The greatest joy of my life was travelling the 250 miles to my grandparents house every summer. It was the hub of Canada and the center of the world to me. The five of us and my parents climbed into the station wagon and started our ritual songs on the long ride to Ontario. “I’ve been working on the railroad” and "I love to go wandering along the mountain track.” Sound familiar? It was kind of corny but then I come from a corny family.

‘Are we there yet?’ was not our cry. We knew every significant landmark along the way. From smelly Gary Indiana to Detroit’s big tire, we didn’t have to ask. As soon as we crossed the Ambassador Bridge into Windsor, it was a downhill ride. Even the air smelled different in Canada. We were in real country now, with real people, real air, real everything. Now we could get Vernor’s soda and Coffee Crisp candy bars! (only available in Canada at that time).

We passed through Cottam, Harrow, Kingsville into Leamington, hardly keeping our seats. All was farmland with the small towns scattered in between. Even the dirt was clean! Everything was clean and pure. The country had no pollution as far as we could see.

Leamington declared itself the tomato capital of Canada, as evidenced by the little red, round building on Main Street and the red fruit fields surrounding the town. The Heinz factory situated further down the road made its presence known by the aroma of pickles wafted through town all summer. (I don’t know why they didn’t can tomatoes)

In ten minutes we would be at Opa and Oma’s farm. When we arrived we were greeted us with hugs and kisses and welcomed like no other place on earth. With rejoicing we ran all over the farm– into the greenhouses, through the orchard and back to the end of the fields. We were here! Thank God, Thank God. It was a long year between summers.

My grandfather’s house was a two story red brick farmhouse with white trim and some little gingerbread trim on the eaves. That house was 100 years old but was still in good shape. We knew every inch of the house and grounds intimately. How could one property be so full of love? We were loved and filled with good fellowship, food and fun. To this day, I can still feel that love through my whole being. I remember the old steam heat coming up from the basement. It sounded like hammering on the pipes as it came up through each room. Oh, but we were cozy in the old iron bedsteads under many quilts. There was even a chamber pot under the bed! We danced on the cold linoleum floors as we clambered out from under those blankets and ran down to the warm kitchen, redolent of baking bread and platz. Every day Oma made homemade meals for all of us, whoever showed up. Each meal was an event looked forward to with great anticipation. I will never forget the Saturday she and my uncle went up into the chicken coop and walked back with a chicken in one hand and an axe in the other. She gave us the body to pluck all the feathers and the feet to play with. Then she made homemade noodles which we hung on the clothesline to dry. The next day we had homemade freshly killed chicken and homemade noodle soup. Ooooohhhh it was good. How many people can say they’ve had that experience?!

That wasn’t all we did at my Oma’s house. Our main job was supposed to be packing the peaches for shipping to Detroit. The peaches had to be culled and graded before packing into six quart baskets with my grandfather’s name and address on it. We were introduced to the world of business and work at the same time. Opa also had a flower business with greenhouses full of roses, daisies and carnations. They were picked by different workers every summer and stored in a big room- size cooler. It was an international smorgasbord. One year we had Trinidadians, the next year Mexican Mennonites, another year Dutch and one year was Portuguese. We learned so much about life in the world from the farm! The Portuguese family who lived in the house in the back, had two boys our age, were friendly and fun. I’ll never forget the summer they constructed a tarzan swing in the bush. This was a tree lined area at the border of the farm in which all manner of metal junk was assigned and alot of trees grew there. Serge somehow managed to climb high up into a skinny tree and tie a rope which hung almost down to the ground, Then he climbed another tree and constructed a seat. Don’t ask me how, but we climbed up and then someone swung the rope to us and we tarzanned our way through the woods. It was so much fun! But if any parents had seen us it would have been off forever. Johnny was another regular. He was about our age but kind of dark. He lived on a side road in a sad part of town. He never talked but he worked there as long as I can remember. Then there were the Mexican Mennonites, these women never washed their hair and wore long dark dresses. I think they lived in the back too. My grandfather had two homes for the workerss behind the barn. One year he had Trinidadians, the next year was a Dutch family. Always something interesting to keep us fascinated.

Although there’s a red brick farmhouse in every small town, ours was special. What was magical to me, would just be considered a nondescript house by others. They didn’t know that upstairs in the hall was a child’s table and chairs and a dolls crib with a big old trunk, that was a playhouse for when we were small. And then as we grew, we ventured into my aunt’s old bedroom in which was a closet full of gauzy ball gowns from her youth. Oh we were fabulous with the pastel skirts and shawls as we danced to the music of Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby. And then we were promoted to be the flower girls at my aunts and uncles weddings and those were really beautiful dresses that were made especially for us. The upstairs bedrooms were all linoleum floors and iron bedstands and a crib with iron rails that a child could easily fit his head through but didn’t.

My sister and I were allowed to stay all summer and it was heaven to be without parental authority. My grandparents were saints in work stained clothing. They never yelled or said one negative word to us. Yes, there really were such perfect people on earth. They and all our relatives were Mennonites who emigrated from the Ukraine to Canada in 1925. All attended the little white wooden church in town in which the major life events were officiated: weddings, funerals, and baptisms and afterward celebrated at the Rhine Danube with dancing, music and food. Every Sunday there were two sermons, one in German and one in English. The women sat on one side of the church and the men on the other. They all harmonized naturally and I can still hear my Oma singing in her high querulous voice.

There was a great percentage of Mennonites in that town and they all spoke Plautdietsch or Low German. At one time, I thought the official language of Canada was German. Not only that, but everywhere I went I met new people and we would trace our ancestry back to where we were related. What a sense of belonging! It’s like we were all related and I could not have gotten lost if I tried, except that unfortunately I was lost already and had to go back to my horrible real life when the summer was over.

Back to the house—you entered through the back porch into the kitchen with its red and white linoleum floor and chrome dining room table and chairs. Oma did her cooking and baking there every Saturday. She baked pan after pan of zweiback and platz. That was our bread and desserts. OHHH so good. The aroma of baking bread filled our nostrils all day long, and would you believe? I know how to make homemade noodles from scratch! The same dough she used for the buns, she rolled out and cut into thin strips and hung them over the chair to dry or sometimes over the clothesline. Oh! We ate like kings and queens and didn’t realize it. I rhapsodize over her food, because it was all homemade, canned from her basement larder or fresh picked from the fields, soooo sooooo sooooo goooood. And she worked so hard to make it that way! I remember canning peaches fresh from the orchard in the steaming kitchen and putting up bottles and bottles in the boiling water. There was no A/C back then, not even a fan but Oma never complained even though she worked from morning to night. She was supposed to take a nap after the noon meal, but sometimes she got one and more times she didn’t. I am ashamed of myself for not helping her more. She might have lived longer if I had been more conscientious :(

Almost all our meals were eaten in that kitchen, with Oma slaving over the hot stove. We had our main meal at noon which gave my grandfather and uncle a chance for a nap afterwards. It was my sister’s and I's job to clean up but we were not very good at that. Mostly my grandmother had to help with all of it while we ran out to the fields where the workers had their lunch and siesta. We were boy crazy at the time and there were a couple of good lookers in the ranks. But If we were obedient and we washed dishes at the sink in the corner of the kitchen, we could look out past the barn, the brick garage, toward the orchard and out to the last acre dimly visible in the distance. My grandfather had 80 acres: 20 acres for the house and grounds, 20 acres for the greenhouses, 20 acres for the orchard and 20 acres for the crops. It was a good size farm, typical for that area.

Directly under the kitchen window was a rain barrel under the gutter, where Oma got water to wash her hair. There were always mosquitoes and bugs in the barrel, but no matter, she would just scoop it out from the bottom of the barrel. It made her hair so soft! And then she used blueing to color it and pushed finger waves into her hair. This was all on Saturdays of course, when we took our baths for church the next day, and we wore our best dresses and Opa shined his shoes. We were a picture indeed! My sister and I usually sat in the balcony with the rest of the kids, and learned the finger alphabet to ‘talk’ to each other.

Monday was wash day. The whole floor was covered with piles of dirty clothing. Oms would pull out the wringer washer and wash load after load. And we were supposed to help her hang them up on the clothesline outside but again, we weren’t much help. It took all day for the process, and she even cooked dinner at noon. Then Tuesday was mangle day. She would ‘iron’ the clothes all morning long. You know what a mangle is? You see them in dry cleaning stores sometimes. It’s a big roller covered with cloth that heats up and you run the clothes through it and iron, it’s a lot of work, but at least she was sitting down. She even did the sheets and pillow cases through the mangle. They were so stiff from starch that we had to put our arms through them to get the pillows inside. Oma died when she was 62. I was there at the time. She had to lay down on the couch and have her bra unfastened. She said she had eaten a peach and that was the problem. The ambulance was called and she went to Leamington Hospital but never came home. All of her family died from heart problems. I think she just worked too hard. Today, we live much longer; nobody works like that anymore.

There were two doors leading from the kitchen; one to the living room and one to the verandah. The sun room had three walls of windows and the other wall was built onto the house. There was a rubber tree growing along one wall, as old as my uncle, 27. And she had a nice wicker table filled with an ancient plant that I have never seen before or since. It had big green leaves and the stems were covered with red hairs. Some kind of heritage begonia I think. There was a couch, a rocking chair, a radio, and a cuckoo clock and a wind up clock. Oma and Opa liked to sit out there on a Sunday afternoon enjoying the sunshine and listening to the radio. Oh, and on the other end of the room, a huge walnut table that could seat fifteen people comfortably, with a matching hutch and sideboard. She stored her good china there enough for at least fifteen people, and the most delicate cups and saucers that were for tea or coffee and cakes. We never used them but Oma gave each of us one cup and saucer lined with a delicate mother of pearl.

The living room was where the family gathered whenever food wasn’t involved. Opa had his big recliner and there was a patterned rug on the floor. There was a couch, a couple of chairs, a desk in the corner and a TV. Opa generally watched TV after dinner for an hour and a half. He watched, ‘As the’ Stomach’ Turns, Guiding Light, and Search for Tomorrow.’ We liked to watch them too, especially because we would be gone all school year and come back in June and pick up right where we left off the previous summer!

Opa had one of the first remotes, only we called it the ‘clicker’ because of the loud clicking noise it made every time the button was pushed. Opa couldn’t tolerate commercials. He clicked off the volume every time they came on. I remember being enthralled and all of a sudden the clicker went off and I would look at him and wonder ‘what in the world is he doing’? Uncle Peter would watch for an hour too sometimes, before he had to go back to work. I don’t remember Oma watching TV, probably because if she sat down she would fall immediately to sleep.

I was privileged to live with Opa my senior year of high school. Oma had passed away the previous summer and I think the agenda was that I would be company for him. But he got remarried that October to a woman who had never been married and who now had a teenager on her hands as well as a new husband. She was a trooper. Opa and Oma had had a long and wonderful life and he couldn't bear to be alone. Meanwhile, getting me up and out of bed in time for the school bus was a real chore. Once he called up to me ‘your boyfriend’s here’ and I jumped up out of that bed and was downstairs in two minutes. Good trick Opa. Another time he called, “die katchen haben kittens on the porch”. (I forget the rest of it in German, it meant the cat had kittens on the porch) It worked, I was downstairs eating breakfast in one minute. He was a humorous man alright.

Opa had three trees around the house. Right in front outside the porch, was an elm that provided shade for the kitchen and backyard. They had poured and dyed the cement red, around the tree to make a patio area. Also, they built a little bench that went all around the tree. Many family photos were taken there. Then there was another elm on the other side of the house that gave shade to the living room. There was a picture window on that side and underneath it grew beautiful orange tiger lilies every year. Their house was beautifully landscaped. Well, they were a flower grower they had a reputation to maintain. On the verandah steps there were two big cement flower pots filled with red geraniums every year. Do you realize what an impression that makes on someone pulling into the drive? Flowers and landscaping are far reaching. In the front yard by the road was a gigantic chestnut tree. I didn’t know how rare those trees were. The blight of 1850 wiped out 90% of the chestnut trees in North America. It must have been four-to five stories high and the nuts were as big as your fist.

To the left as you drove into the driveway, were the greenhouses and the boiler room. Then you continued down the lane past the big barn out to the orchard and the fields of crops. We grew apples and peaches in the orchard. Everyone wanted our peaches, They were so good and ripe that the juice ran down your chin with every bite, also the fuzz was real y’all! It was so itchy. we had to wear long sleeves to keep it off. But there is nothing in this world like a big, ripe Red Haven!

The barn was the other major building on the farm. It was huge, with a driveway on a hill that was really a ramp up into the dark depths of the second floor. One half of it was a chicken coop. There were probably twenty to thirty chickens that roosted there. They never went out. Their whole life was spent in that room. The air was filled with dust and feathers. I don’t actually remember gathering the eggs but I guess my Oma did. There used to be hay up there but it wasn’t used as a hayloft anymore. Underneath on the first floor were the stables that were not used much either. Oma had one cow, and my uncle had a horse but the rest of the barn wasn’t used until a huge drive-in cooler was built to store the apples from the orchard. I remember Oma milking the cow and bringing the milk into the pantry to pour it into the separator. We'd have fresh warm milk and buttermilk which my sister and I didn’t actually like. Give me that nice, cold milk out of the refrigerator anytime! I guess that’s why she didn’t keep the cow. Uncle Peter kept a horse for a while and I went with him to bring it in from the pasture. He let me ride on its back but all of a sudden that horse took off. I was hanging on for dear life while Uncle Peter ran behind! All was well but it took me a long time to get back on another horse.

I loved every minute being on the farm. One time me and a salesman on the farm made arrangements for him to pick me up from school on his way to Detroit to sell the roses. I was learning another facet of farm life. (some might call it playing hookie) When he dropped me off in front of the school later, guess who should drive by?! Opa and Tante Lita but they never said a word, guess they didn’t put two and two together. Anyway, I never did it again.

I should explain about the Rhine Danube Club. This was a German events venue. Every major event was celebrated at the ‘Rhine’ with dinner and dancing. The kids crawled under the tables while everybody ate, drank, talked and danced. We danced with uncles, aunts, cousins and each other. Now that was a party! My mother and father had their 25th wedding anniversary celebration there. I remember it was my first long dress. My sister and I were supposed to sing a song but I was too shy, and my aunt had to fill in for me. Great times of fellowship with family and friends!

So many memories that are still fresh in my mind even after fifty years. With each picture, it’s just like being there all over again. When people say you can’t go back, they are wrong. Each memory brings back the thrills, fears, hopes, sad endings and funny stories and I can always go right back to the farm whenever I want. I hope that everyone has a ‘farm’ that they can revisit anytime in their memories.

*****

Vicki Smith has been writing for two years. She was involved in social work for 25 years and obtained a unique understanding of human behavior. She writes from a Christian perspective which offers her readers hope and encouragement.

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