Crossing the Atlantic
A 19th-century family’s new life on Canadian soil
Let’s go back in time. It’s June 1858; Job and Ellen Almond, my great-greatgrandparents, are a young couple expecting their first child. In England, the Industrial Revolution is in full swing. Job, a strong man with big hands and even bigger ideas, is hoping for a better life in Canada. And so, the newlyweds set sail across the Atlantic towards Canada.
Job loves the journey; however, morning sickness leaves Ellen less enthused. The seven-week crossing was met with strong winds, which took the sailing vessel farther and farther into the deep, cold ocean.
The years pass quickly, and
Job builds the family a log cabin. The shore of Georgian Bay in Meaford, Ont., is a long walk, but a pretty one. On this day, my great-great-grandparents are celebrating a different kind of anniversary. The aroma of mint tea and fresh-baked scones floods their tiny cabin.
“Should we have stayed in Glengarry County?” Job asks. He smiles at his children.
“The St. Lawrence was good to us,” Ellen answers. “Six years is long enough to serve another man’s vision. By ’64, it was time for you to follow your dreams.”
“That’s why I married your mother,” Job tells his daughter, Lucy, and his son, Samuel.
“Your father married me for my cooking,” rebuts Ellen.
Job takes a bite of his scone.
“No,” he says. “It wasn’t your cooking!”
Ellen doesn’t answer. Christmas pudding is on her mind. Before the crossing, she hid the family recipe in a pocket beneath her petticoat.
That very day, Ellen is bringing eggs and butter with her as she walks into town. She plans to barter them at the general store. She needs flour, sugar, raisins and suet to make the pudding.
Job pauses. “I had a quarter in my pocket when we got o the ship,” he tells Lucy, his eldest. “Your mother and I worked hard. The $800 in gold coins we saved up here bought us our land, without a penny owed to any man.
It’s not what you make, Lucy, but what you save that counts.”
Lucy looks up at her father; she is listening to his every word. Job’s son, Samuel, my great-grandfather, is watching.
“Living with your uncle that first year at the bay gave me time to clear enough trees to build the log cabin,” Job tells his son. “And I’ve been clearing trees ever since!”
At the time, the government was asking landowners to clear a specified number of maple trees. Job and Ellen’s Georgian Bay property, one of the biggest Grey County had to offer, had been covered with them. Job, with only an axe and a pair of oxen, spent long days clearing the land. The care and survival of his young family motivated him.
A Family Tradition
The local maple trees are tapped and the collected sap boiled down at the sugar shack. The golden liquid is poured into quart jars and lined on cold cellar
shelves. When winter comes, the sweet dessert is served over fresh bread and butter.
Job doesn’t know it, but in 1949, the local paper will photograph his great-grandsons making maple syrup. A year later, my dad, at just 19, will be featured on a calendar produced by the Owen Sound Sun Times.
But it’s 1865, the Dominion of Canada doesn’t exist and Confederation won’t occur until July 1867.
Winter is harsh by Georgian Bay and the snowstorms are relentless. The frigid waters not far away lie beneath the ice, awaiting warmer temperatures.
In early spring, Job takes a risk. He can’t explain it, but planting potatoes leaves him feeling anxious. He decides to plant turnips instead, gathering as many seeds as he can and planting them between the maple trees he’s cleared.
Two months pass. Job can’t believe it, his turnip seeds have produced a bumper crop! Across Grey County, potatoes covered in blight lie rotting in empty fields. Job’s profits soar to $1,500.
“Might as well have been a million,” Job tells his children.
“It’s going to be a good Christmas,” Ellen tells her husband. “We can buy our supplies in town. But you nearly died of frostbite the year before last. Do you remember, you walked to Barrie for a 100-pound bag of flour?”
“The adventure,” Job says. “You married me for the adventure!”
Ellen smiles. “I married you because,” she says, pausing before continuing, “you can twist a 100-pound burlap sack of grain and then pick it up in your teeth and twirl it around.” Job laughs.
Christmas is around the corner and the temperatures have dropped. During the night, cold winds blow through the log cabin. By morning, a heavy frost covers the maple trees. A single cow, a pig, a few sheep and some chickens huddle in the barn. The cow bawls, ready to be milked.
Job puts on his coat. “I saw a buck by the barn morning before last,” he says. “A strong warrior. He’s come before. I gave him some turnips. Warriors have families to feed, too.”
“Why do you call the buck a ‘warrior?’” asks Ellen.
Job lights his pipe. “Bucks are strong, sure-footed, like warriors,” he tells her. “They travel unseen, hidden in the forest, ready to leap over any obstacles. I respect the warrior; this was his land before we came.”
The day passes quickly and night soon falls.
Christmas morning arrives and the land is covered in snow. Job delivers his turnips to the neighbours.
Lucy and Samuel wake up to each find an orange by their pillows, while the smell of fresh bread wafts throughout the log cabin. Crabapple jelly, preserved during the autumn months, sits in a simple clay pot. Ham smokes in the oven, sizzling as it bakes. Corn relish and devilled eggs lie on a wooden plate. Nearby, the rich Christmas pudding is steaming in a covered kettle.
But it’s the turnips that smell the sweetest this Christmas, in December of 1865. This was the year that Great-great-grandfather Job listened to his heart and believed in his dreams.
Editor’s Note: Joan would like to offer a special thanks to Uncle Bill, who told her the story of Job’s turnips, as well as her sisters, who provided the family photos and newspaper articles.