facing an uncertain future is easier when you hold on to a little bit of the past

  I ’ll always have my childhood in Malachi. My best friend, Sydney, had a cabin on Malachi Lake in Kenora, Ontario. When we were kids, I visited her there many summers, for a week at a time. Lying on the dock, we’d read magazines and gab about what it would be like to be 17 with a car, a boyfriend and fabulous hair. Dragged along on blueberry-picking hikes and staying up till the wee hours of the morning giggling and watching movies, we were not yet aware of how fast time actually passes when you turn 14 and enter the kingdom of high school.

  The summers always faded like the freckles on my nose into crisp falls that brought a new beginning, and a new backpack and binder. New friends, crowds and scenes came with the chill of autumn as well. Sydney and I may have drifted from our summertime haze and gotten into arguments or disagreed once or twice. There were times throughout the years in which we stopped talking altogether, but conflicts were always resolved and our friendship lived on.

  High school goes by even faster than your older cousins tell you it does, even though most of your classes feel decades long. You blink one day in your freshman year and wake up a senior with a driver’s licence. But the summers seem to slow everything down—long enough for us to catch our breath, for wounds to heal and wings to spread.

  So, in my 17th summer, I found a free week—between flipping burgers and making cones at the drive-in—to pack a suitcase with books and tanning lotion and board the eastbound train to Malachi.

  Just like when we were 11, Sydney and I still gabbed on the dock and read magazines, except now the conversation was about the pointless drama and recent hookups and breakups back in our hometown. We talked about anything but the elephant in the room—our futures. Life was staring back at us in the reflection of the water, except it was nothing but a question mark—so we’d simply push the thought aside and cannonball into the centre of it to shatter the idea of growing up.

  Our days were a blur of blackfly bites and coconut oil. Our hair became textured from frequent dips in the cool water to escape the sun’s rays. Most days were spent lying in the sun, reading aloud from some romantic mystery novel and drifting in and out of catnaps. Other days, we’d paddle kayaks to a nearby rock island and have fun jumping from the rocks into the water and waving at the shirtless teenage construction crew who passed by on boats. Occasionally, we’d sit in the cabin with a fan directed at our sunburnt bodies, using coloured string to make bracelets for our unfortunate friends back home in Manitoba.

  Evenings, after a meal that satisfied every taste bud, we’d go fishing with Sydney’s dad, which included watching the sun set and the full moon rise while the minnows on the ends of our lines lured small perch and we cursed the mosquitoes.

  Back inside, we’d pick out a corny movie, cuddle up on the couch to munch popcorn and make fun of the bad acting and cheesy lines. We savoured every smell, sight and sound: the loons calling back and forth, the fog on the lake in the morning and the taste of blueberry pie made from berries picked that day.

  Neighbours who dropped by in the morning for a cup of coffee and to chat about the weather would jar us back to reality with questions about graduation and university. Croaks rose from our throats in response—we were shy and embarrassed and frankly not ready to answer questions about our futures.

  On my last night there, we raced out to the rocky island with soap in hand to wash off the day and cool my burnt shoulders. Standing on the rocks, lathering up, we noticed the dark clouds gathering and the flash of lightning. Adrenaline pumping, we frantically paddled our kayaks back to the cottage and made it just before the downpour and hail.

  So maybe, for me, that summer was like the calm before the storm. The storm being growing up and making decisions—arriving quickly in all its terrifying beauty. There’s no avoiding it; you just have to do the best you can. Wait out the blowing winds and roll with the punches. And after the storm—even a beautiful storm—the sun comes out again.

  Although I may be sad to say goodbye to my childhood days at the lake, or feel scared about the future, I’ve got to take that step so I’m not left behind. But I’ll keep some of my childlike self within me to remind me of where I came from and my dreams for my future self.

  —by Cassandra Cardy, Minnedosa, Manitoba

  Larger Than Life

  A moving tribute to a special uncle

  My uncle Cec—short for Cecil—was a great inspiration to me. I think of him often and the many ways he influenced me. When I last saw him, he had grown a little feeble, unlike the man I had known as a child. I remembered him as a strong man with broad shoulders, big biceps and, wow, could he saw wood with a bucksaw! As we sat that day, Uncle Cec reminisced about all the times he visited when I was young and the triumphs and tragedies of his life.

  He was my dad’s brother, the second son of five boys growing up in the 1930s in St. Leonard’s, now St. Lunaire-Griquet, on Newfoundland’s Great Northern Peninsula. Life in Newfoundland during the Depression wasn’t easy for anyone, and Uncle Cec had his share of troubles, too. But it was like he always said: “Life is what you make it.”

  He told me of some really hard times. Like the great nor’wester in ’37 that stripped his family clean. My grandfather told me about this tragedy in bits and pieces, but Uncle Cec recalled it more vividly. He told me of winds gusting up to 140 kilometres per hour and two-metre-high waves crashing against the cove. The storm ripped my grandfather’s wharf and fishing stage to shreds and tore his old motorboat from its moorings and crashed her to bits against the rocks, along with the little dories and all the fishing gear on the shore. “Lost everything that fall,” he said. “Everything, and we didn’t have much to begin with.”

  But Uncle Cec told me he gained courage from my grandmother’s Bible and read about the tragedies of Job. He told me how he helped my pops rebuild and how the fish were plentiful that year. “What goes around, comes around,” was another of his favourite quotes. I swear he had faith as solid as the old rock his daddy’s house was built on.

  I remember one summer, he came to live with us at our house in Roddickton, more than 100 kilometres from St. Leonard’s. There was only one winding, narrow gravel road connecting the communities in those days, so Uncle Cec elected to take a two-day tri
p down the coast in an old schooner. He arrived tired and hungry but full of good cheer.

  Dad told us Uncle Cec had come to help build our new house. But the way he took the time for my brother and me that summer, I just think he came to be our friend. Tired as he was after working all day, he took the time to joke, tell stories and take us fishing on Saturdays.

  I learned a lot from Uncle Cec. He taught me not so much in what he said but in what he didn’t say. The old adage “actions speak louder than words” was certainly true for my most-beloved uncle. It seemed that nothing got him down. I honestly never saw him get discouraged. He never saw a situation as a problem, only a challenge to be overcome. Uncle Cec was not a wealthy man. He saw riches not as money but in making people happy and earning a good reputation.

  I never saw him get the blues. Blue to Uncle Cec was the Atlantic on a calm, sunny day. Uncle Cec never married. I don’t know why. I’m sure he would have made a fine husband and father. Love, responsibility and integrity were just a way of life to him. He certainly was a father figure to me, and the best role model anyone could ask for. He taught me to trust in God and never rely on what I think I know. Lying, he used to say, makes for a hard life because you are always working to cover it up, but honesty gives you a clear conscience and makes life easier. There aren’t too many around like him today. We need more Uncle Cecs in this world. “Life is short, live it to the fullest,” he said.

  Five years had passed since I last saw him, so my wife and I took a trip to the Great Northern Peninsula and a visit with Uncle Cec was a priority. I learned that he had grown more feeble and was now living in a nursing home in St. Anthony. Was he the same man I once knew?

  An attendant led us to his room. I knocked gently and waited. He opened the door and we looked at each other for a brief moment. “It’s Hec!” he said with a smile as we embraced. His voice, though a little weaker, was still familiar. We talked for hours and he told me about new friends and how he could still beat anyone in checkers. He still went for his daily walk, took gym classes and made trips to the mall. Even though he looked a little old and bent and a little slower than I remembered, he still had that twinkle in his eye and positive persona.

  As I said goodbye, I saw a tear in his eye and I fought to not break down, too. “Don’t wait five more years to come again,” he said with a grin. “I won’t,” I promised. I know that when his time comes he’ll be buried in the family plot, but part of him will also be buried in my heart.

  —by Hector M. Earle, Stoneville, Newfoundland and Labrador

  A Man Named “Apples”

  A memorable summer spent with a real-life hero

  Way back in 1941 or maybe ’42, I experienced the most exciting summer of my life. This was back in the days before television, air conditioners, refrigerators and cellphones. Back when Borden’s milk was delivered by a horse-drawn milk wagon, as were the 25-pound blocks of ice for your icebox. Party lines were normal; we all had our own number of rings. Food tasted better. Everything was grown naturally.

  My sister Betty and I lived with my grandparents in Amherstburg, Ontario, while my mother and dad worked at John Inglis in Toronto, making guns for World War II.

  I had a rat terrier named Teddy and tiny metal toy soldiers to play with. The radio was our only source of entertainment. My favourite programs centred around the cowboy heroes of the day: The Lone Ranger, Hopalong Cassidy and Gene Autry—they were the good guys. You used your imagination and the Wild West magically came to life.

  Back then, my grandparents had what you might call a hobby farm. A black man by the name of Oswald Simpson, a.k.a. Apples, was the man who worked the land for them. He was a large man—he weighed more than 300 pounds—and he had a team of horses he called by name. Mr. Simpson would show up at sunrise and leave at sunset. He wore bib overalls and a straw hat. The work was hot and difficult. Mr. Simpson and his team would work the ground as he sat perched on a spring-loaded seat on his three-furrow plow. Back and forth, back and forth, as the sun punished all three of them.

  For breakfast, my grandma made oatmeal porridge. This stuff would not only stick to your ribs but it could also be used in wallpapering. I didn’t much care for oatmeal porridge, so when Grandma went to her sewing room while Betty and I had breakfast, I would take my bowl and place it on the floor for Teddy to gorge himself. Thank goodness for Teddy; I ate the toast, he ate the porridge.

  After breakfast, Grandma would suggest I go outside and play. With straw hat in hand, I would make my way out to the field and watch Mr. Simpson. Wherever he happened to be, he would yell “whoa” to the team and motion for me to come over. Once I arrived, “Apples” would put my hat on my head and pick me up, placing me on the back of one of his giant steeds. He told me to “hold onto the horse’s mane and hang on tight!”

  Boy, it was a long way to the ground. The smell of a horse and freshly ploughed earth are odours you never forget. It was wonderful. When Apples said “giddy-up,” the two matching drafts knew it was time to work. They plodded along, ploughing their furrows, but imagination enabled me to be whomever I chose. I could pretend to be any one of my cowboy heroes. I whiled away my time in a cloud of dreams on a horse that could fly.

  “Whoa, whoa,” Apples would shout; my dream interrupted, it was time for lunch. Apples lifted me like a feather and placed me back on earth. It’s hard to walk after you’ve been riding a horse at breakneck speed. I got my balance as I walked over to the shade of a tree.

  Before any lunch was eaten, Apples took care of his dutiful drafts. They came first because, as he said, “they worked the hardest.” The two of us sat under the shade of the tree and ate our lunch. Oh, my, if anyone ever wondered why Apples weighed 300 pounds, I think I found the answer! Notwithstanding the fact that he had brought both his lunch and dinner, Apples unleashed a cornucopia of food. Most of it was homegrown or homemade, except for the half roll of bologna. Anything served on homemade bread is delicious.

  Once lunch was finished, he would tell me to lie down and take a nap. He’d place my straw hat over my face and the next thing I knew, I’d wake up to see Apples and his horses hard at work. Now, Hollywood can have all of their cowboy radio heroes, but for me, that summer, Mr. Simpson was my real-live hero. Thank you, Apples.

  —by Wyman Atkinson, Cottam, Ontario

  Cowboys, Flapjacks and Fun!

  An inside look at the “Greatest Outdoor Show on Earth!”

  Growing up in a small town in southwestern Ontario, the Calgary Stampede barely made a blip on my radar. I knew that it happened every summer and I’d watch reports that aired on the national news. They showed dusty cowboys roping wild bucking broncos and bulls, and chuckwagons being driven at breakneck speeds around a dirt racetrack. Every now and then, I would hear about one friend or another taking a road trip out to Calgary to visit the “Stampede” for their summer vacation. I never once thought that one day I’d look forward to attending it as well, but in August of 2008 my husband Glen and I moved to Calgary for work and that move brought me one step closer to attending my first Stampede.

  The Calgary Stampede, billed as the “Greatest Outdoor Show on Earth,” happens every year for ten days in July and has been going on for more than a century. Beginning in June, city residents awaken from the long Alberta winter and break out their Western gear and decorations to celebrate the big event. Hay bales and farm fences, saddles and milk cans are displayed in bank lobbies, on restaurant patios and in shopping malls. Business establishments have their windows painted with cowboy and saloon scenes. Party tents help convert downtown parking lots into huge outdoor saloons. Companies put on barbecue lunches, and at work we happily wear jeans, cowboy boots and cowboy hats for the entire duration of the Stampede.

  Free pancake breakfasts are put on in neighbourhoods throughout the city. You could have a free Stampede pancake breakfast every day if you wanted to, and many do! Those ten days of excitement begin with a parade through the downtown core of the city. Each year, different ce
lebrities lead the parade; such as Kaillie Humphries, a Canadian bobsled champion, and Calgary’s Mayor Naheed Nenshi on his horse Garfield. After the parade winds down, it’s party time for the next ten days. The excitement is contagious.

  My first summer living in Calgary, I watched the events on TV from our living room and secretly wished I was there. Finally, after living in Calgary for three years, I decided it was time to check it out for myself. Glen and I left our car at home and took the train downtown; when the doors opened, we squeezed out with hundreds of other people, all heading towards the grounds. The line moved quickly and the heat wasn’t too bad. The weather during the Stampede is notoriously unpredictable. The sky could be clear and blue one minute, only to change at a moment’s notice to drenching downpours, or even nasty hailstorms that pelt down marble-sized icy stingers. That day was hot and dry and, thankfully, stayed that way.

  I immediately fell in love with the carnival-like atmosphere; the sweet smell of cotton candy and zesty aroma of barbecue tempt you at every turn—that is, until you tour the stables, with their funky farm smell. That first year, despite not attending the rodeo events in the afternoon or the grandstand show in the evening, I was hooked and knew I’d be back the following summer.

  After that first visit, I made sure that I was able to get down to the Stampede every year, either to watch the rodeo events, the Rangeland Derby and grandstand show, or just to wander around the grounds, people-watching. I love seeing and feeling the energy and excitement that takes over the city for those ten days.

  One year, I entered a photography contest organized through the Stampede’s Instagram account. Ten photographers were chosen to post their snapshots online. I was lucky enough to be chosen and was assigned to cover the final day of the Stampede. What a thrill that was! I spent time in the Indian Village, wandered the entire grounds, enjoyed a few rides and indulged in some exotic food. Well, maybe the pulled pork poutine and deep-fried Snickers bar weren’t all that exotic. All the same, they were delicious! I finished off the day with a good friend and I taking in the Reba McEntire show at the Saddledome. I’m not much of a country music fan, but I can’t lie, it was quite a thrilling concert!