The Way It Was
Was there ever a more magical place to visit than Nanny and Grampy’s farm?
We used to visit my mother’s parents, Johnston and Florence Miner, every summer. In the beginning, it was Mom, my sister Ruby, our two younger brothers, Dale and Gary, and me. Three more children were added to the mix later. Our dad remained in Saint John, building or remodelling houses. Even though it was a challenging undertaking for our mother, she didn’t suppress our high spirits and excitement as we looked forward to our visit with Nanny and Grampy.
We’d embark on the old ferry—the Princess Helene, which we thought was a huge ship—that took about three and a half hours to cross the Bay of Fundy and dock in Digby, N.S. The train from Halifax met the ferry in those days, about a three-hour ride “down the line.” The towns whizzed by as we ate our lunch; we were both thrilled and terrified as we crossed the trestle bridge high over Bear River. Anticipation mounted as we heard the town names being called: Bridgetown, Middleton, Kentville and Wolfville. When we reached Grand Pre, it was time to grab our suitcases. “Horton Landing next stop,” the conductor would call out. Can a child live all year for these two weeks? I think we did.
Horton Landing (now called Hortonville) is situated in the
heart of the Annapolis Valley, nestled along the Minas Basin, an inlet of the Bay of Fundy known for its extremely high tides. It is also a part of the landscape of Grand Pre UNESCO World Heritage Site. Between 1759 and 1768 thousands of New England Planters (colonists) were invited to settle in the area by Nova Scotia’s Lieutenant Governor after the deportation of the Acadians. The Planters and later the Loyalists built a bustling community in this beautiful part of Canada known for its agriculture. One of our ancestors on our mother’s side made the move from Connecticut.
Exiting the train in Horton Landing, we’d spring into Grampy’s waiting arms. His farmer’s face had a few wrinkles in those days but my sister and I thought him handsome. He was a quiet man with a twinkle in his eye and just knowing he was there gave us a sense of permanence. Dashing up the laneway we’d run through the back door into Nanny’s welcoming hug. She wasn’t a demonstrative person so we treasured this display of affection. A petite lady with an abundant sense of humour, she
and Grampy were well matched.
Later, I’d lie on the Grampyshaped kitchen couch, my favourite place on Earth. Poring silently over old copies of the Family Herald and Weekly Star,
I could distinguish the voices of my grandparents and the aunts and uncles who still lived at home.
Nanny was busy rescuing tempting molasses cookies from the gleaming black and chrome woodstove. I savoured the aroma of freshly baked cookies, and the murmur of voices rising and falling—i was content.
At mealtimes, we ate in the dining room. Nanny scurried here and there like a fussy bird, never alighting anywhere until Grampy would scold, “Sit down, woman.”
“Oh, hold your horses, Mister,” she would retort. Across the street from our grandparents’ home were a couple of old buildings converted to apartments that had once been a part of the proud Acacia Villa school founded in July 1852 as a private school. Originally a boys’ school, it began welcoming girls in 1905 and closed its doors in 1920. Eventually, these buildings were demolished, and a cairn now marks the place where the school once stood.
Our grandparents’ lovely farmhouse had been one of the school’s residences, apparently housing staff and some students. The house was subsequently sold to Grampy’s parents and they presented it to Nanny and Grampy as a wedding gift.
The blue-grey house seemed enormous to us. Six bedrooms graced the upstairs; the walls were papered with pretty pastel flowers. Each bedroom had its own commode set, a pitcher, basin and potty.
During late summer, when the nights were cool and the parlor stove still not lit, no warmth would steal through the grates in the bedroom floors. We’d snuggle into bed, warm and satisfied despite our cold little noses.
The sounds in the country were different to our city-dulled ears; the train as it whistled along the shore, a branch tapping against the window, and the undulating tide in the Minas Basin that lulled us to sleep.
The farm seemed vast to our childhood eyes. Apple trees populated the orchard with a sprinkling of cherry, peach and plum trees. Fresh garden vegetables, as well as cultivated raspberries and strawberries, were in abundance. Much to my surprise, I realized in my 20s that the farm was less than three acres.
Childhood Delights
Two big attractions for us were Charlie the horse and Daisy the cow. Grampy would often milk Daisy in the pasture. We thought Grampy slightly wicked when he would point Daisy’s “you know whats” in our direction and we’d experience a mouthful of rich warm milk. “Don’t tell your grandmother,” he would say. What Nanny didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.
We didn’t venture very far on our own. Nanny didn’t trust everyone, but we’d go to the corner store for the mail or a few groceries. On sunny days, Nanny and our mother would take us down the hill to the beach. As evening drew near we’d sometimes visit Miss Curtis, who invariably wore a kerchief covering her head. My sister Ruby was sure Miss Curtis was bald. Upon request, we would faithfully sing “Jesus Loves Me” in our high treble voices. Miss Curtis was a gracious lady. She’d applaud and reward us with little cakes and cookies. We would only take one as we were raised to be polite, even though we were longing for more.
One day, we experienced an adventurous departure from our usual haunts. Following is an excerpt from a diary I kept.
Dear Diary ,
This morning, my sister who’s seven, two neighbour friends, Netty and Faye, and I were making houses out of the wood Grampy chopped. We wore our play dresses. Mine was red and white. My sister’s was blue. Anyway we got bored. So we decided to go to Grand Pre park. It was quite far away. We forgot to ask permission. They are all younger than me so I felt responsable for them. Sometimes I skipped and sang a lot. It was a long walk. When a car came I told them to jump into the ditch. They obeyed. We were almost to the park when my sister saw a shortcut. It was a cow pasture. But then Netty had to go the bathroom. There was none. She couldn’t wait even though I told her to. Plop!!! She did everything right there and even worse she left her undies on the cow path. I was desgested. But then we saw a grassy bank that went into the park. We rolled down the hill over and over. It was so funny. We saw a big stature. It was Evangeline. A man named Longfellow wrote a poem about her. It was on a plack. Then we went over to the church which is now a muzeum. We saw lots of old stuff. There was a store nearby but we didn’t even have money for Nesbitt’s Orange. Then we walked home. My sister and I didn’t get into trouble but maybe Netty did.
It was an enjoyable day.
I’m sinning off now.
Good night
Evenings, after we bathed in the round tin tub by the stove, or washed at the shiny black pump, Grampy would pass around a bag of peppermints or chocolates. Someone would relate a funny story or two and Nanny would convulse with laughter. It seemed to us that she couldn’t get her breath. We would stare, fascinated and fall into giggles ourselves as we realized this was just Nanny’s way.
As dusk approached and the moon winked down on us, it was bedtime again in beloved Horton. Strangers’ feet walk the floor now, but for many decades the people whose genes I share, lived and loved in the big grey house by the chestnut tree.