. . . . Final Thoughts . . . .
I have been fortunate to travel extensively in my life, but no matter where I’ve been or lived, I consider Loch Erne my home. I think, as Sheldon Cooper of the Big Bang would say, this is coordinate 0,0,0,0. So it is here on the dock, here on Loch Erne that I finish the story of my grandfather.
As I write the story I can hear the voices down at the beach. One I haven’t heard for forty years - cousin Steve, and I recognize that distinctive voice. Cousin Dennis comes out of his cottage to say hi. I haven’t talked with him for many years, and as he turns to walk away a flashback hits me. I would recognize that distinctive walk anywhere. Later that night I wind up at the beach with cousin Rick. I remember visiting his place on one of those Sunday visits to Woodbridge. He was always one who would find time for me then, and he still does today.
I would suggest that for many of my cousins, this lake holds a special place in their hearts and they now bring their children here. This now seems to be home base for many of us. This is a place that is the constant in all our lives. A place that after all the working years is a place with memories.
I have brought my own sons and wife, Mary-Lee, here over the years. I want them to know what a special place this lake holds in my heart. I want them to know the aunts and uncles that at one time or another lived at the cottage when they no longer had houses in Toronto.
As I look across the lake I can no longer see the homestead, the cottage, and the hay fields. The trees now hide the old home quarter. These are just memories now - fetching food from the root cellar, running through the barn, climbing over the old pigpens. Time and nature has erased their physical existence, but not their place in my memory.
There were so many places to just hang out. The summers were spent running around the bush, reading the Hardy Boy books, camping, fishing, hunting, swimming, canoeing and working on all those construction projects.
It is easy to entertain oneself when twenty kids have the opportunity to build forts, look for Indians in the Black Hills, huddle in the cottage during a thunderstorm, watch horror flicks on a white sheet hung out on a wall, or play euchre late into the night. There was always an empty swing at Uncle Joe’s cottage where you could listen to Johnny Horton or the Beach Boys blaring from the speakers. There were chipmunks to feed outside Uncle Hughie’s front door. There was always a steam bath where only the bravest would sit on the top bench as water was poured on to the rocks.
There was no TV to watch. Entertainment was outside somewhere. There were the endless horseshoe games, water skiing, playing Geronimo at the sandpits, hiking the wires or just taking “the path” to get to the other side of the lake; the cool taste of pure water from the spring, the aunts getting everyone together to walk to the Lodge; Baseball games and volleyball on the beach and a thousand other memories. Maybe best of all was when the treat truck made a stop at the lake before going on to Lorimer Lake Lodge. They had the best Joe Louis chocolate cakes!
This is where I remember my Uncle Joe floating on his back in the lake, and I swear I could hear him snoring ...the endless debate between my mother and Aunt Isobel about which was the Canadian flag ... the Union Jack or the Red Ensign ... did it really matter ... not likely and I don’t recall either one winning the debate ... my Uncle Hughie puttering in his workshop, my Aunt Elsie telling us kids to behave, Aunt Ida, who was about as self-assured person I have met, the last time I saw her she was rocking on the porch overlooking the beach, much like the next generation does now ... Uncle Ad, the wise one, just seemed to command respect in a quiet unassuming way. Uncle Don in his younger years being ‘ripped’ from all that bricklaying. My Aunt Leitha sitting on her rocker on the porch always having a smile or her infectious laugh to share. Uncle Alfred was such a strong presence and was the outdoorsman of the family and Aunt Jessie always had a smile and always had that sideways look at you over her glasses. Uncle Walter as the quiet one, soft spoken Aunt Bernice and Uncle Bobbie always at the centre of the party.
The uncles and aunts were all friends who would seek out and enjoy each other’s company. Uncle Hughie and Aunt Elsie would play euchre late into the night with Mom and Dad. There would be weekly horseshoe tournaments at the pits by Aunt Elsie’s cottage. Then there were the times we would sit by the fire with Uncle Don and Aunt Leitha. Cousin Bill would be spinning another yarn, telling horror stories that made walking to our cottage door a scary proposition. In later years the lake residents would get together for ‘happy hour,’ whether it was my Dad, Mom and Uncle Don out the back of the cottage, or over at Uncle Ad’s at the beach. The tradition carries on even today much like the parties at the Kirkham house that happened so many years ago.
Most importantly, as I remember it, each one of my aunts, uncles and parents were role models. I never heard a swear word or remember seeing arguments. Sure, they drank, smoked and gambled but they laughed, enjoyed life, encouraged us. They allowed us to run freely through the bush and provided a positive environment for all of us. They were all hard working and positive moral influences. I doubt there was a better childhood to be had anywhere.
As I sit on the dock and think back to how I got here ... let’s see .... 1881 William Kirkham marries Sarah ... 1882 ... William buys a little chunk of land to raise a family ... Uncle Dan goes west ... being the oldest if he had stayed he would probably have inherited this part of the lake as the oldest boy .... George surviving the war .... finding the property in Port Credit ... and on and on ... but all that did happen, and a million other random events which all result in, here I sit at 0,0,0,0.
At the center of all this, to me, it comes back to George Kirkham. I owe this man so much. At the least a childhood full of memories - warm and happy memories.
I think back to 24 Broadview Avenue and to most kids’ best memories, Christmas. Christmas was always a special time for us. There was always a party over at Grandpa’s place. To me, at the time, just another get together, nothing special. After all, parties happened all the time.
When you’re a kid you can be quite selfish and none more so when it came to Christmas. Each Christmas, anticipation ran high at the Blemings house thinking of all the presents. There was always something to look forward to as you ripped through the carefully wrapped gifts. It could be a push-pull hockey game, slot car racing set, or a Lone Ranger gun set. For every gift that was eagerly anticipated there were others less appreciated. These gifts were clothes or maybe the fruit in your stocking. At the bottom of that list were a pair of handmade socks that always seemed to be under the tree that came from Grandpa.
You see, many times when I came into Popup’s house he was sitting on his cot knitting - a skill he learned long ago, perhaps from his mother, Sara, way back in the homestead days. Or like many soldiers, perhaps he learned while recuperating in the hospital. Idle hands and minds led to poor morale was the Army way of thinking. Knitting kept a soldier occupied. Knitting didn’t cost much as far as a pastime goes. A couple of needles and some wool and you were set. Each Christmas I got a knitted pair of socks from Popup. You knew what they were before you opened them, so it was ‘get them open and move on.’ I never thanked him for the socks, but there they were for years under the Christmas tree. Any gift was better than those socks.
To me, a pair of socks - but to Grandpa I think the socks had a greater significance. I’ll bet his feet were plenty cold growing up in a house that was heated by a wood stove. I bet his feet were always cold when out in the lumber camps in the middle of winter. I bet his feet were cold many times in the winter of 1916 - 1917 as he trudged his way through the cold and muck of the trenches. When he got older I bet he put on another pair of socks to keep his feet warm.
Socks for grandpa were always under the Christmas tree and an appreciated gift when he was a young child. I just didn’t realize that socks had that much more meaning to him than me. Maybe that’s what you call a generation gap. He thought they were special and I thought they were ordinary and disposable.
It is with age that I look back and realize the one with the most toys is not necessarily the one who wins. The simple things in life become more important, like a pair of socks. I wish I had valued them a little more and maybe thought that they would be valuable someday, but I didn’t. I wish I had a pair of those socks now to look at and hold. But I don’t. Maybe that’s why as I finish this story I might just take one of my mom’s afghans that she knitted so many years ago. Nobody would miss it. I can find a place for it in my memory box.
So what is a good or interesting life? I reflect back on my parents and grandparents for some answers. I think we all have an interesting story, but I come to the conclusion that George has a story worth telling. Let’s look at the evidence.
His father was a pioneer and these pioneer qualities were passed down to George. He learned all the skills he would need to be an independent self-motivated person. He could build a house, hitch a team of horses, build his own furniture, birth a cow, sow and plough a field and wander the bush looking for game. All this with a Grade 6 education.
Grandpa was born before there were cars, planes, (he never flew) radio, automobiles and electricity to run any sort of appliance. Later in life George owned a black and white TV, which I never saw him watching. The furthest he travelled from home after 1919 was to go back to the farm at Loch Erne, and the occasional fishing trip a little further north by train.
He lived through World War 1 only to return to the turbulent times that followed the war. There was the Great Depression and a Second World War. His oldest son, Alfred, would join the Irish Regiment and fight as a D-day Dodger through Italy. He would lose his son, Bruce, and his wife, Blanche soon after.
And through all this, George raised and supported his children Elsie, Alfred, Ida, Isobel, Bruce, Robert (Bobby), Walter, Mildred (Mickey) and Leitha.
He worked as a carpenter when he could, but there were many jobless months and there was no unemployment insurance to collect. It meant taking any job to help the family get by. He was someone who tried to provide for his family, but many times had to depend on welfare or the kindness of neighbours. Luckily there was a cow in the backfield and a garden to harvest to keep the family fed. And as my mother says, there was always food on the table and a hand-me-down dress to wear. They really didn’t see themselves as poor because they didn’t know any better.
George was married to Blanche for 38 years and lived in the same house for almost 60 years. He never really looked out on to the world with any sort of envy, wishing he had more. After all, he had enough to make it through to the next day. If we measure a life by personal challenges and experiences, then George has a story to write about. Little wonder that George Kirkham’s generation is referred to as the “Greatest Generation.”
So much has changed in our world of modern gadgets, iPhones, plane travel, Facebook and personal wealth that George could only dream about. A man was judged by his word in George’s day. People grew up with an ingrained morality; now in the Internet age, something is only wrong if you get caught and money for many is their measure of success.
George Kirkham died on March 4, 1979, not quite 89 years old. I was living in Lethbridge, Alberta at the time. I phoned home that year in mid-March only to be told that Grandpa had died two weeks earlier. My mom probably still wonders why I was so upset that nobody had bothered to call me with the news.
I loved my Popup and all that he stood for. So, next time you are sitting on the dock, or up on the Black Hills, maybe sitting by the fire, maybe take a few minutes to think of those who came before you and made what you have possible.
You see, there is beauty and dignity in a simple life.
Grandson Dave