Me n Len: Life in the Haliburton Bush 1900-1940

Len

Introduction

Originally I planned to write a book about how I built my log cabin in the bush. What, I thought, could be more enthralling? I soon found out. Fascinated as I was with the project, everyone I talked to seemed to have trouble maintaining interest in the subject for more than sixty seconds – unless I was talking about Len, in which case they would listen attentively, hanging on every detail, and say what an interesting old fellow he must be. All my good stories seemed to be about Len. People would say, You really ought to write a book about him. I came to the conclusion that they were right. In the end, I decided to write a book about life in eastern Haliburton in the early decades of this century with Len’s life and times as its focus and Len’s memory as its main source.

It has always seemed ironic to me that folklorists so often travel far afield to do their collecting. They rarely look about on their own doorstep first. It took an American from Texas, for example, to unearth a genuine vampire cult near Barry’s Bay, Ontario. It just seems to be human nature to assume that faraway places are more interesting and unusual than our own backyards, and often we know more about other cultures than our own. Ask someone from Ontario about logging and river drives, and he’ll tell you about French Canadian lumberjacks and the famous draveurs, but he probably will know little or nothing about how things were done in Ontario.

I, too, have been guilty of this. Once, while cruising the backroads along the Kentucky-Indiana border, I picked up two old characters in grubby clothes and carrying large, low-slung leather pouches. Asked what they were doing, they said, Deegin sang. Although this was about the only thing they said that I could make out, I was very pleased with myself for understanding this in particular. Having read extensively about the customs of the area, I knew that sang was the local variant of the word ginseng. I had read all about the plant and how it was gathered, and these two old fellows looked just exactly like what I had thought ginseng pickers must look like.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I happened to ask Len what he and Ken White had been doing, one time, way over the other side of Kennabi Lake, and Len replied, Diggin jinksen. Although I immediately recognized sang for what it was in Kentucky, I had to ask Len to repeat what he had said here in Haliburton, where I have spent a good part of my life. From his description I immediately realized what he was talking about. I had known that it had occasionally been farmed in southern Ontario, but I had no idea that it had been found wild all over Haliburton and widely picked and sold in the old days. Kentucky I was familiar with, but not Ontario.

The same thing happened with moonshine. I have always loved all the stories about moonshiners and revenuers in South Carolina, Tennessee, and the hills of Kentucky, but that there might have been the same activity in Haliburton never even flitted through my mind. I knew that most of eastern Haliburton had been dry since at least 1910 and that people used to go to Gooderham by train to get liquor, but I never suspected that the area had once been very active in moonshining. Surely I would have heard about it. One day, however, during a perfectly routine conversation on the local place names – Newbatt’s Hay Marsh, Flour Barrl Lake, Johnny’s Marshes – I asked Len how Whisky Bay on Grace Lake came by its name.

That’s where they had their still there – Charlie Earle and Clarence Godfrey – a long, long time ago. They made moonshine in there for years. Both good drinkers, ya know. There’s a cove in there going through to Farquhar Lake. You just go in there, I’d say two hundred yards, and you come into this cove, and there’s a wall of rock on your right hand side comes straight down and the same on the left side. It was a death trap on deer. But anyway, before you come to this cove, they had their still in there on Little Pine Crick, I’d say roughly fifty yards from where it empties into Grace Lake. You couldn’t see it from the shore and, of course, at that time there were no tourists arsin aroun to see your smoke either. But don’t try it nowadays. You wouldn’t be in there half an hour and some bastard’d report ya. They had everything there – worm, kettle – I seen where they made it. The old ashes and the stones are there yet longside of the crick.

Oh hell, Len went on, they weren’t the only ones aroun here makin shine. Story after story about moonshining followed (see chapter 5, The Far Camp, for a sampling).

The more I talked to Len about the past, the more I came to realize that all kinds of interesting activities that were associated in my mind with other places had gone on right in Haliburton. Not only were ginseng and illicit whisky very much a part of early life in the area, but Haliburton also had its own log drivers and mad trappers. I found that the social and oral history of early Haliburton was every bit as complex and colourful as that of anywhere else. What worried me, however, was that much of it was fading away unrecorded.

Not that there had been no interest. For the centennial of Monmouth Township, for example, a worthwhile little book called Monmouth Township 1881–1981 was put together locally. I showed it to Len, thinking he might be interested.

What does it say about Wilberforce? he asked.

It tells about life here in the old days and talks about some of the old families in the area. What does it say about our family? asked Len.

Well, I said apologetically, there isn’t a section on your family, but it does mention your dad here and there.

Hell, said Len indignantly, my old man ownded the whole village at one time and sold off all the lots.

It does mention that, I replied, already regretting the direction the conversation had taken. The people who put the book together naturally wrote about the families they happened to know best.

What the hell else does it say? asked Len scornfully.

Well, you know, a lot of church history and stuff, I answered evasively.

Church history, snapped Len. Does it tell you about the time Frank McCully pinned the preacher on the back of the head with a whisky bottle from the upstairs window of the Spears and Lauder bunkhouse?

No, I said, it doesn’t mention that.

"Well that’s your real church history, huffed Len. I can tell ya all about that. A bunch a lads was up there on Sunday night, celebratin, and one lad says, ‘Here comes the preacher.’ Preacher was jus like ol Flannelfoot down here, ya know. Both a them were death on drink. So they got the window open and everything ready, all the empty whisky bottles lined up, and I guess they jus plastered him, one damn bottle after the other. One bottle pinned him right in the back of the head. Knocked his hat right off and damn near knocked him out. They had quite a time over it. Big fuss. There was talk about it for a long time afterwards. That’s church history, ain’t it? That’s what you should put in your book."

I came to agree with him. To understand the times, one needs oral history, stories, and even legends. This is one of the strengths of Nila Reynolds’ book, In Quest of Yesterday, which is devoted to all of the Provisional County of Haliburton and records quite a bit of local oral history. This became the aim of my book: to record things that might otherwise not have been recorded.

It is only after completing this book that I fully realize what an exceptional informant I have had in Len. He has spent his whole life in or around Wilberforce. He goes to Bancroft and the town of Haliburton occasionally, less often to Peterborough, and has only been as far away as Toronto a few times in his life. He hates the city. After spending several days in Kitchener when his daughter got married, he told me that he’d had a bellyful of the city. The way they move down there, you’d think there was a forest fire after them. Len rarely even goes to downtown Wilberforce. Dudley and Harcourt Townships are what he really knows – the east half of Dudley and the west half of Harcourt to be exact – and no one will ever know them again the way he does.

Len has exceptionally good recall, perhaps because his mind is free of trivia unrelated to his daily life. He can even remember things like the very words his bunkmate Wheeler Patterson said during a nightmare at Willows’ lumber camp in the twenties! Nor is his memory narrowly selective. Once he has told you what he thinks is interesting, you can press him for all manner of minute details, and he will usually be able to remember everything you want, right down to details of dress or speech. If he forgets something, he does not try to invent, but simply tells you that he cannot remember, and then goes and broods on it, often coming up with the answer a week or so later. A last thing that makes him a reliable informant is that he has no tendency to self-aggrandizement. He tells you all about other interesting people, but often has to be pressed for information about himself. For example, even his son, Gord, knew nothing of Len’s Hemlock Camp at Buck Lake, although he had been within one hundred yards of it many times. Len had shown him and told him all about the Ram’s Pasture, which was built by Ike Austin, but he never thought to mention the log cabin he built all by himself with only an axe.

On one level, of course, this book is about Len and is often presented through his eyes. On another level, however, I hope that it transcends the personality of Len and catches something of the fabric of his times. Through the prism of an individual, I have tried to present a picture of the general life of the time. While about Len Holmes and Wilberforce, this book is also about life in backwoods Ontario between 1900 and 1940, a life which had many things in common with life in other parts of rural North America, as well, of course, as unique differences. I hope that readers – wherever they may be – will enjoy making the connection with their own early lives or those of their parents and grandparents.

One

Meeting Len

GRRrrrARFARFrrrr. Whatever it was just couldn’t wait to get at us.

Lionel hesitantly unlatched the car door and prepared to stick out a sandalled foot, but just as he was about to make his move, another round of furious uncontrolled barking started up. Turning pale, Lionel jerked the door closed just in time to prevent his foot from being savaged.

My God that was close, he said. Where is the brute, anyway?

The barking had subsided to a low growling, difficult to pinpoint. Expecting the Hound of the Baskervilles, Lionel swivelled his head around rapidly, trying to spy out the dog’s hiding place, but neither of us could see anything for the tall grass.

Geez, said Lionel, all you want to do is look at a piece of property and have a little fun, and you gotta put up with this kind of thing.

Lionel and I were checking out a piece of property that had looked very promising in the newspaper. We had called a Derek Hayes (Realize a lifetime dream! Call Derek … ) and been told that all we had to do if we wanted to see the property was to drive to some place called Wilberforce, go to the last house in town up on the hill at the big curve, and ask for Len. This Len would apparently take us in and show us all.

We passed a blue and white sign bearing the illustrious surname of William Wilberforce, and seconds later spotted a pleasant little white frame house with green trim up on the hill. We turned off and drove up a long gravel driveway lined on both sides by tall grass and weeds. Lionel stopped the car about thirty feet from the house and said Why don’t you go up and see if he’s home? Save me turning off the car.

He had noticed the ominous humming outside the car. There is nowhere blackflies and mosquitoes like to lurk better than around gravel driveways choked with lush wet milkweed. Heat sensitive, they had swarmed about our hot car in eager anticipation. I made it very clear there was no way I was going up to the door alone, so Lionel grudgingly agreed to come with me. We better go soon or the bloody mosquitoes will fly away with the car, he said, opening his door.

It was at this moment that the dog had launched his attack and made his first pass at Lionel’s foot. The disturbing thing was not being able to see it, though it could obviously see us. Every time Lionel moved the door handle, the barking would start up again, seemingly just outside the door.

Rich, I can’t see the darn thing, said a progressively more concerned Lionel. He’s got to be right around the car, eh?

I suggested to Lionel that he roll down his window and try to get a look. He did so, cautiously, and then, to my surprise, burst out laughing. You’re not going to believe this. It’s a little wee mutt only about a foot high.

Well, I said, go ahead and get out then. You know how to handle dogs. I was playing on his pride. He has always been proud of his way with dogs.

Yeah, dogs don’t scare me, said Lionel, as if trying to convince himself, slowly reopening the door a crack. SNAPPETY SNAP SNAP. It was all clicking ivory and horrendous growling. Sensing a coward on the other side of the door, the dog was really putting on a show.

"Come on up. Hell, he won’t hurt ya," said a voice at once disdainful, amused, and encouraging.

We looked up, and there coming down the driveway was an old guy with white hair and a heavily tanned face, shaded by a faded green long-billed cap. He was wearing a pair of work pants and a work shirt, both of which had at one time been green and neither of which were any strangers to the washtub.

Leaning slightly backward and tucking in his shirt while hitching up his pants, the old man repeated, not without a shade of contempt, He won’t hurt ya’s. Jus get right out. 01 Perk don’t bite, less he figgers you’re ascared of him.

The heck he doesn’t, muttered Lionel to himself, adding to me, Tell the old gaffer to call his mutt off and then we’ll get out.

I opened my door, hopping out in my long pants and leather boots, and said: Hi, you must be Len Holmes.

Yeah, answered Len, is your partner scairt a dogs?

Heck no. He grew up with dogs, I said.

Don’t look like it to me, said Len, watching Lionel peering out the window and holding the door open just a crack. Len walked around the car and casually drop-kicked Perky about forty feet down the hill into the long grass and said, as if nothing had taken place at all, I spose youse is the fellas from the city wantin to see the Hayes property.

That’s right, said Lionel, now out in the driveway, adding in self-justification, I’ve got shorts on.

I see that, said Len, apparently having no idea that Lionel was making a pathetic attempt to re-establish the old dog-trainer image, now gone forever from my mind.

Had we come to see the Hayes property? How much of it did we want to see? When did we want to see it? Nascent growling in the now-moving grass. Lionel anxiously shooting glances over his shoulder and swatting mosquitoes.

I knew right away that I was going to like this man. I can still remember standing in his driveway watching the blackflies crawling unhurriedly over that white forehead, while he got launched on the ol days, telling us how he first took Derek Hayes’ parents into the property that they eventually bought. At first, I was lost in admiration at how he treated the flies with such utter disdain; then I realized that he was not even aware that there were any flies around. Interested as I was in Len’s story, I found it difficult to concentrate on it, since Lionel, whose legs by now looked like a bunch of grapes, was smacking fly after fly in a losing battle against the bloodthirsty hordes.

Finally noticing Lionel’s dilemma, Len asked, Is the flies bothering ya? We could go up to the house.

They don’t normally bother me, but I have short pants on, replied Lionel.

Yeah, I can see that, said Len, with a completely impassive face, although I was sure that I saw just a trace of a crinkle in the crow’s feet around his eyes.

Eyeing Lionel’s bleeding legs, Len advised: Before ya’s goes into the bush, youse should put on some of that there bug dope you got in them spray cans in your car.

They’re pretty bad in the bush, eh? asked Lionel.

Oh Christ, they’ll chew the preem piss right out a ya, said Len. The deer flies’ll rip pieces out a ya and then fly up onto a branch to chew em.

Genuinely disturbed by this prospect and willing to avail himself of serious advice, Lionel produced two containers of leading-brand bug spray and asked Len which of these two products he considered the most deadly.

Feeling a bit sorry for Lionel and unable to do him on any further, Len decided to give him some serious advice. Well, you go into the bush, and fin’ two stumps and spray them with that stuff, and then run for cover, cause the goddam flies’ll swoop down like hell out for recess. No, there’s no use a using that junk at all. Come on up to the kitchen and I’ll see if I can get the old lady to give us some tea.

It was no accident that he specified the kitchen. Over the years, much of my time at Len’s house has been spent in the kitchen, sitting around the table eating meals or drinking tea, trying to get as close to the wood stove as possible in the winter and as far away from it as possible in the summer.

This here’s my wife, Ida, Len told us as we entered, and then pointing at us he told her, These is the chaps from the city who come up to see the Hayes’ property.

Ida is a tall woman about fourteen years younger than Len, with short curly sand-coloured hair and glasses. I have come to know her well. She makes the best mooseburgers and butter tarts in the world and loves to play cards. In fact, she is one of the craftiest euchre players between Tory Hill and Bird’s Creek and has the trophies on display to prove it.

Ida always tries to persuade Len to go with her to the card parties, but he prefers to stay home and watch television, as he puts it.

What, says Ida, "you watch television? Then, to me: He’s sound asleep five minutes after I’m out the door."

This, of course, makes Len wild. He claims that he doesn’t ever sleep except in bed. What I have observed over the years forces me to admit that Ida is right in this case. As soon as dinner is over at five-thirty, they move into the living room to watch TV and within minutes, Len’s head is down.

Le-en, says Ida in a firm voice.

LE-EN, she repeats, until Len’s eyes finally open. You’re sleeping.

The hell I was, says Len.

Well it sure looked like it. You had your eyes closed. Didn’t he Richard?

Ida gets all worked up about Len’s drowsing in the evenings. I once pointed out that it didn’t seem to me like anything to worry about since Len rises every morning at six o’clock, eats a large breakfast, is out on the trail by eight, spends all day outside working, and then comes home and eats a big dinner beside the wood stove, which is enough to make anyone sleepy. Unconvinced by my logic, Ida once consulted the family doctor about Len’s evening napping, and she was quite miffed when all that he recommended was that she should try to find more interesting TV programmes. She had grudgingly admitted to the doctor that Len never falls asleep during hockey games.

It makes her understandably bitter that right near the end of some gripping murder mystery, Len will get up and announce that he is going to bed. I remember one time when she asked him, How can you go to bed right at the crucial moment?

Well, ya see, said Len disdainfully, turning to me for support, Hockey games is real, but this is all jus heifer dust.

Lionel took to Ida right away because she was so sympathetic about his ravaged legs, immediately producing a bottle of Dettol and giving them a thorough swabbing to relieve the itching. This turned out to be a twofold blessing, because the one thing Perky hates more than anything else is the smell of Dettol, and he never came near Lionel again that day. Now, whenever we go to Len’s, Lionel carries his bottle of Dettol. Ida, in turn, took right to Lionel, because he listened with close attention to her description of her travails with the flies, and he made an intelligent comment about every sandfly bite she could muster on her arms and legs. Frankly, I couldn’t find any marks at all, but Lionel seemed to see each one clearly.

"It don’t do no damn good to just say ya seen it, Len explained to me later. You gotta have a look and a good close one at that. Gawd, I’d like to see her back in the bush at my Far Camp for a few days. Then she’d whistle Redwing, I’ll betcha."

While Lionel and Ida were engrossed in discussion of fly bites and their remedies, I had a chance to get a better look at Len, who now had his cap off, revealing a milk-white forehead permanently protected from the sun, and was enjoying a cup of tea so strong you could stand a spoon up in it – jus the way I like it. He has a full head of white hair, long on the top and cut very short on the sides, but the most notable feature of his face is his wrinkle-free smooth skin. Derek’s mother, whom we called The Duchess, and who had known Len since the thirties when she and her husband, Charlie, had started coming up to the area to fish, always raved about Len’s skin whenever we would talk about him. Like most people in their eighties, the Duchess had her fair share of wrinkles; what she couldn’t understand was how Len, who is outside all day long, winter and summer, and who never uses any lotions or creams of any kind – other than one special unguent for sunburn made from horse manure – could have that smooth baby skin. He is well preserved. No doubt about it. All my friends’ wives rave about how good-looking he is.

The Duchess at Cross Lake with the seat of her pants torn

Len (left) guiding Charlie Hayes south of Barnum Lake looking west towards Kennabi Lake

After Lionel and Ida had exhausted the topic of fly bites, Ida packed a tasty lunch and filled three thermoses with tea. Lionel and I then accompanied Len out to his old four-wheel-drive truck. Lionel took one look at it and cavalierly offered to take his convertible, but he did not demur when Len said that we would probably be better off in his truck.

Hope the old crate holds together, whispered Lionel with a smirk. Better humour the old boy. If Len noticed that Lionel had whispered some remark, he decided just to let it pass.

We swung out of Len’s driveway onto the highway and turned left, heading northeast from town. After about half a mile, we turned onto the Burleigh Road, which runs north from Wilberforce to join up with the old Kennaway Road that comes across from Fox’s Corners near Haliburton. After some four miles of whacking and bumping – Len occasionally pushed it as high as twenty miles an hour – we suddenly turned off