A committee has been formed for upkeep of the Amesdale Cemetery. A work party is planned for the end of September, and a bank account for the "AMESDALE CEMETERY" has been set up for funds donated for maintenance.
For more information on how to volunteer or donate contact Joanne Brown at: terry056@drytel.net
Donations for the cemetery should be made payable to the "AMESDALE CEMETERY" and sent to:
Joanne Brown
Box 98
Eagle River, Ontario
P0V 1S0
.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
I Could Whap Them All Up To Here!
What had left Gordon Ames handicapped from childhood wasn’t well understood. The story was that shortly after his birth, a lady left to look after him had pressed some “milk” out of his wee breasts, which later became infected and cause him severe curvature of the spine.
The true cause was likely tuberculosis of the spine, commonly known as Potts disease, or more correctly as kyphosis. Once prevalent among children, this disease, which attacks the inter-vertebral cartilages causing the spine to curve into a bow and a distinctive hump, is now rare in the developed world.
Understood or not, in a world less accommodating to those with handicaps, “spunk” was a valuable attribute, and Gordon certainly had “spunk”. Observing himself, photographed as the shortest in his grade one photo, Gordon would comment with some satisfaction that he could “whap them all up to here”, pointing to a position well beyond the mid-point of the row of boys. The innocent cruelty of children is something Gordon learned to manage with his fists.
Later, he surpassed others with his intellect. He nurtured a sharp mind that was quick with figures, and sharp comment. In part, his clever mind compensated for his physical limitations. As Amesdale’s general merchant, he received gasoline in 45 gallon drums, and with pride would comment that through careful planning he could do what “real men” were unable to do, and stand them on end.
A glimpse of how Gordon dealt with his handicap is provided by his good friend Clarence Tillenius:
“I must tell you I had both sympathy and deep admiration for Gordon - in contrast to all his brothers and sisters who were all tall and good looking, Gordon with his hunchback suffered many indignities what he largely - and usually successfully - hid from the world.
The true cause was likely tuberculosis of the spine, commonly known as Potts disease, or more correctly as kyphosis. Once prevalent among children, this disease, which attacks the inter-vertebral cartilages causing the spine to curve into a bow and a distinctive hump, is now rare in the developed world.
Understood or not, in a world less accommodating to those with handicaps, “spunk” was a valuable attribute, and Gordon certainly had “spunk”. Observing himself, photographed as the shortest in his grade one photo, Gordon would comment with some satisfaction that he could “whap them all up to here”, pointing to a position well beyond the mid-point of the row of boys. The innocent cruelty of children is something Gordon learned to manage with his fists.
Later, he surpassed others with his intellect. He nurtured a sharp mind that was quick with figures, and sharp comment. In part, his clever mind compensated for his physical limitations. As Amesdale’s general merchant, he received gasoline in 45 gallon drums, and with pride would comment that through careful planning he could do what “real men” were unable to do, and stand them on end.
A glimpse of how Gordon dealt with his handicap is provided by his good friend Clarence Tillenius:
“I must tell you I had both sympathy and deep admiration for Gordon - in contrast to all his brothers and sisters who were all tall and good looking, Gordon with his hunchback suffered many indignities what he largely - and usually successfully - hid from the world.
To give you an example: one morning early I was alone in his store with Gordon when a man walked in - someone I had not met but I think was probably some distant relative of Gordon's - and his opening greeting was: "Haven't yet gotten your head up off your shoulders, Ames?" Gordon, quick witted as always, came back with: "If your head was so full of brains as mine is, ya' wouldn't care where it was!!"
I, myself, had been deeply disgusted at such a comment being directed to Gordon - who can help such a disfigurement caused by no fault of his own? And I sensed then - as I did many times after - that Gordon's constant high spirits and public merriment disguised a sensitive nature often and deeply hurt by these supposed joking references to his handicap.
What I admired in him then, as I do to this day, was his ability to make the best of his handicap and try his best to provide the good life for your mother and you in spite of those lapses when the black moods would overcome him, and alcohol to drown his handicap would - though rarely enough - take over.”
Though imperfect, as we are all imperfect, I too admire him, and appreciate his example. If I ever have challenges as great as his, I hope to be able to do so well.
George's Deer
George and his Deer
George Radford was known to be a good hunter. He shot absolutely everything, year round and provided food for everyone. In the early summer of 1948 or 1949, while out on one of his woodland trips he came across a fawn on its own. The mother had presumably been killed leaving this fawn, still young enough to have its spots, an orphan. Knowing the fawn wouldn’t survive on its own, George brought it back to his homestead which was called “farm”, took it in, and cared for it. Initially he feed it with a bottle, and everybody including Jean, and cousins Billy and Betty ages six, five, and four respectively, pitched in taking turns feeding the baby white-tailed deer until they had successfully nursed him into a healthy independent young buck.
A “deer shed” was constructed to protect him from the elements, and he was permitted too play within the safety of a fenced pasture, which he shared with the cattle. As the years passed, Bucky happily grew into a full grown deer, compete with antlers. However, as he matured, he became more restless and at time vicious. His wilder disposition was more apparent in springtime, when he was working at removing the velvet which covered his antlers. At these times George kept him tied up more often, and the kids didn’t go near him as much.
George had his friend "Bucky" for five to six years, but when George passed away in 1954, Bucky became unmanageable for anyone else. One day, he broke his chain and left to go back into the woods nearby.
George Radford was known to be a good hunter. He shot absolutely everything, year round and provided food for everyone. In the early summer of 1948 or 1949, while out on one of his woodland trips he came across a fawn on its own. The mother had presumably been killed leaving this fawn, still young enough to have its spots, an orphan. Knowing the fawn wouldn’t survive on its own, George brought it back to his homestead which was called “farm”, took it in, and cared for it. Initially he feed it with a bottle, and everybody including Jean, and cousins Billy and Betty ages six, five, and four respectively, pitched in taking turns feeding the baby white-tailed deer until they had successfully nursed him into a healthy independent young buck.
With everyone caring for the animal, he soon established himself as a permanent member of the Radford family. He was even given a name; Bucky. Although this new member of the family grew up side by side with the kids, he was definitely George’s deer and George’s friend. Relative to the other animals on the farm, he enjoyed a rather privileged position, even invited into the house to enjoy Christmas dinner with the family. In addition to the more traditional deer diet of leafy material, twigs, buds and grasses, supplemented with such delicacies as mushrooms and blueberries, he was fed just like one of the family, having a particular fondness porridge. However, his weakness was tobacco. Knowing this, George and brother Bill would save their cigarette butts for him. These succulent morsels were then placed in their shirt pockets, and Bucky was allowed to forage for the special treat.
A “deer shed” was constructed to protect him from the elements, and he was permitted too play within the safety of a fenced pasture, which he shared with the cattle. As the years passed, Bucky happily grew into a full grown deer, compete with antlers. However, as he matured, he became more restless and at time vicious. His wilder disposition was more apparent in springtime, when he was working at removing the velvet which covered his antlers. At these times George kept him tied up more often, and the kids didn’t go near him as much.
Periodically, he would be allowed to run loose. On these occasions he run down the path though the bush to meet the kids as they returned from school. One winter day, while out on one of his romps down the path, he met Grandma Radford, and in his exuberance bumped her right off the path and into the snow bank. The incident seemed quite hilarious to the on looking grandchildren. However, to Harriet it certainly wasn’t a laughing matter. She normally enjoyed to joke, but being the object of public amusement perpetrated by a deer, was going a bit too far and she became quite upset.. To be sure, for a lady in her seventies, a brush with a rambunctious deer, and a tumble into a snow bank, isn’t something to be taken lightly by anyone…except innocent grandchildren.
Bucky the Deer was also quite picky about his friends, and there was a certain person that on several occasions he wouldn’t let on George’s property. Years later, on a road crew in 1977 Fred Radford’s son John came across that man. When Oscar Goulette, John’s boss on the project, learned that John was Fred Radford from Amesdale, he exclaimed “that sonna of a .......,( with his strong French accent) they had a pet deer that would not let me on the Radford property.” In the minds of many, Bucky had an enduring reputation.
Bucky the Deer was also quite picky about his friends, and there was a certain person that on several occasions he wouldn’t let on George’s property. Years later, on a road crew in 1977 Fred Radford’s son John came across that man. When Oscar Goulette, John’s boss on the project, learned that John was Fred Radford from Amesdale, he exclaimed “that sonna of a .......,( with his strong French accent) they had a pet deer that would not let me on the Radford property.” In the minds of many, Bucky had an enduring reputation.
George had his friend "Bucky" for five to six years, but when George passed away in 1954, Bucky became unmanageable for anyone else. One day, he broke his chain and left to go back into the woods nearby.
Bill Radford with Bucky
Details contributed by Fred Radford, Jean Radford Martel, and Betty Radford Puddicombe
..............
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Protein-on-the-Hoof
or "Dinnertime at the Sam and Annie Ames Home"
By Andrew Clement
To be included in the blessings of nature to which the farmers fell heir were those mobile units of succulent protein-on-the-hoof, which came with the bush, the moose and deer. These were fair game to be had on sight at any time, dawn, dusk, or high noon from June to June.
It is now June of '32 and a field of clover nodding in the wind and sun extends away from a white house behind which is a hip roofed barn.
The potatoes have been lifted and carried, still steaming, to the centre of the table on which is placed a platter of salt pork. Pa and the three kids direct eight arms toward something to eat before the others get it.
Ma on her way from the stove cast a quick glance toward the south clearing as a matter of habit. She stops for another look and says in a loud whisper, "There's one Pa!" A commotion follows as everyone rushes to the window to see what that "one" may be, sometimes a moose black against the green.
Now Pa pushed his plate in, his chair back the other way, takes a rifle off the wall, and slips out the back door, all in one motion as perfected by habit. Ma and the three kids from ten on down crowd the window for a glimpse of the drama soon to be enacted.
The deer, which it is, hidden below the body by the clover and a slight hump in the field, moves nervously wagging its ears from the pestering flies, faces toward the house making a narrow target. At that distance of two hundred yards it would be easy to miss. But why the delay, the watchers wonder. Now the animal decided to change pastures. First it raises its head to full alert upon the farmhouse and turns broadside. This is the end. With the explosion the animal disappears. The youngsters burst from the door and tear across the meadow, howling with delight. As a tribute to beauty in death they remain silent a moment then tear back to the house screaming with excitement.
By Andrew Clement
To be included in the blessings of nature to which the farmers fell heir were those mobile units of succulent protein-on-the-hoof, which came with the bush, the moose and deer. These were fair game to be had on sight at any time, dawn, dusk, or high noon from June to June.
It is now June of '32 and a field of clover nodding in the wind and sun extends away from a white house behind which is a hip roofed barn.
The potatoes have been lifted and carried, still steaming, to the centre of the table on which is placed a platter of salt pork. Pa and the three kids direct eight arms toward something to eat before the others get it.
Ma on her way from the stove cast a quick glance toward the south clearing as a matter of habit. She stops for another look and says in a loud whisper, "There's one Pa!" A commotion follows as everyone rushes to the window to see what that "one" may be, sometimes a moose black against the green.
Now Pa pushed his plate in, his chair back the other way, takes a rifle off the wall, and slips out the back door, all in one motion as perfected by habit. Ma and the three kids from ten on down crowd the window for a glimpse of the drama soon to be enacted.
The deer, which it is, hidden below the body by the clover and a slight hump in the field, moves nervously wagging its ears from the pestering flies, faces toward the house making a narrow target. At that distance of two hundred yards it would be easy to miss. But why the delay, the watchers wonder. Now the animal decided to change pastures. First it raises its head to full alert upon the farmhouse and turns broadside. This is the end. With the explosion the animal disappears. The youngsters burst from the door and tear across the meadow, howling with delight. As a tribute to beauty in death they remain silent a moment then tear back to the house screaming with excitement.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Mrs. Ames' Rhubarb Patch
Photo Copyrighted. Posted with permission of Clarence Tillenius
Story from the Autobiography of Clarence Tillenius
After being “willingly commandeered” to fight a big fire on the road to Dryden in the late spring, then “reluctantly commandeered” by Old Sam Ames to do some sheep-shearing, I felt I had a vacation coming. I was more than anxious to get back to MacDonald Lake and finish the cabin I was building with my partner Harold. However, I had reckoned without Old Sam, who waylaid me in the store when I was packing some comestibles into a packsack in preparation for heading towards MacDonald Lake.
Old Sam lost no time in coming to the point. "Mrs. Ames has always wanted some rhubarb in the garden" he said," and she tells me you know all about planting rhubarb. Why is it so hard to grow rhubarb? If you do know how, I want you as a favor to Mrs. Ames, to see that she gets some in the garden."
"Rhubarb isn't hard to grow", I said, "It's just that to get a good crop of rhubarb with big juicy stems instead of little spindly ones, you've got to prepare a rhubarb trench, and in this white clay soil which is just like concrete, that's a hell of a job!"
"But you know how to make a rhubarb trench, hey?" said Old Sam "Well, I'll give you Don here (his 15-year old son who had become one of my devoted followers) to help you if you'll contract to do it?" "Well,” I said, "it's going to mean digging a trench anywhere up to 4 feet deep and 2 feet wide and about 30 feet long, and in this ground that could take more time than I would propose to put in."
"Four foot trench, hey?" said Old Sam. "Well, now 'pears to me that that's a job that calls for a little blasting powder. Now, if you'll mark out where the trench ought to be, we'll just get a post-hole auger and sink a few holes down 4 feet and ol' dynamite will do the rest."
So Sam's conviction that I would do the job carried the day. Don and I, using narrow-bladed shovels, a pick and crowbars, dug the first pilot shaft 4 feet deep, 2 feet wide and about the same long. This was to mark the beginning of the trench, which Old Sam, true to his word, blasted out in a sort of irregular ditch, which we smoothed off, sides and bottom, to approximate the desired trench. "What now?” said Don. “Now we'll fill the trench," I said: "with alternate layers of manure and this white clay we've been throwing out. When that is well mixed, we should have a trench to the King's - or rather, the rhubarb's taste." Which we did, surprising Old Sam, who had made the journey to Dryden - or maybe Kenora - and brought back a dozen or so rhubarb roots to begin the long desired 'rhubarb garden'.
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