On the return trip from New Glasgow we stopped to visit my grandmother.that is,my father's mother.She was from Springhill of course,but she didn't live in Springhill.She lived a town called Shubenacdie which is a bit less than halfway between Truro and Halifax.It's a strikingly beautiful part of Nova Scotia,with rolling hill,a lot of trees,and a big river filled up with brown water.My Grandmother lived there with a man called Mr. McPhee,or,as she always called him "Old Bill." They lived on a small dairy farm,and the thing I remember most about the place was that they had a long driveway leading up to a house and barn that was enveloped in trees.But what made this driveway unique is that just beyond the road,it had a set of railroad tracks crossing it.Mr. McPhee is the only man I knew that had railroad tracks in his driveway.
There were a lot of cows in the yard too,alongside the driveway,though it was likely kind of a compact property,and rather hilly.Now when I say a lot of cows,I mean maybe about a dozen,but I lived in the city,so more than two would have seemed like a lot.
Mr. McPhee also had hay in his barn.You could smell it as soon as you went through the big barn doors,and it seemed to be stacked about anywhere where there wasn't a cow.Aside from hay and cows there was hardly room to walk around or even stack milk cans or pitchforks.Mr. McPhee showed my father the barn,and together they milked cows,which I was surprised to find my father was rather good at.Later,he told me that was because they would sometimes take off on foot for the beach when he lived in Springhill,and,along the way they would stop to get chickens and milk from some unsuspecting farmhouse along the way.He'd milk a cow right out in the field,so he said,and it wasn't the easiest way to get milk."Wonder I never got shot at." He'd always say.But there,in Mr. McPhee's barn,he had no trouble getting milk.
Evidently my misadventure with the woodpile a few days earlier in Moncton had taught me nothing.Or,perhaps because of that little bump,I may have been having a bit of trouble keeping all of my dogs in the yard,but I couldn't have been showing exemplary judgement even for a four year old.But,when we went up to the hayloft,I discovered that there was another way into Mr. McPhee's barn.There was a window in the front of the barn,and backed up to the window there was this machine,something like a conveyor belt leading up into the loft,or,alternately down to the barnyard.It looked to me like a set of stairs,so I stepped out onto it and headed for the ground.Along the way I spotted a couple of mice-there were a lot of mice around.I made it to the ground,then turned around and started for the top again.It was quite an incline,so the going was kind of rough,but I made it up.I never even came close to having an accident,but I think at some point I realized this was likely something I shouldn't be doing,that maybe the adults would get mad,and,I might even end up going to Hell for.I was surprised though.My alternate route into the barn was soon discovered,but nobody seemed in the least concerned about it.We visited for a day or two,and I went in and out of the barn like that maybe a dozen times.Once,Mr. McPhee even turned on the machine,and I rode it all the way to the top.And as we were going up,I saw the passenger train flashing by the end of the driveway,more mice,and Mr. McPhee,a skinny old man in overalls at the bottom of the conveyor.That's as much about Mr. McPhee as I can remember,it's the only image I've ever had of the man.
For some reason,that trip is the first time I ever remember meeting my grandmother.It is likely that we had been to her place before,maybe a time or two,but I just don't remember it.Rose Davis was a woman of short stature,and rather heavy,looking neither young nor old on this occasion.She wore glasses and had short black hair,and had a voice that reminded me of chickens,loud,gravely and pitching rather high at times.She was said to be Mr. McPhee's domestic help-a housekeeper.
We stayed,I think one night with my grandmother.Her and my father,and Mr. McPhee sat about talking and there was a lot of beer.I recall eating roast beef and pie,while my father explained my fall from the wood pile,and my grandmother took a look at my head,noting that there was still some blood there,and a bit of a bump.She asked if it was sore,and I told her it was not.
Time came for us to leave,and when we did we drove over to Windsor,to visit someone my father knew,but there was nobody at home.We did find another roadside spring though,and I was beginning to enjoy drinking water like that.It seemed a lot better than water from the tap.Then we started for home,but of course,on the way we stopped in Springhill and visited for most of the afternoon.
There were a lot of cows in the yard too,alongside the driveway,though it was likely kind of a compact property,and rather hilly.Now when I say a lot of cows,I mean maybe about a dozen,but I lived in the city,so more than two would have seemed like a lot.
Mr. McPhee also had hay in his barn.You could smell it as soon as you went through the big barn doors,and it seemed to be stacked about anywhere where there wasn't a cow.Aside from hay and cows there was hardly room to walk around or even stack milk cans or pitchforks.Mr. McPhee showed my father the barn,and together they milked cows,which I was surprised to find my father was rather good at.Later,he told me that was because they would sometimes take off on foot for the beach when he lived in Springhill,and,along the way they would stop to get chickens and milk from some unsuspecting farmhouse along the way.He'd milk a cow right out in the field,so he said,and it wasn't the easiest way to get milk."Wonder I never got shot at." He'd always say.But there,in Mr. McPhee's barn,he had no trouble getting milk.
Evidently my misadventure with the woodpile a few days earlier in Moncton had taught me nothing.Or,perhaps because of that little bump,I may have been having a bit of trouble keeping all of my dogs in the yard,but I couldn't have been showing exemplary judgement even for a four year old.But,when we went up to the hayloft,I discovered that there was another way into Mr. McPhee's barn.There was a window in the front of the barn,and backed up to the window there was this machine,something like a conveyor belt leading up into the loft,or,alternately down to the barnyard.It looked to me like a set of stairs,so I stepped out onto it and headed for the ground.Along the way I spotted a couple of mice-there were a lot of mice around.I made it to the ground,then turned around and started for the top again.It was quite an incline,so the going was kind of rough,but I made it up.I never even came close to having an accident,but I think at some point I realized this was likely something I shouldn't be doing,that maybe the adults would get mad,and,I might even end up going to Hell for.I was surprised though.My alternate route into the barn was soon discovered,but nobody seemed in the least concerned about it.We visited for a day or two,and I went in and out of the barn like that maybe a dozen times.Once,Mr. McPhee even turned on the machine,and I rode it all the way to the top.And as we were going up,I saw the passenger train flashing by the end of the driveway,more mice,and Mr. McPhee,a skinny old man in overalls at the bottom of the conveyor.That's as much about Mr. McPhee as I can remember,it's the only image I've ever had of the man.
For some reason,that trip is the first time I ever remember meeting my grandmother.It is likely that we had been to her place before,maybe a time or two,but I just don't remember it.Rose Davis was a woman of short stature,and rather heavy,looking neither young nor old on this occasion.She wore glasses and had short black hair,and had a voice that reminded me of chickens,loud,gravely and pitching rather high at times.She was said to be Mr. McPhee's domestic help-a housekeeper.
We stayed,I think one night with my grandmother.Her and my father,and Mr. McPhee sat about talking and there was a lot of beer.I recall eating roast beef and pie,while my father explained my fall from the wood pile,and my grandmother took a look at my head,noting that there was still some blood there,and a bit of a bump.She asked if it was sore,and I told her it was not.
Time came for us to leave,and when we did we drove over to Windsor,to visit someone my father knew,but there was nobody at home.We did find another roadside spring though,and I was beginning to enjoy drinking water like that.It seemed a lot better than water from the tap.Then we started for home,but of course,on the way we stopped in Springhill and visited for most of the afternoon.
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