About picnics and ice cream
By George Pratt
Special to the Times
True events transcribed from my hand-written journal with minimal editing from my Bat Lake School/Snowdon Township book-in-progress
On June 27th, 1948, the Pratt and Martin kids, along with Paul Lynden, all from South Lake, and little freckled Lorna Hogg from Canning Lake, eight kids in all, finished up the year at Bat Lake School. Our teacher, pretty Anna Agnew had, in the preceding few weeks, arranged that our final day should be a picnic; parents and younger siblings and friends of the school had all been invited. It would never do to hold it right at the school—we ached to be finished with school. Accordingly, it was decided the big field at Jordan’s Corner would be the ideal place for the outing. Jordan’s Corner? It’s a name forgotten now, but that was what everybody called the junction where the road into the South Lake Trailer Park leaves the Minden/Gelert road.
Such feverish anticipation—a picnic! To we eight rustic innocents, the very word portended joy beyond reckoning. There would be fun and there would be games—but above all, we knew there would be ice cream. None among us could contain our excitement; the very imagining of it became an exquisite pain that consumed us all, whose greatest event ever had been the Christmas concert.
The day came, as fair a day as any June had ever delivered.
Snowdon township awoke to a string symphony of birdsong, warbled against the cello thrumming of a million dragonflies. We did not attend school that day. We walked straight for Jordan’s Corner, taking turns pulling our clattering, iron- wheeled wagon, laden with two blocks of ice winkled out from under the damp sawdust in our icehouse. The day remitted all that had been anticipated: The adults came—Irene and Ern Barry in their puttering Model A, then Cecil and Donna Lynden in their smoking Chev truck; Uncle Vic and Aunt Lil Martin, bringing along Mrs. Billy Hamilton in another Model A; our parents, Dad having cranked up the old Durant for the occasion. We had a special guest—for along with Mrs. Agnew came her brother Lloyd, all the way from Gooderham, who had come to fetch his sister home at the end of the day. (She had boarded with Irene and Ern Barry all that school year.) Oh yes, I must mention that ‘Old’ Bob Shaw, whose property it was, padded over from his farmhouse to look in on the event, his twinkling blue eyes calming the apprehension his fearsomely bushy eyebrows incited in children.
Snowdon township awoke to a string symphony of birdsong, warbled against the cello thrumming of a million dragonflies. We did not attend school that day. We walked straight for Jordan’s Corner, taking turns pulling our clattering, iron- wheeled wagon, laden with two blocks of ice winkled out from under the damp sawdust in our icehouse. The day remitted all that had been anticipated: The adults came—Irene and Ern Barry in their puttering Model A, then Cecil and Donna Lynden in their smoking Chev truck; Uncle Vic and Aunt Lil Martin, bringing along Mrs. Billy Hamilton in another Model A; our parents, Dad having cranked up the old Durant for the occasion. We had a special guest—for along with Mrs. Agnew came her brother Lloyd, all the way from Gooderham, who had come to fetch his sister home at the end of the day. (She had boarded with Irene and Ern Barry all that school year.) Oh yes, I must mention that ‘Old’ Bob Shaw, whose property it was, padded over from his farmhouse to look in on the event, his twinkling blue eyes calming the apprehension his fearsomely bushy eyebrows incited in children.
When everyone was assembled, our adults gave us the greatest gift that can be given to kids anywhere—they played our games with us. There were three-legged races and horseback fights, poor skinny Lloyd and big Paul Lynden being transformed into “horses.” But the best thing was that someone had brought a real softball, a thing never possessed by Bat Lake School, and we played a downright intoxicating game of ball, grown-ups and kids alike, everybody in. It wasn’t the kind where you have “sides” but the kind where you just advance to the next position when the batter is outed. Who would have known that gentle, white-haired Mrs. Barry could bat a ball right to the trees, or that our comfortably plump little mother could actually run? Oh, the joy of it.
But back to the ice-cream: Mrs. Hamilton (Jessie, the other adults called her) brought along the same ice-cream maker that had been used at Hamilton farm picnics for uncounted years; a large stave-sided wooden bucket with a
clever cranking assembly that turned a metal container suspended in its centre, with wooden paddles inside the container to slowly agitate the ice-cream. There was a break in the gaming whence everybody congregated to watch the proceedings. Into the container went a full jug of fresh cream, separated that very morning by Mrs. Barry; Aunt Lil and Mrs. Hamilton collaborated on beating up a custardy mixture of egg, vanilla and sugar; Donna Lynden’s and our mother’s fingers flew as they sliced up fresh strawberries, swollen and juicy and picked with feverish anticipation right after sunup that morning from the Pratt’s field by we kids. Into the container it all went and the whole assembly was duly sealed and fitted back into the bucket.
clever cranking assembly that turned a metal container suspended in its centre, with wooden paddles inside the container to slowly agitate the ice-cream. There was a break in the gaming whence everybody congregated to watch the proceedings. Into the container went a full jug of fresh cream, separated that very morning by Mrs. Barry; Aunt Lil and Mrs. Hamilton collaborated on beating up a custardy mixture of egg, vanilla and sugar; Donna Lynden’s and our mother’s fingers flew as they sliced up fresh strawberries, swollen and juicy and picked with feverish anticipation right after sunup that morning from the Pratt’s field by we kids. Into the container it all went and the whole assembly was duly sealed and fitted back into the bucket.
Uncle Vic and Cecil Lynden had meanwhile been to work on the blocks of ice with their jack-knives, chipping them into chunks, which were then pounded with a stick tightly into the space between the container and the inside walls of the bucket.
All was ready. Two kids at a time were directed to stand down from the ball game while they took turns on the crank. Slowly, the metal container began to revolve, making a delicious grinding sound as it moved against the ice. The process satisfactorily under way, Uncle Vic then did a thing that puzzled us all—retrieving from his Model-A a heel of a salt-lick which he had plucked from Hamiltons’ cow pasture, he began to chip it down with his jack-knife onto the ice. What on earth was that about, we all demanded— but failed to understand when it was explained that somehow the salt made the ice even colder. How can ice be
colder than it already is? It was just another of the earth’s many
mysteries to us, and I suppose to a lot of adults as well. Whatever, we
took our turns on the crank while Vic and Cecil kept feeding in more ice
and salt.
All was ready. Two kids at a time were directed to stand down from the ball game while they took turns on the crank. Slowly, the metal container began to revolve, making a delicious grinding sound as it moved against the ice. The process satisfactorily under way, Uncle Vic then did a thing that puzzled us all—retrieving from his Model-A a heel of a salt-lick which he had plucked from Hamiltons’ cow pasture, he began to chip it down with his jack-knife onto the ice. What on earth was that about, we all demanded— but failed to understand when it was explained that somehow the salt made the ice even colder. How can ice be
colder than it already is? It was just another of the earth’s many
mysteries to us, and I suppose to a lot of adults as well. Whatever, we
took our turns on the crank while Vic and Cecil kept feeding in more ice
and salt.
When an hour had passed, the cranking began to get very stiff
and difficult. We didn’t have to be told— we knew that ice cream was
happening inside that metal container. The word spread to the ball game
and the ball game faltered like a guttering lamp as a dozen kids and
eight adults ran to surround the bucket, now almost impossible to turn.
And then came the great moment. We stood in thrall as Vic and Cecil
fiddled interminably at disassembling the cranking mechanism and
clumsily jerked the metal cylinder from its icy prison. Dang, they
couldn’t get the lid off at first; it was so frosty frozen you’d think
it was January and not June. But after Cecil fetched it a smart couple
of raps with a stone, it fell away and omyGodomyLord, there was that
frozen, smoking mass of pink goodness from which emanated a bouquet that
could only have come from the angels themselves. No one who has not
seen it or smelled it could ever imagine the savor of it, for it was
redolent of everything in the world, indeed, the universe, that was
sweet and fresh and good. Mrs. Hamilton plucked out the wooden paddles
and thrust them, gobbed with frosty ice cream, into the hands of the two
youngest girls, sister Shirley and little Ruthie Martin. The rest of us
died on the spot with envy. But our turns all came; in a few minutes
every person present had a plate or saucer with a heap of
strawberry-studded heaven and a cedar paddle-spoon to eat it with,
quietly whittled during the process by Ern Barry. “Eat” was not the word
– we dived at it and literally inhaled it and we all had a nasty moment
of brain-freeze but my oh my oh my oh my oh my . . .
and difficult. We didn’t have to be told— we knew that ice cream was
happening inside that metal container. The word spread to the ball game
and the ball game faltered like a guttering lamp as a dozen kids and
eight adults ran to surround the bucket, now almost impossible to turn.
And then came the great moment. We stood in thrall as Vic and Cecil
fiddled interminably at disassembling the cranking mechanism and
clumsily jerked the metal cylinder from its icy prison. Dang, they
couldn’t get the lid off at first; it was so frosty frozen you’d think
it was January and not June. But after Cecil fetched it a smart couple
of raps with a stone, it fell away and omyGodomyLord, there was that
frozen, smoking mass of pink goodness from which emanated a bouquet that
could only have come from the angels themselves. No one who has not
seen it or smelled it could ever imagine the savor of it, for it was
redolent of everything in the world, indeed, the universe, that was
sweet and fresh and good. Mrs. Hamilton plucked out the wooden paddles
and thrust them, gobbed with frosty ice cream, into the hands of the two
youngest girls, sister Shirley and little Ruthie Martin. The rest of us
died on the spot with envy. But our turns all came; in a few minutes
every person present had a plate or saucer with a heap of
strawberry-studded heaven and a cedar paddle-spoon to eat it with,
quietly whittled during the process by Ern Barry. “Eat” was not the word
– we dived at it and literally inhaled it and we all had a nasty moment
of brain-freeze but my oh my oh my oh my oh my . . .
There was a
lot of good food on hand for the picnic that day – for us, special,
unusual food – cold sliced turkey brought by Mrs. Barry; potato salad
(new potatoes!) laced with Mrs. Hamilton’s home-made mayonnaise, little
red chips of fresh radish giving it a holiday look; sandwiches of tangy
fresh egg salad on home baked bread, brought by Donna Lynden; our
mother’s layered strawberry cake; salad fresh from Aunt Lil’s garden –
and more – much, much more. I remember these things because I write
things down—but ask any other of the alarmingly thinning company of
senior citizens who were there on that golden June day “What were the
eats?” and they will tell you simply “Ice cream.”
lot of good food on hand for the picnic that day – for us, special,
unusual food – cold sliced turkey brought by Mrs. Barry; potato salad
(new potatoes!) laced with Mrs. Hamilton’s home-made mayonnaise, little
red chips of fresh radish giving it a holiday look; sandwiches of tangy
fresh egg salad on home baked bread, brought by Donna Lynden; our
mother’s layered strawberry cake; salad fresh from Aunt Lil’s garden –
and more – much, much more. I remember these things because I write
things down—but ask any other of the alarmingly thinning company of
senior citizens who were there on that golden June day “What were the
eats?” and they will tell you simply “Ice cream.”
Oh, yes—will any
among us remember that pretty, dark-eyed Mrs. Agnew quietly passed
everybody’s report card to their respective parents before she left for
home? We all passed.
Notes for the historical/genealogical researchers among us:
Lorna Hogg: the one daughter of Lorne & Verlie, sister of Les Hogg. Verlie was a Loucks.
Vic
& Lil Martin: She was Lillian Sweet, a ‘Home Child’ who in the
1930s was a ward of Jessie and Bill Hamilton. Vic came to Snowdon
Township in 1934 following his sister, who was my mother. They
originally came from the Baxter/Angus area in Simcoe Township.
Ern
& Irene Barry: He was one of Bill Barry’s three sons, an old Snowdon
family. Folks will remember Ern’s brother Fred and his wife Pearl.
Irene was an Archer from Maple Lake.
‘Old’ Bob Shaw: He was a son of
John Shaw, an early Snowdon settler, called ‘Old Bob’ by everyone to
distinguish him from his brother Joe’s son i.e., ‘Young’ Bob.
among us remember that pretty, dark-eyed Mrs. Agnew quietly passed
everybody’s report card to their respective parents before she left for
home? We all passed.
Notes for the historical/genealogical researchers among us:
Lorna Hogg: the one daughter of Lorne & Verlie, sister of Les Hogg. Verlie was a Loucks.
Vic
& Lil Martin: She was Lillian Sweet, a ‘Home Child’ who in the
1930s was a ward of Jessie and Bill Hamilton. Vic came to Snowdon
Township in 1934 following his sister, who was my mother. They
originally came from the Baxter/Angus area in Simcoe Township.
Ern
& Irene Barry: He was one of Bill Barry’s three sons, an old Snowdon
family. Folks will remember Ern’s brother Fred and his wife Pearl.
Irene was an Archer from Maple Lake.
‘Old’ Bob Shaw: He was a son of
John Shaw, an early Snowdon settler, called ‘Old Bob’ by everyone to
distinguish him from his brother Joe’s son i.e., ‘Young’ Bob.
Donna
& Cecil Lynden: They came to Snowdon from Toronto in about 1945
whence they established ‘Lynden Lea’ a cottage resort on South Lake.
They were originally from the Kitchener area. Paul was their one
school-age son. His sister, Maxine was already married to George
Stevens.
Mrs. Agnew: She was Anna Mae Tate, of the large Tate clan, early settlers between Gooderham and Peterboro. She married, but was separated from, James Agnew about whom I know nothing. I have not seen her since that memorable picnic day, knowing only that she reached the end of her earthly journey in Toronto a few years ago.
& Cecil Lynden: They came to Snowdon from Toronto in about 1945
whence they established ‘Lynden Lea’ a cottage resort on South Lake.
They were originally from the Kitchener area. Paul was their one
school-age son. His sister, Maxine was already married to George
Stevens.
Mrs. Agnew: She was Anna Mae Tate, of the large Tate clan, early settlers between Gooderham and Peterboro. She married, but was separated from, James Agnew about whom I know nothing. I have not seen her since that memorable picnic day, knowing only that she reached the end of her earthly journey in Toronto a few years ago.
