Can you imagine a grown woman pretending she didn't smoke because her father didn't approve of women smoking? Why would a mother become more severe with her child in the presence of her father? For that matter, why would my mother persist in bringing her family into the bosom of her family to be trivialized by her father?
I spent each summer with my mother at the family cottage on Meech Lake. Don't get me wrong, I adored the place and had an amazing time but my mom must have been under constant stress, trying to keep me out of Grandpa's way. I was happy to be invisible, it meant I could play for hours in the vast expanses of outdoor adventure. My grandmother really was the centre of life in every way. Weekends my cousins Janice and Julie would arrive and each summer Janice came to stay for a week or two to play with me. It was a charmed life for a kid in the days when we were sent out to play with little supervision. That's how we learned what we could do and what the world was about. We were given ground rules and heaven help us if we broke them. Janice, who was partially blind with an over protective mother, remembers her weeks at the cottage with me, as the happiest times in her childhood. She was free to learn her own limits as she discovered untold strengths.
Grandma was an amazing cook who baked and cooked on a wood stove with a warming oven and towel drying rack over the stove. The meals that came out of that kitchen were unforgettably wonderful. There was no fridge at that time, just an ice box. Once a week we went in the old sedan to buy blocks of ice. I loved to go because the ice house had a sawdust floor and was so cool on a hot day. Grocery shopping in the Old Chelsea General Store was always concluded with a double dip ice cream cone - the best ice cream ever. On the return trip to the cottage, when we rounded the bend a got our first glimpse of the lake, Grandma would slap Mom's knee and say "Ma this is my lake". I still get shivers when I remember it. We loved Meech Lake that much.
Many mornings Mom and I would go berry picking to supply the fruit for delicious pies. I always had a small turnover of my own which Grandma made from the leftover pastry and fruit. There is nothing so comforting as walking into a house filled with the aromas of freshly baked pies, six at a time, cooling on the shelf above the stove. Lunches would just appear on the big family table in the screened veranda. Dinners were always warm and tasty, but breakfast was my most memorable meal. It never occurred to me then that my dear Grandma worked like a lumber camp cook and considered it normal. We all thought it was normal.
My dad would arrive for his two week vacation and help do the major construction projects my grandfather saved for his arrival. My father was a "good worker" so he played a big role in constructing a new dock, repairing the boathouse, stacking wood etc. Apparently the Balharrie sons were too fragile to help their father. Ken lived at home but had a lung problem. Watson was up with his family every weekend but suffered from asthma so couldn't do heavy labour. Hence, by default, my father was the heavy lifter on all major projects. He paid for my summer vacations with sweat, but I believe he enjoyed having a role to play.
His secondary role was to play straight man to my grandpa's comedian. Each breakfast, went like this, Grandpa would ask me "how do you say orange juice (or whatever) in Dutch?" I would translate and Dad would unwittingly collude by repeating it. Then Grandpa would laugh heartily at our funny language. It didn't take this six year old long to understand that Dutch was a dumb language and English was better. Harmless fun? Not really, not for my father, but nobody realized it except my grandmother who would attempt to change the subject. Bless her, it never worked.
Recollecting these memories now, I see why my mother kept taking us back despite her father's controlling antics. The pull of life at the cottage was too important after years of war and deprivation. She took the brunt of his negativity, but she was home and wanted us to share it with her. It was a trade off she was prepared to make. In the end, I'm truly grateful she did.
