 Some of the best moments of my childhood were spent visiting my Uncle Howard and exploring his century old cape. Howard was a half brother to my grandfather Larry who died in 1943 in Sicily during the war. They had been living with him since their marriage and his brothers’ widow, my grandmother, and her four children remained living there until she married and moved to Springhill. My dad was seven when his father was killed so he grew up without a father, living in the old cape until a little over a year after he married my mom when they moved out to make their own way in the world.
From the state of the upstairs of my uncle's house, it looked like it had been closed up for decades so it was like stepping into a sealed time capsule. Uncle Howard who never married or had any children of his own, had no use for the upstairs, living in the downstairs portion of the home, sleeping in the birthing room just off the kitchen. How I loved to explore and look for treasures in the upstairs of his house, digging around in trunks and closets getting a peek at the past. The smell, the cob webs, the creaks in the floor boards, possibly not walked on for decades was the perfect stage for a child who could daydream her way into a world of make believe. Actually, the entire house was a fascination to me because it was the polar opposite of what I was used to. It had little modern convenience, knob and tube electricity lit the darkness but that was about it. No indoor plumbing, not even a refrigerator, but that didn't mean he was lacking. There was an amazing cold cellar that kept milk and dad’s beer cold enough that the bottles dripped with condensation after hitting the warm summer air. The heat source was a woodstove that blackened the ceiling and woodwork in the kitchen that he scrubbed to a dull grey every spring, a far cry from the pristine white interior of our home. The overall smell of his house was a mixture of creosote, burning wood and Old Spice aftershave. A delightfully heady pong that met you when first entering the house and lingered on your clothes and nostrils long after you left. The woodstove was always at the ready to cook our hotdogs and beans on a visit. Howard heated all his food on the stove year-round so he lit the fire every day at meal time, even in the humidity of summer, but amazingly the house remained cool from the top of the hill breezes blowing though the house via the front and back screen doors. His wooden rocking chair that I prize reminds me so much of him, I can almost see him sitting in it. The chair has a special warp conformed to the way he sat, a twist to the left, one chair arm resting slightly lower than the other. The second oldest home in Mahone Bay, the one and a half story cape had not changed since the day it was built. The place was an antique dealer’s paradise, especially the treasure trove upstairs of children’s toys and books from Howard’s childhood and whatever my father and his siblings contributed over the years. One of the best finds was a story book called The Gateway To Storyland published in the early twenties, that was filled with wonderful children’s stories. I carried that book around until the covers fell off and the pages were dog eared and worn and at some point, my mother must have thrown it out. A couple of years ago I looked online to find a replacement copy and after many evenings of searching, I found one on EBay and my heart raced and my hands shook as I purchased it. After it arrived, I climbed into bed with my four poodles and read aloud every story to my captive audience. The pictures and words were so familiar, so deeply ingrained in me, that I barely had to read the words from the pages as my brain skimmed along from memory. At least one sunny Sunday a month we visited my uncle up on the hill. I couldn’t wait to get out of the car and run for a hug. Sometimes I’d hop up on Howard’s lap while the adults chatted at the kitchen table, or we would go outside to play with the large rubber beach ball he kept for me. Then he’d push me on the swing that he made and how that apple tree limb creaked when I swung higher and higher, rope on wood, gently rubbing and softly protesting. Then of course, typical me, I ate the apples that had ripened and fallen to the ground, worm holes and all. I never did get that tummy ache or be sick like mom always predicted, even as a child my stomach was cast iron; whatever went in never came out the same way. Gravenstein apples are still my favourites, not too tart, not too sweet and every August since, I munch on them and think of that long gone tree. When my uncle passed away at 71, I designed the back of his tombstone and had an apple tree sand blasted along with the words, Precious Memories Never Die. With both sets of grandparents and all of my cousins living in Springhill, who I only got to see on summer holidays; Uncle Howard was one of two relatives that lived close by. He was also the very first person to die who I loved and I struggled coming to terms with his loss. I didn’t know how to process the sadness I felt, it hung in my heart like a lead weight. My grief became part of every day, never lessening with time, who’s false promise supposedly healed all. Many months later I ran into a friend of my uncles at the Post Office who told me that Howard really thought the world of me and spoke of me often. Somehow, hearing this broke the tether of the heavy sorrow that I had been dragging around. After that, instead of feeling nothing but loss, I was able to see past the pain and smile through the memories. Lilacs are in bloom right now and the tree in our yard is heavy laden. Last year there was nary enough flowers to make a small bouquet, but this year it is dripping with the most spectacular purple blooms, their perfume spreading to the far corners of our property. I particularly love lilacs because the smell takes me right back to when I was knee high to a grasshopper, making a fort between two dark purple lilac bushes that grew in front of my uncle’s house. The tall branches had canopies that arched together making a hollow between the two plants and then Japanese Bamboo encircled them on the one side, creating a cave like area where I would crawl in, sit and pretend. I think I remember falling asleep once. No one could find me until I woke up and heard them hollering my name. The perfume of the lilac is as intoxicating today as all those years ago, and a little whiff is all it takes to become that smaller version of me, when life was simpler and everything was a wonder. And then there’s my uncles screen door. How I loved to play with it. Pulling the door open wide, stretching the long-coiled spring to full capacity and then letting it bang shut. What a sound it made, reverberating though my entire body and I purposely ran in and out of the house to hear the door bang behind me. I was a real scamp but Howard only smiled, perhaps I drowned out the silence of his lonely life with all my clamour and giggles. Today I love a screen door banging and I make sure I do it, often and with gusto. There was also a flower garden next to the apple tree filled with colourful blooms. Aunt Audrey, my father’s sister, told me that her mom, my grandmother, planted it all those many years ago and Howard continued to weed and maintain it long after they were gone. There were many flowers but I distinctly remember the most delightful sweet smelling wild roses, a delicate mauve Bell Flower and an antique yellow loosestrife that took over the space after he was gone. I made sure I dug up a few bunches to plant in my own garden. I have it in five areas now and it comes back year after year, bigger and better, blooming for months with a spectacular yellow show. But above all the memories and experiences, the novelty of drinking his well water was the highlight of my visit and the reason for this story. Howard didn’t have indoor plumbing, only a hand pump at the kitchen sink that drew the best cold water I have ever tasted. I’d drink so much I’d slosh when I walked and much to my mother’s chagrin, we had to make many trips to the outhouse so I could pee like a human garden hose. She had to hold me up so I wouldn’t fall through the hole meant for adult bottoms, while her nose wrinkled to fend off the smell. Quite frankly, his outhouse was a pretty interesting piece of architecture, it leaned like the Tower of Pisa, had two holes for communal crapping that even my young mind questioned, and a myriad of flies all vying for the latest contribution. I was never allowed to linger longer than it took to pull up my panties, but a quick glance into the dark hole revealed a pyramid of brown, which of course, led to another zillion questions. Perhaps it’s a gross topic for some but it was pretty interesting to an inquisitive child and quite frankly the entire concept of outhouses is still a curiosity to me. Not that I would want to own one, let alone use it, but my mind ponders the hardships of people from the outhouse era. Squatting in bitter cold weather, although the chill probably helped keep the smell at bay, then there’s the opposite ordeal of sweltering heat and the assault to the senses that ensued. Shoveling a path after snowstorms of yesteryear with white walls on each side shoulder high. Catalogues and newspapers were more than just reading material, but if they weren’t available more painful items were used like wood shavings, hay, rocks and corn cobs. There was no convenient flushing away of the evidence and some poor sap would have to periodically clean it out. Come rain or shine, day or night, you had to go outside to do your business and having another person join you in a two-or three-seater isn’t even comprehensible today. My present day, conveniently equipped home has three flushers in it, I can’t see surviving with anything less. But I digress..... The dug well was fed by an underground stream. The water had iron in it but it was clear, cold and delicious and the fun of using the hand pump never dulled. Dad used to scold me to stop playing with the pump, that it wasn’t a toy, but Howard never minded and he’d give me a chair to stand on and I’d pump away as much as my little arms could muster. The water would spurt with each small pump until I could get a momentum going and then it would gush and splash into my cup like a mini–Niagara Falls. I can still visualize the glass cup he always gave me. It was thick and heavy with a dull golden hue, frosted from years of use and stained from the iron in the water. It had a large bowl with a handle and was so big I had to hold it in both of my hands to gulp the water down. All things being relative I was only five or six at the time so my hands were small. I loved my uncle Howard very much. His brush cut, and every character line of his face I can see if I close my eyes. My entire childhood was peppered with visits either to our house or his and the memories are all cherished. When I was shy of ten years, he started popping in Saturday evenings so he and I would watch Grand Pre Wrestling on TV. For a quiet man of few words, he was pretty animated during the matches. His fists would fly with make believe upper cuts and head locks, and he’d sit on the edge of his seat and jump to his feet when they’d slam one another to the ring floor, hollering, “Get up, Get up!” He’d be loud and wound-up until the show ended, then he’d go back to being quiet again. Dad used to say that wrestling was all fake, but we didn’t care, it was fun and quite frankly watching Howard’s reactions was almost more entertaining than the show. I’ve carried around the old water pump since we tore down the house that had been abandoned for years and following down. I always planned to put the pump in my garden someday as an ornament. No longer new and green, it was rusted brown and in bad need of paint which I decided would be a delicious gloss red. It was obviously well made and meant to last because it’s still in perfect working order with the handle moving freely up and down. Funny how good intentions seem to fade away when life is busy, but finally, almost a quarter century later, the vision I’d had in my head has merged with reality and I have a beautiful memory of my dear uncle in my garden for the remainder of my days. |
Christine Little has been ranked #5 out of the 60 top rug hooking bloggers by Rug Hooking Magazine!
 
Max Anderson, Australia, recipient of my Nova Scotia Treasures rug. An award of excellence for promoting Canada through his writing.
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