The Kennedy Ski Tow
by Margaret Gillingham
My father, Lawson Kennedy, had one of the first ski rope tows in the Laurentians.
His first Kennedy Ski Tow, opened in the early forties, was located at Village Road
and (as we know it now) Allen Road. The famous Kicking Horse Trail which was accessed
by the rope tow was used for many Laurentian Ski Zone meets. The Kicking Horse Trail
got its name from the large rock at the top of the mountain, which appeared to be a
"kicking horse".
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Ernest E. Bird,
a painter of Morin Heights
by Dawn Nesbitt
What a thrill to read that Sir Winston Churchill influenced artistic life in Morin Heights!
Ernest E. Bird, an English gentleman whose home I visited many times as a small child, had
read an article by Mr. Churchill called Amidst These Storms which stated that "When
overcome by troublesome worries and affairs gone wrong, try landscape painting and become
a traveller entering a new and more beautiful world."
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Henry Gillingham
by Phyllis Probyn Buxton
On a fact-finding mission for the roots of the Heritage Club, I discovered a fascinating history:
the life of Henry Gillingham.
Henry, the son of Job Gillingham, was born in 1898 in Plymouth, England. In 1910 Job brought his
family to Canada, where he worked in the Emigration department. The following year, while
spending the summer holidays in Morin Heights, Job bought a farm on the road to Lachute, on the
left hand side just before the present Studio.
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Memories of the Depression
by Kathleen Kilpatrick
I was just a youngster when the Great Depression struck. Until I was three or four years old
everything seemed to be rosy. My dad worked for the Grand Trunk Railway (C.N.R.), and although
we were far from rich we had the necessities of life, and more.
How my sister Eunice and I loved to meet my dad at the gate on Pay Day! It was a special day
because we got a special treat - a big penny, two cents in one.
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Blueberry Picking - Mille Isles 1931
by Phyllis Probyn Buxton
Irene Fraser, who lived below Russell Bank just down the road from us, past the churches, on
the way to St. Jerome, always knew the best berry-picking grounds. The one for blueberries was
on Scott's Farm around the end of Fiddler's Lake, across the boundary line, into Lakefield, now
'The Gore'. However, as the pickers from Lachute had easier access by car, we had to choose our
time carefully.
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Going to the Hospital the Hard Way
by Kathleen Kilpatrick
I was born and raised in Montreal, and had school friends and work friends and some boy friends
too. My girl friend at work, Helen, was dating a young man who lived in the Laurentians so she
often went to the country and invited me to come along. Being a city girl I didn't care much
about the country. However, one weekend her boy friend and his brother, Lyle, came to town to
call on her, and they wanted me to go out with them.
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Spring Tonic, and Other Memorable Medications
by the Recollections Writing Group
The good thing about spring was, you didn't have to take cod-liver oil any more. The bad thing,
according to Kathleen Kilpatrick, was getting dosed with spring tonic: a tablespoonful of sulphur
and molasses, referred to as "spring cleaning". The molasses, perhaps intended to cut the
sulphur, didn't, because it wasn't the sweet molasses we now have but 'blackstrap', a sort of
industrial strength version.
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The Blacksmith and the Smithy
by Phyllis Probyn Buxton
"Under a spreading chestnut tree the village smithy stands,
The smith a mighty man is he, with large and sinewy hands."
This is all I can recall of a poem most of my generation learned as a manner of course.
I can remember, from the rural England where I spent my formative years, a low one-story
building with large wide open doors. I cannot remember if the Smith was massive, but he did
have an inner quietness, and as a child I was not afraid to approach him.
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Laura's Apple Tree
by Dawn Nesbitt
We know the old tree is just an ordinary apple tree, but it is like an old friend to us.
It sits in the middle of a small hill behind our house. At the top of the hill two enormous
pine trees stand sentinel together, but the apple tree is far enough away to be out of their
shadow yet close enough to be protected from stinging winter winds.
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Bobsled Days and Nights
by Dawn Nesbitt
The big snowfall had at last ended and now I watched a single pretty snowflake parachute down
to earth and make a soft landing. The world was white. Looking out the front window, I remembered
the road games we used to play after a big storm, up here at the top of the hill that is just
past the post office. In the Forties and early Fifties, before the new bridge was built and the
road improved, the top of the hill was a few feet higher, the curve of the hill a bit tighter and
the bottom of the hill a few feet lower. All the better for a bob sleigh ride.
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My Mother's Montreal Christmas
by Dawn Nesbitt
Because I was born in the early 1930's, my "Santa Claus" years were
during the Great Depression but I never knew it. My mother made our
Christmas a time of enchantment with simple materials at hand.
Puddings and cakes were made weeks ahead but the decorating
preparations began about 10 days before Christmas.
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Christmas 1915
by Phyllis Probyn Buxton
For over a year Britain had been at war, touching peripherally even our small village of Flixton,
seven miles west of Manchester. I had seen with my own eyes a German Zeppelin floating over head,
illuminated in the searchlights crossing the sky. In spite of the circumstances, or perhaps
because of them, my grandparents, with whom I lived, and my widowed mother, who came each weekend
by train from her business in Bradford, planned a special Christmas for the 5 (soon to be 6) year
old, only child in an adult household.
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Christmas at the Cottage
by Joan Jones
Some thirty years ago, when our children were young, we lived in the city; but the high point of
each year was Christmas at the cottage.
On the first day of the holidays, we loaded the big old station wagon with everything needed for
a perfect Christmas. Then we all squeezed into whatever space was left. By the time we reached
St. Sauveur it was dusk, and big snowflakes were sifting silently across the road.
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Christmas Tree Memories
by Kathleen Kilpatrick
When I was young we never had a Christmas tree. On Christmas Eve my mother would lengthen the
shiny oak dining-room table, putting in extra leaves. Then when we were all tucked in for the
night and admonished to "go right to sleep or Santa won't come", my parents placed our gifts on
the table with our names on top. There were toys and clothing, bought by relatives. We didn't
care too much for "dumb old clothes" but much preferred the toys, and stockings well filled with
apples, oranges and candy.
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