Jewell Parker Rhodes’ wonderful exercise idea for “family stories”… if you wrote one, please post and share here, and offer respectful, useful, and encouraging feedback on others’. Looking forward to seeing what you’ve come up with! Don’t hesitate to post first-draft aka EXERCISE work!
Here is the raw story I picked up from my Mum. While the story has an obvious gap that needs to be filled, I found it challenging to take it further. More on that after you read it.
"This is the story of my great grandfather, John Saul Brownlow - 1879 to 1959. Son of Steven Brownlow and great nephew to George Washington Brownlow who like generations of Brownlow’s before them were well known and respected artists. John Saul made a living making stained glass.
John Saul married Eliza in 1899.
John Jr was born in 1900, but sadly died of SIDS in 1901. Anne, my maternal grandmother was born in 1902 and her brother Stanley was born in 1904.
In 1904, John Saul, despite having a newborn baby and a two-year-old daughter decided to go to Australia to make his fortune
While he was gone, Eliza was able to make money as a very capable seamstress with her speciality being mutton sleeved dresses which were all the rage at the time. This was long before anyone even thought of gender pay equity. Despite her abilities, she was paid little. With no husband/father providing for them, Eliza, Anne and Stanley struggled just to get by.
They heard nothing from John Saul while he was away, but 7 years later, he walked into their home as if he had just gone for the day. He sat down, waited to be served dinner, and made himself at home.
He and Eliza never spoke of where he went or of what he did.
My Mum remembers both John and Eliza as kind and caring grandparents. My Grandmother, Anne, was also kind but not someone you would consider nurturing in the way you would want from a grandparent."
I took the obvious path, and starting writing about why John Saul left his family, what he did while he was away, and why he came back. I started researching what life was like in Australia and the UK in 1900 to try and create a clever but possible scenario under which he left and came back. I didn’t want him to do the obvious, and find another relationship, realize it wasn’t what he wanted, and come home. No amnesia, or prison time. It all seemed to cliché, and I don’t know much about the era.
On further thought, I think the story to be told is of Eliza, and how she managed to survive in a time where women weren’t seen as capable of leading a family, running a business, or voting. How she set fashion trends, and how she got to love her independence only to have it taken away 7 years later.
Now I need to determine if this is a story I want to write.
Here is a story outline based on the early adventures of my great Uncle and grandfather in the Cowichan area on Vancouver Island circa 1910. It is also based on local history and legend and was inspired by my discovery of the artifact in the garden of the family farm when I was a boy .
It is my first attempt at sharing some local history and a family story with a younger audience. Needs polish, fact checking and attention to detail. Comments welcome. Note; some parts of the story may not be considered entirely PC these days, however the language and references are true to common sentiment at the time the story unfolded. Comments on that are welcome too.
The Cannonball.
Tony and his younger brother Nigel, a couple of grubby white kids with a yearning to explore and learn, grew up on a beautiful piece of semi wild land above Cowichan Bay in the early 1900’s. Cowichan Bay was a salt water bay on Vancouver Island teeming with fish at the base of Mount Tzouhalem, a sacred and towering rock named after a terrible Cowichan chief from days gone by.
The Cowichan Valley in those days did not have a lot of white settlers, although the settlers that were there, mostly emigrants from Britain, were happy to work hard all week on their farms or in the forests wearing holes in their Stanfields, and then put on airs at weekend gatherings, dressing up in Sunday best and playing at tennis, yachting and rugby in the old school British fashion.
One day, Tony and Nigel were exploring around the base of Mount Tzouhalem, remembering the story of that terrible chief. A wild man who was prone to capture his enemies and torture them and enslave them for his own purposes. One day, before the boys were even thought of, Tzouhalem stole a neighbouring chief’s wife and took her for his own. The other chief, from what we now call Maple Bay, came looking for his wife, and surprised Tzouhalem with her, murdering Tzouhalem upon the spot, and cutting him open to tear his heart out. Much to the amazement of the vengeful chief, Tzouhalem’s heart was found to be “no bigger than the heart of a salmon” which explained to many his cruelty and wildness.
Tony and Nigel had many friends who were of the Cowichan Tribes, Chief Tzouhalem’s people- other grubby kids with skin the colour of tea, and keepers of a different language known as Helquimenum, but kids are kids and different languages are not a big barrier to children who share a love of wild animals, the forest, and running free. Tony and Nigel had collected many unusual things in the course of their explorations, curious rocks the size of a small duck, with holes made in them so they could be secured to a rope and used in fishing in the Bay, stone hammers and knives from their native friend’s ancestors, beads and feathers and birds nests, a fine collection of wild eggs, bones, a walrus tusk from a trader and the biggest pinecones they had ever seen. They also had some curious bits of iron from an old steam train and early farm machinery and even bits of car from Cowichan Bay’s first automobile accident (there were only two vehicles in Cowichan Bay at the time, and they found each other, by accident).
During this day’s expedition, a sunny day full of birdsong and whispy clouds, the boys tied their shirts around their waists and floated logs across meandering streams and climbed hills to see what was on the other side. They came to a magnificent oak tree at the base of the mountain that they had heard had been used for hanging bad people, thieves and criminals. They climbed the tree and looked for rope marks in the bark and jumped from the branches into the dry grass below pretending they were notorious and highly sought after criminals being hung or shot. They died again and again with all of the enthusiasm and raucous of youth filled with the joy of living on a hot summer day, without the tether of having to be concerned with school.
Eventually the boys made their way towards home, across the expansive St. Anne’s property, later known as Providence Farm, stealing apples from a gnarled tree stripped of bark on one side by deer that had minced across the dewy grass at night from the forest nearby. The boys, full of apple, wrested like bear cubs, pounced on each other like cougar and were seen by the swallows flinging pine cones at each other in a mock war between the Indians and settlers. Nigel had collected a shirt tail full of pinecones weeping pitch and began pelting Tony with them with all his might, whooping like a Banshee while running at Tony across the meadow, full speed.
Tony, being bigger could outrun Nigel, but Nigel had a headstart and those cones were beginning to sting as each one pelted Tony’s back. Tony spied a grassy knoll and high tailed it as fast as he could to get away from the onslaught, diving over the knoll and rolling down the other side, ending up with a mouth full of dirt and bleeding elbows full of small twigs, smashed fir needles and bits of gravel. Tony lay on his back, breathing heavily, looking at the clouds scudding across the sky expecting Nigel to come flying over the ridge at any moment. Nigel didn’t appear as expected and Tony knew he had been there more than a few minutes as he could feel the heat from his sweat begin to cool and evaporate from the summer breeze as his breathing slowed and the sweet smell of clover and fir pitch began to permeate his senses. With time, each of Tony’s muscles that had been tensed and ready to run or fight began to relax and Tony felt his body sagging to meet the firmness of the earth, making contact with the grass and dirt and lichen growing there. He began to look around and notice the wild flowers on the hill next to him, a dragon fly making rainbows with his wings, and the glitter of something round sticking out of the dirt not too far from his head.
Tony propped himself up on his scuffed elbow and grabbed a stick with his filthy hand and began poking at the object. At first Tony thought it might be the corner of a treasure chest left by some Spanish pirates, or some armour from the first white men soldiers who had come to these parts about 50 years before. 50 years seemed like a long time to Tony, so whatever it was Tony thought it might be something that could go in their growing collection of “valuable things” from their exploring. Next thing you know, Nigel’s scruffy head poked over the top of the mound as if expecting to have pine cones rain down on him. “Nigel!” Tony shouted, “I think I have found something!” Together they scrabbled at the ground with sticks and broken finger nails and unearthed a perfectly round steel ball about the size of a grapefruit, - a cannonball!
Right away, Tony recalled the story of Sir James Douglas second voyage to the Cowichan, in 1856, - more than 50 years ago- as it had been told to him by his father while tucking him into bed one stormy night last fall. One of the early settlers of the Cowichan was a rogue and an outcast from proper white society, and had lived alone for some time, until he became lonely and thought he would take himself a native wife. The man crept into one of the Cowichan villages one starry night and stole a woman who was squatting in the trees to pee. She was ugly as an old boot but that suited him fine as she knew how to mend a fish net and tan bear hides and collect the right kind of berries before winter set in, just as all Cowichan women are brought up to do. Unfortunately this woman happened to be one of the Chief’s favourite wives, and a search party of Indian braves and angry uncles was sent out to try and find her. Eventually the posse made their way through the bush to the settler’s cabin to see if he had seen or heard of her whereabouts in his travels, and the band of Cowichan men folk found her tied to a stake outside the settler’s cabin, sitting in the dirt mending crabbing pots. The men quickly dispersed into the surrounding bush, as the settler was nowhere to be seen, and they waited for him to return. When he did, they jumped on his back and forced their deer bone knives into his belly until he went limp and sticky with all of his blood leaking out of him.
The natives untied the woman and led her back to their camp at the edge of the Cowichan River and never thought anything more of the incident until some months later one of the young hunters appeared at the camp out of breath shouting about an English sailing ship in the Bay bristling with guns and armour. The native men knew not what this was about, but knew it must mean trouble so they decided to go deeper into the woods to avoid confrontation with the well armed soldiers from this magnificent and terrible ship. As the men were taking their leave from the village, in all haste, cannon shot sounded and the air filled with debris. Chunks of rock and flying dirt cascaded down upon the retreating Indians, and then another thundering shot! The natives shouted in panic and began to run into the bush, just as a landslide began nearby at the base of the mountain next to them.
Sir James Douglas, the man in charge of the safety of all white settlers from Fort Victoria to Campbell River, had heard about the murder of the settler in the Cowichan, and was obliged to send a sailing ship to try and apprehend the native criminal who murdered the settler. Douglas felt a show of might was best to scare the natives followed by a search party to find the murderer and hang him from a suitable tree. As such, Douglas, dressed in his military best and three point hat ordered cannon be loaded and shot at the escarpment above the native village on the banks of the Cowichan. This show of military might caused a small dirt slide from the impact of the cannon shot, and had the desired effect of scattering the frightened natives.
A search party of soldiers disembarked from the frigate and beat the bushes inland until a small group of natives pushed one of their own kind forward to bear the brunt of the military accusations. The man was summarily tried, found guilty and set to swinging from an oak tree nearby from a rope around he neck, while the others watched in mute fear and sought the soonest moment to escape. One by one, when the men in uniform were not paying attention, as the afternoon was warm and everyone despite the excitement was getting sleepy, the natives slipped away and upon finding each other in the bush again, congratulated themselves on their cunning in putting forward for the murderer, not in fact one of their own, but a slave from another tribe whom had been captured in a raid by themselves, sometime before. As far as everyone was concerned at the time, justice had been done, and the incident was now laid to rest.
Tony, repeated this story as he had remembered it to Nigel, and they marvelled at the weighty cannonball they held in their hands, the warmth of the sun radiating out of it as if it was heat from the exploding gunpowder that propelled it to this resting place they had found, 50 years ago. This brown steel ball would make a wonderful addition to their museum collection of local historic artefacts, and the boys were pleased. It had been a fine day!
That is helpful information about the "Sensitivity Reader", thank you.
The words of Chief Tzouhalem being found to have a heart no bigger than a salmon is local lore. I think it is a great image.
I grew up a city kid and had an opportunity a couple of times a year to visit my grandparents on the family farm in Cowichan Bay, while growing up. Artifacts such as the cannonball could be found like Easter eggs, in the long grass around the gardens and orchards. They were in "logical" places like corners or at the base of gates, and once we trained our sensitivities towards the potential locations of these things, there were many and varied touchstones to local history to be found.
Together the objects gave a sense of the rambling adventures my ancestors had when they were children, exploring their world. My great uncle and grandfather were fascinated by the Cowichan people and their ways, and regularly visited their settlements from a very young age.
She was 84 years old when she sat down at the dining room table to sort through her memories. For years she had stuffed trays of slides and neat packages of photographs into a variety of shoe boxes. Some of the boxes had dents, dust and deteriorating sides, but still, stuck across the top was a neatly cut ribbon of green painters tape. The tape noted what was inside. Sometimes the small, tidy, block print said the year, “1981” or sometimes it would say the names of the people stored inside “Nancy” “Jim” “Sylvia”. All the boxes lay labelled and stacked, like a crenulated wall, in a spare room.
It was funny, Gail thought, that at this time, when she was close to death, it was time to sort through so many moments of life. She had borrowed an illumination board, to place the slides on so the light would shine through, bring the slides to life and help her see the details. She planned to look at each one, save the ones that maybe her daughters or grandchildren might like and she would say goodbye to the others. She hoped to move quickly as time was short.
As she slid one slide onto the ridge of the illumination board, the light behind brought forth an image. There she was as a young mother, a woman in the 1960’s with a cute pixie hair cut, dark hair outlining her face. She was slim, in checkered pants and a snug fitting black sweater. She was crouched down and beside her was a young blonde child, maybe 2 years old. They both smiled, almost directly at the photographer. The sun shone hot and bright in that slide. It shone on the blonde hair. It shone on the young girl’s white cotton dress. It reflected in the mother’s eyes, deep brown and soft.
Gail remembered that little white smock dress. She remembered feeding the fine, light fabric through her Singer sewing machine, her hand cranking the wheel, the needle whirring as it stitched in and out along a seam. She remembered the hot sun of Africa and the beginning of her family. It really was a perfect memory of how she had raised a beautiful daughter and been a loving parent. Those symbols of love that she had made, those sweet homemade dresses, right there on the slide. She really had been a wonderful mother, she mused. A smile turned up some of the wrinkles that had pulled at her face.
When she removed the lid of the next box, and put the slide up to the light, her young blonde daughter was a teenager. Slim in the 1970s with the feathered hair that all the girls wore then, she smiled shyly at the camera. Again the sun was shining, scattered through the leaves of the plum tree, onto her white blonde hair. She wore an army green jumpsuit and held her gray cat in her arms. Gail smiled to herself at the image. She remembered that day. Her daughter had stood in the backyard, in the shade of that old tree waiting to leave. She was just 18 years old but she had to go. Gail had driven her to the bus station where she had picked up her suitcase, found her seat and rode to Edmonton. An 18-hour journey to visit a friend. She had never returned though. Gail didn’t know at the time that it would be the last she would see of her for many years.
Thoughts of the days leading up to her daughter’s departure, misted her eyes. She pushed back a surge of guilty tears and focused instead on the happy image. The sunshine, the smiles, the daughter…this was the memory. This was the memory of her life that she would hold onto. She pushed down the tears and the regret. That wouldn’t serve her. Not at this time, so close to the end. She pushed away the thoughts that if her daughter had seen the same slide, she would not see what her mother had seen.
Here is the raw story I picked up from my Mum. While the story has an obvious gap that needs to be filled, I found it challenging to take it further. More on that after you read it.
"This is the story of my great grandfather, John Saul Brownlow - 1879 to 1959. Son of Steven Brownlow and great nephew to George Washington Brownlow who like generations of Brownlow’s before them were well known and respected artists. John Saul made a living making stained glass.
John Saul married Eliza in 1899.
John Jr was born in 1900, but sadly died of SIDS in 1901. Anne, my maternal grandmother was born in 1902 and her brother Stanley was born in 1904.
In 1904, John Saul, despite having a newborn baby and a two-year-old daughter decided to go to Australia to make his fortune
While he was gone, Eliza was able to make money as a very capable seamstress with her speciality being mutton sleeved dresses which were all the rage at the time. This was long before anyone even thought of gender pay equity. Despite her abilities, she was paid little. With no husband/father providing for them, Eliza, Anne and Stanley struggled just to get by.
They heard nothing from John Saul while he was away, but 7 years later, he walked into their home as if he had just gone for the day. He sat down, waited to be served dinner, and made himself at home.
He and Eliza never spoke of where he went or of what he did.
My Mum remembers both John and Eliza as kind and caring grandparents. My Grandmother, Anne, was also kind but not someone you would consider nurturing in the way you would want from a grandparent."
I took the obvious path, and starting writing about why John Saul left his family, what he did while he was away, and why he came back. I started researching what life was like in Australia and the UK in 1900 to try and create a clever but possible scenario under which he left and came back. I didn’t want him to do the obvious, and find another relationship, realize it wasn’t what he wanted, and come home. No amnesia, or prison time. It all seemed to cliché, and I don’t know much about the era.
On further thought, I think the story to be told is of Eliza, and how she managed to survive in a time where women weren’t seen as capable of leading a family, running a business, or voting. How she set fashion trends, and how she got to love her independence only to have it taken away 7 years later.
Now I need to determine if this is a story I want to write.
yes, I know "to cliche" should be "too cliche"
Here is a story outline based on the early adventures of my great Uncle and grandfather in the Cowichan area on Vancouver Island circa 1910. It is also based on local history and legend and was inspired by my discovery of the artifact in the garden of the family farm when I was a boy .
It is my first attempt at sharing some local history and a family story with a younger audience. Needs polish, fact checking and attention to detail. Comments welcome. Note; some parts of the story may not be considered entirely PC these days, however the language and references are true to common sentiment at the time the story unfolded. Comments on that are welcome too.
The Cannonball.
Tony and his younger brother Nigel, a couple of grubby white kids with a yearning to explore and learn, grew up on a beautiful piece of semi wild land above Cowichan Bay in the early 1900’s. Cowichan Bay was a salt water bay on Vancouver Island teeming with fish at the base of Mount Tzouhalem, a sacred and towering rock named after a terrible Cowichan chief from days gone by.
The Cowichan Valley in those days did not have a lot of white settlers, although the settlers that were there, mostly emigrants from Britain, were happy to work hard all week on their farms or in the forests wearing holes in their Stanfields, and then put on airs at weekend gatherings, dressing up in Sunday best and playing at tennis, yachting and rugby in the old school British fashion.
One day, Tony and Nigel were exploring around the base of Mount Tzouhalem, remembering the story of that terrible chief. A wild man who was prone to capture his enemies and torture them and enslave them for his own purposes. One day, before the boys were even thought of, Tzouhalem stole a neighbouring chief’s wife and took her for his own. The other chief, from what we now call Maple Bay, came looking for his wife, and surprised Tzouhalem with her, murdering Tzouhalem upon the spot, and cutting him open to tear his heart out. Much to the amazement of the vengeful chief, Tzouhalem’s heart was found to be “no bigger than the heart of a salmon” which explained to many his cruelty and wildness.
Tony and Nigel had many friends who were of the Cowichan Tribes, Chief Tzouhalem’s people- other grubby kids with skin the colour of tea, and keepers of a different language known as Helquimenum, but kids are kids and different languages are not a big barrier to children who share a love of wild animals, the forest, and running free. Tony and Nigel had collected many unusual things in the course of their explorations, curious rocks the size of a small duck, with holes made in them so they could be secured to a rope and used in fishing in the Bay, stone hammers and knives from their native friend’s ancestors, beads and feathers and birds nests, a fine collection of wild eggs, bones, a walrus tusk from a trader and the biggest pinecones they had ever seen. They also had some curious bits of iron from an old steam train and early farm machinery and even bits of car from Cowichan Bay’s first automobile accident (there were only two vehicles in Cowichan Bay at the time, and they found each other, by accident).
During this day’s expedition, a sunny day full of birdsong and whispy clouds, the boys tied their shirts around their waists and floated logs across meandering streams and climbed hills to see what was on the other side. They came to a magnificent oak tree at the base of the mountain that they had heard had been used for hanging bad people, thieves and criminals. They climbed the tree and looked for rope marks in the bark and jumped from the branches into the dry grass below pretending they were notorious and highly sought after criminals being hung or shot. They died again and again with all of the enthusiasm and raucous of youth filled with the joy of living on a hot summer day, without the tether of having to be concerned with school.
Eventually the boys made their way towards home, across the expansive St. Anne’s property, later known as Providence Farm, stealing apples from a gnarled tree stripped of bark on one side by deer that had minced across the dewy grass at night from the forest nearby. The boys, full of apple, wrested like bear cubs, pounced on each other like cougar and were seen by the swallows flinging pine cones at each other in a mock war between the Indians and settlers. Nigel had collected a shirt tail full of pinecones weeping pitch and began pelting Tony with them with all his might, whooping like a Banshee while running at Tony across the meadow, full speed.
Tony, being bigger could outrun Nigel, but Nigel had a headstart and those cones were beginning to sting as each one pelted Tony’s back. Tony spied a grassy knoll and high tailed it as fast as he could to get away from the onslaught, diving over the knoll and rolling down the other side, ending up with a mouth full of dirt and bleeding elbows full of small twigs, smashed fir needles and bits of gravel. Tony lay on his back, breathing heavily, looking at the clouds scudding across the sky expecting Nigel to come flying over the ridge at any moment. Nigel didn’t appear as expected and Tony knew he had been there more than a few minutes as he could feel the heat from his sweat begin to cool and evaporate from the summer breeze as his breathing slowed and the sweet smell of clover and fir pitch began to permeate his senses. With time, each of Tony’s muscles that had been tensed and ready to run or fight began to relax and Tony felt his body sagging to meet the firmness of the earth, making contact with the grass and dirt and lichen growing there. He began to look around and notice the wild flowers on the hill next to him, a dragon fly making rainbows with his wings, and the glitter of something round sticking out of the dirt not too far from his head.
please go to part two
part two
The Cannonball
Tony propped himself up on his scuffed elbow and grabbed a stick with his filthy hand and began poking at the object. At first Tony thought it might be the corner of a treasure chest left by some Spanish pirates, or some armour from the first white men soldiers who had come to these parts about 50 years before. 50 years seemed like a long time to Tony, so whatever it was Tony thought it might be something that could go in their growing collection of “valuable things” from their exploring. Next thing you know, Nigel’s scruffy head poked over the top of the mound as if expecting to have pine cones rain down on him. “Nigel!” Tony shouted, “I think I have found something!” Together they scrabbled at the ground with sticks and broken finger nails and unearthed a perfectly round steel ball about the size of a grapefruit, - a cannonball!
Right away, Tony recalled the story of Sir James Douglas second voyage to the Cowichan, in 1856, - more than 50 years ago- as it had been told to him by his father while tucking him into bed one stormy night last fall. One of the early settlers of the Cowichan was a rogue and an outcast from proper white society, and had lived alone for some time, until he became lonely and thought he would take himself a native wife. The man crept into one of the Cowichan villages one starry night and stole a woman who was squatting in the trees to pee. She was ugly as an old boot but that suited him fine as she knew how to mend a fish net and tan bear hides and collect the right kind of berries before winter set in, just as all Cowichan women are brought up to do. Unfortunately this woman happened to be one of the Chief’s favourite wives, and a search party of Indian braves and angry uncles was sent out to try and find her. Eventually the posse made their way through the bush to the settler’s cabin to see if he had seen or heard of her whereabouts in his travels, and the band of Cowichan men folk found her tied to a stake outside the settler’s cabin, sitting in the dirt mending crabbing pots. The men quickly dispersed into the surrounding bush, as the settler was nowhere to be seen, and they waited for him to return. When he did, they jumped on his back and forced their deer bone knives into his belly until he went limp and sticky with all of his blood leaking out of him.
The natives untied the woman and led her back to their camp at the edge of the Cowichan River and never thought anything more of the incident until some months later one of the young hunters appeared at the camp out of breath shouting about an English sailing ship in the Bay bristling with guns and armour. The native men knew not what this was about, but knew it must mean trouble so they decided to go deeper into the woods to avoid confrontation with the well armed soldiers from this magnificent and terrible ship. As the men were taking their leave from the village, in all haste, cannon shot sounded and the air filled with debris. Chunks of rock and flying dirt cascaded down upon the retreating Indians, and then another thundering shot! The natives shouted in panic and began to run into the bush, just as a landslide began nearby at the base of the mountain next to them.
Sir James Douglas, the man in charge of the safety of all white settlers from Fort Victoria to Campbell River, had heard about the murder of the settler in the Cowichan, and was obliged to send a sailing ship to try and apprehend the native criminal who murdered the settler. Douglas felt a show of might was best to scare the natives followed by a search party to find the murderer and hang him from a suitable tree. As such, Douglas, dressed in his military best and three point hat ordered cannon be loaded and shot at the escarpment above the native village on the banks of the Cowichan. This show of military might caused a small dirt slide from the impact of the cannon shot, and had the desired effect of scattering the frightened natives.
A search party of soldiers disembarked from the frigate and beat the bushes inland until a small group of natives pushed one of their own kind forward to bear the brunt of the military accusations. The man was summarily tried, found guilty and set to swinging from an oak tree nearby from a rope around he neck, while the others watched in mute fear and sought the soonest moment to escape. One by one, when the men in uniform were not paying attention, as the afternoon was warm and everyone despite the excitement was getting sleepy, the natives slipped away and upon finding each other in the bush again, congratulated themselves on their cunning in putting forward for the murderer, not in fact one of their own, but a slave from another tribe whom had been captured in a raid by themselves, sometime before. As far as everyone was concerned at the time, justice had been done, and the incident was now laid to rest.
Tony, repeated this story as he had remembered it to Nigel, and they marvelled at the weighty cannonball they held in their hands, the warmth of the sun radiating out of it as if it was heat from the exploding gunpowder that propelled it to this resting place they had found, 50 years ago. This brown steel ball would make a wonderful addition to their museum collection of local historic artefacts, and the boys were pleased. It had been a fine day!
Thanks for your comments
That is helpful information about the "Sensitivity Reader", thank you.
The words of Chief Tzouhalem being found to have a heart no bigger than a salmon is local lore. I think it is a great image.
I grew up a city kid and had an opportunity a couple of times a year to visit my grandparents on the family farm in Cowichan Bay, while growing up. Artifacts such as the cannonball could be found like Easter eggs, in the long grass around the gardens and orchards. They were in "logical" places like corners or at the base of gates, and once we trained our sensitivities towards the potential locations of these things, there were many and varied touchstones to local history to be found.
Together the objects gave a sense of the rambling adventures my ancestors had when they were children, exploring their world. My great uncle and grandfather were fascinated by the Cowichan people and their ways, and regularly visited their settlements from a very young age.
Family Story
FRAMES
She was 84 years old when she sat down at the dining room table to sort through her memories. For years she had stuffed trays of slides and neat packages of photographs into a variety of shoe boxes. Some of the boxes had dents, dust and deteriorating sides, but still, stuck across the top was a neatly cut ribbon of green painters tape. The tape noted what was inside. Sometimes the small, tidy, block print said the year, “1981” or sometimes it would say the names of the people stored inside “Nancy” “Jim” “Sylvia”. All the boxes lay labelled and stacked, like a crenulated wall, in a spare room.
It was funny, Gail thought, that at this time, when she was close to death, it was time to sort through so many moments of life. She had borrowed an illumination board, to place the slides on so the light would shine through, bring the slides to life and help her see the details. She planned to look at each one, save the ones that maybe her daughters or grandchildren might like and she would say goodbye to the others. She hoped to move quickly as time was short.
As she slid one slide onto the ridge of the illumination board, the light behind brought forth an image. There she was as a young mother, a woman in the 1960’s with a cute pixie hair cut, dark hair outlining her face. She was slim, in checkered pants and a snug fitting black sweater. She was crouched down and beside her was a young blonde child, maybe 2 years old. They both smiled, almost directly at the photographer. The sun shone hot and bright in that slide. It shone on the blonde hair. It shone on the young girl’s white cotton dress. It reflected in the mother’s eyes, deep brown and soft.
Gail remembered that little white smock dress. She remembered feeding the fine, light fabric through her Singer sewing machine, her hand cranking the wheel, the needle whirring as it stitched in and out along a seam. She remembered the hot sun of Africa and the beginning of her family. It really was a perfect memory of how she had raised a beautiful daughter and been a loving parent. Those symbols of love that she had made, those sweet homemade dresses, right there on the slide. She really had been a wonderful mother, she mused. A smile turned up some of the wrinkles that had pulled at her face.
When she removed the lid of the next box, and put the slide up to the light, her young blonde daughter was a teenager. Slim in the 1970s with the feathered hair that all the girls wore then, she smiled shyly at the camera. Again the sun was shining, scattered through the leaves of the plum tree, onto her white blonde hair. She wore an army green jumpsuit and held her gray cat in her arms. Gail smiled to herself at the image. She remembered that day. Her daughter had stood in the backyard, in the shade of that old tree waiting to leave. She was just 18 years old but she had to go. Gail had driven her to the bus station where she had picked up her suitcase, found her seat and rode to Edmonton. An 18-hour journey to visit a friend. She had never returned though. Gail didn’t know at the time that it would be the last she would see of her for many years.
Thoughts of the days leading up to her daughter’s departure, misted her eyes. She pushed back a surge of guilty tears and focused instead on the happy image. The sunshine, the smiles, the daughter…this was the memory. This was the memory of her life that she would hold onto. She pushed down the tears and the regret. That wouldn’t serve her. Not at this time, so close to the end. She pushed away the thoughts that if her daughter had seen the same slide, she would not see what her mother had seen.
Shirley Silva