by Ann Chaban
In the summertime when I was a child, in the late 1970’s, my parents would drive us up north to stay in a rented ancient farmhouse near a pine forest. The interior walls were exposed thick log cabin timbers. It was a very small house with one open room on the main floor, a small kitchen at the back and a narrow stairwell that led to our bedrooms upstairs. A trap door in the living room floor opened to a rickety wooden stairwell leading down into a musty basement. It had a dirt floor and embedded river rock walls with webs in dark corners. We hardly ever went down there.
Before bedtime, for fun, my mother would bundle my hair under a red bandana which she tied into a knot behind my neck just like Rhoda on that television show she loved to watch.
Now we were well prepared for stepping outside for the experience of nightfall at the edge of the forest. As the sun went down, we stood in front of the old farmhouse and we waited and watched. From behind the fake brick shingles on the facade of the farmhouse, the bats would emerge in great numbers to fly out into the forest. The bandana was my mom’s idea of protection in case a bat got caught in my hair.
We would often see the flickering tiny light flashes of fireflies and we’d watch the sky to see if we could catch sight of shooting stars to make wishes on as we sat beside a bonfire. In early summer the spring peepers would sound a loud chorus; in late summer the crickets would chirp as we tucked ourselves into the creaky old beds upstairs. We always slept well. It was because of the fresh pine forest air my mother would say. I often wondered about who slept in this farmhouse before me. Maybe they even slept in those same old wrought iron framed beds. The farmhouse held mysterious stories and I imagined them as I fell asleep.
Later in my adult years I found out that it was the Supernault’s, a French Canadian family that lived in the log cabin farmhouse on the property from 1896. They remained there for the rest of their lives until 1953. They were one of the very few families of French background who pioneered in Bentinck township. The Quebec Census of 1871 showed them living in the Lacolle, Quebec region previously.
The last remaining family member of the Supernault’s became bedridden and remained in the house. An arrangement was made with two doctors in her later years. They would take care of her and the arrangement was that she lived there until the day that she died then the doctors would become owners of the property. She lived upstairs with the only tiny window where daylight peered in. During those bedridden years they would carry her down the stairs and take her out for drives to see the world outside.
She must have waited day after day for those driving adventures to get out to smell the air, see the trees, the endless skies and the passing farm fields. I wondered if her ghost had watched us as we slept in that room way back then when we stayed there on our summer vacations. Our minds were full of dreams with all the sights we saw; the forest, the fireflies, swooping bats and rabbits leaping out of tall grasses.
When we spent our summer holidays in the old farmhouse the morning light would come in through that small window upstairs to wake us up. Soon we’d be off following the old road to the lake or to swim in the stream. Sometimes a snake would slither across our path and my father would use his walking stick branch to usher it away.
I was deathly afraid of snakes. My father would also point out the small porcupine high up in the tall Jack Pine hiding his head from us; the animal did not think we’d see the rest of its backside exposed.
Swimming in the stream was the best part of summer. While we listened to the buzzing sounds of cicadas, we dried out in the sun and then wandered afterwards through the tall grasses picking wild daisies, Brown Eyed Susan’s and Queen Ann’s lace. My mother showed us how to weave them into wreaths that adorned our heads. Wearing our flower crowns we followed the path back home to the farmhouse after our swim.
Later, the two hundred acre farm property would be divided into lots. My parents purchased two of them and my father built a small cabin on one. Other folks also purchased their own lots and more cabins were soon built hidden in the woods. We had our own pine forest around the cabin with tall slender spruce trees that swayed back and forth and made soothing whispers in high winds. Fragrant old cedars grew around us with thick trunks. Rabbits would come out of the forest to graze in front of the cabin at dusk. We still watched the sky for falling stars by a bonfire and swam in the same stream on summer days.
Later on as months went by, Thanksgiving dinner was made in the city, transported and reheated on a Coleman stove and was laid out beautifully on a picnic table. We slept peacefully, with turkey induced dreams, as my mother fed the wood stove throughout the night to keep us warm. The sound of my father’s snoring was a comforting lullaby for us knowing he was there keeping us safe. One Thanksgiving weekend we awoke to a magical dusting of snow on the grass and the cedars and pine trees around us.
After my parents passed away, my sister and I did our best to preserve the cabin. We made plans often to go up and stay overnight. It was painted with a fresh coat, like new, faithfully every other year. We lovingly, deeply, inhaled the old cabin smell each time we opened the front door. There were many more bonfires and burnt marshmallows. The old plastic mesh woven ribbons of the folding metal lawn chairs were repaired because they reminded us of mom and dad sitting by the fire. Sometimes not the best idea as they still would collapse under our weight after many repairs! The frayed wool blankets covered us at night with that old cabin scent and wood fire smoke.
Years went by and a pandemic brought us isolation. My husband and I found ourselves wandering the city avoiding contact with people and it brought a desire to escape into nature. We sought bits of nature hidden in the city. The Leslie Spit was a favourite haunt, a man-made nature preserve built out of city landfill rubble. High Park with its small city zoo. Even the zoo’s peacock escaped at one time for other surroundings. It leaped from rooftop to rooftop in nearby Roncesvalles until it returned on its own because it was missing its mate. Two Cabybara’s soon to be delivered to their new home in the zoo had also escaped as the doors to the van opened. They were eventually lured back with tasty corn cobs and were named Bonnie and Clyde.
We needed an escape. We craved nature and the cabin that my father built was the answer.
The divided lots were purchased by developers and new homes were being built around our cabin. So we decided to escape the city. We wouldn’t be alone in the woods with neighbours living close but still far enough away. We traded our century old city home for a newly built one where the cabin once stood. Each window in our new home now looks out onto a memory. The kitchen is now where the cabin once stood. A tall window looks out to where the picnic table once was, where we sat and shared meals with my parents sheltered under a canopy of cedars.
The tall spruce trees still sway back and forth on windy days soothing us with delicate whispering sounds, and a tree frog who has taken up residence in the yellow birdhouse calls out to us once in a while.
Looking outside our kitchen window, I imagine my parents sitting in the cool shade of the cedars in the weathered lawn chairs. This always brings me comfort.
Ann Chaban lives in West Grey, Ontario where she writes and creates art.
