My family came together, Irish and Scots, north of Toronto to the east of Lake Simcoe. Now a mere 4 hour drive from where we lived all our lives, it was the area Mom and Dad lived, the relatives all farmers, their parents the first if the few who had left. My grandfathers were soldiers to me. Despite the fact that Dad's was WW1 he worked at a munitions factory until well after WW2, and my Mom's grandfather was a corporal/baker in an artillery unit on the east Coast of England near London for the duration. My Dad's brother was in the RCAF for a full tour, then with the RAF as a commissioned officer for the duration. The early years from the start to 56 or so seemed to me like the war was everywhere.

All our relatives of any consequence had farms. We spent the summers shipped off, and getting together. My father and brother lost their mother to cancer when they were under 5 and my grandfather never married. He painted railway bridges, then started a decorating business. The family method of caring for kids was to lend them. At 5, off goes Johnny to work on uncle Ned's farm. Work at 5, right. But Dad and the rest came up for 2 weeks of camping. The east field was cleared of sheep, there were picknick tables, and ww2 surplus tents. More leeches in that lake than weeds. Grandfather burned them off 3 shivering white/blue skinny boys with his cigarette, and we laughed if he found one up in "never never land" and had to be careful. If you missed one it turned huge and dark, parked against some part you wanted no one to touch."

Up at 4:30. Pump up a coal oil lantern. Bacon and eggs, cold milk, all skin and bones, John David, Thomas Mark, and Philip James. Prayers for the fishing. Dad hauled out his rod and reel, and the 3 of us had 12 foot long bamboo poles Dad had spent hours on, got them at the Rug Store where they came from the Far East around some rug and the owner gave them to Dad for a quarter each. He put black line around them, a leader, and a hook. We had worms he picked with us the night before. Shivering, that I remember. Treck over to the creek, climb the fence. We were supposed to be quiet, don't scare the fish. I'm 7 my youngest brother 4. Shhh...giggle.

As soon as it was light I'd make decision to scare up a frog. You'd hook that through the snout and catch a nice bass for breakfast, or wander up the creek without you moron brother mad at the 'squitos. Bull Frogs the size of dinner plates, fun to catch, but we didn't eat frog legs at the time...LOL. Finally a frog, try and get it and the torch (flashlight) back to Dad. The light would come up and we'd have 4 or 5 keepers and we'd go back, Uncle Ned had a cleaning table by the water. Mom and one of the girls up, the other still in her belly, the 5 of us waiting in the dewy July morning for Uncle Ned. Fresh warm milk from the separator. A quart of cream. Fresh hot bread, just made. We'd have more toast by the fire. Eating breaded smallmouth, eggs, drinking warm milk, the sun slowly getting us warmed up for a day of driving to other farms, other relatives, new bees nests, a day old calf at Uncle Dan's or a litter of pigs at Uncle Angus's. Food and huge gardens. Haylofts and sunlight on the bales, jumping where we shouldn't. Scraped knees. Old great aunts in rockers peeling potatoes, Uncle Angus smoking a pipe, hat on in the house over a whisp of hair, checked shirt, old cane chair with captain's arms, reading the farmer's news. He was a former member of parliament, a big shot amongst farmers, you'd have never know it. Few words. He only took the pipe out to eat or spit, or go to church. Suspenders over bony shoulders, could fix any machine in an hour Dad said. Spoke Gaelic to his wife. He died at 90, no pipe for the last year, the lip cancer got him, way too young my Grandad said. Men in Islay used to always go over 100. Hm..or drowned or starved I think..however. Uncle Angus would start a hymn, pull out the pipe while lighting it, the women folk and my parents would start it up, and he'd stop, stick the pipe in his mouth and listen. Potatoes for every meal, along with gravy. Never heard the words hard times. Some stuff grew, others didn't. The green beans by the house were no good this year, black spots, but Uncle Dan has bushels, they shared.

I was explaining the logistics of Dad making the fishing poles. Now I can see him out the back of the house, on a couple of saw horses. We got the first car in 54, before that we piled in my Grandparent's car, 7 of us. That was a 51 Dodge. I remember going to get the bamboo canes, they went into the trunk. Given that the trunk was under 5 feet long, those 12 foot fishing rods were really about 3 feet long. I discussed this with the TV turned off as my youngest brother was here the other night. The hockey game was between periods, I muted it. We agreed, the 12 foot pole was due to being less than 3 feet tall or whatever. We also wondered why we never did that stuff with our kids. Are they lost?

As we left the farm they sang "Abide with me". Mom sang alto. My Dad tried to carry the tune in a washbin, a bucket wouldn't have fit.

It's funny cause Dad looks like Uncle Angus now. Never smoked. Never drank. He has a hymn book from the Baptist church, he's now 62 years as treasurer though my second brother does most of the work, Dad goes every Monday to count the cash and do the bank deposit. 83 years old. He gets out the hymn book and stares at the words, and starts to sing. On tune, in pitch, in time. He's stone deaf, must explain it.

The hard part is what to do with them next. Living alone, in a building run by the Sally Anne, a trendy condo complex with all the amenities, but they need housekeeping and Mom needs nursing. According to Mom I'm the rock, the real leader, the family cornerstone, and religion didn't teach the other 4 kids how to be caring children, they live only for themselves. Odd that. Mom's lost it mostly, say the word weather, and she's singing stormy weather with 'other words about no button on his fly he's got a zipper, cause my man and I think it's quicker"...then she slaps herself. Bad woman! Then you say something else, and it's "That's the story of that's the glory of LLLOOOOVEEEE", you can hear her down the all. My father grins, the hearing aids are out. Wow.

Now maybe I can sleep?

I think of those army cots, the old tents, the treck to the outhouse, the cobwebs, the cold dewy nights, and I'm comfy here in the hotel style double sized cotton white housecoat the wife got me for christmas. Must have been a premonition.

ZZZZZZZZ zz z z z z z. (I hope).

John Conley
Musica est vita