Our Canada Our Country Our Stories
Page 3
In the 1970s, Dad organized reunions for the Georgetown boys at the farm in Georgetown. The farmhouse is still there, in Cedarvale Park, now designated as an Ontario Heritage Site.
“I have always felt the need to make a contribution to the country that accepted me when I was in need,” Dad said after accepting the Stoney Creek Chamber of Commerce’s Citizen of the Year Award in 1980. That sense of service to Canada drove Dad to hold office as a Stoney Creek councillor between 1973 and 1980 and to help found the Georgetown Armenian Boys Association. He also helped found the Saltfleet Growers Co-operative and the Winona Peach Festival, a centennial project started in 1967 that is still held today. Dad passed away at the age of 79 in 1990 and is still missed.
—by Ed Papazian, Kanata, Ontario
Family Ties
Four generations of Bourassas gather every spring to share love and laughter
My maternal grandparents, Leo and Marie Bourassa, called Plamondon, Alberta, home all their lives. They married in 1946 and raised a family of nine. As the children left home, married and started families of their own, the need to enjoy time all together prompted the first Bourassa family reunion back in the early 1980s. Every year since, our family has reunited on the long weekend in May.
At first, we’d gather at my grandparents’ cabin at Bayview Beach on the shore of Lac la Biche; later we moved the reunion across the bay to a rental facility with a baseball diamond, campfire area, kitchen hall and a few cabins.
The families would pack up food, toys for the kids, trailers, quads and, of course, winter gear, just in case! It wouldn’t be a May long weekend if not for a little snow—or at least the fear of it!
One of our favourite traditions during the weekend is our annual entertainment night. Over the years, family members have performed skits from TV shows such as Gilligan’s Island, and movies such as The Sound of Music, as well as magic acts and even ninja fight scenes. We’ve also recited poems and written original lyrics to the tunes of popular songs. One year, our “older” uncles dressed up and attempted a hip-hop number! We laugh and cry our way through all these acts.
I think one thing that makes our reunions so special is that our family makes the effort to come together from near and far. What started out as a group of about 15 has grown every year—through births and weddings—and now numbers from 50 to 80 people. What began as a small family tradition is now an annual event that brings together four generations.
Food is a big component for such a large family. Each of the nine siblings and their families are responsible for one meal during the weekend. This process includes buying, prepping, cooking, serving and cleanup. Grandma kept track of who did what meal every year so that breakfasts, lunches and suppers were divided equally. This works wonderfully, as once you’ve done your meal, you can sit back and relax for the rest of the weekend.
In the evenings, through wind, rain, sleet or snow, we sit around the campfire wearing layers of clothing or wrapped in blankets. Bags of chips, nuts and chocolates get passed around. Sometimes we sing, other times we debate, but mostly we share stories.
During the day, our time is spent playing everything from football and baseball to running relay races. Saturday is typically reserved for riding our ATVs over muddy trails.
Sunday afternoon is spent playing bingo, called out by Grandma. The great-grandchildren, including my own kids, love to participate. There are always prizes for the winners.
My grandfather died some time ago and, sadly, we recently had our first May reunion without my grandma, as she has passed away now too. It’s important that we continue this family tradition and pass it on to our kids and their kids to come. When Grandma passed away, the first thing my kids asked was whether we’d still all get together over the May long weekend. Of course, the answer was yes, because—thanks to my grandparents—we have learned that staying connected is what’s important.
—by Adrienne Ulliac, Whitecourt, Alberta
A-Camping We Will Go
Despite having five kids and little money, family vacations were wonderful, thanks to Dad’s can-do attitude
When I was growing up, my parents, Clarke and Gwen Kennedy, took my siblings and me on many camping trips. At first, it was in borrowed hardtop trailers that my father, an Ontario Provincial Police officer, had helped various friends to build. Having five children in our family meant that we needed a trailer large enough to accommodate all of us and we didn’t have a lot of money.
Then, one time while travelling through Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario, my father spotted an American-made tent trailer and decided that he could build one like it himself. He took several pictures of it and worked for hours in the garage, using plywood and thin-wall conduit for the tent frame. Measurements were sent to a place in Quebec and the resulting heavy-duty blue canvas fit perfectly over the top. The tent trailer was basically a box with a tent on top; the lid of the box opened out on each end to provide beds and the tent fit over top of all of it. Large enough to handle our family, it measured 16 feet from end to end when fully opened. The box itself was eight feet in length and seven feet wide.
It wasn’t a luxury trailer: There was no bathroom or kitchen, and we had to rough it and head down the road to use the outhouse. But it was comfortable, providing a double bed for my parents at one end with another double bed at the other end for two of us girls. Inside the box part of the trailer, a board was laid across the countertops and this provided another bed for two more girls, while my brother slept on a cot on the floor.
Dad built a camp kitchen, which held our dishes and a two-burner gas stove. This was packed into the tent trailer once it was closed up. We only had a problem once, when the gas stove was not turned off completely and started to smoulder in the closed-up tent trailer! Fortunately, it was discovered early and put out.
Each of us had our own jobs to do when setting up or packing up the tent trailer. My dad took pride in the fact that it could be put up or taken down within ten minutes when we were all doing our part.
As we would be setting up, Mom would be preparing meals for us in the camp kitchen. It must have been a challenge for her, especially dealing with bugs and working in the rain at times.
One of the most ambitious trips I remember taking was in 1963. We left Englehart, Ontario, and travelled across Canada, heading to the West Coast and northern British Columbia—a long trip to make with five children. The tent trailer was set up and taken down many times on that trip and declared a success. In 1968, we pulled it from Burk’s Falls, Ontario, all the way to the East Coast. We used that tent trailer for ten years, travelling around Ontario and Quebec; it provided many memories for all of us.
These days, as my husband and I travel in our 27-foot luxury trailer, I often think of that homemade trailer and how it provided us with so much fun and gave us the opportunity to see so much of Canada as a family. And it was all because one man decided to build his own tent trailer, allowing his family to experience the wonders of this land. I credit those trips with giving me the love of camping and travelling that I still have today.
—by Betty Moore, West Guilford, Ontario
Macaroni Sundays
For this 1950s family, there was nothing better than Dad’s mac ‘n’ cheese served in front of the TV
It was the 1950s. Television was still in its infancy and sitting around the living room watching TV as a family actually brought people together—unlike today’s technological world of personal devices.
Dad would prepare a Sunday dinner casserole that was a scrumptious, flavourful mix of elbow macaroni, stewed tomatoes, tomato sauce and aged cheddar cheese. And there were no store-bought tomatoes for us; Mom had grown them in our large vegetable garden, then spent painstaking hours simmering, peeling and canning them in Mason jars to store in the root cellar.
“Bill, what are you doing with my canned tomatoes?” my mother shrieked.
“They’ll add flavour to the macaroni casserole. What are you saving them for?” he said
with a wink. It was true. Rows of canned peaches, pears and tomatoes lined the shelves in the coolest and driest part of our basement, being saved for a rainy day.
Dad had special touches when cooking, such as adding an egg and some milk to our mashed potatoes as he whipped them into a bowl of fluffy deliciousness. As the eldest child in his family, Dad was no stranger to cooking. At age 12, he’d been expected to have dinner on the table when his parents arrived home from their gruelling factory jobs. Dad had learned to make apple pie, beef stew, poached eggs and the pièce de résistance—roast beef with roasted potatoes and Yorkshire pudding.
With my parents sharing the cooking, we were in many ways quite modern for the ’50s. My mother re-entered the workforce when my younger sister started school, making me responsible for dinner at age 12 as well. This interfered with watching Dick Clark’s American Bandstand and learning the latest dances. Once, while watching a dance contest, I saw flames leaping from the frying pan. I rushed in to save the day just in time. After that I learned to stay close to whatever I was cooking. I would get dinner started by setting the table, peeling the potatoes and chopping the vegetables. Dad would arrive home from work and give me pointers, teaching me how to cook.
Dad, of medium height and wearing his flannel shirt and cotton pants held up by suspenders, would peer out from his dark-rimmed glasses at the pots and frying pans, making adjustments, frying or simmering. He had big blue eyes, an open smile and a kind heart. To a girl like me, who did not take naturally to domesticity, he was patient and kind and never scolded (unlike my mother). Though we worked as a team, I left the real cooking to him. He knew his way around a kitchen and took pride in his fast and easy macaroni and cheese that we fussy eaters simply devoured.
Completing the casserole, Dad would pop it in the oven to merge the flavours. The cheddar made a crunchy, gooey top crust. Then we all gathered in front of the box to watch a much-anticipated movie—Tarzan. The TV station ran this type of action adventure film every Sunday. There was no question that it was family-friendly fare with Cheeta, the precocious chimp, adding humour with his zany antics and Boy (Tarzan’s adopted son), played by Johnny Sheffield, rounding out the jungle family. Though many actors played the Edgar Rice Burroughs hero, truly it was Olympic gold medal swimmer Johnny Weissmuller who was the quintessential ape-man.
Each film had swimming sequences and battles with crocodiles, but the greatest battle Tarzan fought was with encroaching Europeans trying to ruin the harmony of the jungle by capturing wildlife illegally or harassing local tribes. Each film had Tarzan emitting his distinctive yodelling yell as he swung through the vines on a rescue mission. Tarzan’s New York Adventure (1942) was my favourite, with Tarzan looking uncomfortable in a suit and then discovering the “hotel waterfalls” (really a shower) and standing under it wearing his suit. Soft-spoken Jane was there to bridge the gap.
During commercial breaks, we’d all dash to the kitchen to fill our plates as Dad served us. Breaking through the crusty cheese topping, with the aroma of tomatoes escaping, Dad spooned the gooey mixture onto our plates. We’d place our dinner plates on the coffee table or on special TV trays—metal trays with legs—so our knees fit nicely underneath. Imagine creating furniture for this purpose!
Dessert was served as we segued into Walt Disney’s Wonderful World of Color. Earlier in the afternoon, Mom had cut up bananas and oranges into a large glass bowl. Typical kids, we craved sweets such as ice cream, chocolate chip cookies or butter tarts. Luckily for us, Mom limited sugar consumption. I can thank her today for my love of fruit and my trim waistline.
The crowning glory of Sunday night television was The Ed Sullivan Show. This strange, wizened, stone-faced emcee, a former New York entertainment columnist, had an eye for talent. His was the longest-running variety show in the history of television. To appear on his show was a hallmark of success. If you could sit through the plate spinners, juggling acts and smarmy crooners, you could see “live and on our stage” the greats of rock ‘n’ roll: Elvis Presley, The Beatles, The Doors and the Rolling Stones. Ed was the first host to break racial barriers and have African-American greats like Harry Belafonte and Nat King Cole perform.
When Elvis performed “Hound Dog” in 1956 with his gyrations, the teenage girls in the audience screamed and swooned. My three-year-old sister Wendy mimicked them, squealing and hurling her little body against the back of the soft sofa in mock faint. My parents got more laughs out of her that night than the stand-up comedians.
When I think of comfort food, it takes me back to those early times with my nuclear family. Fare such as grilled cheese sandwiches, hot chocolate and especially the macaroni and cheese, lovingly prepared by my dad.
—by Gail M. Murray, Scarborough, Ontario
When We Were Young
Looking back with fondness to a simpler time
I grew up with a baker’s dozen siblings: I was the ninth child of 14. Although large families were common in our hamlet in Cape Breton, 14 children was on the high side of average.
Unfortunately, good living, fresh air and hard work weren’t enough to save our father, any more than positive thoughts and novenas were. He succumbed to cancer at the age of 52, leaving my mother a young widow with many mouths to feed and never enough money.
While Mama perfected the craft of making meals out of practically nothing, we had chores to do and we did them obediently so as to get back to our games—games that were created on the spot, as toys were not a part of our lives. Everyone had a voice or an idea; whether the age was three or three times three, every opinion was heard. In retrospect, I realize how much respect we had for one another. The only hurtful remark ever used was to call someone a slink, whatever that meant in those days.
Having a full complement of playmates, we didn’t need to go looking for an extra body to make up a team. Since our school system didn’t have kindergarten, we were six or seven years old before any formal education took over. In the meantime, we had the whole outdoors as our playground, where we regularly created “bet you can’t” games that kept us busy and out of trouble.
Resembling scarecrows with our flapping arms, we attempted the perfect balance needed to walk the fences that surrounded our property: rounded poles about six inches in diameter that required total concentration and held no mercy for a stumbler. Anyone trying to make the walker laugh and lose his or her balance would, at the very least, lose a turn.
Kicking our height while the broom was held at the proper level required balance and speed. These evening games were perfected in the big kitchen while Mama knitted and the little ones lay on the floor fashioning rustic houses out of kindling wood. We continually challenged ourselves. For one, climbing the almost vertical bank to reach the house instead of walking the few extra steps to the lane was a daily event. This involved taking a brisk run, then leaping at the precise moment to clear the ditch before climbing the rest of the way.
We walked to and from school at a marathon pace. As the distance was approximately a mile and a half each way, some of us got our time down to 15 minutes while carrying at least two books, scribblers, our lunch and whatever else was needed. Riding a bike backward was another one—was the genesis of Cirque du Soleil born in Mabou, Nova Scotia?
Comparing and measuring arm muscles doesn’t usually favour the girls, but my sisters didn’t disappoint. In fact, one was a definite threat that kept the boys “pumping iron.”
We learned to fashion a seat out of two sets of hands that could transport the injured or tired. Riding horses and even cows, once, required extreme bravery, as one of the horses had a “no riding” attitude and meant it, while another was a racehorse. Was it bravery or innocence that propelled us towards possible danger?
One brother was interested in fishing and was accompanied by his sister on an outing. All was quiet as he tempted the trout while his sister watched closely, leaning on a branch jutting out over the water. Just as the fish were closing in for their treat, the branch gave way,
taking her into the brook with it. Soaked and blubbering, she knew it was best to keep her distance as she sloshed home behind him.
Jumping off the Bailey bridge into the water some 20-odd feet below was a kind of initiation for the newbie, while “old hands” continued to take the plunge. Even an uncle would occasionally take the leap, to the delight of his young relatives. Summertime Sundays were usually spent waving at passing cars and checking for “foreign” licence plates. We would have been useful to the tourist board, as we knew which states provided the most visitors to our province.
Looking back, I realize we mastered whatever we attempted, as we all had the same determination to climb the hill, jump over the bank or kick the broom. We used our imaginations to our advantage without knowing, at the time, that we were teaching ourselves coordination, concentration and the appreciation of the joy of companionship.
What we didn’t know about organized play, we knew about fun—and, of course, who had the biggest muscles.
—by Anne Megahy, Toronto, Ontario
Frying Up a Feast
There’s something fishy going on in New Brunswick!
There is an East Coast tradition that continues generation after generation. If you were to visit any given house in New Brunswick during the winter months, I’m sure you would find someone cooking smelts for one of the many “smelt fries” happening around the Miramichi River.
Smelt fishing begins January 1 and is open until March 31. These small fish typically range in size from about seven to nine inches in length. It seems the smaller ones—five to six inches in length—are considered the most delicate and tasty. They are also the ones my husband Ray prefers!