marie: Date: 4/15/2010
Comments: SAND BEACH CONTINUED ...
THE HENS
Most families in Sand Beach had a small hen house and hen coop. Inside
the henhouse were shelf-like roosts lined with straw for the nests hens
used to lay their eggs. A barrel lain on its side was used for the
“broody” hen who stayed in it for a long time to hatch her chicks.
The spacious hen coop was enclosed with chicken wire, and I recall seeing
small pieces of shell from lobsters, clams and other nutritious bits on
the ground for hens to peck at.
Hens made us laugh sometimes when they were pecking at something and
then would begin to scratch the ground and weeds with their funny feet.
It was fun for us to see them.
One of the worst times for us children was when we observed for the
first time how a hen was selected, then killed and prepared for a special
dinner. We watched and even giggled nervously at seeing the hen’s
head and body held over the chopping block, the swift swing of the hatchet
and the hen’s sudden odd display: the headless creature’s dizzy prance
around the back yard leaving splats of blood on the shavings around the
woodpile until it stopped and fell motionless --not among our best memories.
--------------------------
As we know, nearly every household kept a cow or two, had a pasture
and a barn. So, at the gate to the pasture, there were long removable “cow-bars”
and these were kept shiny all summer long by children who used them to
do what, at that time, was called “stunts”, twirling and spinning over
and under the bars like acrobats. We children spent a great deal
of our summer days on those bars.
As well, children were familiar with what we naturally called “cow flats”,
some old and dry and others that looked old and dry. Wherever we walked
in the pasture we sometimes sank our sneakers down into the fresher ones!
And when War was declared in 1939, we children noticed that the Army
used a “khaki” color for their military uniform, a color close to what
we sometimes stepped into by mistake, so the new word “khaki” seemed to
fit in very well with our ever-increasing kid-fun vocabulary.
Wartime in Sand Beach
(for me, almost an oxymoron)
I remember the time of construction of the Yarmouth airport with its
modest landing strip. It was not a war port, just a kind flying field,
if I am not mistaken. Work on it began in the late 1930s, “up by Starr’s
Road” we were told. The road was not yet paved and in Spring was quite
muddy, yet people went there to view the new construction. It was
not long afterwards that war in Europe was declared, and this was a ‘life-changing’
moment for the whole world. Little Sand Beach rolled up its collective
sleeves right along with the rest of the world. Men enlisted and others
were “called up” and drafted. Some women joined the forces, and were called
the Waves, Wrens, Wacks, and so on. Many civilian women played the
part of Rosie the Riveter (–she was very well portrayed on a magazine cover
by Norman Rockwell).
Many of our fathers volunteered as air-raid (black-out) wardens, and
our mothers who belonged to the Women’s Institute got busier than ever.
They dutifully studied their newly issued little black First Aid book,
learning all they could in case of emergency. They practised making and
applying bandages and slings from yards of unbleached cotton, and studied
how to stop bleeding and to give basic treatments in any event.
Children proudly collected “tea lead” from packages of Red Rose tea,
and lead in any form, to bring to school to help the war effort. At that
time even toothpaste tubes were made of lead. Children played with little
lead soldiers, toy motorcycles and small lead farm animals.
Also every household had a milk container called a “creamer” and those
had at the bottom a lead pouring tap for milk, while the cream stayed at
the top floating above the milk line. Lead was not known to be so harmful
back then, as far as I know.
Most oil paint contained some lead. None of that abundance of
lead seemed to harm us children in those times, but today its use is largely
banned.
In wartime, women and older girls knit khaki winter clothing for soldiers
to help the “war effort”.
These additional wartime jobs meant that nearly every home, even in
Sand Beach, had a modest supply of khaki wool yarn, unbleached cotton,
boxes of sterile gauze and cotton batting, iodine, mercurochrome,
rolls of unforgiving “sticking plaster” (-which was almost as adhesive
as our contact cement or crazy glue – if only certain modern band-aids
had more of the holding power of that old-fashioned sticking plaster, but
on second thought, it’s merciful that it doesn’t.)
Added~~~~~April 17, 2010
Yarmouth became one of the training bases for men in the Army, and at
that time, unbeknownst to me, my future husband (from PEI) was one of them!
A story he told me was that every Sunday those who went to Mass at St.
Ambrose had Church Parade, from Parade Street over to Albert Street. Father
Penny, native of Newfoundland, was pastor at St Ambrose during those years,
and he was a great friend of the soldiers. He often invited them to his
house (the Glebe HOuse on Albert Street) to play cards. Every Sunday
after Mass he provided a breakfast for for those who had come to Mass,
and before their march back to Parade Street. Ladies of the parish prepared
and served the men, and all the while Father Penny was removing his clerical
vestments and chatting with the men before they would leave under the orders
of a very fine Commander, Lucien d'Entremont. (He was married to a Rose
Deveau and they lived in Salmon River, NS.)
Father Penny had a big Newfoundland dog that as gentle and loveable
as he was big! Children loved that dog and he liked being patted
by them.
Father Penny was a very friendly person. He came to visit our family
before my brother and I made our first Communion, to find out if we were
ready. Our father would not let him leave without a gift, either a chicken
or two ready to be roasted, or beautiful big dahlias for the altar.
GRANDMERE
Grandmere Doucette made my first communion dress by cutting down the
white dress our mother was married in, and it was beautiful! Grandmere
would pull out one of her big fancy kitchen chairs, she would look at me
and say, "Monte", and I would climb up and hang on with both hands as she
pulled and tucked and pinned, as my mother stood by and watched, not having
much to add to whatever Grandmere said or did. Grandmere was an accomplished
seamstress and taylor. She was a quiet woman who knew all about very large
family and about very hard work, inside and outside. I am so proud of our
Grandmere Rosalie! But it took decades for me to acquire a proper understanding
of her sterling qualities.
She taught all her children all the necessary jobs, inside and outside,
boys and girls alike. Her sons all learned to hem and cuff their own trousers,
to darn socks neatly, how to press wool pants and suit coats properly,
how to wash and iron their own white shirts, how to starch collars and
cuffs and to press them so as to leave not a hint of a wrinkle in them!
She taught them all to make and bake bread, to cook and bake all the basic
meals, and how to keep a house clean and ship shape! I like to think that
Grandmere was tiny but mighty. She had a deep conviction of it being vitally
important for French people to speak their mother tongue, to maintain their
language, religion and culture.
Little did I know that her conviction and the fact of my becoming rapidly
anglicised would be the cause of a huge clash between Grandmere and me.
That is a sad story but it has an amazingly happy ending. That story will
come next. marie
Added~~~~~April 18, 2010
Grandmere and the Mother Tongue, Acadian French.
At the same time that my siblings and I were becoming rapidly anglicized,
we learned that our becoming so was causing a huge barrier between us and
Grandmere Rosalie (Surette) Doucette. She and Grandpere Theodore came in
1912 with their very large family from Wedgeport to live in Sand Beach,
in a big square house that was only five places up from the Horton House,
but on the opposite side of the road.
And how ironic it was that our family settled on the opposite side
of the road –with our anglicization that caused so much grief on both sides
of our friendly dirt road. The road was lucky it could just lie there in
the middle of things, oblivious to the growing chagrin.
I like to imagine that if the Sand Beach roads could talk, what stories
they would tell! One true story is paramount in my memory, because
it takes in so much about culture conflicts, about losing our baby French
and about my lifelong and deeply troubled relationship with my dearly loved
but estranged Grandmere Rosalie.
For example, a few short years after our parents moved to Sand Beach,
we children were old enough to start school. We had already become acquainted
with some of the neighbour children, most of whom were a little older than
we were, and they enjoyed telling us new things, initiating us, especially
in anything fascinating and fun.
~~~~~~
THE WYMAN ROAD “WITCH”
One day my best friend told me in very serious tones that a real witch
lived down Wyman Road, a real witch! She dressed all in black from
head to toe, was tall and thin, wore a black hood over her head and a black
shawl over her shoulders, wore a long black coat that went right to the
ground and her boots and stockings were black.
I kind of knew what my friend meant by “witch”, since we had read in
school the story Hansel and Gretel and the old witch who lived in the woods
and lured children with sweets, caged and fattened them, then cooked and
ate them! The witch was friendly and charming in the beginning, but that
was only to fool children, she was really mean and would steal you and
eat you up!
~~~~~~
At school one day a little girl I liked very much, and who lived a
short distance down Wyman Road, asked me to take my doll and go down to
her house to play with her. We could see her house from our back
yard, and my mother said I could go for a little while, so I took my doll
and started for Wyman Road.
I was not quite as far as Ralph Martinelli’s bungalow when all at once
I spied the WITCH! I had forgotten all about her! And now here she
was, right before me! She had just come up over the little hill in the
road and there she was, and there I was!
But, somewhat comforting, I noticed that she was not wearing a pointed
or peaked black hat like the real witch wore in the Reader, so I doubted
that she was the real witch. Timidly I continued walking, hugging
my doll tighter, and at last I came right in front of this pleasant looking
woman.
“I-ou’s-tu va avec ta catonne?” was what I heard.
Now, I have to say, here and now, that my father was from Wedgeport
but my mother from East Pubnico, and their French accents were quite different.
In Pubnico the word “catin” would not have had the ‘onne’ sound on the
end of it, but more the “an” sound on the ending. But I had never heard
the word “catin” or “catonne” before! In Pubnico, the French word for doll
was “poupet” or like a puppet. I had never heard any other.
I felt sure the woman was referring to my doll but I was afraid if I
assumed so, and answered her in English, she might continue the conversation
in French and I would be stumped for sure. And I had never seen her before,
had no idea who she was!
I was not terribly afraid, but confused, knowing that “I-ou’s-tu va
avec” meant where are you going with, but that other word, catonne, I wondered:
Was that a trick of a real witch, trying to trick me? I was very nervous
and confused.
I know now, in adult hindsight, there were better ways for me to let
her know I was unfamiliar with the word catonne, but in my nervousness,
I tried to get out of the situation by saying to her simply, “I don’t speak
French”, meaning I cannot speak French.
Well! Why did I not say, rather, I CANNOT speak French very well, then
she might have understood and been less offended, but that was not the
end of it by far! From then onward I was in very big trouble! All because
of that Wyman Road ‘witch”!
~~~~~~~
Around that time, a man from West Pubnico, Desire d’Eon, started a
wonderful little newspaper that he called Le Petit Courrier, which carried
little news from many French-speaking communities. Every household subscribed,
or borrowed and exchanged copies of it. Grandmere would pass her
copy to our parents when she was finished with it. Our father or
mother would stop in for it on their way home from town, or my brother
and I would be sent to ask for it: always in FRENCH!
Our mother helped us memorize what we were to say, and for me it was
something like: “Grandmere, Mama vay le pity coor-yea, si voo plah.”
So Grandmere would hand it to one of us, with a grunt of “tan” (or “tiens”).
One time our mother stopped in at Grandmere’s to see if she was finished
with her Courrier, and she was. But she gave my mother an earful
and I got it after that when my mother said indignantly:
“The nerve of you acting so big feeling and telling Tante Rose when
she met you on the road and asked you where you were going, that you stuck
your nose up in the air and sassed her with --(and repeated to me with
special un-dreamed of emphases)--:
‘I - don’t SPEAK French!”
Ohh, ohh, what did I do now! And who was Tante Rose?! Did we have
a Tante Rose living down Wyman Road? Why didn’t somebody tell us that –
and so much more that we didn’t know?!
Grandmere was so indignant and said to my mother, who repeated it to
me, and translated it for me:
“Si a’n’ veut pas me parler en francais, je n’ lui parle plu!”
And stubborn she was, and she never did speak to me again, except once
when she was moving from Sand Beach to Halifax after the war started.
She called my brother and me over to her house on our way home from
St. Ambrose, and gave us each a small statue, my brother’s was of St Joseph
and mine was our Holy Mary. “Casse le point!” she said.
I walked along the ditch, fell down and broke in two pieces my special
souvenir of Grandmere! I became very said over that and blamed myself for
everything bad that was happening all the time. Life was not fun any longer!
What on earth was wrong!
I did get to my friend’s house down Wyman Road that day, but never had
a chance to mention the ‘witch” because this little girl had been given
a batch of quilt samples, pretty pieces of good quality cotton print. I
loved them all!
Right away, she asked me which one I liked best. There was a beautiful
material in white on top and I said the white one. “Nope, that’s mine;
you have to pick a different one.
This one?” I said “Nope”, and the game continued to the very last sample,
and I still said nope, stubbornly.
And she, just as stubborn, said “Alright, then “git home”! So I took
my doll and went straight home and that was the last of my trips down Wyman
Road until our new baby sister was born in December 1940. That time some
of our cousins took in my brother and me for the duration and gave us lovely
home made strawberry jam, all we wanted! Unforgettable!
''Yes, we were a stubborn lot and I vowed to myself that one day before
I die I am going to learn French and be able to understand it, even on
the radio, to speak it, to read and if possible, to write in French!
In 1989 I started learning French conversation and continued taking
various French courses until 1994 when I had been studying in Moncton for
the summer and stayed on for the Congres Mondial acadien! "
My husband and youngest daughter came over from PEI and we stayed in
Moncton and took in as much of the amazing Congres as possible.
At the very end, after the Grand Spectacle, which was so wonderful,
so unforgettable, we were leaving the grounds with a huge throng of Acadians
from all around the world. It was dark by then and with the crowd one could
hardly see the ground. My feet got caught in something, and when I told
my husband to wait, he bent over and picked up a very large cloth banner
that had in big bold letters: SURETTE!
Tears came into the eyes of both of us, my brown French eyes and my
husband’s blue Irish eyes! And he said to me with great emotion:
“Marie, this is your Grandmother,
Rosalie Surette Doucette saying that now, at last, she’s proud of you!”
That was my biggest healing moment! I knew Grandmere and Tante Rose
not only understood, from their lofty vantage point, but also were happy
that our Mother Tongue is still alive and well, and so easy for me now!
At that moment I felt so close to Grandmere and I knew that I was now
ready to do research on our Acadian ancestors, now that I could read our
story in our mother tongue!
More than that, I am extremely grateful that our grandparents were so
stubborn as to insist that we not lose our French language, and that we
know how to communicate in French.
Tante Rose had been a Muise, and she was married to a brother of Grandpere
Theodore. I learned that from the Wedgeport book, but that book is in English,
whereas the new book of Pubnico families (2010) comes to us in French,
but now I usually never notice the difference, whether I’m reading English
or French!
How grateful I am for Grandmere and for the opportunities given me to
learn what was lost so early in life.
Sincerely, Marie
Comments: EASTER TIME IN SAND BEACH Date: 3/29/2010
At Easter time in the 1930s school was closed during Holy Week, from
Palm Sunday to Easter Monday. When we became old enough to go to
school, for days before the school break we had colored Easter baskets
and eggs, cut them out and brought them home to give to our parents as
a surprise Easter card.
Most families went to the special church services held all through the
week in various Christian denominations. Stores were closed on Good Friday
and people who were not able to go to church prayed in their homes, trying
to keep silence, especially from noon to three o’clock, the hours when
Jesus hung dying on the cross. Most Christians who were able, in a spirit
of penance and renewal, had given up eating certain foods such as meat
and sweets from Ash Wednesday until Holy Saturday, the vigil of the great
feast of Easter.
What joy when that great day arrived! Easter eggs, real eggs!
Hens had started laying and eggs were plentiful, and to our delight, children
were told that on Easter morning we were free to eat as many of them as
we wanted. Excitedly, we ‘talked big’, saying that --if Easter ever
got here– we were going to eat five or six eggs, but most of us were stunted
after only two of the soft boiled wonders. At a very young age we called
boiled eggs ‘coque-coques’, and I can still hear our father and mother
coaching us to “mange ton coque-coque.”
One year, probably 1935, Grandpere and Grandmere had bought us each
a little white porcelain egg cup that had a thin gold line around it, real
gold, we believed. How precious and lasting a gift it was! And how exciting
it was for us, as we got older, to have a special little holder for our
egg at Easter.
Another year our father bought us each a small cup and saucer that was
filled with small Easter candies. The whole thing, saucer and all, was
wrapped in cellophane that was either pink, mauve, yellow or pale green.
One year our mother gave each of us a small fluffy yellow toy chick that
had orange wire feet and could be made to stand up. They looked like
the real chicks our father had in the incubator down in the hennery. They
had bright and shiny little black eyes and orange beak. Our mother
said they were so cute she wanted to buy them for us, and she bought some
marshmallow filled candy eggs which we found in a bowl on the dining room
table. Those were delightful Easter gifts and so treasured by us for many
years.
I recall thinking about our parents and grandparents, and wondering
how they –as “old people”-- would know what would be the right gift for
us children. How would they know what little gifts would delight
us? They never seemed very interested in children’s things, but at Easter
they seemed to know somehow the best way to reach the hearts of little
ones, reach them in a way that would last a lifetime, long after they themselves
had passed on. Those are a few of the heartfelt gifts we receive
in life from those who love us, and whom we hold forever in our dearest
memories.
Mothers everywhere made sure all their little girls had a new dress
or skirt and blouse, new socks and a Easter bonnet or pretty hat to wear
to church Easter Sunday morning. Sometimes new outfits were home
made, and some items of children’s wear could be purchased at the Royal
Store, while ankle socks and hair ribbons could be found in the Five-&-Ten,
up town. Main Street in Yarmouth was a busy and happy place to visit on
shopping day, it was like mile long meeting place because most shoppers
in town knew one another.
Each year at church the boys looked so handsome in their new white shirts,
little neckties and neatly pressed short pants and knee socks. Their shining
hair was neatly parted and combed over to one side. How on earth these
rough and tumble fellows were able to look and act so gentlemanly for a
whole day was always a puzzle for timid little me, as I wondered: “If they
can be so civil on Easter Sunday, how come they are so rough and rowdy
all the rest of the year?” Already as a young child I was learning very
gradually about how our daddy had got to be so big and strong, and eventually
I began to see that it was all OK, that everything was as it is supposed
to be.
Everybody was all ‘decked out’ for Easter. For church, all the
mothers wore a pretty hat, dress and Spring coat, and were imitated by
their daughters. In those days mothers often “made-do” with their last
year’s Easter wardrobe in order to provide better for their children.
Our father was one of the choir members at St Ambrose. He would take
us up in the choir loft with him when our mother had to stay home with
the little ones. The singing was beautiful Gregorian chant, especially
the Gloria, when the bells rang, statues were un-draped of their lenten
purple, flowers everywhere, and liturgical singing nearly all in Latin.
Some psalms were sung in lovely harmony, all male voices. I especially
loved Vespers and hearing the Magnificat by men of the parish. It was so
special to hear this music, to see the beautifully ornate vestments, the
sacred vessels, the lighted candles and the pervading smell of incense
from the censer (or thurible) that were used at evening Benediction. Those
were times of greatest awe and wonder, and the lasting effects of it all
are most difficult to describe in plain language. All this went together
so well with our pleasant walk home back to Sand Beach with our father,
on a dry and smooth dirt sidewalk and on a most perfect Spring evening.
Daffodils and crocuses here and there and Spring Peepers out singing
their praises in harmony with the season.
After dinner, on Easter afternoon neighbour children gathered on the
front doorsteps and started telling one another about our special morning.
One boy told of snaring rabbits and of having eaten rabbit pie for dinner!
A small girl cried out: “You ATE the Easter Bunny?!” We were so serious
about everything but we were still learning about life around us, new things
every day!
This is enough for now. Happy Easter Everyone!
Marie
Date: 2/23/2010
Comments: Horton House, Sand Beach in early 1930s
My two brothers and I were ages 5, 3 & 1 when our family moved into
the Horton House in Sand Beach in the Spring of 1934, and there we lived,
explored, grew up and learned new things until May 1941 when our father
was transferred to Halifax by Canada Customs.
Someone said a Mr. Fisher had been living there before us, and he had
a little store in the front room facing the dirt road; the room with the
‘store’ was at the north side of the house. The large empty room
still had some removable shelves standing up against the rear wall, and
on the bottom shelf we children found a delightful surprise, a small flat
box that contained new green packages of Doublemint gum –a whole boxful!
We had never seen gum before, but my elder brother and I liked the minty
smell and taste. We chewed but it would not dissolve, so we swallowed gobs
of it and went for more –until our mother caught us with the empty wrappers,
and our new-found fun vanished in an instant –never to be repeated. When
we were older our dad made spruce gum from trees which made for healthier
and stronger teeth.
~~~~~~~~
There was so much to explore, inside and outside. The house had
three exits and two entry ways: front door toward the road, side door toward
the back yard, and another exit-way from the back porch down to the woodshed
where winter wood was kept and where kindling wood was cut each evening,
also a 3-seater outhouse –a lower seat for small children. Still
under the same indoor passage-way a little further on, there was a milking
stall with place for milking stool and milk pails.
There was a “hennery” (a place “used to house domestic fowl”), which
was a long well-ordered building that held our dad’s several dozen Plymouth
Rock hens of which he was so proud -- some gray and some white-- and it
had special round incubators for hatching chicks, and places for gathering
fresh eggs, sometimes double-yolked ones, to our added delight.
There was a separate larger barn down toward pasture, with spaces for
a horse stall, cows, pig pen, garden plow, grass mower, scythes, cart,
wheelbarrow, and whatever else came with the place. The hennery had
many windows all along the south side of the long structure. How tempting
it was for a child heading to the meadow for blueberries, long-handled
dipper in hand, to bat out several of those more reachable small panes
of glass! And how keenly felt, a few swats with said dipper across
a small boy's corduroy covered bottom! Part of his restitution was to help
soften with his little hands, lots of smelly putty our father used for
securing replacements. At times on rainy days we would play in woodshed,
or inside the entrance to the hennery, but our most fun was inside the
house itself on those days.
[There are still some places “Up the Bay” around Church Point
and those older places that have a covered structure from the house to
the main barn, all under the one extended roof, and over the decades those
structures always reminded me of the Horton place in Sand Beach in the
early 1930s.]
~~~~~~~
In season, the stonewall that separated the back yard from the pasture
and meadow, was covered with beautifully perfumed climbing Honeysuckle,
and later on, large juicy blackberries. In front of the stone wall was
an apple tree that produced a profusion of sweet-smelling apple blossoms
every Spring. Often I climbed on top of the stone wall and studied the
blossoms very closely for a long time.
I came to know the beauty God gave these simple creatures, not only
their beauty in shape, structure and colour, but especially their captivating
scent.
These were all new experiences for us children; the universe was opening
up to us a little at a time and it was so beautiful and exciting, inspired
in us such wonder and awe. Before long we were old enough to notice
our first yard full of yellow dandelion and later on an abundance of daisies
and then golden buttercup. The meadow was almost carpeted in spots
with lovely purple violets, and down along the rocky and dusty road the
ditches were lined with rainbow shades of tall and majestic lupins! They
looked like slender princesses in their glorious pastel gowns. 
[In case the reader thinks my description is too one-sided, too
idyllic, I must say there were the uglier experiences too, such as getting
hen droppings on our clothes, or worse, that of cats! sneakers stuck in
cow flats, June bugs upstairs in the house, mouse in the porch in a rubber
boot! Spankings for disobedience, mischief, or for fighting with one another,
for being “sassy” and for sticking out our tongue at a temporarily un-favorite
adult after some confrontation, and so on! But everybody goes through that
other natural side of life, so that here we portray some balance, perhaps.]
When we were old enough to go to school, we saw in places along the
roadway long stretches of friendly alders from which some very fine whistles
and pea-shooters were made. The ‘peas’ for the shooters grew by the wayside
as well, little “bee-bees” the tiny seeds were called, and most boys kept
a pocket full of them. Some called them “mouse peas”. (Picture is
of Beach Peas)
~~~~~~~ Continued..
Click To Enlarge Picture
|
The boy on the pony was one of the Jenkins children. Zeno and I visited
them and that's the time they gave us some of the rose bush, and Mrs Jenkins
kindly gave us this lovely picture. It shows the back of the big square
house Grandpa Theodore Doucette lived in and where my father, Wallace,
grew up, so I was delighted to have this picture. That picture was
given me in the 1970s by Mrs Jenkins, whose family was living in the big
house in Sand Beach that my grandparents had lived in from 1912 until the
onset of the second world war in 1939 |
Horton House, Sand Beach in early 1930s Part 2
Our Jersey cow gave all the milk, cream, butter and buttermilk needed
for our family. We children watched in awe while our father, and sometimes
our mother, milked the gentle "Bossy" who looked at us with her big brown
eyes. We children were taught to respect the three-legged stool that our
father kept hanging way up high on a spike ever since the day he had to
hunt for it. We had taken it for our makeshift play house in the woodshed.
Other spikes there held an interesting assortment of old horseshoes, pieces
of rope, leather harness and whatnot.
~~~~~~~~~
Our dad had an iron "last", or shoe form, for repairing leather shoes
for all the family, and many a time we watched as he tacked on a new leather
half-sole over the old one that had a hole worn right through it. The iron
last had two sizes, one side for adult shoes and the other end for children's
and ladies’ small sizes. It was such a treat to have new soles on our worn
shoes, and new hard rubber "lifts" put on the run-down heels. For us it
was better than having a brand new pair.
Mostly everything one can name, that was in every day use, was hand
made in those days, including furniture, and clothing, so every homestead
had tools and whatever was needed to work with in order to produce all
that was required.
Meals were cooked at home and ordinarily all the family ate together
seated around the kitchen table, which was so welcoming with its pretty
flowered oilcloth. But on Sundays in summertime and during Christmas time
and special days, our family usually ate in the dining room with its large
table covered with a special linen tablecloth. Both parents were good cooks,
but especially our father who, at a young age, had apprenticed at hotels
and restaurants in Boston,.
For dessert on Sundays our mother would cut up a bowl of orange sections
and sprinkle sugar over them, a very special treat. Other special days
there might be each a piece of cake or dish of bread pudding, all made
in the oven of our big iron kitchen stove.
[I cannot resist stating an opinion now, in 2010, that no cake or pudding
of today, in fact no meal whatsoever, tastes as good and rich and wholesome
as those made in the 1930s. In fact, nothing we call food today tastes
anything like real food as we knew it before the war when everything produced
was still pure and simple.]
~~~~~~~~~~
The Horton House must have been quite elegant in its early days, and
seemingly built for a well-to-do family. Inside, there were two sets of
stairs, back and front. The back stairs off the kitchen led to servants
quarters above, while the front led to the master’s quarters. A magnificent
front stairway boasted a shapely wide railing –one that we children would
find perfect for sliding down! The stair steps ended in a wide curve at
the bottom and the fancy railing followed suit. It ended in a circular
form, leaving a flat round stand upon which an arriving gentleman could
momentarily set his hat while removing his overcoat –or, upon which a child
could sit after having slid down the rail to the bottom, before leaping
with a thump to the hall floor.
Under the front stairway was a spacious closet with large shelves but
no light, so when the door was closed it was very dark inside, and a nice
hiding place. Former tenants had stored there several dozens of wonderful
magazines. When I discovered those, I would go un-noticed to sit in there
for a long time, leaving the door open just enough to see the colored pictures
in those magazines, one after another.
One day my mother tried to punish me for being disobedient, so she sent
me into that closet and closed the door –until I would apologize, which
I stubbornly refused to do. She said she would leave me there until I conformed,
which I was determined I would not do.
I was not afraid, because the place was so familiar to me, and those
magazines I considered my friends, so I pulled them from their stacks and
spread them all over the closet floor and lay down on top of them and was
ready to spend the rest of my life there, I thought.
After a while, my mother. curious about my silence, opened the door
a bit and peeped in and saw me lying there contented. She ordered me to
re-stack the magazines, which I started doing just because I wanted to.
The door remained open and the whole issue was soon forgotten.
[The big "issue" was that we children were just beginning to learn English.
Too young for school, we had to pick up the language of our neighbours
from their children.
One neighbour girl told me my "yes" was too Frenchy-sounding. She coached
me: "Don’t say ‘yiss’or "yess", say ya-ass!
So I learned to say ya-ass, but my mother did not like the sound of
that pronunciation one bit, so she told me to say "yes". But I would not,
thinking it sounded "too Frenchy", and I could not understand her disdain
for my way of saying it.
So she would leave me in the dark magazine closet under the main stairs,
until I would say "yes". I would not make myself sound Frenchy on purpose,
and risk being ridiculed for it by neighbourhood children.
I think perhaps children instinctively obey peers rather than parents
where there is conflict of popular opinion. Anyway, by the time I was a
student at school I dropped the ya-ass and learned to say yes like everybody
else.
And in order to be able to read my Acadian history, I had to study hard
to learn French (for the first time)–which I did do with firm determination
after a fierce struggle with Grandmere Rosalie who insisted I speak in
French or she would not talk to me any more. But I could not speak French
and she didn’t believe it, so that, broken-hearted over Grandmere’s stubbornness,
I, with equal stubbornness vowed to study French one day, which I did do
in later years. All my thanks to Grandmere Rosalie Doucette!]
I think now that my mother was secretly proud of me for being more stubborn
than she was! That is my main and fond vivid memory of the front hall closet
under the big stairway.
~~~~~~~~~
While the front hall stairs went up to the large and bright rooms in
the front part of the house, a narrow closed-in one from the back porch
took one up to the servant quarters toward the back. My parents used some
of those rooms for storing trunks and suitcases and other things they were
keeping for use at some future time. Also, it was a great place for us
children to play Farm, Soldiers, or Chinese checkers and Jacks, or color
in our coloring books when we couldn’t be outside. My own favorite playthings
were dolls and paper dolls, tea sets and coloring books. My brothers liked
what they called "funny books" (comic books) and Big-Little books.
~~~~~~~~
The Horton house had two fine pantries, the regular large one just off
the kitchen, with space for a barrel of flour and large breadboard, breadbox,
and all the necessary cooking and baking supplies. Cookware was hung up
on special hooks that were fastened to sturdy boards high up on the wall
that kept the pots and pans visible and handy, yet out of the way.
There was also what we children learned was called a "butler’s pantry".
It was between the kitchen and the dining room. We asked lots of questions
about butlers and why a man had a pantry, but we still could not identify
with any of it, but it was fascinating for our imagination.
?
We were satisfied that we had access to this pantry’s two wonderful
swinging doors. The door next to the kitchen had a small cut-out door with
a slide opener and a small shelf just large enough for a platter of food,
The door that swung into the dining room had a small peep hole affair at
average height for the butler to peer through to keep watch over every
need and desire of his table guests. All this I tucked away in memories,
and they are still there, only to resurface now, for some strange reason!
Mainly thanks to this wonderful website that gives me such freedom to tell
my Horton House Story "as is".
We children heard stories about wealthy people having lived there and
were served by a hired butler and at least one maid. Servants could walk
from the kitchen and through the butler pantry with trays of prepared meals,
right into dining room without having to stop to turn a door knob. They
only had to slip through them somehow, tray held high and steady.
The shelves in the butler pantry were wide and deep, and in times gone
by they surely held a variety of fine chinaware sets, goblets, silverware,
linens, white cotton gloves, candles, wines, and so on. The floor had a
hatch that led to a small wine cellar down under the floor where it was
cool.
When our family lived there, the varnished shelves, cabinets and drawers
were empty, and the place was dark. There was a light bulb hanging from
the ceiling on a length of yellowish asbestos-covered and twisted electrical
cord, and the light had a beaded pull chain. But there was no light, no
electric hookup when we were there, we had only kerosene lamps and candles.
The kitchen had electric switch buttons on the wall near two of the doors,
the top button was white, and when it was pushed in, the light was supposed
to go on. The black button just below the white one was to shut off the
light. Try as we might, we could not get those buttons to work, no matter
how many times we pushed those buttons in. Now another story, one of my
favorite memories, and it too takes in the butler pantry!
When one of the new babies came along –about 1936 in the summertime,
our other Grandma, Mary Elizabeth Amirault, came from Center East Pubnico
to Sand Beach to stay with us for a few days. During that time a powerful
thunderstorm arose, something Grandma did not like one bit, and it made
her very nervous. She looked for a place without windows where she could
wait out the storm. She took me with her, took a stool for her to sit on
and I had the highchair, because I was only five.. Our arms rested on the
top of the buffet counter where Grandma had placed a lighted candle that
was kept in a metal holder. She put that in front of her and took from
her purse a small bottle of holy water and her rosary beads, blessed herself,
sprinkled everything with holy water, and started to pray in French while
I sat there in silence with her, and without moving. Sometimes the crashing
sound would interrupt her prayer and I’d hear her counting, cinq, six,
sept, to see if the storm was still coming or going away.
We saw none of the bright flashes of lightning but the thunder boomed
and echoed for miles out over the Atlantic from whence it came. I wonder
if it was that day when I absorbed her phobia that lasted for several decades,
until I decided how useless it is to be afraid of it or to worry about
it. That is my most vivid memory of the butler’s pantry in the Horton House
in Sand Beach.
Horton House, Sand Beach in early 1930s Part 3
The kitchen and dining room had access to each other through other doors
as well. It was a most interesting house for us children to explore!
The dining room when we lived there was my favorite place, perhaps because
it had become our family room. In winter a heat stove called a "base burner"
that looked like a pot-bellied stove, kept the whole room, and us, warm
and comfortable. My first memory of it was the time my father carried me
downstairs wrapped in a blanket, and settled me down in a highchair just
a few feet from the base burner. He came from the kitchen with a saucer
of warm porridge and placed it on the little tray. As I awkwardly spooned
in the porridge I kept watching the little square shaped isinglass windows
on the stove door. These were brightly glowing mica squares that brightened
reddish and almost to a whiteness when the fire inside the stove was its
hottest. That stove could radiate tremendous heat, and we children were
taught to keep our distance from it.
The dining room’s main feature was the beautiful bay window. It was
a favorite place to stand and watch snow or rain coming down, or on a windy
day to watch hundreds of daisies bending over in the fields.
Raindrops made small rivulets on the window pane as new drops clung
to other drops and ran down as fast as a mouse could run!
Snowflakes were fascinating to study through the double windows in winter.
Jack Frost (we were told) painted beautiful fairy patterns on the glass
on frigid days. Everything was so delightful when we were just becoming
aware and noticing new and interesting things for the first time.
The dining room was the place where we celebrated Christmas and all
‘twelve days’ and more. What a surprise for us on Christmas morning. Without
us suspecting, our dad had brought a big tree from the woods, and set it
up on the 24th, when he and our mother decorated it with the most fascinating
glass ornaments one could imagine! There was shiny tinsel and many pipe-cleaner
Santas of all colors. Usually, in those days, gentlemen cleaned their smoking
pipes with those sturdy white pipe cleaners, but these small, fuzzy and
skinny Santas were made of the same material and came in all colors, purple,
pink, yellow, red, blue, green, white and so on. And we found them hiding
all over the tree, also candy canes and round popcorn balls that were wrapped
in colorfully designed wax paper. On the floor under the tree were a great
assortment of new toys, which gave us children great delight.
The dining room fireplace must have been connected at one time to that
of the parlor or what we called the front room of the house, toward the
road. The fireplaces had been closed in, and were back to back from each
other on the wall that divided the two rooms. There were two tall and spacious
chimney closets in the dining room, one on either side of the fireplace.
That’s where Santa had stored in advance some of the gifts, thinking surely
they would not be discovered there before Christmas. Both fireplaces had
a very large mantle piece upon which sat a special parlor clock that had
been wedding gifts to our parents only six or seven years earlier. On the
parlor mantle piece stood a couple of naked celluloid Kewpie dolls because,
much to my chagrin, a gift that was too fragile to be played with. (That
was one of the more sorrowful memories for me,)
Christmas time was so wonderful in the Horton House! Barely noticed
were the big dining room table that was made to be extended even longer,
and eight lovely chairs with their high backs that had been carved in beautiful
designs, dark stained and varnished. Two or three oil lamps were placed
on that table when we spent evenings there.
Some years, for greater convenience, we had our meals in the kitchen
where it was always warm from the big stove. Our parents prepared special
Christmas meals, but we children were not very hungry because we had opened
our stockings that Santa had filled and left hanging under the mantle piece
above the fireplace. We were busy playing with our toys most of the day.
Our Uncle Harry, not yet married then, spent a few Christmases with
us, and always he brought a large brown paper bag filled with delicious
peanuts in the shells. He would hang the bag high up on the door frame,
and we could have some if we could reach them! The highchair was the solution,
and down came the bag, peanuts and all. We sat on the big couch with our
kind and gentle uncle, responding to his teasing, listening to his stories
and spreading peanut shells all over the place, leaving one more job for
our mother.
After supper, toward evening when lamps were lit, our mother would take
out a box that held many special Christmas greeting cards from relatives
and friends from many places. What a joy it was to see those beautifully
decorated cards and to hear our mother read the messages and letters! Each
one was different and special, some with red velour, lacy paper, cut-out
and pop-up cards for children, some with colored crinkled cellophane, sparkley
snow, windows, stars, and pictures of all kinds. Some had wonderful big
Santa Claus and sleigh on them, also reindeer. Some had baby Jesus in the
manger.
I had a special fascination for colored pictures, and for greeting cards,
and that trait holds to this day. Every one seems to be, for me, a kind
of ‘presence’ of the sender, and they are so special that I cannot throw
them out. (I don’t understand what caused me to become so sentimental –but
if I were not, I surely would not be sitting here writing all this stuff!
..smile: ).
Those memories are unforgettable because of the delight they held for
us at that time when we lived in the Horton House. Those are real memories
of our time spent there in the large dining room.
The front room toward the south side of the house was darkish and seldom
used, perhaps only for summer visitors from the States. We children were
not allowed to play in there. For me it contained a drab and dark colored
velour sofa and two matching chairs, a few uninteresting occasional tables,
old fashioned lace doilies, old style lamps and vases, window curtains
and thick drapes on both windows, and a square on the floor like a Persian
rug –the most boring and uninspiring room in the whole house, I felt. It
was all too ancient and too quiet and mysterious, surely a remnant from
someone’s musty past. Had it at one time been a smoking room, or what?
In its favor, I can say that it was a convenience at times when one wanted
to see up or down the road.
Across the hall from it had been the delightful shop or store, with
the shelves, which our father took down in order to make it a lovely bedroom
with new paint and wallpaper, even a new flowered linoleum square on the
floor. We are told that this special room was the birthplace of one sibling.
~~~~~~~~~~
March 7, 2010
While we were living at the Horton House, our family had increased by
four more children by the end of 1940, making it seven of us instead of
the original three. As we were growing up, our curiosity never waned. One
day my brother and I sneaked up into the attic to see what was up there.
We carefully climbed a small wooden stair-like ladder, and that was risky,
not so bad going up, but scary trying to get back down. After watching
my brother a few times I tried but had to call and wait till our mother
came and rescued me. Mother was not very interested in hearing our account
of what was up there: a very nice Charlie McCarthy made of solid rubber
and painted in bright colors. There was no sign of Edgar Bergen, the ventriloquist,
but we were not as familiar with him as with his voice and puppet, Charlie.
There was a pretty sewing basket made of masonite fibreboard with a few
flowers hand painted on the outside. It had a high carrying handle and
two flaps, one on each side of the handle that opened up on small hinges.
It was nicely made, and likely made by a student or apprentice at one of
the schools or work places. I opened it and was so pleased to see some
very interesting sewing articles inside, especially colored threads and
embroidery floss, small cloth measuring tape in a round case, small pair
of scissors, a thimble and some needles in a little pin cushion. Santa
had left that there for safe keeping and he put it under the tree for me
that Christmas, to my greatest delight! My brother and I were attending
Sand Beach school where some of the older girls had started a sewing club
which all the girls were expected to join. I was fascinated at what could
be done with just a needle and thread! What a wonderful discovery it was
for me! I could hardly wait to learn how to construct a garment of some
kind, even the simplest thing like a small purse or marble bag. A sewing
teacher came once a week to show us new things, and even the youngest were
permitted to learn to make embroidered daisies with French knots in the
centers. This was a wonderful new world of creative delight that opened
up for me, one I never let go of! I never forgot Mrs. Lydia Hayes, our
sewing teacher. She came with pretty cloth to encourage us to enjoy sewing,
and besides that, she helped with other little student activities, such
as coaching us to sing carols for the Christmas concert which was a highlight
of the year, not only for our school but also for the whole community.
When the second world war was declared, everything changed. Children
saved pennies and collected all kinds of lead to bring to school so that
it could be donated to help the "war effort". Mothers, especially those
who were members of the Women’s Institute, began studying First Aid, learning
to dress wounds, to make slings and all their little guide book contained.
They knitted many skeins of khaki wool items for soldiers who were being
drafted overseas. Some knit sweaters, others socks, mittens, gloves and
scarves, all in that khaki color which children didn’t find very pretty,
and some gave the color nicknames, with words that most of us were not
allowed to use!
The War changed many things, and quite suddenly. For example, our father
was buying the Horton House and wanted to raise his family there. He loved
the country place, the animals, and all Nature.
He scraped and painted the whole house himself in a very nice light
buff color, planted beautiful flower beds of sweet Williams, marigolds,
forget-me-nots, pansies and other flowers besides his row of tall, large
and glorious dahlias that I remember being in full bloom all along the
white picket fence he made. He also made a very nice lawn swing that had
seats enough to hold all of us children and our mother too, and painted
it light buff like the house. He had done all this lovely work for his
family to grow up in Sand Beach, when all of a sudden he was notified that
he was being transferred to Halifax by Canada Customs for the duration
of the war! Life was never the same again for any of us, but that is the
same basic story of so many other families in the Maritime provinces.
What we were not able to take with us was disposed of and our father
made a big bonfire to burn more than any of us wanted to part with, but
it was wartime, and soon men would be leaving families and jobs, ration
books with food cupons were to be issued and we were asked to buy victory
bonds and all went toward the war effort.
 There
was time to take one picture to mark the year and month of our departure
from our beloved Horton House. The picture was taken in the front yard,
between those nice pillars that had been topped with the round wooden balls
or post-tops that would spin and shake and rattle, making weird-sounding
ghost-warbles in the wind, and would scare us children at night.
Our mother dressed our baby sister who was born just before Christmas,
and in the picture was four and a half months old. I was wearing my new
black shoes, blue knee socks and blue tam that were bought for me to wear
for the trip to Dartmouth.
................
Picture
Picture of Marie holding Joan age 4 ½ months, May 1941 on front
doorstep of the Horton House, Sand Beach, our last day there.
................................
I could write a lot more, but this is enough for now.
God bless,
Marie
Sun, 07 Feb 2010
I received the old picture of Grandpa's house in Sand Beach from
Dad's sister, my aunt Rosabelle {Doucette} Snarr.
She and my father were close in age, -two of the younger bunch in the
family, so they grew up there, practically. They went to South End School
and then to the Yarmouth Academy I think it was.
 This
picture of the Theodore Doucette home in Sand Beach was from the collection
of his daughter, "Rosabelle" (Doucette) Snarr.
Grandpere Theodore moved there in 1912, He died in November 1935. Grandmere
Rosalie (Surette) Doucette remained there until wartime when she and youngest
son Ellis moved to Halifax, where Rosalie died in 1946.
The Horton house picture was snapped by my husband-to-be in June 1954.
The window that is just above my head in that picture was my bedroom window
when I was growing up.
The "old" Yarmouth Light used to shine in that window most nights! When
it was not shining, the foghorn was sounding its descending moan.
My brothers slept in the room with the window at the front, right next
to my room. Outside that window there was a high railing around the turret
or balcony, and we sometimes climbed out that window, which was several
feet directly below the peak of the house. We climbed out on that little
roof until our mother would catch us and warn us never to open that window
again.
But that railing has been gone for a long time now. On that fenced-in
balcony there were two corner posts, each topped with a round wooden ball
or cap. When these caps became old and weather-worn , they became like
a hollow shell. The wind used to make them spin round and round at various
speeds, slowly for a while, then spinning wildly in the stronger gusts
and gales. The rattling sound of those two wooden shells spinning erratically
on the posts, together with sounds of the howling wind in the trees and
past the windows, made eerie and fearsome sounds in our young ears.
Our mother reassured us right away, saying something like, "Oh, Daddy
is going out there on a fine day and take care of those loose tops on the
posts so you won’t hear them spinning in the wind any more. That’s all
it is, now go to sleep." We closed our eyes, and next thing we knew,
we were awakening to another beautiful Sand Beach morning.
Marie
 This
is a picture of the house Grandfather Theodore Doucette's lived in from
1912 until his death in November 1935. It was on the left side of the road
going toward town, and about five places up from the Horton House.
I forget if I ever knew who had the place before Grandfather moved in
from Wedgeport with his very large family. The older ones in the family
were adults while the younger set attended South End School in town. My
father, Wallace Peter Doucette was age 6 when they moved in there.
A few years ago I met the Jenkins family who were living in that house
and they kindly dug up some roots of "Grandpa’s climbing roses" for us
and we have those few roots transplanted and growing near our own house
in PEI. marie
marie
Click
on pictures below for enlargement
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