Our Member of parliament in this riding of Huron-Bruce is Mr. Ben Lobb, a member of the Conservative Party of Canada. Ben is running for re-election in the big event which takes place May 2, 2011.
I like Ben. I've met him several times, and each time he has been doing something or presenting something which is good for this area, and he speaks well and sincerely about the meaning of the task he is performing. A couple of times Ben has gone to bat for the Huron County organization when the government of which he is a part has been doing something which is clearly harmful to the good efforts of our County. He has been successful in one of these attempts, which is no small achievement for a rookie MP.
Every time I see Ben, and even when I see his campaign signs - hundreds of them - I feel sad. I am sad that this fine young man is part of this dreadful Conservative Party of Canada and the government headed by the most dangerous prime minister Canada has ever had.
I was especially sad the other day when I learned that Ben had told a lie in an interview. It was no a slip of the tongue. It was a deliberate pre-programmed lie. He said that the opposition parties had brought the government down by voting against the Conservative budget. Of course that is not true. Mr. Harper's government was found in contempt of parliament, and was defeated by a vote of no confidence. That means that the majority of the members of parliament have no confidence in the government. That situation obliges the government to resign.
Why am I so concerned about this "one small fib"? It is because this little fib is part of a culture of lies, deceptions, ethical lapses, dishonourable actions, unparliamentary gaffs, anti-democratic ploys that have been deliberately and methodically perpetrated by Prime Minister Steven Harper and spread by members of his robotic cabinet and his faithful backbenchers. I have always respected the office of prime minister, even when I did not completely agree with his/her policies and principles. Until now!
The only political party I have ever joined was the Progressive Conservative Party of Canada. When Peter McKay sold out that party to the Reform and Alliance gangs to form the Conservative Party of Canada, and elected Harper as leader, they sent me a membership card for the new party. I tore it up right away.
There are former Progressive Conservatives in the Tory caucus, but we don;t hear much from. Peter McKay has remained in cabinet in a major post, but I suspect this is his payment for betraying his original party. However there is no vestige of the values and principles that drew me to the PC party in the past.
The big lie, unfortunately. seems to have worked for Harper, although I am sure that a large part of the creidit for the last minute surge in the NDP camp is the result of people deciding they have had enough of Stevie's lies.
My new motto "ANYBODY BUT HARPER".
About a remarkable Ontario village
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Monday, April 4, 2011
Memories of Blyth Fire Brigade
Memories of Blyth’s Fire Department
By Brock Vodden
The Blyth Fire Brigade has always been an important part of our community. This is as true today as it was in earlier days; however, the social aspects of their roles have changed to fit the times.
I’d like to share a few memories and impressions I have of the brigade when I was growing up in the 1930s and 1940s.
I mention both “memories” and “impressions” to distinguish between accurate recollections and childhood impressions of what went on in those days.
THE FIREMEN’S DANCE
The dominant memory I have is that of the annual Firemen’s Dance. It seems to me that almost everyone in the community came out to this event – and not just the adults – it was an event for men women and children of all ages. There were no babysitters in this era. No one left their children at home with babysitters. Young people of babysitting age, would have been at the dance; they would not think of missing that dance!
The babes came to the dance, too. The event always took place in the winter time. Winter coats, all of them, were piled on two long tables in the kitchen area of the lower floor of Memorial Hall. The piles of coats served as a very comfortable bed for the infants who mostly slept their way through the evening wrapped in their baby blankets. Children who were mobile joined in the dances or played the usual children’s games as long as they could stay awake, but some of them would be deposited on the “coat bed” as well when they became victims of the late hours.
The music would be provided by one of the local orchestras playing all the familiar tunes of the era. “Watt’s Orchestra” is the main one that I recall. It consisted of Bob Watt who played the mandolin and banjo and saxophone. He also played the big sousaphone in the local brass band, and his day job was coal dealer. Mrs. Watt played the piano, and there was a violinist as well, but I can’t recall his name.
The dance styles included waltzes, schottisches, square dances, fox trot, and polka. When I was really young, a new dance style arrived from England known as the Lambeth Walk. It was one of those dance crazes that was exclusively applied to one piece of music. In this case a piece called The Lambeth Walk.
My aunt, Jean Turvey Cook, was living with us while she attended Clinton Collegiate. She was caught up in the Lambeth Walk fad and recruited me to perform this with her. At one of the firemen’s dances the orchestra played the piece while my aunt and I performed the dance, I am sure to the delight of all present. I can't remember any of the moves in this dance; all I can recall is the last line of the chorus: “Doin’ the Lambeth Walk! OY!” It seems to me that we shouted out the final “OY!” and at the same time threw up our hands. As the piece went on, the audience joined in the “OY”! This part of my story is more impressionistic than factual. I think I was possibly four or five years of age at the time.
The mood of these events was uninterruptedly happy. Everyone seemed to be absolutely delighted to be there and to be in the company of all the others, and to be listening to that very familiar music, and to perform all those familiar dances. Even a young kid could sense that atmosphere. There was no need for security. We were just one big happy, friendly community family.
I think the lunch that was always provided by the firemen (or perhaps by their wives, to be exact) was one of the many highlights of these evenings. The quantity and quality of the food and the coffee was amazing. Lunch was announced. The members of the orchestra put down their instruments and came of their platform to join us. We all found chairs around the four walls of the hall. There were enough chairs for everyone. Soon some pairs of firemen emerged from the kitchen with large baskets full of sandwiches. The sandwich fillings that I remember were ham (with mustard), salmon, egg salad, but there may have been others. The white bread was always very fresh – made that very day at either Hollyman’s or Vodden’s Bakery. The baskets were a type of laundry basket that I have not seen for many years. But each one held many sandwiches and the firemen made countless trips around the dance floor urging everyone to take just a few more.
A moment after the sandwiches appeared, other firemen began to deliver heavy white china coffee cups, followed by large white enamel urns of steaming hot coffee. The coffee was already doctored with rich cream and lots of sugar. We had never heard of people drinking coffee without these fixings. The coffee was made in a large copper boiler. The method: Fill one copper with cold water and place on hot stove and bring to a full boil. Place one pound of ground coffee in a cheese cloth bag and sew the bag closed. Drop the coffee bag into boiler for (I don't know how long). Add cream and sugar to the boiler to taste.
PERFECT! There has never been coffee served to large gatherings with such a wonderful aroma and flavour since those days.
After lunch, the dancing would resume until 1:00 a.m.
TRICKSTERISM
Many years after leaving Blyth, while living in Northwestern Ontario, we made friends with a lady from that area who had spent some time in Huron County when she was quite young. She was a pleasant and intelligent woman, but she did not have a keen sense of humour. She had developed what one might call a “mixed” impression of Huron County people – particularly the men. It seemed to her that men of this area were constantly playing very cruel and demeaning practical jokes on each other.
I was surprised at first to hear of this sort of general condemnation of Huronites. But on reflection, I realized that there was certain validity to that reputation. Not everyone in this county performed these jokes, but I had a sizeable collection of stories about such antics. I suppose I had always assumed that people from other counties enjoyed the same sport.
One of the practical jokes in my collection took place at a weekly fire brigade meeting.
Just a brief background to set the scene.
Bill Morritt had served as secretary for the fire brigade for several years. Never one to stand on ceremony, each time he read the minutes of the last meeting he would end with something like “Old Bill, Secretary.” When Bill decided to withdraw from that job, a new member was elected as secretary. He was one of the local pharmacists, Earl Willows. Earl took his new post quite seriously. At the conclusion of his reading of the minutes, he intoned the following in a very officious voice: “E.H. Willows. Secretary”. Just one more detail. Earl was an avid cigarette smoker except when in his pharmacy, but he had a habit of leaving the fag in his lips long after it had expired.
On one occasion, the fire meeting was taking place in the Morritt implement shop close to Memorial Hall. When Earl began reading the minutes, Bill Morritt slipped into the next room and retrieved a very large iron bar and then tiptoed back into the meeting room close behind Earl.
When Earl closed the minutes with “E.H. Willows. Secretary”, Bill dropped the iron bar with a resounding crash, Earl dropped his minute book and swallowed the remains of his dead cigarette.
A funny story. Amusing to all (except perhaps Earl). A way of saying “Don’t take things or yourself too seriously”. An exclusively Huron County practical joke? I am not sure.
Santa Claus was a Fireman
When I was a pre-schooler, my parents operated a bakery in Blyth. The bakery was then located in the store across from Memorial Hall where some readers will recall the Blyth Apothecary was located, and then Tim Saunders’ Antique Store. Behind the retail portion of the store, the north wall was covered with wooden shelves with drawers which were not used much. One Saturday morning, for no particular reason, I began opening each drawer to see what was inside. I came upon one drawer that was completely empty except for a pair of gray cloth gloves. It must have struck me as strange because I had never seen such gloves in our place before.
That afternoon, Santa Claus came to town. He was travelling by train in those days. He was to arrive at the Grand Trunk Station on Dinsley Street. My mother took me to the station for the event. Soon the old steam engine chuffed and huffed into town from the south. The conductor opened the coach door and set out a small steel platform. Then the familiar red suit and white beard appeared. My mother picked me up so that I would be able to see St. Nick through the crowd and began to move through the crowd towards St. Nick. The Ho, Ho, Hos were coming closer. Santa was holding his large bag of toys over his shoulder, holding on tight with his hands covered with . . . .gray cloth gloves! I remarked to mother the similarity of the gloves to the ones I had seen in the drawer in the bakery.
Suddenly my mother remembered that she had something important to do back at home, and we returned to the vehicle, and that was the end of the Santa Claus visit for me.
A few years later when I had figured out the Santa Claus thing, I remembered this scene. My mother told me that she was afraid that the clue provided by the gloves would increase the chance that I would see through my father’s disguise as soon as he came really close to us. Parents in those days went to great lengths to protect the secret of Santa Claus from their young children. They were convinced that an early discovery would have a devastating effect on kids for whom the mythology was very real.
Each year, the firemen with the required shape, took this trip from Londesborough to Blyth on the GTR in a red suit. The firemen arranged a parade from the station to Memorial Hall where they gave out a bag of candies and an orange to every child in the village. My father was a fireman for several years but I was not aware of his playing the Santa Claus role again. In those days, our grocery stores seldom stocked oranges except at Christmas time. They were a very special treat.
More for the Children
The members of the fire brigade, in the course of their duties, often got an intimate view of home situations – very often the conditions under which children were living. The men were very discreet about these findings and equally discreet about the treats, toys, and other gifts that found their way into these homes following their discoveries. I have never heard or read any detailed account specific examples of these informal social welfare deeds, which indicates to me the code of secrecy at play here.
Ringing the Fire Bell
There was a white cord hanging down the front of Memorial Hall, attached to a clanger at the bottom of the bell in the tower above, with the other end neatly wrapped around a cleat anchored beside the front door of the Hall. This rope was used to activate the clanger to strike the bottom of the bell, giving a very different sound than when the clapper strikes the inside of the body of the bell. Everyone could tell when the bell was using for fire related purposes. In response to a fire, the bell was rung continuously for as long as it took for the men to arrive.
Each week, the firemen held “fire practice”. The tradition was that either the village constable or one of the firemen would ring the fire bell to call the men to the meeting. A special ring rhythm was used to call men to the practice. That rhythm was one, two, three, pause; one, two, three, pause, etc.
One evening I happened to be in the vicinity of the Hall when John Cowan, the village constable, came to ring the bell for fire practice. Imagine the delight when he asked if I would like to do the honours. He knew that there was no need for any instruction since I had lived across the street from the Hall for years and had heard the rhythm countless times. I got to call the Blyth Fire Brigade to their fire practice! What a thrill!
Our First Fire Truck
In 1941 a used fire truck was purchased. It served the village for a number of years. It is still used in parades. I recall the day it arrived in the village. It was parked in the centre bay of Doherty Brothers White Rose garage while Gar Doherty, who was a great mechanic and also a member of the fire brigade, checked it over. Gar asked me if I’d like to sit in the seat and try out the siren. Silly question for a seven-year-old boy! I can vividly remember the thrill of turning the crank on the siren and creating all that noise.
By the way, this garage was located where the village parking lot is now at the corner of Queen and Drummond.
The Flax Yard Fire
Many years ago there was a flax mill located on the property where the Queen’s Villa Apartments now stand. One night we were awakened by the dreaded night sound of the fire bell. Looking out the back window of our house on Dinsley Street, we could see a very large glow above the roof tops of the houses behind ours. My parents and I got dressed quickly and headed out to see what was going on. It is one thing to see a building going up in flames. This was a field in flame – a very large mass of flax straw which had been piled south of the old flax mill as long as I could remember.
There was a really heavy smoke hanging in the air. Our firemen were doing the best they could to spray water on the burning areas, but the tiny stream coming from the hoses were clearly not up to the job of bringing this very broad inferno to heel.
As I recall the fire alternately smoked and flared for several days and small fire crews watched and sprayed the area through that time until the fire gave up.
I do not know if they ever discovered the actual cause of the fire, but I believe that the general consensus declared spontaneous combustion as the probable cause.
George Radford Construction Co. Fire
George Radford purchased the large building on the north west corner of King and Queen street from the estate of Dr. James Perdue, Blyth’s famous veterinarian and character. Radfords used this building for the care and maintenance of their rapidly growing construction business which involved a number of large trucks, bulldozers, and other heavy equipment.
One day I came down with the flu and had stayed home from school. I heard the fire alarm, looked out my bedroom window and was able to see the Radford building belching black smoke with flames shooting out of the roof. This was a very serious fire which took a great deal of time to knock down.
My recollection of the cause of the fire was that while one person was operating welding equipment at one end of the building, another man at the other end was filing up a gasoline tank. The description of the scene in the building was most vivid. Very suddenly the air in the building, filled with fumes, became ignited in a flash. The burning went from a few feet above the floor up to the roof. The men working in the building were able to walk out unscathed by crouching below the fire and walking out of the building as quickly as possible.
Everything in the building was destroyed. George Radford restored the building, using as much of the original structure as possible.
When the fire was completely out and the firemen were looking over the damage, they made a shocking discovery. Two of the men had been positioned for a lengthy period of time shooting water into the building through a window on the south side of the building. Stacked below this window they discovered several cases of dynamite. They apparently were told that fire alone would not set the dynamite off without some percussion, but they were still shaken by the thought of what might have happened to them.
Conclusion
As mentioned in the opening, our fire brigade has always been an important part of our community. They volunteer to protect the community, and not only that: they have always contributed in many other ways towards the betterment of the village. And that statement remains true to this day.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Remembering Emmer Dennis
Emmerson Dennis
Machinist and Story Teller Extraordinaire
Dennis Family Background
Thomas Alexander Dennis came to Canada England McKillop Township Lot 19 and raised a family of 4 sons and 3 daughters.
Two of the sons, Harry and John , formed a partnership and ran a threshing outfit for many years. (A picture of their outfit may be seen in the McKillop Township
Thomas Henry (Harry)’s Family
Thos.’s son Harry, married Matilda Forbes and they had 5 sons: Ephraim Edward, called Eph., and Wilson, called Wils, and Porter Allen, called Port, and Emmerson, called Emmer, and Lloyd.
Emmer, born December 26, 1885 , at Lot 15, Concession 14 south, McKillop Township Brussels Continuation School Alberta
As the boys grew up, several of them, went west as farmers and adventurers. One of them, of course, was Emmerson, who came home around 1920 -1922. He had trained as a machinist in B.C. and used that trade as he made his way home. Once there, he set up shop on the home farm. During the summer, he worked at home and with neighbouring farmers. In the winter he did lathe work and repaired local machinery. He was likely inventing things as he did in later life.
Mrs. Dennis was always urging the 5 boys to marry. With a household of men, she longed for a female family member or two. The family still has a letter that she wrote to Wils telling him that she had spent $25.00 (a huge amount at that time) for a dress for his wedding which never did occur. Perhaps she wore it to other weddings.
Emmer was always a great tease and loved to tell yarns and play tricks. While out west he had a picture postcard made of himself standing with a young woman and a baby, which he sent home. Of course he had neither wife nor baby at that time.
Around 1934 a widow, Barbara Shultz, took the job as hired girl on the home farm in McKillop, and helped keep the household running.
One morning in April of 1937, to the family’s surprise, neither Emmer nor Barb were there. Perhaps they left a note saying they had gone to be married.
Emmer Dennis, Blyth , Ontario
The newly weds made their home on Drummond Street Blyth where Emmer had a machine shop. He sharpened lawn mowers, better than anyone else, I am told. He made parts for machinery, repaired and built guns, and worked with Russell Dougherty who had been a neighbour in McKillop, to make machinery for his turnip plant. In the 1930s, Russell started the turnip waxing plant in his garage on Queen Street Blyth , thus giving work to 5 men. Emmer helped Russell make his dream and plans for a precision turnip seeder a reality. Emmer would have been the only man in Blyth at the time with the technical skills, the necessary equipment, and experience to do such a job. He had learned the trade of machinist in B.C. many years before. Both Emmer and Russell were held in high regard in the village for their intelligence and kindness to others.
People of Blyth believed Emmer could fix anything, no matter how complicated.
Emmer and Barb's Home on Drummond Street, Blyth
In his shop was a large bull’s eye with bullet holes only in the centre. Some adventuresome sort snuck around and peeked in the window and discovered the secret. One of Emmer’s guns, aimed at the bull’s eye, was held securely in a vise. The bull’s eye was proof of the excellence of the guns he was actually making. The gun was held in the vise to align the sights. His nephew recalls that he would put the gun in the vise and open the east door of his shop, outside of which, he had a target set up with a bale of hay for support.
Emmerson also made a long bow and a cross bow. When nephews would come to visit, he would let the boys try using them. He set up cardboard boxes behind the target to stop the arrows that missed the target.
As long as children were reasonably well behaved, Emmer would let them hang around his shop and watch as he worked and entertained them with his tall tales. Many boys had permission from their mothers to go straight to Emmer’s after school.
One story he told was about his experience during a tornado out west. He was carrying a plank across his shoulders when the tornado came out of nowhere, caught that plank and screwed him right into the ground.
He mesmerized children with his tales of the alligators he had “for sure” seen in the Blyth Creek to the north of his house. He even convinced them that he knew how the critters made their way there.
He had discovered native artifacts on the McMillan farm at the east end of the village of Blyth John ny Morritt, when 80 years old, spoke warmly of those child hood experiences. Emmer told the boys that what they were finding proved that Indians had camped at that site by the Blyth Creek. His own interest in the artifacts began when he was a boy and many arrow heads were discovered on the home farm.
Emmer never owned a car and often men who were going out of town would invite him along. His company was always entertaining. One day Harold Vodden and his son Brock, 16, asked him to go to Kitchener
To be allowed to visit the Dennises on Hallowe’en Night was a treat coveted by all Blyth children. Barb and Emmer welcomed all visitors warmly. If lucky, they would hear some of Emmer’s stories. On the table would be a mound of popcorn balls. Before the witches and hobgoblins were allowed to take one, they had to sing a song or recite a poem. In later years, as Barb’s health declined, she was no longer able to make the famous popcorn balls but neither she nor Emmer would want to disappoint the children, so they put out saucers of freshly popped corn for each visitor.
One time, when Barb was in hospital in London Continuation School
Barb passed away in 1964 and Emmerson Dennis in 1970.
Whenever his name is mentioned, people immediately smile as they at once recall a tall tale he told, or a trick he played, or a kindness he did. Chuckles follow smiles and many exchanges of memories occur.
To be remembered always with a smile
is
a well-earned living memorial to the life
of
Emmerson Dennis.
This story was written after visits with Emmer’s nephew, Murray and his wife, Oline (Godkin) Dennis, at the Dennis home farm in November 2010. They kindly shared pictures and stories to add to those we had collected earlier.
Janis (Morritt) Vodden
Repository of Blyth History November 18, 2010 .
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