"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
I took the one less traveled by,And that has made all the difference."
- Robert Frost
Everything sounds so much larger at night.
(When on one's own.)
I am woken (very early) by a constant buzzing, a buzzing somewhat akin to an alarm clock.
A red squirrel, high high in the tree above. Quite loud for someone so small.
It is time to stir.
Not the best night's sleep I've ever had, but I am euphoric. I am into day two.
I fell asleep quickly enough, (with my bear spray within easy reach), but woke to creeping animal noises at least once an hour. I opened my book of 'Earth Meditations' a 2:12 a.m., and read for 20 minutes by candle lantern.
A comfort.
For in all my years of tripping, being alone is something new.
But I am warm and dry. It is Friday September 5th, and by my thermometer, 18C at 6:15 a.m.
Warm.
All is just starting to lighten, as I scramble out, badly needing to pee.
I sacrifice two pages of the 'Report on Business' from last Saturday's Globe and Mail, and get a cheerful fire going. The kettle is on.
My vantage point looks west. The sun will come up behind me, behind dense forest.
The world, waking up.
An hour later, I make my way down to the canoe, (through the overgrown trail), with journal, fine drawing pens and markers. I paddle out into the bay, feeling light and free without the load.
It is silent and still, except for bird song.
A prayer.
I try to paddle silently and after five minutes, front sweep to turn about and view my site.
It is all so glorious. Rock-face in shadow, deep green growth, clear sky, shimmering light.
Any sign of my being there, hidden from view.
*
Drawing in a canoe is a first for me.
Well, I have sketched out a few ideas on scraps of paper, but this is different.
I am sitting low, just behind of the bow seat, virtually in the centre of the canoe.
It is so still. Like glass.
I am sitting on a folded towel, a PFD behind my back.
Found the perfect balance.
My journal in my lap. My influence all around me.
I remove my shirt.
Even so, it is too warm. I move toward the shore, into the shade, and here I draw for what feels like hours in the slowly turning canoe.
Slowly turning, and drifting.
Summers spent canoeing, swimming, hiking.
Memories, good and bad, to reexamine.
*
I was taught how to paddle at the age of seven by my father.
My father, Edward Becquet.
I was, to say the least, unhappy about spending the summer away from Dennis.
Dennis and I, always together, sharing a room, sharing everything.
The Twins.
Inseparable. So alike..
So alike, in fact, that we grew up knowing several children in our neighbourhood who thought 'Diana' was a boy's name.
But I was offered no choice in the matter. This was the way it was to be.
My parents, having a bit of a bohemian sensibility, and free of their offspring for eight weeks, began to travel in the summer, nearly always to the island of Jersey, where they had both grown up, (where my mother still owned property), for at least half of the summer. By 1965, it was twenty years since the liberation of Jersey, the end of the war, the end of the German occupation of the Channel Islands. My mother had inherited the house in St. Ouen, and in many ways her heart was there, much more so for her than my father, who loved the Ontario wilderness and craved the cottage and Trinity Lake more than anywhere.
And so, the rest of the summer they enjoyed, I imagine, the peace and quiet of the cottage without their five children, reading and writing, drinking gin and tonics, skinny dipping in the moonlight. They always gave the impression, though not particularly demonstrative, of being deeply in love.
My mother wrote mystery novels, and had a moderately successful career at this. Although she's been gone now for nearly forty years, several of her books can still be found in bookshops and libraries,
Our house and cottage were full of books - novels, biographies, and many many reference books.
My father was keen on sending one or other of his offspring to fetch one of these when asked a question.
Such as:
"How do you spell 'such-and-such'?"
"What year did so-and-so sail around the world?"
"What type of tree is that?"
My father and mother each had a large oak desk at the cottage, desks which weighed a ton,
Willie was a force to be reckoned with.
I am sitting on a folded towel, a PFD behind my back.
Found the perfect balance.
My journal in my lap. My influence all around me.
I remove my shirt.
Even so, it is too warm. I move toward the shore, into the shade, and here I draw for what feels like hours in the slowly turning canoe.
Slowly turning, and drifting.
My drawings are meditative and wispy, detail abandoned as the drifting canoe leads me to another bit of shoreline, reflections on water, tangled branches.
Meditative and spiritual.
Coming back to earth, I decide on two jobs to be done.
One: Make an anchor.
Two: Clear the trail.
It is hot enough to be the height of summer. (Summer-like, but with no bugs.)
Conjuring up many summers on the lake.
One: Make an anchor.
Two: Clear the trail.
It is hot enough to be the height of summer. (Summer-like, but with no bugs.)
Conjuring up many summers on the lake.
Summers spent canoeing, swimming, hiking.
Summers of heat, sweat, sunburn, mosquitoes.
Summers I need to remember, now, at this point in my life.
Memories, good and bad, to reexamine.
*
I was taught how to paddle at the age of seven by my father.
My father, Edward Becquet.
Ted.
Professor of Canadian Literature, University of Toronto, (most of the year), but really a lover of boats and water and summers in Haliburton, Ontario, at our family cottage on the west bay of Trinity Lake. The cottage was home through June, July and August when we were small.
But one by one, my elder brothers spent most of their summers at camp,
two months in Algonquin Park, thus changing the shape of our family summers, caused by the arrival in turn of each sibling's tenth birthday.
First, my eldest brother Arthur, then the next summer, both he and Mark. Two years later, John. And finally my twin, Dennis, the last Becquet boy to begin a summer at the camp, and as it turned out, miles and miles from my destination, a co-ed camp, at the northernmost point of the north bay of
First, my eldest brother Arthur, then the next summer, both he and Mark. Two years later, John. And finally my twin, Dennis, the last Becquet boy to begin a summer at the camp, and as it turned out, miles and miles from my destination, a co-ed camp, at the northernmost point of the north bay of
Trinity Lake.
I knew that the camp existed, but thought of it a foreign territory.
(Having never been there.)
I begged my mother to ask if the boys' camp would allow just one girl to attend.
Which, from the point of view of an almost-ten-year-old, seemed completely reasonable.
I asked my mother, and not my father, knowing that it would be her decision.
But she put her foot down, told me to stop being rediculous, and said, quote,
"It will do you good."
I was, to say the least, unhappy about spending the summer away from Dennis.
Dennis and I, always together, sharing a room, sharing everything.
The Twins.
Inseparable. So alike..
So alike, in fact, that we grew up knowing several children in our neighbourhood who thought 'Diana' was a boy's name.
My parents, having a bit of a bohemian sensibility, and free of their offspring for eight weeks, began to travel in the summer, nearly always to the island of Jersey, where they had both grown up, (where my mother still owned property), for at least half of the summer. By 1965, it was twenty years since the liberation of Jersey, the end of the war, the end of the German occupation of the Channel Islands. My mother had inherited the house in St. Ouen, and in many ways her heart was there, much more so for her than my father, who loved the Ontario wilderness and craved the cottage and Trinity Lake more than anywhere.
And so, the rest of the summer they enjoyed, I imagine, the peace and quiet of the cottage without their five children, reading and writing, drinking gin and tonics, skinny dipping in the moonlight. They always gave the impression, though not particularly demonstrative, of being deeply in love.
My mother wrote mystery novels, and had a moderately successful career at this. Although she's been gone now for nearly forty years, several of her books can still be found in bookshops and libraries,
B.G. Ryan's 'Water, Water', 'Heaven's Time' and 'Never Let It Be Said', her best known.
(B.G. Ryan, her pen name. Really, Beatrice Ryan Becquet.
(B.G. Ryan, her pen name. Really, Beatrice Ryan Becquet.
Bea.
She was nearly forty when she gave birth to us, the twins, Dennis Ryan and Diana Beatrice.
She was nearly forty when she gave birth to us, the twins, Dennis Ryan and Diana Beatrice.
Old enough, in fact, literally old enough to be our grandmother.
She had a dignified elderly look about her, even at a relatively young age,
prompting my older brothers to refer to her as 'The Duchess'.
Her grey hair neatly pulled back. Her daily wardrobe in Toronto, cashmere sweaters and tweed skirts, gave way to crisp cotton blouses and three-quarter length trousers at the cottage, minimal tidy makeup, the scent of English talcum powder.
But still athletic, active, an avid swimmer.
Perhaps, by Canadian standards, an unusual family dynamic, my parents being nearly double the age of most of my friends' parents, but we were generally speaking pretty happy.
But still athletic, active, an avid swimmer.
Perhaps, by Canadian standards, an unusual family dynamic, my parents being nearly double the age of most of my friends' parents, but we were generally speaking pretty happy.
Our household seemed odd to any friend I brought home in the '60's.
We ate different food.
We dined not at 5:30, but at 7.
Children, inevidably, had difficulty with my parent's accents, often turning awkwardly to me for translation.
And my parents... my mother, (unlike theirs), drank wine.
Our house and cottage were full of books - novels, biographies, and many many reference books.
My father was keen on sending one or other of his offspring to fetch one of these when asked a question.
Such as:
"How do you spell 'such-and-such'?"
"What year did so-and-so sail around the world?"
"What type of tree is that?"
My father and mother each had a large oak desk at the cottage, desks which weighed a ton,
unyielding when bumped into. Each had their own oddly mismatched cottage-style lamp.
My mother's desk, orderly and spare.
My father's, strewn with open books, the Times Literary Supplement, back copies of 'Seabreezes' magazine, heavy glass ashtray, matches.
The cottage.
Like a fine wine, nose in the glass - I can recall the odours, the flavours:
Of wood and fireplace ashes.
Of baby oil and noxema.
Of damp towels, roasting meat, pipe tobacco.
Of sun and earth.
Like a fine wine, nose in the glass - I can recall the odours, the flavours:
Of wood and fireplace ashes.
Of baby oil and noxema.
Of damp towels, roasting meat, pipe tobacco.
Of sun and earth.
And summer.
So, having no choice, I went to the camp - unhappily, sullenly agreeing.
So, having no choice, I went to the camp - unhappily, sullenly agreeing.
But once there, to the surprise of nobody but me, I fell under its spell.
I loved it from the first day.
I loved it from the first day.
There is a certain je ne sais quoi about being in a new environment, knowing no one.
Able to redefine oneself.
Camp Trident.
The camp, at the northernmost point of Trinity Lake, was fairly basic, run by a several-generation-old Ontario camping family, the Dentons.
The camp, at the northernmost point of Trinity Lake, was fairly basic, run by a several-generation-old Ontario camping family, the Dentons.
The camp director, William Denton, a onetime amateur boxer and outdoorsman, known to one and all as 'Willie'.
His wife, Pat, 'Mrs. D', ran the kitchen.
His wife, Pat, 'Mrs. D', ran the kitchen.
Their daughters aged 22 and 20 - Mary Jo ran the office, , Lou was waterfront director.
And a 10-year-old son called Hawk, who had singlehandedly turned the all-girl camp into co-ed,
1965 being the camp's first summer to include one cabin of 10 to 12-year-old boys.
It was a dramatic change for me to be in an environment where the girls vastly outnumbered the boys.
And I loved it.
Willie was a force to be reckoned with.
He was stocky, barrel chested, grey haired, had a deeply tanned and craggy face and ready smile.
His summer uniform - white t-shirt, khaki shorts, white socks and canvas high-cuts.
He was no nonsense, ran a tight ship, and although he encouraged healthy discussion, he always had the last word.
A keen orator, he imparted words of wisdom on all aspects of life, from the advantages of the camping experience, to natural history, outdoor ed, first aid, water safety, music, religion, self-defence, oral hygiene, and on and on, to the importance of regular bowel movements.
Willie would frequently over the course of the summer, (during one of his long and rambling essays on the joys of canoe tripping), BOOM out a question, (to make sure all were listening), usually directed at some poor unsuspecting camper.
"IF YOUR CANOE OVERTURNS, HOW LONG DO YOU HANG ON?"
A mute stare.
"HOW LONG??
Deeply uncomfortable fidgeting.
"DOES ANYBODY KNOW???"
A whispered answer.
"PARDON?"
"Three days and three nights?"
"YES! THREE DAYS AND THREE NIGHTS!
THREE DAYS AND THREE NIGHTS!!
THAT'S RIGHT!!
YOU HANG ON TO THAT CANOE FOR
THREE. DAYS. AND. THREE. NIGHTS!!!"
Willie would frequently over the course of the summer, (during one of his long and rambling essays on the joys of canoe tripping), BOOM out a question, (to make sure all were listening), usually directed at some poor unsuspecting camper.
"IF YOUR CANOE OVERTURNS, HOW LONG DO YOU HANG ON?"
A mute stare.
"HOW LONG??
Deeply uncomfortable fidgeting.
"DOES ANYBODY KNOW???"
A whispered answer.
"PARDON?"
"Three days and three nights?"
"YES! THREE DAYS AND THREE NIGHTS!
THREE DAYS AND THREE NIGHTS!!
THAT'S RIGHT!!
YOU HANG ON TO THAT CANOE FOR
THREE. DAYS. AND. THREE. NIGHTS!!!"
or
"THE FIVE B's OF FIRST AID?
WHAT?... NO ONE??
YES... (pointing)
LOUDER! FOR ALL TO HEAR!!
THAT's RIGHT!
BREATHING!
BLEEDING!
BRAINS!
BONES!
BANDAGES!"
or
"I DON'T WANT TO SEE LEFTOVER VEGETABLES.
EAT YOUR VEGETABLES!
OTHERWISE, YOU'LL GET BUNGED UP.
YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS DON'T YOU?
OR DO I HAVE TO SPELL IT OUT...
YOU SHOULD BE GOING EVERY DAY.
E V E R Y D A Y.
AND I'M NOT TALKING ABOUT NUMBER ONE...
I'M TALKING ABOUT
N U M B E R T W O !!"
Willie was of the firm opinion that the 'Sing-song' was the cure for all that ails the world, and was known for keeping the entire camp assembled in song for up to two hours after meals.
I have many clear memories of Willie.
Memories that visit me almost daily:
Confidence. Fairness. Compassion.
A deep love of the outdoors.
And, (long before it was popular), gender equality.
Every girl who went through that camp grew up believing that there was nothing in life that she couldn't accomplish.
Typically, parents were encouraged to sign their children up for the full camp experience.
This began with eight weeks at age ten, and, in most cases, continued to age fifteen. A number then returned as counsellors, (sixteen, seventeen, eighteen-year-olds), knowing the camp and the surrounding area as well as anyone born and bred in the area.
The camp concentrated on outdoor sports, waterfront activities, wilderness skills.
Rough and ready.
Which, to my surprise, meant that I wasn't the only one with, what were in those days considered,
I have many clear memories of Willie.
Memories that visit me almost daily:
- Being made to sing 'I Want A Girl' in front of the entire camp.
- Having a garter snake thrust into my hands to overcome an irrational fear.
- Learning (at age ten) how to open a can with a pocket knife.
Confidence. Fairness. Compassion.
A deep love of the outdoors.
And, (long before it was popular), gender equality.
Every girl who went through that camp grew up believing that there was nothing in life that she couldn't accomplish.
Typically, parents were encouraged to sign their children up for the full camp experience.
This began with eight weeks at age ten, and, in most cases, continued to age fifteen. A number then returned as counsellors, (sixteen, seventeen, eighteen-year-olds), knowing the camp and the surrounding area as well as anyone born and bred in the area.
The camp concentrated on outdoor sports, waterfront activities, wilderness skills.
Rough and ready.
Which, to my surprise, meant that I wasn't the only one with, what were in those days considered,
'Tomboy' tendencies.
We lived in simple cabins, washed in the lake, swam several times a day.
No flush toilets, no showers.
I loved the whole experience. But most especially, canoeing.
I bonded early on with the canoe instructor, Ginny.
Ginny.
Ginny held this post throughout my early years of camp.
She was friendly, smiling and encouraging, and I found myself desperate to please her.
During free time, I hung out in the large canoe shed, the upstairs of which was the accommodation for the waterfront staff. Not long into that first summer, after befriending Christine (Chip) and Jessie, the three of us were allowed to take a canoe out on our own. In spite of being smaller and lighter than either of them, I took the stern, being more experienced.
I was keen, needless to say, on canoe tripping, as were Chip and Jessie. And in that first summer at camp, we had several overnights to different parts of the lake. Overnights which left me hungering for more.
I loved the time away from the structure of the camp - sleeping under the stars, cooking over a fire, hours and hours of paddling. Exploring.
We lived in simple cabins, washed in the lake, swam several times a day.
No flush toilets, no showers.
I loved the whole experience. But most especially, canoeing.
I bonded early on with the canoe instructor, Ginny.
Ginny.
Ginny held this post throughout my early years of camp.
She was friendly, smiling and encouraging, and I found myself desperate to please her.
During free time, I hung out in the large canoe shed, the upstairs of which was the accommodation for the waterfront staff. Not long into that first summer, after befriending Christine (Chip) and Jessie, the three of us were allowed to take a canoe out on our own. In spite of being smaller and lighter than either of them, I took the stern, being more experienced.
I was keen, needless to say, on canoe tripping, as were Chip and Jessie. And in that first summer at camp, we had several overnights to different parts of the lake. Overnights which left me hungering for more.
I loved the time away from the structure of the camp - sleeping under the stars, cooking over a fire, hours and hours of paddling. Exploring.
Chip, Jessie and I worked at improving our canoeing skills every chance we got, mainly because we were addicted to a game (of our own invention) in which we were training for the Olympics,
so much so that it seemed real.
That, and a collective love of Ginny.
But also, in order to prepare for the best of all canoe trips. A canoe trip we wouldn't be able to experience until age twelve, but one for which we were anxious to be ready.
This canoe trip, held once a summer, the creme-de-la-creme of canoe trips, for only the most enthusiastic, the most skilled canoeists in all the camp, was the annual mid-August trip, 'The Loop'.
Five days, several remote lakes, portages, seldom used sites, rough conditions, challenging.
Usually without meeting another soul.
Certainly not for everyone.
Being ten, I was two years away from a chance of being included in The Loop, (or so I thought).
But it held for me a goal, and a deep fascination.
By the end of summer 1965, I was so immersed in camp life that I couldn't imagine leaving. But the blow of going back to Toronto, to school, was softened by an end of summer two week family trip to the island of Jersey. My parents, having been there since the first of August, arranged for my four brothers and me to be picked up from our camps, taken to the airport, to fly from Toronto to Gatwick then Gatwick to St. Helier, Jersey, where we would spend two weeks with our parents in the farmhouse in St. Ouen. This was only a short way from the glorious St. Ouen beach, where my brothers and I spent most of our time. As wonderful as it all was, at the age of ten, it was getting to miss the first week of school that was the biggest prize for Dennis and me.
But also, in order to prepare for the best of all canoe trips. A canoe trip we wouldn't be able to experience until age twelve, but one for which we were anxious to be ready.
This canoe trip, held once a summer, the creme-de-la-creme of canoe trips, for only the most enthusiastic, the most skilled canoeists in all the camp, was the annual mid-August trip, 'The Loop'.
Five days, several remote lakes, portages, seldom used sites, rough conditions, challenging.
Usually without meeting another soul.
Certainly not for everyone.
Being ten, I was two years away from a chance of being included in The Loop, (or so I thought).
But it held for me a goal, and a deep fascination.
By the end of summer 1965, I was so immersed in camp life that I couldn't imagine leaving. But the blow of going back to Toronto, to school, was softened by an end of summer two week family trip to the island of Jersey. My parents, having been there since the first of August, arranged for my four brothers and me to be picked up from our camps, taken to the airport, to fly from Toronto to Gatwick then Gatwick to St. Helier, Jersey, where we would spend two weeks with our parents in the farmhouse in St. Ouen. This was only a short way from the glorious St. Ouen beach, where my brothers and I spent most of our time. As wonderful as it all was, at the age of ten, it was getting to miss the first week of school that was the biggest prize for Dennis and me.
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