The Library
October 31, 2011
Check the UPDATE at the end of the article.
Every politician has known it for years: you don’t say anything against the local library if you want to get elected again. That’s why it became a national story when Toronto Mayor Rob Ford and his brother Doug violated this taboo and earned a trimming from the sharp pen of Margaret Atwood.
My one time as a television advocate occurred some years ago while a member of the Smiths Falls Public Library Board. Head Librarian Karen Schecter had devised an innovative response to a budget cut: she closed the library for one day a week to compensate for the reduced funding. A photo of Karen and the closed sign on the door made the front page of the Ottawa Citizen just before a municipal election.
So I duly stepped up to a microphone at the all-candidates meeting at the 560 Legion Hall. Local cable TV cameras recorded events like this in Smiths Falls and rebroadcast them on their own channel. My question went to each of the ten candidates arrayed in a row across the front of the room: “How about the Library? Do you support cuts to its budget?”
Councilor Bill Widenmaier caught on immediately and heaped praise upon the Smiths Falls Public Library, built in 1904 with a gift from the Andrew Carnegie Foundation. He explained that Carnegie used his fortune to build libraries to promote literacy and provide an example of fine architecture in towns and cities all across North America, and the Smiths Falls site was the last Carnegie Library still in use. Bill stated that, if re-elected, he would vote against any cutbacks to this vital institution. Period.
Not every candidate fell into line at this time, though most realized the political advantage and took it. I remember two hard-liners who questioned the value of the library. Voters dumped them. Widenmaier topped the polls. The new council restored Karen’s budget and services returned to normal.
They are big readers in Smiths Falls. A town of 10,000 at that time, our library boasted just over 6,000 registered members and a circulation which was the envy of all of the local communities.
My wife Bet is a voracious reader. One of her apprehensions about moving back to the country involved separation from the contents of the beloved yellow building just two blocks from our house. But then we discovered the Portland Public Library. And the one in Newboro. And the main branch in Elgin, and the one in Delta. Bet even visits the South Elmsley Branch near Lombardy.
She’s delighted with the local offerings. The scattered branches have taken advantage of technology with an online catalogue, an efficient courier and Internet services I could only dream about as a board member in the late ‘90s. Bet’s tracked down titles from all over Ontario through Inter-library loan.
On a given day in summer you’ll see the library parking lots dotted with out-of-province license plates. Visitors with laptops stop and park to access wireless Internet at all hours of day and night. Others venture inside to use the computers. The library is a comfortable place to read magazines and newspapers. I suppose quite a few visitors even take out books, as well.
When asked to make a lunchtime speech recently I decided I would need a slide show if I were to have any hope of holding an audience for the appointed time. It’s been a while since I have taught a class, so I didn’t know where to look for audio-visual materials.
Then I found Sue Warren’s name on the Rideau Lakes Public Library website, so I dropped her an email to ask if they had any sort of projector I could link to my trusty laptop. Sue assured me that they do have such a device.
It took some doing to get the Windows-oriented projector to work with my MacBook, but eventually I found the correct cable, and away it went.
As the days grow cold and November gray encroaches on our psyche, at least we have the Library as a destination, a source of variety and light. Its stacks are a rich vein of information, and there’s also fiction to allow us escape to another, sunnier world for a few hours at a time.
Check out the Rideau Lakes Public Library website to see the range of information services they provide, free of charge, to the community.
As Sand Lake resident Paola Durando commented on my blog: “Libraries will get you through times of no money better than money will get you through times of no libraries!”
UPDATE:
Roz sent along the following link to a highly unusual library mystery:
http://www.npr.org/blogs/krulwich/2011/10/28/141795907/who-left-a-tree-then-a-coffin-in-the-library?f=5500502&ft=1
Memories of Bob Steele
August 15, 2011
Last week the Indian Lake Marina community at Chaffey’s Locks mourned the passing of one of its members, Bob Steele. With his loving and supportive wife Mary and their son John, the Steeles have been a presence in the boating community on the Rideau since the early 1980’s.
Like many other successful couples from the Ottawa Valley, the Steeles acquired a place in Florida to which they retreated for the winter months. Visits to the Steeles became the route by which other Marina members found their way to Florida, and the social whirl continued – some would say intensified – during the winter months.
For Bob Steele liked his fun. For a large man Bob had amazing energy. Kids at the Marina couldn’t match his fondness for bounding around in an inflatable with a ten horsepower motor. Then the motor became a twenty-five and the rides grew even more thrilling. The rule on the dock was that if you got into the Zodiac with Bob, hang on, and make sure the gas tank didn’t fall on you.
When the dream of taking Good Times to Florida for the winter reached the planning stage, Bob decided she needed better engines for the trip, so he located two fine diesels. Then it was just a matter of getting someone to install them. This process turned out to be a lengthy one while Bob regaled us with tales of his mechanic’s latest evasions and missteps. After two years of frustration the engines ran well, the signal for Bob to put the boat into the shop at Ayling’s Boatworks in Merrickville for a winter rebuild.
The trip south went well for the Steeles, though rumour has it the weather drove them ashore from time to time. It was on one of these dry-land escapes that they found a winter residence which did not move.
At the Marina Bob had noticed some of us spending more and more time in our dinghies chasing splake and bass, so he put his 25 hp Johnson onto a 16’ aluminum hull and moored it next to Good Times.
Tony sold him a trolling motor. Bob set it up on a plywood platform, and then continued the decking throughout the boat, right over the seats. He ended up with a sturdy and efficient fishing machine. I soon noticed spots which usually yielded a fish were empty. Bob was learning the tactics of the tree fisherman and I had to raise my game to keep up.
He loved gadgets. After an expensive rod bounced out of his boat on a choppy ride across Indian Lake, its replacement was a kevlar experimental model without eyelets. The line went through the centre of the hollow rod. The level wind reel boasted a braking system guaranteed never to backlash. Bob was proud of that rod and it didn’t seem to hinder his fishing success.
Life at the Marina changed when I discovered a battered Yamaha G1 golf cart near Ottawa. The thing was a wreck, but it ran. I built a very fine box for it and discovered the sport of carting around the many trails and roads of the area. Before long more golf carts turned up. The hill to the washrooms is steep, Chaffey’s Locks is two miles by trail, and Scott Island is only a ferry ride away.
The Steeles were at the dealership in Edwards the day we took possession of an almost-new Ez-Go. Bob and Mary opted for a green Club Car, and were trying to figure out how to load it into the back of John’s tall 4WD pickup truck.
Next time I talked to Bob he was having trouble with the fuel pump on the Club Car. He kept plugging the thing with mud while driving off-road.
Next year I heard Bob had replaced the nine horsepower Kawasaki with a 29 hp Briggs and Stratton. Huge tires and a lift kit accompanied the modification, and Bob’s golf cart was gaining a fearsome reputation around the community.
The problem is that a golf cart, regardless of its augmented size and horsepower, only has cable brakes to its back wheels. The thing looked to me like a death trap, though I had to admit it sounded very much like a Harley Davidson when he fired it up at the store for a run up the ramp to his trailer.
Tony and I figured the thing would be the end of him, but Bob was a good driver and he had the sense not to lend the overpowered craft.
In later years Bob and Mary passed Good Times on to a younger family at the Marina and placed a trailer on a shaded site in the middle of the park above the water. Bob took to the golf cart as his outlet for the energy which had carried him through long days as a bus driver and stayed with him into retirement.
An air ambulance ride home from Florida last winter began the cycle which ended last week. Our thoughts go out to Mary and John and the other members of the Indian Lake community as they try to fill a large space in their lives.
The Grindstone Cowboys play in Portland
July 31, 2011
For film of Saturday’s Sail-past and Salute, check
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1PpShfEo6zQ
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Saturday I sat at a picnic table in Hanna Park in Portland while a group of us listened to a very laid-back concert by a group of musicians who call themselves The Grindstone Cowboys. To say these guys and ladies are good is like saying Buzz Boles’s honey is sweet. The event was the second annual Portland on the Rideau Historical Society Sail-past and Salute in celebration of the life of Admiral Kingsmill.
One fellow didn’t seem to be playing an instrument or singing, so I drew him aside for a word. He introduced himself as David Bearman, summer resident of Grindstone Island. “The Cowboys are an eclectic collection of musicians who turn up at the Island on long weekends to make music.” I asked about his role as patron of this obviously talented group.
“It’s a very extended family, though not one is a blood relative of mine. I provide wine and cheese.” He pointed to the inscription on his T-shirt: “Three things that age well: cheese, scotch, and ‘King’ David.”
The group slipped from “Hallelujah” to “Folsom Prison Blues,” and the kid playing violin by ear didn’t miss a note. Somebody behind the tree worked some mellow riffs out of a harmonica.
What struck me about this group of musicians was the ease with which they and younger family members contributed to the songs from their small circle of chairs under a tree. There is way too much talent and technique here for a garage band. “King” David admitted that several of the members are professional musicians on their way to the Canadian Guitar Festival this weekend in Kingston.
Bearman supports the Historical Society’s work, partly because his summer residence was the home of Admiral Kingsmill, so he has brought the band in each year to provide music for the tribute.
He told me the group’s next gig is at the Corn Festival on Sunday at Wendy’s Market, near Lyndhurst. Bearman warmed to the subject. “Wendy’s Market has a special event on the last Sunday of each month during market season, with musicians, artisans, farmers and chefs invited along for a party at a farm on a dirt road between Morton and Lyndhurst.” He encouraged me to find out more and write a column about Wendy and her operation.
By now they were doing a sing-along version of “I’ll Fly Away” and we stopped to listen to the remarkably clear alto of one of the seated group members. Then the lead guitarist finished off with a squeaky rendition of “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry.”
There’s certainly no predicting the songs the Grindstone Cowboys will perform. On their website they offer a number of original cuts like “Sam McGee,” as well as spirited covers of “Thunder Road” and “A Whiter Shade of Pale.” I hadn’t realized how much all of these songs rely upon their instrumental interludes.
The Grindstone Cowboys are highly competent musicians with a penchant for anonymity through corny pseudonyms. If you get a chance to catch them in concert, they’re well worth a listen. You can also find samples of their work online, especially on CBC3.
It’s an open secret that noted guitarist David Barrett plays steel guitar for the group.
Then Buzz Boles took me aside to show off a treasure the Portland on the Rideau Historial Society has just unearthed. Sim Scovil, grandfather of the recently departed Tom Scovil, revived his grandfather’s store on the waterfront in 1924, serving the Portland community and summer residents until his retirement due to ill health in 1967. Sim made a practice of mailing out to his customers spring and fall greetings consisting of poems he had written and a few personal notes.
Buzz told me they were delighted this week to receive a scrapbook containing a dozen or so of these poems from Frances Quattrochi in Smiths Falls. By interpolation they believe there should be between sixty and eighty titles out there, and they would very much appreciate access to any that readers might have. They want to put together a book of Sims’s work.
If you have or can get access to any of Mr. Scovil’s poems, please contact Doug Good or Buzz Boles, or email prhs@live.ca. Have a look also at http://portlandontario.com.
FALL, 1942 by Sim Scovil
DON’T FORGET THE SOLDIERS’ MAIL
When the troops are busy training,
And perhaps it has been raining,
When discomfort seems the order of the day;
Then a parcel or a letter
Makes a soldier somewhat better,
For he knows he’s not forgotten, though away.
It’s a joyful, gladsome feeling
O’er his senses quickly stealing
As he’ll recognize the old familiar hand;
Like a miser with his treasure,
He’ll gloat o’er it at his leisure,
With a simple joy not hard to understand.
This link never should be broken,
For to him it’s just a token
Of a loving friend who’s ever in his mind;
And he’ll do his duty gaily
For his heart’s uplifted daily
By the thoughtfulness of those he’s left behind.
To you who were able to come to the Lake this summer, thanks for everything. For you who missed the Rideau this season, well, better luck in 1943.
SIM SCOVIL
Shirt or sweater? shorts or jeans?
June 12, 2011
As I write this it’s a very cool 18 Celsius in Forfar. On Graham Island, halfway up the British Columbia coast, it’s 13 and raining. In Abbotsford on the Fraser River, it’s 21.
My problem seems trivial to everyone I ask, but it’s important to me: what clothes will I need to be comfortable while out of doors in British Columbia next week? The trip involves a day of sturgeon fishing on the Fraser River, and the rest of the week will entail a series of day expeditions in a small boat trolling for salmon in the Haida Gwaii, the official name for the Queen Charlotte Islands.
In a conversation this spring, local attorney Allison Crowe explained that when her father went salmon fishing in that area, his Tilley hat was coveted by everyone as protection from the glaring sun. Based upon my reading of weather reports for the northern coast of B.C., mentioning that glaring sun seems rather like my mentioning to visitors the tornadoes that hit the Little Rideau each year on the first night after our boat cleared the lock at the Narrows, three years in a row. Those three freak tornadoes in May or June of ’82, ’83 and ’84 do not make Rideau Lakes Township another tornado alley, though it seemed that way at the time. Similarly, I think it would be unwise to expect a lot of sunlight on the water off Graham Island.
But the guy I asked at Princess Auto told me that when he was up there fishing in early July a couple of years ago, they wore T-shirts.
Mindful of my teenage experience as a box boy at Genge’s Red and White where I actually saw skis and snowshoes in the trunks of New Jersey cars coming for summer vacation, I looked for better evidence. The Queen Charlotte Lodge, our destination, maintains a dated online gallery.
June 19th photos have the captors of large salmon arrayed in flannel shirts under sweatshirts, tucked into waterproof overalls. One Japanese man of about my age showed long underwear at the neck, as well. From the photo archive it looks pretty cold there in early summer if you are out on the ocean.
Apart from my utter lack of experience at packing, the catch is the 25 lb. limit on luggage for the helicopter ride to the resort. Resort management explains in the information package that they provide lockers at the airport for guest’s surplus belongings, but: “We will help you repack your luggage until the weight is down to under 25 lb.” The document further asks for my sizes for outer garments and boots which they will assign from their stores at the lodge.
My host Tony doesn’t want to be bothered with questions about clothing. But he’s a Scotsman, one of a line of sturdy men and women famed for their tolerance for lousy weather. Tony ignores my pleas to buy a winter snowmobile suit and tries to ice fish in light ski attire. Then he complains, “Your Ranger is too damned cold. It needs a cab and a windshield.”
I’ve explained to him until I’m blue in the face that, unlike his life in various air conditioned rooms and vehicles, Bet and I spend most of our time outside. The coat rack for our activities covers a ten-foot wall. Neither Bet nor I would consider facing the day without at least three sets of outdoor footwear with which to match climatic conditions. There are even four pairs of rubber boots inside the front door for guests.
Do you see my problem? I need it all, but I can’t take a coat rack on a 737. Do I pack shorts or jeans? t-shirts or sweaters? Do I take along the large waterproof parka Bet and Charlie bought me or leave it and pack my laptop? (No. I’m taking the laptop.)
In two weeks I will know a lot more about this subject. More likely by then I also will find it too trivial to mention. But for the moment it fills my mind.
When I delivered her a lawn sign, Delta resident Terri Olivo had little green things in trays spread out on tables all over their sunroom on the shore of Lower Beverley Lake. She told me the seedlings were for the plant sale on the Delta Fair grounds on May 7th. As president of the Rideau Lakes Horticultural Society she encouraged me to attend.
Mrs. Olivo’s instructions were simple enough that even I could remember them: a place and a date. With no clear idea of what to expect, Bet and I wandered into Delta a bit before 9:00 on Saturday. Actually I missed the turnoff to the fair grounds and thus gave Bet a look at some of the properties along the lake, a lovely aspect of Delta one doesn’t see while winding through the village on Hwy 42.
So our first impression of the RLHS plant sale was a glimpse of a lot of cars clustered around a building at the other end of the fair grounds. We squeezed into one of the last parking spaces and hustled to join the lineup just before the doors opened.
A veteran of green-era shopping, Bet insisted upon stuffing plastic shopping bags into her pockets. Everyone else in the line had come better equipped. One young woman had a wheelbarrow. Another leaned on a walker. Turned out the assistive device is perfect for moving lots of potted plants around a hall and through to the checkout in short order. Most carried plastic crates, flats, or cardboard boxes.
A pleasant lady outside assured us that there were cardboard boxes inside to help organize our purchases.
Promptly at 9:00 the doors opened against the lineup and in we went. Conscious of the competition, I grabbed the tallest, prettiest green things I could and beat it over to the checkout for my first run to the truck. The pots turned out to contain Solomon’s Seal, a perennial well suited to the shady area on the north side of the house.
Bet had disappeared into the crowd to browse among the small green things.
Out of ideas after nabbing my trophies, my next sally focused on cool names for plants. Lamb’s ears and foxwallop, or something like that, took the cake. At the information desk they had a formidable array of reference books and spoke Latin, so it took a while to get an explanation and colour of the plant with the cool name which even Bet has since forgotten. Turns out its red flowers have an orange tinge, so they were banned-in-advance from the flower beds at the farm by a consensus of Mom, Bet and Glenda. Oh, well.
On one trip to the truck I watched a couple loading bedding plants into the back of a Smart car. I asked them how many it would hold. They good naturedly admitted to buying smaller green things than they would have otherwise.
We saw Newboro resident Rose Pritchard lecturing about plants to an interested gentleman while her neighbour Yvonne Helwig rounded up a great range of flowers.
While tending their gardens, Yvonne and Rose keep an eye on my fishing boat in its slip on the shore of Newboro Lake.
Our Forfar neighbour Judi Longstreet saw us examining a perennial which looked suspiciously like a celery plant. Well, actually she saw me pick off a leaf and chew it, so she came over to say hi. She had brought the Louvage from her garden and suggested that the hardy plant provides early greenery for salads and soups, but it grows to six feet in height, so it’s important not to plant it at the front of the garden, lest it hide everything else. The leaf tasted bitter, but no worse than many of the ingredients Bet puts in salads these days, so I took one of the large pots to the checkout.
The tables were nearly empty by 9:30. As we left the grounds we passed the fit young woman with the loaded wheelbarrow walking down the sidewalk with her friend while a boy on a bicycle circled ahead. I commented that she probably didn’t want to load bedding plants into her BMW, so she brought the wheelbarrow.
When we arrived home with our haul I realized that, apart from the Louvage, the only edible plants we had bought were a couple of Genovese Basil seedlings which are weeks from edibility. Then Mom explained that it’s way too early to plant any of the flowers, so they’ll get to spend some time indoors until soil conditions are right.
We could have stocked up on veggies! Next year.
In the meantime Bet and I need to learn the meaning of the following words: Blue Perennial Cornflower, Pink Lavatera (annual), Ground Plox (mauve), Ground Phlox (pink), Lillium Stargazer, Fillipendula (Queen of the Meadow).
What’s more, there’s another plant sale on May 21st at the Legion in Smiths Falls.
Sunday afternoon in the woodlot
February 21, 2011
Martin’s parents were visiting from Halifax and so he and Anne-Claire brought them to the farm. Bet and I were quite curious to see what combination of personalities would produce a character like Martin, so we looked forward to the visit.
André and Simonne Mallet came across as very nice people. We drifted into the garage, a year-long project where Martin had gained the early part of his building experience.
Turns out André has quite an interest in woodworking, so we talked tools until the house visit came up. Then came the woodlot tour. André pulled a hard-sided suitcase out of the trunk and opened it to reveal two sets of snowshoes. Immediately I saw where Martin gets the equipment fetish. His parents had packed two suitcases for the flight to Ontario, and one of them was for snowshoes. Turns out they hadn’t had a chance to use the new webs in two years of trying. Even an owl-spotting expedition on Wolfe Island the day before had been conducted on bare ground.
I assured them that a lack of snow would not be a problem in the woodlot today.
The clear, calm day proved perfect for tree hugging. The crust retained tracks from previous days, as well as the fresh marks in powder of recent passers-by. We had fun speculating as to whether one set of tracks was from a massive squirrel, a short-toed raccoon, or some mystery animal beyond our experience.
The turkeys seem to have taken over the woodlot for the winter. On one southern slope in the soft snow they literally tore the hill apart, digging into the leaf litter for whatever it is turkeys eat. Martin commented that it looked as if a herd of feral hogs had been loose in this area. The snow was soft and they were hungry, I guess. Turkeys are strong birds.
Turns out the wind that tore the shingles off the new garage last week also ripped into one of the trees in the woods. Scarred from the ice storm, this 24” black walnut seems to have had one dead root, for that section pulled out of the ground, spitting the trunk into two sections over about nine feet, leaving quite a mess. There’s still potential lumber in the wreckage, so it’s time to get the winch and saw out before the ground gets too muddy for skidding.
Martin and Charlie showed everyone the trees they tapped last winter, and while they were looking around Simonne pointed to an old nesting box left over from the plowing match: “Is that an owl in that box?”
Surely enough, there was a small owl standing in the duck-sized entrance to the box screwed twelve feet up the trunk of a maple tree. Martin sneaked in with a camera, then blew up the shot to show us. “It’s a screech owl, and it seems to be asleep. I want to get the binoculars and take a better picture through them.”
So off they dashed to the parking lot, father and son, sprinting across the butternut field on snowshoes. Fleet-footed Roz couldn’t resist the chase and took off after them, showing every sign of overtaking when Martin tripped head-over-heels and skidded to a halt. Up they were and off again. The rest of us walked back toward the house until Simonne spotted a pileated woodpecker placidly feeding at the top of a clump of basswoods.
They’re cheerful birds, and not very shy, so we stood and watched while Anne-Claire provided fun facts like, “Did you know a pileated woodpecker’s tongue is very long, and circles around its brain?”
I showed Simonne one of the resident red mulberry trees. She countered with a tale about the yellow raspberry bushes they have in New Brunswick, called gooseberries. The crew returned with the binoculars, Martin collected my camera again, and away they went for a photo-shoot with the dozing owl. Simonne joined the bird watch. Turns out the expedition on Wolfe Island had produced only two owl sightings, and the screech owl was the essential third tick to qualify the weekend as a success, in birding terms.
Somewhat later they returned to the shop and Martin handed me back my camera. On display was a remarkably large image of the small owl. Apparently, if you are determined, you can take a usable digital photograph through one lens of a pair of binoculars.
Over chili André and I compared fish from the Maritimes and Eastern Ontario, and talked about professional bass tournaments. The largemouth bass is an invasive species in much of the world, introduced by avid fishermen. In New Brunswick it threatens the brook trout, and so it isn’t looked upon with the favour it finds in Leeds County.
I asked if I could catch cod off a dock in Nova Scotia. Martin responded that very few docks adjoin 100’ of water, and the shallowest a cod will get is about 65’. Mackerel are available, though, and very fast on a light line, and his dad added that the rainbow trout fishing is excellent. It sounds as though we need to explore the Maritimes in the near future.
The Christmas Column
December 19, 2010
Last year at this time I wrote a piece about my beloved wife’s strange fondness for Christmas decorations and all of the frippery associated with the holiday season. Ever the seeker of balance, I tend to drift into the role of the “bah, humbug!” figure in the family narrative.
Mind you, in the early years we did have some epic expeditions “up home” to the area of the old Croskery homestead on MacAndrews Lane, where we found pine boughs in abundance. It was the journey, rather than the product, which we sought. Our VW Beetle made many runs up to Brady’s Lake with trailer attached in search of greenery for wreaths and centre-pieces.
Of course Christmas morning took on new interest when our son Charlie grew old enough to catch onto his mother’s enthusiasm for the morning of discovery. Fueled by the daily chocolate treats in an Advent calendar, he had shown considerable interest in this Santa Claus character.
But then he slept in.
In frantic-elf-mode Bet doesn’t sleep much on Christmas Eve, and as the morning wore on she only had Grover, our springer spaniel, for company. She couldn’t even open her own gifts, because I never seemed to get around to putting cards or tags on the things I had wrapped.
Finally, in desperation, Bet brought me coffee at 7:00 and woke the kid. “Oh. Is it morning?” Down the young mother dragged her son to the decorated tree by the wood stove below. Charlie obligingly accepted the wrapped box Bet handed him, opened it, discovered a desirable toy, and set about to play with it.
Striving hard to learn patience, Bet waited for his attention to veer off to other wrapped parcels, a pile of which were arranged suggestively around the boy’s seat on the floor. But Charlie’s considerable powers of concentration were focused on this new toy, and he saw no reason to look further.
But Bet was not without her wiles. Grover’s attention span was much shorter than Charlie’s, and when bored, Grover liked to amuse himself by latching onto one foot of Charlie’s sleepers and dragging him around the house to the accompaniment of his own growls. Grover was one garrulous mutt. I don’t know what Bet did to remind Grover of this charming habit, but before long Charlie skidded by the door, laughing, dragged by a large, growling spaniel. Soon both were back at the tree and the stack of gifts was attacked with renewed interest.
Grover’s gift this Christmas turned out to be a leather harness. Charlie received a red plastic sled to go with it – the kind with a moulded seat and two hand brakes at the sides. We plunked an oversized helmet on the kid, loaded him into the sled, and led Grover down a trail left by my snowmobile. Most dogs love to pull, and Grover proved untiring in his enthusiasm for this game.
The dog discovered that if he responded to my shouted instructions from behind, he would be allowed off the leash and he could really pull his little master along. It turned out that all the dog needed to know was “Gee!” “Haw!” “Whoa!” and “NO! Grover! NO!” (squirrels). The problem with a dogsled, of course, is the pileup which frequently occurs when the dog unexpectedly stops to sniff something. Three-year-old Charlie developed very quick hands on the brakes, and as a result Grover grew quite confident in his role. I still remember him a year or two later pulling Charlie through six inches of powder one day as we made our way from one set of trails to another.
This travel arrangement put considerable pressure on the father to keep up, so for three winters I did a lot of running on snowshoes along trails behind that sled.
Over the years not much has changed at Christmas. Bet still overdoes it on the presentation of Christmas treats, and a succession of spaniels have in their turn emptied a full pound of Turtles out of the dish on the coffee table – without ill-effects beyond a scolding.
Snowshoes and the Ranger have replaced the dogsled at Christmas now for the traditional hike in the woods, but if a grandchild comes along I have my heart set on a Bernese Mountain Dog. They use them to pull carts in Switzerland, and they’re known to be slow movers. I might just be able to keep up.
the Walnut Diary 