The wind stripped age from me Until I could out shout That timeless, ageless being. The cold waves so unfroze The staleness of my existence That I must see questions Everywhere; That I must laugh Until all the stiffness Tumbles away. The wind blows over the cold sea; Now I am quiet And I need no answers in my child pause. 6/28/71
After Dad returned from prison camp to Mom, he and Grampa vacationed in Deep Cove, Nova Scotia, where Dad wrote Mom:
“Scotia Nova is just as wonderful as ever. Honestly it can’t be described. Dad has it figured out they can take care of sixteen grandchildren as is but after that there will have to be a few changes made. It will be easy to bring very young children up here, which means that if not next year the year after, you will be able to come up mit family and still have a complete reset. That is unless you are expecting again. Fox and Bobby have a nurse that never lets them out of her sight, and there are three other young girls that wait on table and take care of the house. (Of course they all need me, especially my body.) You can understand why I have so little time to write. Also I haven’t had time to unpack the books, let alone read them. There are, however, a few other things to do. I’ve been swimming three times every day. Water is marvelous. Have played tennis twice a day, been rowing when ever possible, usually sail after lunch, canoe up the cove after supper, oh yes go to bed at ten, arise at seven. …I’m so happy, darling, and everything is wonderful. I’ve just been bubbling over. Also, is burned and getting big muscles. No longer will you be able to manhandle me. …Trip up was O.K. Left Boston around noon, and got to St. John about 11:30 and went right on the boat. Got to Digby about 11 AM and Deep Cove 3 that afternoon.”
Two years in prison didn’t destroy Dad’s love of life and optimism, and I’m sure a holiday in Deep Cove did much to restore him to health and vitality. Visits to Deep Cove nourished not all Dad, but Grampa who spent every summer there, and all the children, in-laws, grandchildren, and guests, who found joy, relaxation, and energy from the tangy salty air, from invigorating plunges into Mahone Bay, from the pine scented forests and the rolling pastures. In the mid 1920’s, Grandpa’s youngest brother, Joe, and his wife traveled around Nova Scotia, searching for a suitable site for a summer home for Grampa and his six children. They picked five possible sites, from which Grampa chose Deep Cove. Over the years, he acquired thousands of acres, undoubtedly uprooting families in the process. He commissioned an architect to build a home that could comfortably accommodate a large or small group of family and visitors. The spacious third floor dorm rooms easily slept all the grandchildren and young friends. Eventually there were 13 grandchildren: Mary and Fay’s Bob and David; Betty and Lyman’s Fox and Hester; Cy and Mary’s Cy III, John, Cathy (me), and Elizabeth; Farley and David’s David and Stephen; Mac and Cynthia’s Mary, Peter, and James. On the second floor, four bedrooms complete with bathrooms and fireplaces, and several bedrooms for the hired help, provided sleeping quarters for adults. On the first floor, a huge kitchen with several room-sized pantries, is adjacent to the dining room and the living room, always warmed by roaring fires in the floor to ceiling fieldstone fireplaces. After Grampa married Anne Kinder Jones in 1957, a bedroom, sitting room, living room/library were built for Grananne with a small elevator for her wheelchair. Another addition was office space where Ray Szabo, Grampa’s secretary, spent hours working. I remember the summer he turned 40 and wore Bermuda shorts and sported a mustache and sandals.
Woven Wool
The wind had cold fingers – numbed my body into vibrant static.
but walking toward the cabin i grew tall as i inhaled the fine air.
and entering the familiar room i welcomed the blanket resting easily on the rocking chair.
facing to see out the window, i melted into the soft material tuned to a mellow rhythm while my waves soaked within the warm rays of the woven wool. 1974—Elizabeth Eaton Inspired by Nova Scotia
Scotia Nova is wonderful always. In the old days—early fifties, we traveled by train to Boston, steam boat to Yarmouth, and car over bumpy roads to Deep Cove. On Dad’s journey there when he was ten, they sailed from Chester to Deep Cove for the final leg of the trip. That year he and his friend smuggled shovels on the motor boat when they sailed to a picnic on Oak Island – renown for its still unfound treasure. Millions of dollars have been sunk into locating the elusive treasure. A complex series of tunnels from the ocean fill any shafts that have been dug. Dad and his friend, encouraged by his friend’s dad who was an English teacher, kept a diary of that first summer they spent in Deep Cove. Later, we often traveled up to Deep Cove in the C & 0 plane, a DC3, courtesy of Grampa being chairman of the railroad.
On a very early trip to Nova Scotia, six-year-old Dad and Grampa, accompanied by two guides, set out on a canoe trip navigating lakes and rivers. Everyone warned Grampa that Dad was too young for such an excursion. Eatons tend to be stubborn. One day the wind blew hard, and the rough waters rolled and pitched the canoes. At the end of their lake crossing, Dad’s guide asked if he was to be fired. Grampa had no idea what he meant. “Didn’t Cy tell you,” the guide inquired in disbelief.
“Tell me what?” asked a puzzled Grampa.
“Well,” the guide continued, “we were paddling hard, trying not to upset the canoe when Cy stuck his paddle out into the water and almost tipped us over. I told him to stop his foolishness. Cy stopped. But a few minutes later, Cy again stuck his paddle out, and I walloped him on the head with my own paddle.”
Lesson learned and no tattle-telling.
On that same trip, Dad begged and begged Grampa for a pocket knife. Grampa said that Dad would only cut himself, but Dad stubbornly insisted he could be trusted with a knife. Grampa finally gave him a sharp knife but warned him to be very careful. Some days later Dad could not be found. This worried everybody because it is no joke being lost in the Canadian wilderness. The guides and Grandpa called and searched and called. But no Cy. At last Cy was discovered lying by a flowing stream. His hand was immersed in the water and a tell-tale red could be seen. Blood gushing.
“What happened?” Grampa demanded.
Dad held up hand – revealing a deep cut in his thumb. “A frog bit me,” he explained.
How Grampa loved to tell that tale when we were sitting around the dining room table at Deep Cove. Then he would laugh as he was transported to that magical time when father and son had weeks together to explore the Canadian wilderness.
Nova Scotia is different memories for all of us, but I will do my best to capture some of its essence. One evening while Grampa and I were hiking the fern edged paths to the pastures and then down to the cove, he explained to me that he hoped Deep Cove would bring the grandchildren close to one another because his own children lacked closeness to each other and to him. Clearly Deep Cove held a dream for him. We grandchildren (beginning at age two) traveled up to Deep Cove in the summers, often without our parents. One particular summer, 27 relatives and friends vacationed in the cabin all at the same time. Eleanor Duckworth (who later became Piaget’s assistant and later a professor at Harvard) and various other young Nova Scotians looked after us. Some were better liked than others. One horrid woman forced little Mary Eaton to jump off the diving board into the freezing water when Mary was so frightened of the water and of the terrible nasty red jellyfish.
Although we didn’t get stung very often, Dad once tried to prove that red jellyfish actually didn’t sting. Picking one out of the water, he climbed up the wharf exclaiming, “See, it doesn’t sting.” When he threw the jellyfish back into the cove, his hand was swollen and red. Sometimes we threw rocks on the top of the jellyfish, trying to pin them to the ocean bottom – a foolish pastime. I believe split jellyfish become two jellyfish, but perhaps I made that up. Other times we scooped them up with the blade of canoe paddles or with water bailers and dried them on the large boulders at the end of the dock.
Most of our activities centered around or near the water. We swam frequently. Short swims because the water temperature is quite chilly, some would say downright cold. In Dad’s youth, everyone – led by Grampa – swam before breakfast. As we grew older, most became more conservative, but I, at least, swam every day that I stayed at Deep Cove, even if I arrived after 10 at night. At the weekend of Grampa’s memorial service, Michael, Cy, and I swam at 5:30 in the morning. Refreshed, tingling, and sad to leave. Grampa took the young grandchildren out in the long boat in the morning, and we threw broken bread bits up to the hungry, screeching gulls that hovered above us. In later years, Grampa fed his farm-bred Canada geese that flew onto the front yard every morning and departed in the evening as they soared overhead in their V formation. We raced canoes or stood on the gunnels, and bouncing, tried to tip the person on the other end off the canoe into the water. We also rowed the heavy dories that other times were towed behind the Margie when we went on picnics or deep sea fishing, and then used to ferry us to picnic spots on islands.
Permission to water ski was granted by the time we were teenagers. The power boat could not reach the speed necessary to pull Dad to his feet. I saw movies of Mom and Dad being pulled on a board, rather like knee boarding. They even tried standing without anything to put their feet into. Once when I suffered an extremely high fever, Adele Wick, and I canoed to the end of the cove. A strong wind hampered the canoe trip back to the boat dock. Newt, skiing at the time, dropped one ski, which Adele and I cleverly concealed on the inside of the canoe. The boys hunted and hunted for the missing ski, naturally without any success. We negotiated to find and return the ski if they agreed to tow us up the cove. After they tied us to the motor boat rope, the engine roared, and we jerked forward. The canoe immediately began to tip and filled with icy water. We tumbled into the water, and both our cameras were ruined. The boys rescued us and rushed us to the house and up the back spiral staircase, so no one would see I had been dunked in the sea. Afraid I would become sicker, they ordered us to take hot baths and not to tell anyone of our mishap.
Years earlier Cy teased young Mary Eaton – dangling her sock off the edge of the dock above the water. The sock dropped in, and Cy tumbled in afterwards after Grampa’s foot connected with his behind. Climbing the slippery mill stream or hiking up Aspatoba at the cove’s end while carrying breakfast became annual adventures. Glorious picnics and tasty meat pies have delighted all Deep Cove visitors. The rolly-poly Margie – skippered by Tom Zinc, Cecil Gates, or a local fisherman – carried boatloads of casually clad people out to one of numerous islands: Refuse, Tancook, Ironbound, Saddle, Green, Snake, Eagar, Mountain, Pearl or to a site along the coast. On rocky, sandy, or grassy shores, we collected piles of driftwood to feed a huge, roaring fire around which we feasted on elaborate picnics of cheese, crackers, soup kept warm in thermoses, meat pies or sandwiches, fresh fruit pies or donuts, coco, coffee… After exploring the island, we motored back to the cove.
Old and young eagerly anticipated the fishing expeditions. Somewhere in the bay we anchored Margie, cut up slimy bait on large wooden boards, and unwound our heavy lines, which were armed with several large metal hooks. After touching the sea floor, we pulled up the hooks a few yards. When we didn’t catch each other’s lines or ugly sculpins, we pulled in cod, haddock, halibut, or mackerel. Once someone caught two dogfish on the same line. Prizes reward the catcher of the first fish, the ugliest fish, the biggest one, and the most fish.
In the early years, Dad and Aunt Farley engineered the tipping over of their sailboats, the Cup and Saucer. Mom and Uncle David soaked up quantities of cold water while Dad and his sister scampered to the relative dryness of the boat’s keel. Another time Mr. Eagar rescued cold sailors and their upside down sailboat. In later years, five or six could sail on the Bluenose; the trickiest part involved maneuvering out of the cove without colliding with the rocks near the mouth of the cove.
Elizabeth, Cecil Gates, Cathy Tolles, and I sailed the Bluenose one fine day. Spying a fishing boat, we headed toward it to inquire about their luck. Inexperienced sailor, I becalmed our boat on the leeward side of an island right in the pathway of a race of oncoming three-masted schooners. Beer-toting racers shouted nasty comments at me as they steered around us. Years earlier Another time, Cy and Ted Silver entered a race out of Chester. Ten PM arrived with the return of the sailors. Becalmed some, towed some, perhaps partying a little, they eventually returned to the cove to the relief of searchers. Another time when Cecil was giving us a ride in Sea Joy, his beloved boat, I hid behind the last seat, and when Cecil looked back and didn’t see me, he panicked, fearing I was lost at sea. His death devastated me.
I see Cecil clearly, close to my height but considerably stouter, clad in tall rubber boots, black shiny pants and coat that covered striped suspenders supporting worn khaki work pants. I follow him tramping effortlessly through dew-wet pastures to check on newborn and week-old calves, wading into the chilling ocean to guide the heavy dory off the beach, or tenderly holding hour-old mallard ducklings in his powerful, calloused hands. The frequent laughter between us could only be described as magic. I found home in the lingering special way he called my name. An old, old golden retriever awaited Cecil on the floor of his tired pick-up truck, the door of which always remained open for Rompie. The magic existed there too. “Rompie, ‘im a good dog.”
Every summer the deep, clear cove surrounded by tall, swaying pines, filled with screeching gulls and powerful Canada geese (so protective of their vulnerable goslings) renewed me and inspired me to the joy of living. The excuse I found not to return one summer to my most favorite place – because – because Cecil was gone. Dead. Buried. No goodbyes. Lonely tears. I still hear his frequent jesting reproof, “What you laughing at?” but he always laughed, too.
So often I watched the hunch of his shoulders, as he steered Grampa’s old ‘tugboat’ Margie. Her wide girth made her unfit for the smooth pleasure rides for which she had been purchased. Cecil passionately hated Margie, often cursing her while praising his own sleek and fast, Sea Joy, named after his beloved princess, his young adopted daughter, Connie. That day of the storm, Cecil was afraid as Margie dangerously rolled from side to side in the heavy swells. I was thrilled but unafraid. Cecil retorted, “That’s because you don’t know.” I had never waited for a fellow fisherman to return, watching the clock striking hour after hour. I had never listened to church bells chime mournfully the permanent absence of a friend. No, I only heard the innocent rings of our telephone, and Mother’s sympathetic voice, “Cathy will be heartbroken.” He had died of a heart attack after a day out in the boat with Grananne. Thinking him okay, the hospital sent him home, but that night he died, leaving his wife Greta a widow much too soon.
That day I steered our small sailboat too near an island, cutting the wind from our sail and becalming us right in the path of a race of ketches, tumbling swiftly upon us. Cecil rolled his cigarette in a steady hand and leaned back, the crinkles of his eyes twitching. He coughed his racking cough and left me in despair to desperately shift the rudder. Despite my pleadings, he never played me the bawdy songs I knew he accompanied himself to on the accordion. But he told me stories – long days and nights at sea, years spent at a lumber camp, the horrible accident that had immobilized him for two years. Lingering back pain returned him monthly to visit a chiropractor – to align his back once again. But he never refrained from heavy lifting. Always he was present: steadying Grampa’s descent into a boat, burying the beef pies that he detested, cleaning his glasses, lighting his rolled cigarettes, baiting a hook. Everyone depended on Cecil, and he never let anyone down, except when he left me and forgot to share one more magic laugh.
Sometimes, we picnicked and canoed to islands on the nearby lakes. Once Truman Kingsley, the manager of Acadia Farms, tipped over in a canoe on Hoolihan, and all the picnic things sank or floated around him. Grampa probably laughed. A long time ago, a moose interrupted a passage between two lakes.
In the summer of 1976, Grampa and Ramon Bourque had daily picnics no matter what the weather. Ramon explained that Grampa was content to celebrate the ocean, the rocks, the pouring rain, or clear blue skies. On their last summer of picnics, Greta Gates saved a small rock from each picnic spot; she wrote the name of each island they visited and the date. When we last visited her, she had the rocks piled on her back porch.
Walking over the rocky or grassy terrain was always a favorite pleasure of Grampa. For years my ambition was to be able to walk as fast as Grampa. But when I was able to walk faster than him, and when he needed my arm to support him and needed benches to rest upon, I was very sorry to have realized my ambition.
At meal times we gathered around the large rectangular table in the dining room. After dinner we walked with Grampa. Elizabeth wrote
A Walk at Deep Cove The evening meal had been very filling, More than substantial if I had taken All that was offered. Although even with my moderation I felt restless with a stomach which was A bit too comfortable.
Dinner was finished at the usual time But the sun having set earlier Reminded me of the transition of seasons.
I took my cane and started off The front porch. ***
Tonight the air is close – The dampness of the fog seems To bring the ocean to my feet, And its greyness simulates a roof Under which I am walking.
The first part of the path Is a steady climb upward. I find that my heartbeat quickens And my muscles strain. I feel a creeping weakness But like an acquired instinctivcness I push open the gate and carry on through.
The field between the two gates is of a rocky terrain. I occasionally glance down to check my step.
Forests of pine outline the field I gaze at the tallest of them And wonder about the sturdiness of its roots And how it grew to reach up so high (Was it searching too?)
The path rolls along easily now. My dog, an old faithful companion, suddenly Darted off, tracking a trace of some wild animal. And again I was conscious of other means Of living, too remote and incomprehensible for man.
My footsteps cut into the silence and echo in my mind. Bouncing inside from the awareness of my body in motion To the surrounding outside of pulsating life. Mystic questions of relationships of Nature and of man cycle on.
The sun is sinking into the water And I sit on a rock facing west To feel as one with the tranquility of The moment.
The geese fly across the horizon, I also see them reflected in the sea. I get up and turn around to start back.
It is the same path but this time I am Following it in a different direction. It is the same path but this time I am aware of more life. The path is never the same.
Up ahead I see a light from the house. Its yellow glow reminds me of the warmth of the fire. Home again I go to bed and sleep with one full lived day And do not awake until the exhortation of the next dawn. Elizabeth Eaton (August 1972)
Elizabeth read this to Grampa on his 89th or 90th birthday. Mom wrote under the photograph of Elizabeth reading the poem to Grampa: “Here is Elizabeth reading her very touching and fantastically aware poem on December 27th.” Daily, Grampa hiked miles – to the pasture to feed his sheep or check on the calves, to the docks to gaze at boats and the cove – some days serene and other days filled with small, rolling white caps. His favorite walk after dinner to the tennis court and along the old fish wagon path to Ben’s is hemmed by a thick crop of green ferns which skirt the tall pines covering the mossy and rocky path. At Ben’s an old weather beaten tool shed stands near where a fine old cabin was pulled down – plans to replace it never fulfilled. Grampa, a fascinating walking companion, related the planting history of various trees or he recalled the homes and personalities of the former fishermen tenants. Other times silent, he contemplated newborn calves, watched the sun fall into the bay, or just pondered the universe. Once he asked me if I heard the call of a Canada Jay, and he whistled its call for me. His deafness denied him the pleasure of this bird’s song. In his final years, his constant companion, Emerson, a small Jack Russell fox terrier, eagerly followed Grampa on every walk and picnic. In 1979 the family gathered to mourn and celebrate Grampa’s death in a service in the pasture, where we had walked so many times. Beneath an old oak tree, the grandsons lowered an urn with his ashes into the pasture and rolled a large boulder to cover the spot. Emerson stayed by the spot that marked his grave, as if he to mark his passing. Not long after, Emerson joined Grampa. May they hike the forests, lakes and coastal paths together. Sometimes, sailboats or cabin cruisers motored into the cove to anchor in its deep water. Once a huge sailing vessel, The Yankee, entered the mouth of the cove. Misinterpreting our waves and screams, meant to warn them away from the rocks, and not to welcome them as they thought, the ship crashed into the rocks, hidden from sight at high tide. The Yankee had sailed around the world several times. Its crew gave us a tour around the impressive ship while its damage was repaired. Many of the neighboring fishing men’s boats line the water in front of their wharves and shingled homes. Most days they go out into the bay and haul large catches of fish from their nets to their sturdy boats. Inside the wooden cabin holds many fond memories – some not so fond. Ray Szabo, Grampa’s secretary of man years, described his first night spent in the cabin. Settled into bed, he turned off his light on the second floor at the end of the hallway. Eerie, rustling noises startled him, so he switched on the light. To his horror twelve bats perched in a crack above his head in the wall. Pulling the blanket over his head, he rushed out of the room and down the stairs. He slept the remainder of the night in his office on a large cushion that usually covered a verandah lounge chair. The next morning Grananne was surprised to find him asleep on the floor. I encountered a bat in the third floor dorm room and spent the next several hours out on the front lawn while some comforting adult pointed out various stars and constellations. Once very late at night Grampa investigated noises coming from the third floor. He delighted to recount how he discovered Mary Eaton and me busily washing all our underwear in the bathroom sink. He also loved to retell how he discovered a small boy, David LeFevre, impersonating his snoring on a veranda chair, pretending to take a nap. When the number of visitors (especially young ones) swelled, rules were established. An afternoon nap became a requirement. I remember a blue, round small case that contained our play treasures: crayons, decks of cards, pads of paper, and games, perhaps a small checker board. On some afternoons, we settled on our beds and listened to someone read Peter Pan or my favorite book, Blueberries for Sal. When some of the grandchildren got older, they wanted to be included in the grownup cocktail hour. Fox and Bob, uninvited, stuffed wet sweatshirts over the chimney top and smoked the grownups out of the living room. The prank proved just how grownup they were. Another time the boys waged war against the girls on the third floor. The boys were heaving water into our dorm room from the roof when Newt Barrett, our cousin, slipped, broke the drain pipe and clung onto the fire escape. The cocktail contingent were not pleased to see part of the roof fly by the living room window. I loved having ginger ale and hors d’oeuvres such as crackers with peanut butter and bacon bits served on the veranda. Nothing could be more peaceful than sitting on the wicker furniture gazing out at Mahone Bay on the gray porch while three flags fluttered and snapped in the breeze: Nova Scotia, Canada, and United Stated. On the lawn, the painted sailboats twirled. Years later Cy found them tucked away in the barn and restored them. On rainy days we lounged cozily in front of blazing fires and put jigsaw puzzles together or read books. Sometimes Grampa assigned us to read or recite poems at the Sunday luncheon. (Below is a revised version of one of Grampa’s favorite poems.) Grampa always rose early and often read poetry on Shakespeare. During the days near his death, although he couldn’t hold a coherent conversation, he could finish poems that people read to him by his bedside. Between the two upstair dorm rooms, a spacious storage closet for quilts and blankets provide great hiding places. The ‘secret’ doors and closets at the back of the dorm rooms served as playrooms. Two places we hesitated to explore had entrances in the wall behind the bathtubs; these dark attic rooms probably contained bats and not much else. Because the kitchen was ruled out of bounds and because Jack (a former chef on the C & O train) was such a stupendous cook, we engineered many moments to sneak in the kitchen and steal delicious freshly baked donuts or cookies from the pantry. Adele Wick demolished a large part of a leftover turkey and then carefully rearranged the turkey bones in the turkey pan. Jack accused Adele and me of stealing the butter dish.
With Apologies to Chapman, Homer, Keats, and Grampa
Much have I traveled on the C and O And many goodly states and kingdoms seen: Round Tancook and Iron Bound have I been Described by blue-nosed poets from Nova Scotiaoo. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That John D. Rockfeller ruled the Oil Co. Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Til I heard John L. speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a rose breasted grosbeak flew into his view; Or like stout Spinoza when with steel blue eyes Ordered Poland Water – and all his men Looked at each other with wild surmise As he said, “No fears, no regrets,” then sat on his derriere.
All visitors gathered together at mealtime for the marvelous food. A gong sounded to invite us to troop into the large table. For breakfast, Grampa had orange juice, prunes, grapefruit, porridge, soft boiled eggs, toast, and of courses, cups and cups of Poland Water. For dinner, a first course of juice or soup was followed by fresh meat or fish, potato, vegetables, and salad. Dessert of fresh fruit or newly baked cakes and pies was followed by the formal custom of dipping our fingers into crystal water bowls. In the tradition of the Rockefellers, a butler and several maids served all the meals. But Raymond Bourque was much more than a butler, often being Grampa’s companion. At night sometimes, he carved replicas of Donald McKay’s clipper ships and one time serenaded us in a rowboat at night in the cove. Mabel Schnare served meals often. She and her sons lived quite near the cabin. All guests dressed up for the evening meal. Grampa always wore a three-peace suit and bowtie while presiding over the meals. However, if you were not careful, he would distract you and permanently borrow your cookies or muffins. He liked to sing, “You can’t have any of my blueberries when you’re blueberries are gone.” Another tradition was singing “Who’s Late Today” to any diner who arrived late.
Who’s late today, who’s late today? Let us look around and see Who’s the tardy one can be. Who’s late today.
Near the pastures we climbed the water tower (perhaps haunted) despite its ricketiness. Greta Gates, wife of Cecil Gates, recounted how Grampa took the children (including Dad and Greta) hiking on a windy, cloudy night with a full moon. His prearranged ghost, Tom Zink (Greta’s Dad), flitted in and out the trees, covered with a sheet while he hollered ghostly yells. All the kids were frightened. I later used this scene as part of my snipe hunt in Curse of the Pirate’s Treasure, my novel about pirates in Boulder Cove, based on Deep Cove. Dad took Newt, John, Elizabeth, and me birch swinging one time near the water tower. Below is my fictionalized version of that adventure and the one Elizabeth and I later had with birch swinging at Deep Cove.
My family and I are no strangers to the mysteries of birch swinging. For years Dad had beguiled the four of us with exhilarating stories about riding birch trees. Three decades ago on a sun drenched July day in a Nova Scotia fishing village, Dad set out to initiate my older brothers, me, and my little sister into the mysterious art of birch swinging. Beneath a startling blue sky, we tramped beside a rocky shore and over grassy paths, climbed a split rail fence, skirted cow pies, and arrived at a band of birch trees near the old water tower. Earlier that week, Kyle had dared me to conquer the tower. Tossing such prompts as, “Come on, Kate. Be a man. You can do it,” Kyle reclined below me as I ascended the rusty rungs all the way to the top. Unfortunately, I couldn’t boast to my family of my accomplishment because the forty foot water tower, with my bird’s eye view of the choppy bay and a spattering of rocky and wooded islands, was unquestionably out of bounds. On our forty minute hike, Dad, clad in his tweed cap and hand-knitted cardigan, extolled the challenge of birch climbing and the thrill of birch riding. “Selecting the perfect birch,” he explained, “is essential for success. It can’t be too old with a fat, inflexible trunk. It can’t be too young with a skinny, fragile trunk. The perfect birch is tall with a circumference in the middle that is no bigger than my two fists.” Next, Dad fueled our competitive nature by describing the agility needed to climb the birch to its crown. Not a problem. We were all tree climbers from way back. The four of us began studying the bony branches and silver gray trunks, so we could select one with good feet and hand holds. Within minutes Ginny, our blond darling and just six, but the most observant of us all, raced over and hugged a birch that towered above us. “Come quick. I found it. I found the perfect tree!” she shouted. Ian was the oldest, at least fourteen as I recall, so naturally he claimed the right to go first. After what happened, I was glad I hadn’t pushed the issue. “I’ll show you guys how to soar,” he bragged. “Watch and learn.” I’m pretty certain that Dad thought the boys should go first anyway and show Ginny – the youngest and most timid member of our family – and me – the second youngest and the one with the least common sense – how to fling out and fly with the birch to the ground. Ian, lean and limber, squirreled up the birch until his hands grasped the trunk three feet from its pinnacle. The next step was the hardest. He had to throw his weight outward while embracing the tree top tightly with his hands. As the quivering tree began to bend, disaster struck. Ian’s foot became wedged in a crotch of the trunk and a branch. There he dangled upside down, face beat red, not having achieved a swift ride to the ground. We were silent as he untangled his foot and sheepishly climbed back down. Kyle, twelve, a little pudgy and four inches shorter than Ian, managed to hide his elation by staring at the ground and biting his lip. An opportunity to outshine his older brother, our track star, was not one to be wasted. “I can do this,” he claimed. “I won’t mess up my chance.” I don’t remember his climb, but I can still see him losing his grip half way up and falling. His scream shattered the cow’s peaceful lunching. Angry yellow jackets erupted from their ground nest where he landed and swarmed around him. Those stinging demons chased us away, and we abandoned our quest in favor of pursuing safer activities like canoe bouncing and jellyfish smashing. Ian plunged into the ice chilling cold of the bay and anesthetized the swelling insect stings that covered his legs and face. The botched flights and the fabled glory we would achieve by taming a birch tree kept the challenge simmering in our minds. Over the next seven years three more attempts would be tackled. The second assault occurred four years later when Ian was sixteen, in love, and desperate to impress his girlfriend Laurel, and to one-upmanship Ginny and me. On a crisp fall day, we deserted the never ending task of leaf raking and hiked past the orchard, borrowing a few ripe apples, and then entered the woods next to the cattle barn. Of course it was Ginny, still much slimmer than me and a sun-bleached blond, who spotted the birch tree. Ian stripped off his soccer windbreaker, revealing his tanned, muscular body, and then began climbing the tall, gray trunk.
“Are you sure you won’t be in danger?” Laurel cautioned. “No problem,” Ian replied. “I could climb this tree in my sleep.”
“It should be a stinging experience,” I whispered to Ginny.
During his ascent, he bragged about the swift flight he would take. He climbed higher. We watched: Laurel fascinated, me envious, and Ginny shouting encouragement. At the moment when he should have taken flight, a splintering crash sent him smashing to the ground, and Laurel, Ginny, and I laughed until Ian silenced us, pointing out that we sounded like creaky old crows. It turns out beeches look a lot like birches, but beech trees don’t have the suppleness of birch trees. They break.
Eight months later, Dad again trotted out his stories about the thrill of birch swinging. However, this time there were no boys around to steal the glory, and this time it wasn’t summer, so we didn’t have to worry about rough landings on hard ground or stinging, pursuing insects. This time, deep snow cushioned the ground. Dad, in his cross country ski knickers, and I, in my navy snowsuit, set off from our vacation cabin in Vermont, tramping along the snow-packed road. When I inhaled, winter air invigorated my nasal passages and chest. My throat unclogged, and the air felt like the first jolt of a scalding cup of hot chocolate. I spied the perfect birch tree, standing alone in a meadow fifty feet from the road. Dad sent me plunging through the heavy snow. I floundered to my knees, but I was small and light, so I didn’t sink too deeply. Dad urged me, “Come on, Kate. It’s high time someone in this family conquered a birch tree. Show me you can do it.” I was determined to succeed, to be the first.
It took me ten minutes to wade over to the tree. Climbing with mittens presented its own challenge. I hoisted myself up to the lowest limb. Carefully testing branch after branch, I climbed closer and closer to the top. I shouldn’t have look back at Dad and waved. Before I attained a chance to fling out and test my skill as a birch swinger, a tiny twig stabbed my eye. I shut my eyes to the pain, lost my balance and fell, tumbling through darkness. My pricked eye ball didn’t hurt nearly as much as my wounded reputation. The fourteen foot fall plunged me shoulder deep into the snow, and Dad’s chuckles burned my ears.
Three years later we couldn’t resist another go. My sister and I were again visiting family in Nova Scotia. Despite one failed attempt behind me, I was convinced I could climb a birch, throw my weight out and zoom like lightning to the ground. Ginny, lithe and fluid, and I, built more solidly, hiked to the same grassy, cow-inhabited pasture where eight years earlier Ian and Kyle had failed to tame a birch. The trees were taller, but so was I. The water tower sagged, and the rusted rungs wouldn’t even support a chipmunk. Several brown and white cattle raised theirs heads to note our passage, but the juicy, green grass engaged their attention, so we had no witnesses. Being older, I claimed the right to be first. Ginny and I studied the tall, graceful birch that had defeated our brothers. She pointed out limbs that seemed strong. I took a broken branch and poked around the ferns. Although I didn’t expect the yellow jacket’s nest to still be here, I didn’t intend to make any careless mistakes. When I was ready to begin, Ginny boosted my legs up, so I could pull myself up to the first branch.
I climbed higher and higher. Halfway up, I hugged the trunk and balanced my toes on a sturdy branch as I reached above my head to grip another weight bearing branch. My arm muscles burned as I pulled myself up. Climbing was not as easy as I recalled. My vision blurred for a second, and I remembered my fall in the snow. Nevertheless, I refused to back down the tree. The view of the bay, the islands, and the small darting sailboats was breathtaking, but not as breathtaking as what happened next. I clutched the slender top of the trunk and flung my legs and lower torso out. Like the Wright brothers, I had achieved flight. The birch began bending, and I raced toward the ground. In mid flight I lost my grip, and flew solo. To the ground I rocketed, no tight tree hug stopping my descent before contact.
My breath was thumped out of me. Air to fill my lungs eluded me. I lay on my back, and I hurt, jolted as if a car had slammed into me. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t sit up. I couldn’t roll over. Paralysis was my destiny. My little sister, the timid member of our family, the one who had never attempted to tame a birch, must have been terrified, too, but no tears of hers mingled with my sobs. “Get help,” I begged my sister. She refused to leave my side. In a hoarse whisper, I admitted my fear. “I’m paralyzed. I think my back is broken.”
“You’re wrong,” she told me. She was so adamant that I began to believe she could be right.
“I can’t move.”
“You will,” she stated, no trace of doubt in her voice. “In a little bit, you’ll sit up and then stand and walk back to the cabin.” I wanted to believe her. I listened to her soothing voice as she talked about the sailing races at the end of the week. “Breathe deeply,” she advised. “Relax your muscles. You’re much too tense.”
I followed her directions. What choice did I have? She rubbed my hands, my shoulders, my legs. I began to feel the prickly grass beneath me. Thirty minutes later, I did what she said. I sat up. Every muscle and bone burned. When I tried to stand up and regain my feet, I swayed as the trees blurred around me. I reached for my sister but fell before her hand could steady me.
Again the pain shot through my back. “Get help,” I begged. “We’ll try again,” she directed. “This time, rest a bit after you first sit up. A few minutes later, I tried to regain my footing, this time with Ginny’s arm around me. I stood. And finally I walked. Away from the birch trees.
The small sailboats that turn in the wind on the front lawn, the raspberry bushes in the rose garden, the duck pond and hatchery near the Gates’ home, the tennis courts, the saltwater swimming pool, Grananne’s heated above ground pool that the Canada geese loved and in which they left little presents – are all favorite places we loved to visit. Of course, we especially loved the swim and boat docks, where we spent much time: sunning, boating, and swimming. One of the Peachy Stories written by Wilbur Cross, a Kent classmate of Dad’s, recounts an attempted swim to Chester by Dad and his friends while younger brother, Mac, rowed. Our fathers dared more than we did. One of our yearly challenges was to swim across the cove. Adele Wick and I braved swimming the width of the cold on a chilly and windy day. Thereafter, we vowed we could do anything. I love Deep Cove more than any other place in the world. Every summer I visited Grampa in Nova Scotia. When I was thirteen, Grampa bet me five cents that I could not withstand the mosquitoes and remain outside camping on the lawn all night. I won the bet, but he never carried change. So we altered the stakes to five acres of land, which I picked on the old Schnare site across the cove and outside of the mouth of the cove. The land extended from the road to the water and included a small beach that almost became an island at high tide. It also had a site for a well and an old foundation of house that no longer existed. My dream was to build a summer house for all of my family to come visit. But somehow some of the land was sold, and the beach access disappeared. Instead of contesting the boundaries, I sold the land, which provided the money for Michael and me to put a down payment on a house. In a way that was very fitting because Grampa had told me that as a school teacher I would never make much money so he wanted to help me buy a house. So he did. Later he gave Ben’s place to mother. When she sold that land, she invested the money in the Mary S. Eaton Trust, which was the money that provided her and Dad security at Kendal and provided any financial aid that Dad needed after Mom died. In 1979 Grampa died. The last two summers he spent in Deep Cove, he picnicked every day, rain or shine. Greta collected rocks from his island and picnic spot. The family gathered to celebrate Grampa in Deep Cove. We swam, we canoed, we hiked the land, we ate scrumptious meals, and we delighted in the brisk salty and pine-scented air. What a heart-opening gift Deep Cove was to the family. Around 1995 Dad, Mom, Colin, Devon, and I took the ferry to Nova Scotia and stayed in a small cabin at a small vacation spot near Deep Cove. We visited Aunt Farley in Chester, who was suffering from diabetes. We celebrated Uncle Mac’s 70th birthday with him, Aunt Cynthia and one of James’ sons. She thought it so funny that Uncle Mac, known for his penny-pinching, was paying for the dinner. That was his birthday surprise. We went out on Uncle Mac’s sailboat, and I, of course, plunged into the water and swam from the pebbly shore to the ladder at the end of the dock. Peter Eaton and his wife Sherry live near Deep Cove up until 2012. Bob LeFevre has sailed there. David LeFevre, Ray Szabo, Cyrus, Beth, John, Michael and I have all been back to visit in recent years. A wonderful family from Halifax bought Grampa’s estate and have kept it pristine and beautiful. One brother uses the big house as a vacation home. The house is much like it was, but the kitchen has been modernized and the house has been winterized. (I found Christmas ornaments in the closet on the third floor.) One brother, who takes care of the houses and land, lives in Greta and Cecil Gates’ house. He built a merry-go-round by the tennis court. Another brother has redone the smaller boat house into a one-room camp with beds and a stove. Adele and I visited in 2010 and interviewed Mabel Schnare. We swam across the cove after borrowing without permission a boat from the boat house. The first two days it was so cold we went to The Deck for warm soup. We explored the house and found old cattle pamphlets in half closet on second floor outlooking Mahone Bay. In 2011 I stayed at the Century House, a B & B with Mieke and David proprietors. I kayaked out to Tancook Island and made it back for breakfast. I kayaked to my island and Mabel’s son toured me around the homes that had been built on my property. We found the old bare-bones ruins of old house but not the well that Adele and I found when I was 13. Bob and Mary Lefevre, John Eaton and I visited Peter and Sherri Eaton and their sons Ben and Angus and shared fine whiskey. Another summer I picnicked with Peter and Sherri on the swim dock. In 2013 I stayed in Grampa’s room after tasty dinner on the verandah with owner Hazal Havill, her daughter, son-in-law, and grandson. Her husband Stan died the previous Thanksgiving. The next morning I was treated to a magical boat ride passing all the islands, Chester, and other familiar landmarks. I also visited Connie (Gates) Leblanc and her husband Brent as well as Mabel Schnare who lives next to two of her sons. Dad told me that he hopes when he is gone, the Trust will pay for a gathering of Mom and his children and grandchildren where they can celebrate family and the outdoors. Grampa would approve. I visited Deep Cove for a few days in 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, and 2018. I always stayed at the Century House with David and Mieke. Swimming between the docks, kayaking on the cove, and tramping on the land, as always brought delight. The hardest visit was after the house at Deep Cove burned to the ground. Part of my soul melted. But the life-giving waters of the cove began the healing. I so love visiting Connie Gates LeBlanc and her husband Brent and Mabel Schnare In 2019 right before Hurricane Dorian, I stayed for an afternoon of swimming, sunning, and reflecting on the swim dock and wrote this poem: Heart home Cathy Eaton September 15, 2019 Supported by the wharf’s pillars, Cushioned by the soft breezes, Balanced by the laughing waters of the cove, Warmed by the sun’s caress East by this treasured spot of my childhood, My body unwinds, Shedding layers of doing, driving, traveling. I cherish my heart home on the wharf at Deep Cove. As always I stepped in the seaweed draped water and swam,, seeing down into the clear depths of rocks, wild grasses and sand. Brushing against tangled clumps of seaweed startles me. Always the possibility of a lurking red jellyfish. I swam. I floated. I glided. I splashed. The sea buoyed my soul. Now on the dock, I sip the restorative sensations. Around me are tendrils of past times and people I once shared this heart home with. They linger nearby. Grandpa paddling a green canoe. Elizabeth, crosslegged, a yogi sun sprite. Mom happy and much younger than the current me. John spying the massive sailing ship headed for submerged rocks by my side. Cy and Michael joining me in a 5 AM swim. Grananne being hoisted aboard the Margie. Cecil in his suspenders, khakis and black rubber boots skippering the boat. Raymon perferring peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to meat pie.. Dad prepping for an all day swim to Eager Island when he was a young man Connie, just six, being followed by Peaches, the Canada goose she imprinted. Mabel laughing good-naturedly. John standing here on a foggy morning. Adele pilfering a boat and lifeguarding me as I swam across the cove. Then it’s her turn. My skin is bathed in warmth. An Osprey glides and flaps overhead while frenetically cheeping like a nervous chick.
A gigantic storm is hurtling towards us. It decimated the Bahamas. It’s reached the Carolinas. In two days, massive rain, hurricane winds and surging tides are expected. Some are pragmatically preparing, Hauling out boats, tying down ones that will stay in the water, and moving loose objects inside. Others are oblivious and have not been glued to the weather reports. But today is now, And I delight in my sanctuary..
Deep Cove remains the place of my heart. I am full of gratitude for its magic.