CLOSE CONNECTIONS - A FAMILY CONNECTION

Margaret was not only our neighbour, she was our sister-in-law, the widow of Ken's brother, Reg Stofer.

After her husband's death, Margaret took a night school course in cake decorating.  She began slowly with birthday cakes for family and friends 

and then graduated to very elaborate wedding cakes featuring dainty roses, intricate lattice work, delicate bells and loops.

Many of these cakes had stories to tell, like the wedding cake of a cousin, which Ken and I delivered by car to San Francisco.  It arrived in mint condition, only requiring a couple of dabs of icing to replace a tiny broken rose.

Then there was the cake that travelled to Duncan.  It was topped with a miniature airplane crafted in icing, as the bridegroom flew a plane as a hobby.  (The only wedding I attended where the bride flew off on her honeymoon in a tiny plane piloted by her new husband.  The groom manfully scooped up his bride, still wearing her wedding gown, and deposited her into the cockpit.  Quite a sight witnessing that take-off).

I think the most memorable wedding cake, however, was the one for my daughter.  Fortunately she wanted a white cake, as opposed to the traditional fruit cake.  The decoration was to be extremely simple, just pale peach icing with an overlay of white lace-work to match her peach/lace wedding dress.

The day before the wedding, I sauntered next door to Margaret's to see how things were progressing with the cake.  There was no answer at the door, so, thinking she was in another room, I just let myself in.

Kim, her large white Samoyd, greeted me, but not with his usual enthusiasm, in fact he looked rather well-fed and guilty.  I called out for Margaret but there was no answer. I thought I would take a look in the dining room (scene of most of Margaret's cake decorating) and just check on the progress of the cake. The door was ajar, which I thought was ominous as Margaret always kept that door tightly closed. (I learned later she had been called next door in a hurry).

I pushed the door open and was greeted by a floor covered in cake crumbs.  Kim had been hard at work. Over the years, this intelligent dog had been taught many tricks, one of which was to retrieve a piece of toast which had been placed at the edge of the kitchen table as a reward.  I guess the tantalizing aroma of fresh vanilla-flavoured cake had been too much for him to resist.  

I could just picture Kim all by himself, doing a quick roll-over to allay his guilt and then sitting on his haunches and helping himself (alas, Kim is no longer with us - not because of the cake, just old age).

I hastily wrote a note to Margaret, explaining what had happened and telling her not to worry - I was rushing home to make another cake.

The new cake was duly decorated and the finished product was a delight to behold.  Surrounded by tulle and topped with a tiny vase of sweetheart roses, it was the picture of innocence. Little did the guests know of the turmoil behind the scene.

Margaret left us a number of years ago.  We really miss her as she was so much a part of our lives as well as our family. 

The neighbourhood is not the same without Margaret at the very top of the hill.

Close Connections - a Welsh Connection

Rhoda was another interesting neighbour.  She never married and had been very close to her mother and father.  When I first met her she was living in a little cottage at the foot of the hill. Her father had died in Montreal and she and her mother had moved to Victoria.  When I met Rhoda, her mother had just passed away and Rhoda was devastated to the point of becoming a recluse.  I walked by her home with our little Welsh Corgi, Jimmy.  When she spotted the corgi, she left off gardening and ran over to pet him.  

We began to talk, she shared about how much she missed her mother.  In the course of the conversation she mentioned that she had travelled the world and had hundreds of slides. I encouraged her to share her slides with people.  We became friends and in no time she came out of her shell and began inviting neighbours to "Slide-show Evenings".  Her pictures were fabulous and the details she provided with each slide made "Evenings with Rhoda" a real treat.  She eventually showed her slides to the general public via the local library.

Interestingly, Rhoda shared the same birthday as Ken, so we often celebrated their birthdays together. She adored Ken!

Rhoda travelled to almost every country in the world, always travelling on her own.  In Russia she was invited to see some guy's 'etchings', in Turkey she slept on a rooftop, in Rio De Janeiro she left a bus tour and wandered off on her own, to capture the statue 'Christ the Redeemer' on film.  

Suddenly a man appeared and pushed her off the road and down an embankment, threatened her by holding a large rock over her head, took her camera and watch, not realizing she was wearing a money belt.  Then, just as suddenly, he dropped the rock and ran away.  Rhoda said she was never sure if the man realized she was old enough to be his grandmother or if he felt convicted by the Statute of Christ.

Rhoda had fascinating tales to tell.  There was the time when she developed an extremely itchy spot on her leg after returning from some exotic country.  Days later she witnessed a chubby worm crawl out of the infected area.

In Victoria, Rhoda rode everywhere on a very old pushbike. With her rough attire and basket filled with a variety of stuff including bits of wood, she usually resembled a bag lady. But when necessary, Rhoda rose to the occasion with a vengeance. 

Rhoda refused to have a telephone or a television.  She liked her garden kept neat and often rose at 3 or 4 a.m. working under the street light to rake up offending leaves or anything that would look untidy in the light of day.

Our Rhoda was a bit eccentric but she was a fascinating and wonderful person to know and we miss her very much.  The bottom of the hill is just not the same without her.

Close Connections - A German Connection

We have had some interesting neighbours in our time 'on the Hill' on Christmas Avenue.

Lolo was a solidly built German lady with a heart to match. She was a keen gardener and tackled any job that came along including building herself a grape arbor.

I think she was divorced. She had a married daughter who lived up Island as well as teenage son living at home.

Before she retired, she was a cook in a government home for troubled teens - a perfect match for her because she exuded warmth and love.

She often held little neighbourhood gatherings (including scrabble games) for which she provided great German dishes.  Her home was filled with her own paintings and fabulous quilting creations. 

When Lolo retired, I held a little 'do' for her and those present gave her gifts.  She was quite overwhelmed and very appreciative.

Back row, left to right: Ken, the Hatches, Marge Preston, Marge Clayton, Lolo

Front row left to right: Margaret Stofer, Lynette Stofer, Rhoda McKenzie

Sadly, Lolo developed cancer although she struggled on bravely, even playing scrabble a few weeks before her death.

Ken gave a heartfelt eulogy at her Celebration of Life.

We think of Lolo often and miss her presence on the Hill.

Close Connections - a Dutch Connection

Oen Alting was another unforgettable neighbour.  Originally from Holland, she was known as "The Ice Cream Lady" because she had toodled around Saanich for years selling ice cream from her little truck. 

Kids ran out to the street as soon as they heard the familiar tune "Mary Had A Little Lamb".

Oen was a feisty lady.  She was obstinate, contrary and stubborn but to balance the ledger, she was kind, compassionate and loyal.  Her tenacity no doubt contributed to her survival in a Japanese prison camp in Indonesia for three and a half years during World War II.  

Her strong character no doubt helped her overcome a massive stroke suffered in 1977.  For eight weeks she was immobilized and speechless.  Gradually she began to regain her senses.  Being the determined person she was, she forced herself to solve jigsaw puzzles as daily therapy. She grasped her immobile right wrist with her left hand and then pick up the individual jigsaw pieces.  She staggered from room to room using furniture for support, strengthening her muscles. Her determination paid off and she completely recovered from the stroke, finally able to return to doing her favorite thing - driving! 

This time she was behind the wheel of a camper van. Every year she took off on a holiday through British Columbia or south of the border.  At one time in her past she had been a rally driver, having earned badges for participating in that sport around the world.  

Oen had a regal bearing about her. In fact, during her detention in the prison camp, fellow inmates referred to her as 'The Countess', partly because she carried a silver spoon (family heirloom) dangling from a chain at her waist.  She even managed to keep her valuable rings by popping them into her mouth whenever she heard the guards coming.  A heavy smoker, Oen was often 'saved' by a compassionate priest in the camp, who supplied her with pages from a worn bible in which to roll the tobacco provided by her captors.

When Oen returned to freedom she could not face a day without full make-up, which included brilliantly painted finger and toe nails.  She loved to wear jewelry and was extremely proud of a brooch bearing the Dutch national symbol.

Each year, Oen hosted an Indonesian dinner, her ever-present cigarette firmly held between her fingers, even while she cooked.

On Oen's 70th birthday, Ken and I put on a 'do' for her. Her Dutch friends were present, and, of course, the neighbours. Note the ice cream cones at the top left of the cake. Another lovely cake made by my sister-in-law, Margaret Stofer.

Oen left a big hole in the tapestry of the neighbourhood and the middle of the hill is not the same without her.

MOTHERLY MUSINGS - PART TWO

To continue my story about my mother...we moved down to Victoria in 1929 when I was five years old. We rented a house on Johnson Street.  I'm sure mother must have been thrilled to have indoor plumbing and electricity.

We thought I could start school in September, but as my birthday was not until December, I had to wait another year.

We moved to another house on Minto Street at the foot of Moss Street hill.  Because I had started school at Girls Central, I wanted to continue, so I trudged up and down that hill every day.  Mother shared a cup of postum with me at the end of the day.

I can still see mum in her flowered house dress.

She often stood in front of our old wood stove, stirring scrambled eggs while our big kettle steamed contentedly nearby.  The familiar sound of toast being scraped will forever be embedded in my memory. We didn't own a pop-up toaster, consequently the toast was nearly always burned.  Dad insisted charcoal was good for us.

My poor mum was more concerned about finding money for the next meal than she was about 'finding' herself.  She couldn't afford to pamper herself with perms, have her hair set or coloured.

Mother walked the long distance into town in order to save streetcar fare and then, laden with essentials, she'd head for home, stopping part way in Pioneer Square to rest on a bench.  Dad rode his bicycle to work.  I often wonder why she didn't drop off some of the groceries at his place of business.  He could have used the basket on his bike to carry them home.  She probably didn't want to 'bother' him.

Wash days took up most of the morning because there were no automatic washing machines.  The following day was devoted to ironing. Everything had to be ironed.  No such thing as perma press or 'wash and wear'.  At least she now had an electric iron instead of one she had to heat on the top of the stove.

I tried to help mother as much as I could, including washing the windows of the house.

During the summer, our big treat was a trip to the beach. Loaded down with picnic basket, bathing suits, towels and blanket, we first had to plod to the nearest streetcar stop. But it was all worth it, at the end of the day we returned home sunburned, sandy and satisfied.

Another event we looked forward to was the Easter Sunrise Service atop Mt. Tolmie.  The streetcar, loaded with chattering families, finally ground to a halt at the base of the mountain.  We must have resembled a pilgrimage as we struggled up the steep incline.  This was a real adventure as we were 'out in the country'.  (Little did I realize that eventually I would marry and live near the mountain).

Once we reached the summit, we clambered over rocks collecting lilies, shooting stars, scuffing our knees in the process.  After the service, we kids would run down the hill laughing and clutching our booty of flowers.  No one pointed out that we were damaging the environment!

Mother struggled on, day after day.  The idea of a 'holiday' belonged in a fantasy world.  There were no trips to Hawaii or Disneyland in the offing.  A trip 'out' meant taking the baby out in the buggy.   Family allowance cheques from the government were yet to come.  Most people couldn't afford a babysitter and daycare was a vision for the future.  

If a wife was depressed or being abused, she suffered in silence.  To my knowledge, there were few support groups. Nowadays, people with just about any problem have somewhere to turn for help.  Occasionally Dorothy Dix, a newspaper 'advice' columnist, wrote veiled, very discreet references to 'sex', but only when talking about married life.   

My dear mother has been gone a long time now.  She died at the age of 68.  I am so glad that near the end of her life, Ken and I were able to take her on a real vacation, to Knott's Berry Farm, California. 

where she could pick oranges from trees

What a dream come true that must have been to her!  I think of her often and, as I said before, especially on Mother's Day.

Motherly musings - Part One

My mother, Melita Mary Priestley, was the first 'white' child born on the Upper Nass River in Northern British Columbia. She was the daughter of the Reverend James B. McCullagh, the first Anglican missionary in that area.  A small lake of volcanic origin was named 'Melita Lake' in her memory.

My dad's parents were drawn to the same area after hearing one of Reverend McCullagh's sermons when he was on furlough in England.  Apparently he raved about British Columbia, encouraging folk to emigrate. My dad followed his parents to British Columbia, wanting to check out what this great country had to offer.  He met Melita, they fell in love and were married in 1910.

Dad built our house, perched high on a cliff overlooking the mighty Nass River.

He also built a store to provide food and necessities to the locals.  The goods arrived by boat and were hauled up a very steep incline by means of some sort of skid.

How my poor mother survived in that wilderness is beyond me.  They had no electricity, no indoor plumbing.  They must have dug a well and heated water on the wood stove.  I know they had an outhouse.

Mother raised four children.  I was the youngest, fourteen years younger than my big sister, Kay.  

I know they had a large vegetable garden.  Produce was stored under the house during the winter. They ate a good deal of salmon, venison and moose.  I imagine they had a chicken coop but must have also provided a secure, warm chicken house.  School was held in a one room schoolhouse and my sister Kay (wearing glasses in the photo) was almost as old as the teacher.

Can you picture laundry day? Sheets, towels, diapers, all washed by hand with a scrub board and laundry tub.  I was only four years old when we moved to Victoria, so I don't remember much about those days on the Nass.  I wish I had talked more to mum about what life was like there.

I think of mum often, especially, of course, on Mother's Day. She was a good mother and a very sweet lady.