Tag Archives: Freeland

Slow drives

On one of my first jaunts as I was learning to ride and getting ready to go for my motorcycle licence in 2006, I met a couple of motorcycles. As they passed, they put their left hands out and down, index and middle finger pointing outwards in a sort of casual peace sign. I hadn’t heard of the motorcycle wave, so wasn’t ready to respond, and they whizzed by without any acknowledgement from me. They were on chonky Honda Gold Wings and I was on my teeny, slow 49cc Yamaha scooter, so I just barely counted as a biker, but I had suddenly joined a club I hadn’t known existed.

The next time I met a motorcycle, I was ready and stuck my gloved hand out, receiving the low-rider’s salute in return. I was tickled to be considered a biker, even by someone with scary looking patches on their jacket!

I drove my scooter every fine day there wasn’t snow on the ground for four years while I worked at my neighbour’s dairy farm. After milking cows on a hot, humid summer evening, there was nothing nicer than peeling off my smelly overalls and rubber boots and scooting home, the wind cooling me off immediately, my sweaty t-shirt billowing from my back.

My scooter is gone, one of the many things I have put aside, for now, as a full-time caregiver (and it had a filthy 2-stroke engine, so it really wasn’t an environmentally responsible mode of transportation no matter how little gas it used). I can’t afford to dump a scooter and end up with an injury, because my mother needs me to be well and fully functioning. I’ve never been a reckless kind of person, so my risk aversion is not a new thing, but I’m now incredibly careful on stairs and ladders, on ice, on wet surfaces.

Early this morning I had the occasion to take another slow drive, 20 minutes down the road, on my little Kubota tractor, to help a friend with a landscaping project. There’s no speedometer on my tractor, so I’m not sure how fast I was going, but it’s certainly not a zippy rig. I enjoyed the slow ride, even with the diesel fumes (I will be glad to someday trade in for an electric tractor).

Neighbours waved from their yards as I passed, as did people in cars and other tractors. The smell of the briny Foxley River gave way to the pong of freshly-spread manure, then further along came the odour of sweet silage that had just been cut. White phlox that had long ago escaped from a flower garden nodded at me from a ditch, their strong lilac scent overwhelming the diesel, and that’s quite a feat.

I crossed from Foxley River to the next community, Freeland, where my mother was born and raised, where my parents had a store with our house next to it, the community where seven generations (and counting) of our family have lived. As I reached our old store, our former neighbour was out for her morning walk, and she laughed when I told her where I was headed and what my plans were. I passed the yard where my great-grandparent’s house had stood for over 125 years until it was torn down last fall. My cousin is going to have a big barn built there to hold his fishing gear. The grass is growing well over the old house site, and they have planted fruit trees in memory of our ancestors.

A couple of hours of digging and levelling and the uprooting of a couple of rotten stumps (one with a wasp nest – yikes!) and I was tootling home again. Next to the Anglican cemetery where my namesake grandmother Thelma (Hutchinson) Hardy has rested since 1927, nestled next to many other relatives, I admired the bumper crop of choke cherries growing on the side of the road in this extraordinarily good growing year.

Choke cherries

I stopped to take a photo of one of my favourite trees, a round white birch on the edge of a field, with a couple of ancient linden trees far in the background that were said to have been grown from cuttings brought from Ireland in the 1830s.

The solitary white

I’ve made so many trips along this road in my 57 years, in every kind of conveyance: car, truck, tractor, horse and sleigh, bicycle, scooter, snowmobile, school bus. I still see something new on each trip, especially a slow one. I was content and calm and exactly where I was supposed to be, moving slowly and part of everything I saw.

Our house is hidden far in the woods on the far side of Foxley River.

Goodness and light and being 100

Last night as I was heading to bed well past my normal bedtime, I noticed the orange crescent moon climbing up the red pine tree to the east of our house. I went closer to the window to see it better and a shooting star dashed past. I noted Jupiter and Saturn marching across the sky, and suddenly another star fell straight down, grazing the moon. I felt sucked into the night sky, away from here and now.

I imagined my grandmother, Thelma, also awake late on August 19th but in 1922, looking out her window only a couple of miles from mine, waiting for her first child to be born the next day, my own mother, Vivian. Thelma had been orphaned as a tiny girl and married my grandfather Wilbur at an age we would think young now. After one more long night, she would have a family again.

We had an open house party today at the old school in Freeland, again only a mile from where my mother was born, to mark her 100th birthday. About 150 people attended, people who have known my mother from as far back as the early 1940s and some who met her only last month. Cousins brought tiny babies, passing them from one loving set of arms to the other, held them up next to my mother to take a photo on this milestone day (“You once met a lady born in 1922, she held your hand, here’s the proof!”). I watched as people from different parts of our lives made the connection that they both knew my mother. Planets colliding, stars streaking past.

Today my mother was able to receive the good wishes and love of others, and what an overwhelming and humbling experience that was for her and me. How often have we wished that we had told someone how much they mean to us, but it is too late. Everyone had their chance today, and they arrived with full hearts and words of respect and love.

Perhaps all the unnatural separation we have endured over the course of this pandemic needed to burst today, people wanting to connect again, to have community, to love and be loved.

There were so many people at the party I couldn’t possibly talk to them all, but those who I did speak with (all the time still wearing my mask, because this party was not without risk, something I weighed over and over as I considered planning a get together during a still-active pandemic) spoke of my mother’s inherent kindness, faithfulness, goodness, industriousness. The love for her nearly lifted the roof off the old building, the vibrations of family and community connection humming and dancing through the walls and back up to the sky.

When I returned to PEI 20 years ago, someone remarked I had big shoes to fill, but I know I will never be her, never come close to having her impact, though as her only child, I have certainly tried to model my own way of being in the world on how she has lived her life. She has taught me to think of others first, and to always stay true to what I believe in. To be welcoming, warm hearted, cheerful, helpful and kind. I try to work hard and see the good in others. If I have the choice to do more or do less, I do more. Seize the day, move forward, and laugh.

My mother was tired after all the intense attention when we returned home at 4, but by late evening, reading through some of the cards she received, she remarked that it had been a good day, and she only felt 25, that we must have been wrong about the date. That, dear readers, is how you get to 100.

Vivian (Hardy) Phillips, born August 20, 1922

April 25, 1922

On Tuesday April 25, 1922, five people made their way to Thomas Cahill’s store in Freeland, PEI. A two-story structure that included living quarters, it was the typical general store of its day: a central aisle with two long counters on either side, the goods for sale stacked high on floor-to-ceiling shelves behind. A customer would hand their order to a clerk, who would gather the items from boxes and tins and barrels, write out a receipt, and accept payment or make note of credit. The customer would place the items in a wooden box they brought in from their wagon, or a basket they carried on their arm if they were walking.

Thomas Cahill’s Store circa 1915

While poking around in our basement earlier this month, I found two receipt books from Cahill’s store mixed in with 50-year-old receipt books from the general store operated by my parents, Harold and Vivian Phillips. They bought Cahill’s store in 1946, but from Laughlin “Lin” Murphy, who I believe bought the store from Cahill in late 1922. My parents operated and lived in the old store until 1952, when they built what they believed was the first self-serve general store in rural PEI. That new store had little shopping trollies that customers could put their items in as they made their way along the three aisles of the store. Though my parents were proud of this modern facility, some old timers refused to pick out their own groceries, so the old fashioned service always existed in some form in our store up until they sold it in 1971.

Thomas Cahill had telephone number R5-15 on the Conway line out of the Tyne Valley Exchange, but didn’t include that information on his receipts – not many of his customers had a telephone anyway.

I was familiar with the receipt books my parents used, but Cahill’s books are slightly different in that the receipt lists both the person who was buying the goods and the person who was picking them up at the store. This is double joy for a history buff, more names to make more connections!

It’s a miracle these books made it through three owners and the dismantling of the original store. Little else survives from that store except a couple of photographs, a few drawers from the counters repurposed as wonky workshop shelves by my father, and a gripper device used to quickly reach items on high shelves.

The old Cahill store before it was dismantled in 1952.
The house section of the store being moved to Conway, 1952.
Inside the old Cahill store when it was being dismantled in 1952. If you look closely, you can just make out the floor-to-ceiling shelves on the far wall. I think this part of the store became part of my grandfathers box mill, and burned in the 1960 West Prince forest fire.

Being spring on PEI, April 25 could have been cold and snowing or hot and sunny, or both over the course of the day! A horse and wagon might have kicked up a bit of dust on sunnier parts of the red dirt roads as they travelled, but could have also bogged down a bit in the swales. If the roads were too muddy, people would have walked or rode a horse to the store.

First to arrive was Joe Kelly, picking up an enormous amount of salt and what was probably a five pound can of baking powder for Clara Gavin. Not sure who she was, but a woman named Sis Gavin was often mentioned by one of my mother’s uncles, and she kept house for William Bryan after his wife died in 1914. Joe Kelly lived not far away from Bryan’s farm, so Clara could possibly be Sis. If I look to the north from our house, I can see the dark outline of the spruce trees that surround Joe Kelly’s house, perhaps the oldest building in Foxley River.

Next was John McArthur, though I’d bet it was really MacArthur, picking up a $4.50 bag of flour, which would have been a 100-pound bag! There was a Malcolm “Mac” MacNeill operating a lobster cannery on the Sandhills at that time, so John could have worked for Mac and the flour was destined to feed the cannery staff.

Next were neighbours and cousins Nicholas and Raymond Bulger, both born in 1902. Perhaps they travelled to the store together. In later years, both of these men followed the well-worn path to the New England states, only returning to PEI for vacations.

Looks like Nick picked up 5 pounds of sugar, some sort of pills, soap, 10 cents worth of candy and some tobacco. The soap was probably something like Sunlight soap, which was used to clean everything. Most country women usually made their own lye soap, but perhaps Mrs. Bulger had run out. Nick had 12 dozen eggs to sell, and got 26 cents a dozen. That sounds like a ridiculously low price to us, but would have been good money then, and possibly the only money the family received that week. Cahill probably took most of the eggs he bought from his customers into Conway Station and sent them on the train to be sold in Summerside.

I think Raymond bought 10 pounds of wire nails at 6-and-a-half cents a pound, 1 pound of twist chewing tobacco, and three large boxes of wooden matches. With matches, tobacco, twist and candy, the boys would have a jolly ride back to Foxley River!

The last customer recorded on that Tuesday was Ferdinand “Ferdie” Kilbride, a neighbour of the Bulger boys and one year their junior. Try as I might, I can’t for the life of me make out the two items that Ferdie bought. The first was a bottle of something or other, and the second is a big mystery. Let me know if you can read this scrawl. [Update: an eagle-eyed reader suggests that the first item is “1 bottle witch hazel”, and I agree!]

If these folks, most of them close neighbours related by birth or marriage, had bumped into each other on their trip, there would have taken plenty of time for a chat to catch up. The weather would be finely dissected, preparations for crop planting compared, updates given on family here on PEI and in far-flung Boston or Toronto. In the distance they might have heard the surf breaking on the Sandhills like I could this morning, heard the robins and chickadees calling. The young men might have been planning what fun they would be getting up to on the weekend!

Peter Bulger’s descendants still farm his land, and Bulgers and Kellys are well represented in our community. I worked for Thomas Bulger’s grandson on the same farm Thomas owned. Sadly, the last Kilbride to live in Foxley River died a few years back. The Bulger, Kelly and Kilbride families came here from Ireland in the 1830s, so the disappearance of an original settler family name is especially poignant.

I had no idea these books existed, so was pleased and excited to find them. All these people came back to life in an instant, their movements through the landscape I know so well, the challenging lives they lived in the backwoods of PEI. An enviable time, in some ways, simple and straightforward, but still before the miracles of antibiotics and electricity, and with one terrible war behind them and one lurking in the future. There is certainly no ideal time to have lived, and I’m content with the here and now, but oh how I would love to have spent five minutes in Thomas Cahill’s store catching up with my long-gone neighbours.