Our Canada Our Country Our Stories

by Our Canada Magazine a Division of Reader's Digest

  It isn’t uncommon to see a dozen shanties or huts out on the ice. The shanties are often heated with a small woodstove or propane heater; inside, you will find a hole in the ice through which they fish for smelts. Serious smelt fishermen set nets in which the smelts are caught and then sold to waiting customers all over New Brunswick. Here in the province, ice fishing happens not only along the Miramichi River but also in other areas as well. It is quite common to see people parked along the roadside with a “Smelts for Sale” sign leaning up against their vehicle.

  Although I don’t eat smelts myself, I remember my dad looking forward to the smelt season, knowing he would be able to acquire and enjoy one of his favourite treats.

  Ray also gets anxious when smelt season rolls around. He will usually dump about ten pounds of smelts into the sink and carefully clean and behead the fish in preparation for our annual smelt fry!

  The next step is to roll them in flour and sprinkle them with salt and pepper. Because the rest of the family isn’t fond of the smell of the fish cooking in my kitchen, his orders are to take them out to the garage, where a roaring fire is burning in the woodstove. There, they are then fried in olive oil until they are a crispy golden brown.

  Besides Ray, others anxious for the big fish fry include my son-in-law David, my daughter-in-law Kari and my 11-year-old grandson Jantzen, who smothers his smelts in tangy vinegar. New to the smelt family-cookout since last winter is my five-year-old grandson Rylan, who has developed a liking for the tiny fish.

  Utensils and plates are carried out to the garage along with fresh rolls and vinegar, where they are welcomed by those ready to feast on this Miramichi delicacy. Through the years, smelt fries have been a popular happening here in this city. Local radio stations advertise events, some of which are held in church basements, halls and other favourite establishments. I have no doubt this tradition will continue for as long as these tiny fish are found in our rivers.

  —by Linda Sweeney, Miramichi, New Brunswick

  Remembering Gram

  A granddaughter’s loving tribute to her grandmother

  Gram’s deep Irish roots were nourished in the Roman Catholic faith. When sharing stories about her life, you became aware of the major impact the church had on it. The very fabric of her being was interwoven through the church’s rituals and belief systems. Rather than creating burning questions that begged answers, it shrouded her in a blanket of comfort that was impermeable to doubt. She had a great acceptance of things.

  Gram, who was born Francis Penelope McAleer but always went by “Penzie,” had little time to discuss “what ifs.” Her tidy remarks typically shut down the conversation with, “No sense growling about it.” This wasn’t barked at you but rather shared in a tone that indicated it wasn’t worthy of discussion.

  Gram was the height of discretion. She had little interest in gossip and downplayed family drama. As events would unfold, you got a sense that it wasn’t news to her. If you asked her why she didn’t say something, she’d brush it off with, “It wasn’t my secret to tell.”

  She always seemed content. I never knew her to be impatient. I remember there was lots of chaos around in summertime with family and friends from away coming to stay and people randomly dropping in unannounced. There were kids of all ages running in and out of the house, generally followed by a slamming door. When I asked Gram if she found it irritating to be converged on with so much commotion, she claimed she didn’t. “I can’t believe how fast it’s over and then everyone is gone,” she said.

  Gram loved to read. If a book didn’t grab her attention early on, she would put it aside and try another. She had no desire to force herself to read something that didn’t spark her interest. I sent her a book once about a person who claimed she’d had an after-death experience. I found the book quite interesting and wondered what Gram’s impression would be. Her profound opinion was, “Ah—she just had a dream.” It made me giggle. She enjoyed the book Angela’s Ashes. When the sequel ’Tis came out, Gram told me she started it but found there was “too much language” in it. “I’ll wait for Florence (one of her daughters) to read it and she can tell me what it was about.”

  Gram kept a journal even before it was cool. My impression was that it was a log of factual information rather than her thoughts and feelings. She didn’t wear her heart on her sleeve. She was pragmatic—not cold, just matter-of-fact. Gram had a great memory. I’m not sure the journal helped to cement her memories, but she was the family resource to confer with over a lost one, whether it be someone’s name or when they “came home.” These oral investigations often led to revisiting the time in question and learning more about the event.

  Gram had no desire to travel. As her ancestors were from Ireland, I asked her if she ever wanted to go there. “Not really.” She wasn’t interested in going too far away. Gram’s standing travel plan was going to town on Thursdays for groceries and other incidentals. This was the bulk of her highway gallivanting. Although she wasn’t a world traveller, she was tuned in and well informed of current events happening around the world. I guess you could say she was a globally enlightened homebody.

  She had an interest in cameras and kept a treasure trove of old pictures. She could tell you who was in the photo, the date and what was happening at the time. Her daughter Ann created a lovely scrapbook of Gram’s memories all chronologically laid out. Many of us have spent time flipping through it getting glimpses of the past. I marvel at the stoic poses, compared to today’s pictures of people doing things that in time may become an embarrassment recorded for a lifetime.

  The house she lived in had been my grandfather’s childhood home. When she married him, they lived with his parents and worked the farm. She raised her children there, including my dad. Although her home was clean and tidy, the décor was slow to evolve. Her motto was if it still works, why replace it? She was happy with the status quo.

  Gram did like to be turned out well, though. In her bedroom upstairs in the old house were a number of shoes lined up neatly against the wall, so she could carefully select the correct shade to go with her equally hand-picked outfit. She seemed to like tan, taupe, off-white, white and ecru flats. Lavender and mauve were favourite colours for clothing, which she wore well. Not everybody can wear that colour, but she could. Heading out to church or into town, she’d be properly pulled together with a little cardigan on. I can see still see her purse draped over her forearm.

  A staple in Gram’s pantry were her homemade biscuits—little, dense, doughy concoctions baked until a lovely brown crust appeared. They went well with a cup of tea. I once asked her for the recipe. She wrinkled her nose and gave a brief summary without exact measurements. “Oh, I don’t know—some flour and salt.” Had I attempted to make them given her minimal directions, I’m sure they would have flopped. She wasn’t coveting a private recipe; preparing them was just so second nature she would have really had to think about it.

  Gram passed away several years ago. I was fortunate to attend her funeral at St. Anne’s Church in Hope River. The day was a fiercely cold one, but it was clear and sunny. We gathered in the church for the Mass that would usher Gram into heaven. Not long into it, the power failed. People curiously looked around. As the weather was calm, it was a mystery why the power failed. The Mass carried on in a peaceful silence that embraced us. I wish I could remember who said, “Gram came in without electricity, and now she’s going out without it.”

  Following the funeral, I walked through her old farmhouse. She hadn’t lived there for a couple of years due to failing health and I was warned it wouldn’t be how I remembered it. The warning could not keep me away from the place where I had such wonderful memories. I needed to feel her and knew for sure if there was a fragment of Gram left on this plane, it would be there.

  Seeing the deserted house was like viewing an abandoned soul. What was left of Gram’s meagre belongings was strewn about in rubble. The wallpaper clinging to the walls was water-stained and curled. Dirty c
urtains tethered to rods hung at angles. I found myself walking in measured steps, as I wasn’t completely convinced the floor would support my weight. As I gauged my movements, my eyes would land on something that would take me back to a moment in time. The thing that most impacted me was the smell—a distinct smell that has not been replicated anywhere else in my life. They say the olfactory sense may be directly related to memory. I think that’s true. The smell brought me back to all of the visits in my childhood that I had in that humble house. But the most poetic part of the visit was seeing Gram’s little Canadian flag, with its bright red leaf peeking at me through the dreary rubble. A bright spot on a grey canvas—the essence of Gram.

  —by Donna McAleer Smith, Bowmanville, Ontario

  Natural Beauty

  Appreciating life’s little joys on a peaceful winter day

  The first snowfall of the new year dumped 20 centimetres of snow in the Ottawa area, transforming it into a picture-perfect winter wonderland. The sun was shining in all its splendour, and the temperature was a perfect –8°C. What a wonderful day to go on a cross-country ski outing.

  I dusted off my skis and hit the trails in the nearby forest, a mere 15-minute walk from home. I am lucky to live so close to nature. Gliding into the forest on my skis, I met a group of ladies on snowshoes standing around chattering like magpies as they looked up at a tall spruce tree. One of the ladies held out her hand. It had birdseed in it. To the delight of her companions, a chickadee flew down and alighted on her open palm. What an amazing sight! I was surprised that birds in the wild would be this tame, but another surprise awaited me when one of the ladies whispered, “Look behind you. Did you know you were being followed?” I slowly turned my head to see three tawny deer coming out from behind a clump of trees. Without any fear, they moved closer, expecting to get their share of treats. People have been feeding them, and now these forest animals don’t seem to be afraid of humans.

  I exchanged a few more pleasantries with the ladies and, after wishing one another a nice day, I continued along the trail. I glided effortlessly in the tracks set by skiers who had broken the trail on the freshly fallen snow before me. Except for the sound of the swish of my skis on the clean, crisp snow, I was surrounded by peace and quiet. Taking a deep breath, I filled my lungs with fresh air and the subtle scent of pine trees, savouring the beautiful scenery around me. Now and then, when a gentle breeze blew them off the snow-laden tree branches, sparkling showers of snow crystals rained down on me like a blessing from above.

  The harder I skied, the faster my heartbeat. Gliding on my skis to its rhythm was so liberating and invigorating. I began getting warm from the physical exertion in spite of the cool temperature around me. It was time to slow down, cool off and catch my breath. I shuffled forward and felt my heart rate decrease. Glancing back over my shoulder to see the tracks I’d just left, I continued moving forward at a more leisurely pace. It made me think of what I left behind, not just on the trail in the forest on this beautiful sunny morning in January but also on the trail of my life, at the beginning of a new year.

  Life isn’t always rosy and fair, but we do have a lot to be thankful for. We live in a country where we have freedom and peace, and where our quality of life is something too many of us take for granted. Many of us have our faith, friends and family, and the love and respect that bind us together.

  I remember an old Chinese story from my childhood. It’s about a wise old man who taught his children the importance of being part of a family. He handed each of his children a single stick and asked them to break it in two. The children had no trouble doing that. He then handed them a bunch of sticks that were tied together. “Now, break these,” he said. None of the children were able to break the bunch of sticks, no matter how hard they tried. “This bunch of sticks is family; when you stick together, you are strong and nobody will be able to break you,” he said.

  By the time I reached the end of the ski trail, it was time to head home. I’d enjoyed a most satisfying workout in a glorious natural environment. It made me feel good about myself, about life and the world we live in. Life has its ups and downs and, every so often, the ups are hard to climb. We just have to keep moving forward, try to live life to the fullest and make the most of it. If you look around carefully, you can find moments of joy and serenity everywhere, and sometimes you’ll find that the hardest climbs are often blessings in disguise. May you find peace, joy and happiness wherever you are.

  —by Kim Han, Kanata, Ontario

  Gone Fishing

  One catch and she was hooked!

  As a kid, I always knew what Friday meant. Although to many people it meant fish for supper, to me it meant fishing all weekend. As soon as I got home from school, we’d pack up the camper and head out to our favourite fishing spot. It was kind of boring for a 12-year-old, but that was how it was. I was too young to stay home alone and not old enough to appreciate “parent time.”

  Mom and I went along for the ride, but Dad really loved it. It was his joy, his thing. There would be no stopping for a stretch or goodies, as we had to get to camp before anyone else in order to get the best spot. Dad would be first out of the car, unhooking the camper and unloading the fishing gear. That done, he’d casually announce, “I’ll go catch supper while you girls set the table and get the fire going.”

  We often didn’t eat until 7 or 8 p.m., but we’d patiently nibble on something—Mom would sometimes have a glass of wine and some cheese and crackers. I preferred a big old chocolate bar, with chips and pop on the side.

  Then came the weekend shortly after Dad had retired. Mom had been asked to work late, so best if we go ahead without her and she’d drive out the next day. Of course, we were disappointed, but we packed up a few cans of beans and hot dogs—the “just-in-case substitute dinner.” I grabbed some books and a sweater for around the campfire. A few hours later, we pulled into camp and set up. Dad stood looking out at the lake, watching the sun shimmering on the water. He seemed unsure about what to do. Tentatively he asked, “I guess I’ll go get us some supper. Do you want to come along?”

  Usually this was my parents’ thing, their Friday-night date; I’d stay back and watch the fire, but tonight was different. The fire could wait, the fish wouldn’t and neither of us wanted to be alone. I picked up Mom’s rod and a couple bottles of pop. We sauntered down the familiar path to the little rock overlooking a quiet dark pool—the special pool.

  “This shouldn’t take long.” Dad had his stance set and waited quietly for the right fish to come along. I’d propped Mom’s rod between my knees as I leaned against the tree reading my book. This was not exactly the position of someone expecting to catch a fish—but then it happened! The line started running out and the rod was jerking up and down like crazy. I had no clue what to do. I yelled for Dad, although he was only a few feet away. “Dad, help me, I’m going to lose our supper!” Calm as usual, Dad put down his rod and assured me that I would do just fine. “No, Dad, here—you do it. I really don’t like to catch fish. I just wanted to be here while you caught the fish.” Dad took the rod and in a minute had everything under control while I just sat and shook. I needed chips, lots of chips.

  Then I heard the words I knew Mom loved to hear. It was Dad talking to the fish and persuading him to give up his wonderful life for a hot frying pan. “Come on, little fishy, it’s getting kind of cold here and my daughter has run out of snacks. That’s a good boy; oh, you want another run. Okay, that’s fine—take your time. I can wait.” My teeth had started to chatter, half from excitement and half from the cold water splashing around my feet. This rock was not big enough for this kind of action. Then Dad handed me back the rod, saying, “Here you are. This is your fish. You bring him in; he’s ready now.”

  I was afraid I’d lose the fish and disappoint my dad, but I think that little fish knew it was his duty to be my first catch and basically he just gave in. I sort of dragged the slimy, dirt-covered fish up onto the bank. I saw the smile on Dad’s f
ace and the proud look in his eye as he pulled out the hook—he knew my limitations. Then it was time for Dad’s famous punchline, “Do you know where you caught this fish?”

  “Yeah, Dad, right here,” I said, pulling my mouth open to one side, looking like a bug-eyed fish with a hook stuck in its mouth. We laughed all the way back to camp, where we saw Mom waiting for us. She called out, “Good for you guys! Where did you catch him?” All three of us did the bug-eyed, dead-fish look in honour of my first catch. To this day, fishing is okay in my book.

  —by Judi Hannon, Terrace, British Columbia

  Marrying the Farmer’s Daughter

  Embracing an unexpected move to a new way of life

  Never in a million years did I think I’d be a farmer. Of course, growing up in the rural community of Little Britain, Ontario, I had friends who lived on farms and sometimes I’d stay for a few days, but seldom did it mean helping with the daily farming operation. It wasn’t until I met and married a farmer’s daughter that this story started to evolve.

  My wife Sandra, her brother Gary and their parents, Lawrence and Dorothy Thurston, took a great interest in their family history and knew much about their roots. They could tell you who was related and married to whom, almost from the beginning. Four of the Thurston brothers who emigrated from Norfolk, England, in the mid-1830s settled in and around Dunsford, Ontario.

  Sandra and I are now living on the land that was settled by Jonas Thurston, one of those brothers. Back then, in a log house located in a field east of our current home, 12 children were raised. When they were old enough, their father Jonas paid a schoolteacher to live with them and teach the children basic lessons. Although there is nothing left of that log house today, parts of the woodstove still remain in the fenceline.