Eastern Passage (22 page)

The pond was also visited for a drink, a bath, or reasons I could only guess at, by all sorts of other creatures. These included a groundhog; a vixen who was raising her family in a den dug into our hill; a mink who left only her footprints in the mud to mark her visits; and, incredibly, an osprey – the great fish hawk – who hovered casually over our pothole for a few minutes as if to see how things were developing before taking herself off to more productive waters.

The pond produced never-ending surprises. On a day when the temperature was well above ninety degrees and the heat became more than I could bear, I shucked off my shorts and jumped from the
end of my little wharf to stand naked on the muddy bottom in water barely up to my thighs.

Though almost as warm as soup, it felt wonderful. I was in a state of blissful relaxation when something hit my penis so sharply it sent me scrambling out of the water. Feeling somewhat foolish, I went to the end of the wharf and peered into the brown water for a glimpse of my assailant. Unable to see much, I cautiously lowered my hand with forefinger extended. There was a sudden swirl and I glimpsed a silvery something delivering a head-on charge.

It had to be a fish, but there
were
no fish in my pond – or should not have been, since no stream fed it. I had, however, “inoculated” it with a few pails of water scooped from a swampy little lake on a neighbouring property in an attempt to introduce spores, eggs, and cysts, together with minute adult forms of pond life and thus speed up the evolution of a natural and balanced aquatic habitat. Evidently the inoculation had included something unexpected.

After again poking my finger below the surface, and again having it unceremoniously bumped aside, I got my butterfly net. This time, when the finger was bumped, I swooped up an aptly named bullhead minnow, only three inches long but furiously indignant at finding itself cupped in my hand. I let it go at once for I had guessed its secret. Having glued a mass of eggs to the underwater woodwork of the dock, it was now on guard against any intruder who might pose a threat. A week later, when the water had cleared a bit, I found its nest – a lemon-sized, translucent jellylike mass filled with little sacs, each of which contained an embryonic minnow.

Every day thereafter until the eggs hatched, I made my peace with the little fish by scattering a few tiny earthworms, which it accepted with alacrity though continuing to attack my intruding finger. I gave it no second chance to reject any other part of me. (I later learned from a professional ichthyologist that my bullhead was almost certainly a male since, in this species, it is the male who
guards the eggs until they hatch. I like to think that perhaps he was a bit jealous.)

The pond also played a role in attracting a wide variety of non-aquatic birds and terrestrial animals to our property. These included a pair of yellow-bellied cuckoos, who successfully nested in a bush ten feet from the edge of the pond; a cedar waxwing, who fledged five offspring in a spruce tree overlooking it; and a pair of almost-invisible grasshopper sparrows behaving like winged mice as they scuttled about the edge of the pond.

More than thirty species of birds chose to nest with us that year, and most of our co-residents seemed happy to take advantage of our hospitality. There were fox snakes in the fireplace, skunks and chipmunks under the house, and a flying squirrel who raised a brood in our attic. Even our bed was investigated by rambling deer mice – sometimes while we were in it.

The summer of 1953 grew hellishly hot, resulting in an exodus of Torontonians to the relative coolth of the Albion Hills. During July and August, the township roads, woods, valleys, and sylvan nooks were overrun by human intruders who all too frequently were obstreperous and sometimes threatening, tending to treat the countryside and its inhabitants with casual contempt.

Some drove their cars right up to our door and parked there while they investigated our pond for fish (there
were
none except for the beleaguered bullhead) or with a view to picnicking or swimming.

Some bristled when asked to move along; some grew threatening. I tried dealing with the latter by displaying my old army carbine, until it dawned on me that another tactic might be more successful. I began a sign campaign, arranging them strategically about the property:

and

and

The one that had the most salutary effect, however, was this:

In those Cold War days the mushroom clouds of Hiroshima and Nagasaki still loomed ominously, so this was potent stuff. Once the radiation signs were in place we had no more unwanted visitors.
And
few wanted ones since for a time nobody would come through our gate without being assured of safe passage. Some local residents even took to avoiding the 30th side road entirely, and the township’s road grader and gravel trucks became even more invisible than usual. This was, however, a small price to pay for the absence of vacuum cleaner and Fuller Brush salesmen, the Raleigh Man with his van of patent medicines, and Jehovah’s Witnesses.

But then, one sunny day in August, a shiny Buick bearing the
insignia of the Department of Health edged cautiously up to our door and out stepped two men in suits carrying briefcases, followed by two more in white coveralls carrying Geiger counters. They advanced upon me with the gravitas of pallbearers. Halting a safe fifteen or twenty feet away, one of the suits solemnly intoned the reason for their presence.

“It has been brought to the attention of the department that radioactive emissions are believed to be emanating from your property. All radioactive substances must be authorized, licensed, and inspected by federal authorities. Produce the relevant documents. After which we will inspect the premises and installations.”

As if for emphasis, one of the Geiger counters suddenly emitted a series of clicks, eerily reminiscent of the warning given by a rattlesnake about to strike.

I hastened to reply.

“Look, I’m sorry, but we’ve actually got no radioactive stuff here. Never have had.”

“What about the signs?” the spokesman demanded sternly.

“Ah, yes. Well, as anyone reasonably conversant with the English language might conclude, they mean that if you walk around here naked on a sunny day you’re likely to get a bad sunburn.”

A heavy silence followed. Then:

“Don’t you get flip with us, Mister!
We’ll investigate, and if you’re hiding anything, you’ll find yourself in very serious trouble!”

Where upon they headed off into our swamp, the scientists out front swinging their Geiger counters suspiciously from side to side.

When they returned an hour later, they trudged past our house without giving it or us a glance and climbed into their Buick without a word. However, as the driver spun the machine in a tight circle that left ruts in our bit of lawn, he shouted out his window:

“Stupid punk! You’ll pay for this!”

But we heard nothing more of the matter, and as summer drew on I noted in my journal:

By the end of September, I was ready to exchange servitude to the soil for the tyranny of the typewriter, and not before time. McClelland & Stewart and the book committee of the Hastings and Prince Edward Regimental Association were becoming impatient with my lack of progress. On our part, we were running out of ready cash, and my relations with my U.S. publisher and agent were becoming strained. Max Wilkinson sent me a somewhat plaintive if philosophical note about this.

I did not tell Max that I was, in fact, listening, but to an inner voice that was stubbornly insisting I close my ears to the siren song of fame and fortune south of the border. I wrote in my journal:

Christmas (never my favourite season) came and went and by the turn of the year it seemed a new ice age was upon us. January and February of 1954 brought a succession of storms that snowed us under while the thermometer in my weather station plunged to Siberian depths. Albion Township’s only snowplough was nowhere to be seen. It was rumoured to have skunked off to Florida. Lulu Belle and I became local heroes because, in a precaution dictated by Fran’s pregnancy, I had bought a blade-type snowplough for the little vehicle, with which I was able to ferry pregnant women, an elderly man who had attempted suicide, a colic-stricken child, and sundry other unfortunates out to the highway.

Despite the weather, Fran and I and our unborn enjoyed this winter. The fireplace roared defiance at the blizzards. We ate like kings and queens for we were both competent cooks. We were healthy, and for almost the first time since we had been married Fran seemed at peace with herself. Indeed, she was in such excellent psychic condition that, early in the new year, when Angus wrote to ask if there was any chance I might be able to accompany him on a
voyage to Halifax in
Scotch Bonnet
in June, Fran’s response was entirely positive.

“Of course you must go,” she said firmly. “Your father’s only got one good arm and he’s not young. Our baby will have been born by then and my parents are really anxious to come out and help for as long as we need them. Tell Angus yes.”

Thus was the die cast – and neither Fran nor I had any inkling of the consequences.

7
SAILING TO THE SEA

O
n the night of March 31, 1954, there came a very hard frost. The roads had become mud wallows and sinkholes from the spring melt. Since Fran’s delivery date was almost upon us, I decided to make a run for it. Lulu rose to the challenge, and that night Fran lay in a hospital bed where, on April 4, Robert Alexander (Sandy) Mowat was born.

I was unable to bring Sandy and his mother home for two long weeks because spring rains made the 30th side road impassable to anything without wings or webbed feet.

Sandy was a hale and hearty child, and no more demanding than any other but his arrival on the scene made me take my responsibilities more seriously. As soon as the earth was fit to till I began, with Murray’s help, to enlarge the vegetable garden again, expand the orchard, plant a raspberry and an asparagus patch, and set out three thousand more wildwood saplings.

One day while we were planting the trees I casually asked Murray if he would like to come along on a voyage down the St. Lawrence River to the Atlantic Ocean.