220930 chestnuts
September 30
Finding the chestnuts while we were in Toronto this month, reminded me. Every year, when I was a child, in September, we went to Niagara Falls. My parents and five children piled into ("piled in" is an expression that somehow has evolved for a number of people getting into a vehicle, funny) the family sedan. My parents always had a sedan, never a station wagon, which in the fifties and sixties was the vehicle of choice for large families. Vans still had only two seats in those days, the property of businesses and soon, hippies. The giant family vans with three rows of seats that many families have now, had not yet been dreamed up. My father's sedan had a bench seat in the front, another difference that we don't see now. So one of us got to ride in the front with mom and dad and we switched out at each stop and probably often mid-drive, just climb over. My eldest brother was fourteen when I was five, so I remember it being mostly me and my little brother who got the prized front seat. The rest of us stirred around in the back seat, and from time to time, one of us might get to lie on the back window shelf. Younger readers might have to google this as it may be hard to imagine such a thing. Our cars had a wide flat front dashboard, designed to hold all the things you might like to have at hand, sunglasses, wallet, which was so useful but doubtless a safety hazard. There was usually a wide flat sill at the back window too, which carried, among other things, fishing rods and children.
At the Falls, we went to see the water surging over the cliff, and thundering into the cauldron of giant's gravel: broken pieces of escarpment each itself as big as a hill. Then we went to the avenue of chestnut trees that grew along the riverfront road (do they still?). We filled a bushel basket with beautiful bright chestnuts for my older brothers, for "conkers". That is a game played with a chestnut threaded on a shoelace, and your chestnut must be strong and firm and whole to survive the rounds, and you needed lots. I seldom played conkers, I was small then, but I loved to gather my own small treasure of chestnuts, to hold, their smooth, perfectly brown shell was butter and velvet at once, to hold in my hand and look at. It might have been a ring of power, so much energy, so much contentment, glowed in my hand.
These are not ripe, and some of the nut is still cream-coloured, not brown.
They split open as they ripen. This is a week later.
Then we picnicked, in the park past the tourist centre of the town. There were wide open lawns of pale fine grass, and impossibly tall trees standing at intervals casting enormous umbrella shadows, a few tables scattered about, but seldom anyone but ourselves there. Out came the makings for tea and a campstove, and a plain and plentiful lunch. Three young teenaged boys and two little ones, how did my parents do it?, but they did and I remember only kindness and good times. There were scuffs between us kids, but they were part of being a family and were the underside of the love; there was no acrimony or evil there.
We did not go on the Maid of the Mist boat ride, or through the tunnel under the falls. They were tourist attractions and cost money - with seven of us, it would have been prohibitive for my parents. But more than that, we were encouraged to find our recreation in play and nature, in all that was free around us, to climb trees and rocks, discover interesting stones on the ground, see the creatures that lived in the swift running stream or the stagnant pond, listen to the rain and thunder and understand the white flash of lightning. We didn't set foot in a novelty souvenir shop, ever, and took home only those chestnuts, the best, most perfect souvenir.
The drive home included a part of the adventure, although I wonder if the children were a bit tired by then, sometimes. We stopped, you see, and pulled off the highway onto the shoulder, beside some vineyard along the QEW, on the south shore of Lake Ontario. We waded the ditch of grasses and plundered the grapevines that grew wayward along the fence. Sometimes they were domestic and sometimes grapes gone wild, small and sour, but my father made wine and my mother made juice and jam. So, we would fill several more bushels, this time with purple-black grapes, and drive home, trunk laden with a wonderful autumn harvest. On Christmas day we would thaw the juice and mix it half-and-half with club soda or ginger ale (it was concentrated and rich) and drink it with Christmas dinner, an elixir of summer magic.
One year only, we came upon an abandoned farmhouse [my parents were fond of exploring abandoned houses. My father would declare it sound (being an all-round sensible guy and a mechanical engineer to boot), and then we would wander carefully about, looking for interesting treasures left behind by someone who was long ago moved on.] and of course we stopped, to have a little look and I don't remember if we went inside, but there was a quince tree in the yard and so that year we took home several armfuls of quinces. It was the only time I've ever seen the fruit or eaten it and my father made quince wine, my mother, jam. I don't know if it was good wine but I liked it. It became bubbly like champagne, by accident, my father's only sparkling wine. We had the last bottle at my and K's wedding party.
I don't know if my father's wine, in general, was "good". He made grape, and also dandelion sometimes, as well as that quince. It was the only wine I knew until I was a grownup, so I liked it quite well. We had a glass for Sunday dinner, a small one when we were smaller. My mother's grape jam was a family favorite and there was always plenty. Sometimes she made a sorbet with condensed milk and grape juice and she would stir it as it froze, so it formed a creamy, lilac-coloured dessert.
I cannot reconcile the ripe chestnuts and ripe grapes, so perhaps we sometimes went twice? It was very long ago. I wonder if my brothers remember. Now that we are old, perhaps it is time we reunited and reminisced. Might make for a good party.
Thank you for visiting. Keep well. More people died of covid this summer, in Ontario, than in the summer of 2020. * Please be careful.
Mumma Yaga
I include the link, but quote the pertinent passage: "Summers were supposed to offer reprieves from COVID, experts used to tell us. In Ontario, summers have gotten deadlier year by year just as in Germany. In July and August 2020 the disease killed 139 people in the province. This year when authorities told people to vax and relax, COVID killed 615 Ontarians."
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