A tale from the 30’s

       The story following this preamble is partly in the realm of fact; partly in the realm of fiction. Factual, because the story itself is true, fiction because the full remembering of it is not possible. It happened a heck of a long time ago you see, and time has a way of erasing memories. (Gee! Who would have thought!). Details I would love to remember sift away on the shores of time like grains of sand, and like the footprints that marked our yesterdays, are washed away by the tides. So, I’m employing a writer's prerogative, and calling upon the imagination with its many colored threads to stitch together the fabric of my story.

Though the mists of time may cloud my memory and the past hide itself behind a veil I remind myself daily that just because there are clouds in the sky today does not mean there will be no sunshine tomorrow. 

 

THE RUSTY RED WAGON
     Wheels grinding out sparkling stars, the huge Interurban screeched, grunted, groaned, gathered speed and pulled away from the station above Gladstone Road, indifferent to the plight of  the four weary travelers trudging slowly along, twenty feet below the high bank of the rail lines. Stopping to look up as it sped to its next destination, each imagined how wonderful it would be - if they'd had the money – to be among those passengers who just got off; one of the lucky ones clambering down the long wooden stairs leading from the burnt-red waiting room. Instead, they had walked the three miles to, and the even longer three miles back from the nearest swimming hole. Always known as “The Lake,” it had, during the two years they lived under the shadow of the rail line, taken on the aspect of some unreal mystical place, appearing occasionally in conversation, but never to be seen. Today it had become a reality.
                                                                              * * * * * * * * * * * *
The Journey Begins
      Running back and forth through a miserable splash of water reluctantly emitted by an old piece of garden hose tied to a pole, and pretending it was a waterfall, pretending it was cold, pretending it was fun wasn’t working  for the three children. It was just too hot to pretend it was when it wasn’t, and besides the game was stupid. Today everything was just plain boring.
     Maggie, their equally suffering mother, watched her three youngsters gamely trying to squeeze enjoyment out of the miserable excuse for a refreshing fall of water, and decided - no matter what - today was going to be the day she had promised them weeks before. It couldn’t possibly get any hotter she reckoned, wiping at the moisture running down her forehead, so today would be the day they’d swim in “The Lake!”
      Slight and thin, Maggie was by most standards small, but not by hers. “Small? I am not small!” She would assert; dressing down anyone who dared dispute it. “I am five foot and a half inches, tall!” She would point out firmly. “I am not under, I am over 5 feet, and I do not wish to hear anyone say otherwise!” All who heard got the message.  Maggie’s height was definitely not a subject for debate.
     A true Scott,  she was feisty when riled, but generous to a fault to anyone in need. Her health, always delicate, deteriorated after the birth of her youngest, Pearl. She now tired easily. A heart condition troubled her, a legacy left to her by a measles epidemic which had swept through Scotland when she was a child. Doctors warned repeatedly against over exertion. No matter. Even though she dreaded what the walk to the lake entailed, she was going to see to it that her children would have a day they would always remember. Today there would be a proper amount of water, cold water, to play in.
  “Children!” Weary, sweating faces turned up to where she stood. “Remember when I told you that on the hottest day of the summer we would have a picnic at the the lake?”
     Eyes widened, in hopeful, but doubtful, expectation.
     “Well, today is the day!” All six sky blue eyes opened even wider, and a triple ear splitting, “Yes! Yes! Yes!” roared from the ecstatic trio.
     “Yes indeed,” she laughed, “ today you’re going to splash in real cold water, no more pretending!” The elated siblings leapt up and down like puppets on a string. The promise of a real swim was a jolt of lightning to the children. The distance? Of no consequence in their young minds.
     Scampering quickly out of their woolly bathing costumes they wrapped them in the old towels they’d been using to dry themselves, and rushed into the house to change. Ready now for the journey, towels and bathing trunks in hand, they  ran whooping and hollering from the yard and down the street. Excited laughter flowed freely in anticipation of what they had dreamed of all through the hot summer.  Finally they were going to see, and what was even greater, they were going to swim in, “The Lake.”
     Little Pearly, in all innocence asked, “Are we going on the street car, Mommy?”
     Maggie looked at her, a sad smile edging her face, “The street car? No, I’m afraid not sweetheart. It’s walking for us.”  Ride on a street car? How she wished. Money was not only scarce it was absent. She hadn’t seen a coin in days, and if one were to turn up it certainly would not have been used on street car fare. So, walking it was.
     The hard hot pavement; the dry roads swept with yellow dust; the relentless scorching heat, all took a certain edge off their laughter. The time it was taking to reach the lake lessened the childrens initial burst of energy, but it did not lessen their anticipation.
     Pearl soon began to tire. In an effort to ease the long walk for her baby Maggie hefted her up, hoping she could manage it for a short while at least, but soon put her down. It was just not possible. Tiny though Pearl was she was five years old, and would just have to manage the long walk herself,  Maggie  couldn’t do it for her. The heavy pounding of her heart from the effort to carry her daughter had frightened her. No, she couldn’t! Her heart; the heat; the weight of her daughter, were all too much.
    “Sorry, Pearly”, she said gently to her dust streaked little girl, “Mommy can't carry you anymore, you're a mite too heavy for me”. Pearl’s look at that moment would have melted the meanest heart, but she tempered it with a dramatic sigh of resignation, and said, “It’s okay, Mommy. Your icky, sticky, anyway.” Maggie laughed, pulling her into a bear hug.

the best and fluffiest butter milk pancakes!

     Well, that’s what KITTENCAL announced them as when she introduced this recipe to the legions of recipe fanatics who pour over the 399,000 recipes posted on RecipeZarr. A plethora of wonderful and sometimes (not very often) just so-so offerings. (Loved by the author of course - why else would they want to see it in print?). Anyway, the following recipe is almost identical to the one I have been using for over 60 years and which my father used when he served up his glorious batches of delicious hotcakes every Sunday morning when I was growing up. And, to top it off, prepared by him from the time he was a young bachelor of 17 or 18 (very young he was, from his telling), to the year he died at age 76. So, except for one ingredient and a somewhat different method of putting it all together, here is the magic formula – try it, you will definitely not go wrong.

from KITTENCAL via RecipeZaar
15 pancakes

          2 cups of flour
          1 teaspoon baking soda
          2 teaspoons baking powder
      3-4 tablespoons sugar
          1 teaspoon salt
          2 large eggs
   1 3/4 cups buttermilk
       1/2 cup sour cream
      5 tablespoons melted butter
          1 teaspoon vanilla (optional)

1.   In a large bowl combine the flour, baking soda, baking powder, sugar and salt.
2. In another bowl whisk eggs, buttermilk, sour cream, melted butter and vanilla (if using) add to the flour mixture; whisk until smooth (the batter will be thick!).
3. Let the mixture sit for 5 minutes at room temperature.
4. After 5 minutes whisk or mix again.
5. Drop at 1/4 cup of batter onto a medium-hot skillet: cook until lightly browned on the bottom, turn and cook until browned.

     The difference between this recipe and the one I have used for decades is the sour cream. Sour cream is a great addition, making the pancakes very slightly heavier (of little consequence). Also, I use a full 2 cups of buttermilk and 1 3/4 cups of flour, which seems to balance out the ingredients, the outcome being almost identical. And, I mix the batter as little as possible, adding a small amount of additional buttermilk if it is too thick, and placing it in a warm spot for about 20 minutes before scooping it onto the griddle.
        The manner, and order in which my father put the ingredients together is very old fashioned, but the result? who can tell? If you wish to know his “old-fashioned” way - as used in lumber camps and ranches where he worked as a young man - let me know, and I shall pass it on to you.

      You are no doubt wondering what brought on this culinary addition here? Well, it’s really quite simple. My son and his family were to have a pancake breakfast at our home last Sunday, but unfortunately he had come down with a fever. An attack from some bug or other that kept growling around in his stomach in a painful manner. This was a day or so after arriving back from a holiday with his family in Mexico. I mean, the mind works overtime on that kind of information. Anyway, he was sent off to bed and I assured him that the buttermilk and sour cream purchased to go into the pancakes would keep, and that we would see them the following Sunday a.m. I also said, "God willing!", and told him to just get better.

     Well, he did, but Brie – his wife – didn’t, she got whatever bug it was they decided to share and spent a day or two in bed, saw the doctor, had an exam (is waiting for the results), and slowly began to feel better. Yes, they would certainly be having breakfast with us this Sunday (today) and not to worry.

     Not so fast. It turned out that friends of theirs were on the way down from Alberta and one of the Gulf Islands - even as we were speaking of the coming breakfast together - and had made other plans for our guests. So, to make a long story short, Janet and I had a full pancake breakfast for two this morning - 

                                                              Fruit

                                                              Bacon and eggs

                                                              Pancakes (with Maple Syrup)

     Most enjoyable it was too. Couldn’t waste the buttermilk and sour cream now, could we?

What the sea hath wrought

Remember the old bench that sat on the edge of the sea, steps from the house? Yes, that one;  a place for gentle contemplation. Well, keep that memory because it’s no longer there. It is no longer there. . . unless you acknowledge that a destroyed mix of rusted iron, and weather stained slats that lie in broken ruin on the grass to be  that bench; waiting in twisted discomfort for an occupant or two.  No, I’m afraid a brutal storm struck in the dark of night, turning the incoming tide into a fury of destruction. Mountainous waves were instrumental in its demise, along with many feet of the garden. Here , lying in broken ruin, is what has become of my seaside bench. Sharer of hours of  dreaming it lies shattered and beyond repair in its own nightmare. I had begun this tale of garden woe yesterday, wishing to have you commiserate with me on certain elements of  the that particular storm's damage,  but a much more powerful one following quickly in the previous one's wake, came raging  in to attack the shoreline below us with ever more savagery. Today the story is more brutal. During the night it raged unseen in the darkness as it roiled the waves, but to me, as I stood watching the turgid sea in the gray, rain pelted early morning light, its anger seemed  greater than in the hours before. Ripping into the rain soaked reclaimed land forming the border of the garden it  pulled back into itself yards of lawn and graveled soil,  tearing out a mighty gap beyond the high tide line as it pulled away the supporting wall. The old bench, pushed or thrown yards away from where it lay after the first attack,  became part of a melee of  logs, rocks, and sea waste wildly tumbling along the garden; powerfully, blindly tossed about, its rusted metal legs and sun baked slats destroyed even further.
Now, the aftermath! Oh! Yes! The aftermath! Not of great consequence in the world – there are devastations of much more import – but no matter. Those in the  audience waiting to see for themselves this minor “ fury of the sea” are, I’m sure, looking forward to comparing the before and after. Well, here it is; nature at work, rough but not extraordinary, simply “Mother”, doing her thing. I mean. . . she’s entitled. Maybe we will never understand her moods, but she certainly lets us share them.

Rambling

Accompanied by my favourite font – Comic Sans – I ramble.
     I have just come from having my eyes glued to a browser window from which reams of information dealing with the proper usage of the elements of grammar was pouring out. I was amazed at the erudition of the mind behind the programme, but the manner in which said erudition was  being presented was what truly involved my attention. Everything you might want to know; certainly need to know; should know, and have - quite clearly as in my case - forgotten that you knew about grammar was there before me. Presented in a comfortable and natural manner, it was as though a kindly and caring teacher wished the student to learn the tricky ins and outs of grammar with as little hair tearing as possible. Free from pedantic mannerisms, it was a pleasure to engage in; even though it meant I would be acknowledging and working on my blatant deficiencies.
     Now I have to get myself together, gather up my errors of grammar, sort them out, clean them up and place them where they belong. Goodness, gracious me, what a task lies ahead! Of course, and Happy New Year! I’ve just made a resolution! In print! Oh, my God! Oh! Well. Carry on regardless, and all that. Maybe I’ll be shot at dawn. Now that’s dramatic!

Before I’m accused of ranting and the rambling is lost in verbiage I’ll put down the name of the site that won me over, in case there is another somebody out there who would care to have a look see.

                                                                        grammar.ccc.com.net.edu
Put the URL in your browser and a page will come up redirecting you to the Guide to Grammar & Writing site.

The writer who neglects punctuation, or mispunctuates, is liable to be misunderstood for the want of merely a comma, it often occurs that an axiom appears a paradox, or that a sarcasm is converted into a sermonoid.
                                                                                                                              Edgar Allan Poe
                                                                                 1809-1845, American Poet, Critic, short-story Writer

 A very old dear old friend of mine has taken it upon herself to edit my stories and comments. We have know each other for many decades quite a number of years, as you can probably guess from the descriptive photo displayed here - snapped on English Bay beach in Vancouver during the early days of photography. Thank you Anita, for your much appreciated help, and for the numerous, highly amusing and at times informative videos and other tidbits from the ether world you send along

                                                                           

“Writing is an act of faith, not a trick of 

grammar”.

                                                                                                                     E. B. White
JANUARY 1st, 2001, was a glorious day. It was cool but warmish in the sun, and the sea was only slightly restless. Wandering down to the edge of the garden, and moving onto the beach, I sauntered a few yards along the sand and gravel, enjoying the scrunching sound coming from beneath my feet, then stepping around the bend of the small cove I paused. I had come to visit again an old, very old ruin of a wharf; storm tossed onto the shore in an earlier time. As I gazed along its ruined length I  wondered why I had never taken a photo of this forgotten giant. Having my handy camera handy I proceeded to rectify that error.

The wharf, 150 feet long (measured), and about 25 feet wide (guessed), lies high on the beach, right on the high tide mark. Broken and gray from relentless rains, burning summer suns, and the cruel battering ram of storms, it still bears a sense of its former majesty. A brave and ruined relic from a previous period; holding within itself the memory of an earlier time when it was the pride of some long ago - now vanished - coastal community. In its massive timbers, joined together by countless iron bolts, well rusted but forever thrusting their twisted and bent forms uselessly into the sky, can be read the immensity of the trees that once towered along the shores of this Strait. How their height and enormity must have thrilled the early settlers who had longed for such a world as this on which they now gazed. But others who stood with them had also dreamed, but theirs were the dreams of wealth. Their imaginings pictured not the beauty and wonder of the ancient trees, but the uses to which these forest giants could be put. 
I climbed onto the wharf and walked along the massive, torn and broken timbers that had held so tightly to their original form - a walk made difficult by the deterioration of the wharf itself and the accumulation of detritus from land and sea layered over it. The afternoon tide was beginning to draw up to the section of the beach on which my giant lay. Standing on its ravaged sea side edge I watched as the new tide pushed gently into the base of this sleeping titan. Small pebbles and foam born bubbles lapped at the black charcoaled areas of the wharf’s timbers - timbers scorched from years of beach fires built to chase away the chill of sea washed summer nights. Successive decades of swimmers, bathers and beach combers had used the old wharf for a back rest or protective wall against wind and sun; countless fires set beneath its shadow had left their charred signatures on the ancient wood.  
A combination of age, weather and fire and the scrubbing of endless tides had polished sections of the old wood to a marvelous sheen. The mahogany richness of the colour, remarkable. It is warmly reminiscent of the surface of a highly polished and treasured desk. To play my hands across its surface borders on the sensuous; closing my eyes I imagine the fine exquisite texture of some early romance that had once tantalized my touch.
To know that this tragic, dethroned old wharf might still be here long after I am gone, is a treasure to hold. I keep the promise of this to myself, knowing it will be waiting, unhurried, just a step around a bend, along a sandy sea kissed beach. So, whenever I have a longing to return to its side and share a radiant sunrise, an inspiring sunset, or just a simple, beautiful sunny day in its company, I stroll along the ageless sands, follow the shorelines edge and true to its promise, find it waiting.