Canoe

                           

2024 was the year of the canoe in these parts.

It began as an idea for a sixteenth birthday gift for number-one-grandson Jack, and idea leapt into action in the middle of the summer, roughly four months before the big day.

Let me just say, right off the bat, that this was all Doug. 

He did insist, (repeatedly), that we would build it together, but from the downing of cedars in our woods, running them through the sawmill, cutting them into strips, routing many many sixteen-foot-long strips, building the strong-back, etc. etc., it was all Doug. 

I suppose I was useful in the conceptual process and the encouragement department. Occasionally I was asked to read a passage from the manual to "see what I thought". And in the later stages, there were a number of times when four hands were needed, (though these are undocumented as I was also official photographer).

I would describe the process as slow and methodical, but also deeply satisfying. 

Meditative. Spiritual.

Repetitive, rhythmic and quiet, working at the edge of the woods with the chickadees and red squirrels, sometimes within arms reach, going about, as they do, the business of surviving.

I thought, more than once, that it was strangely akin to the process of art-making. 

Akin to it, not only creatively but also in timeline, if I'm thinking of one of my large works. 

As most of my works on canvas include canoe imagery, this gave me an odd sensation. 

This canoe was real.

Tangible.

Different, yes, yet oddly similar, even as far as using many of the same materials - wood, cloth, varnish.

On a cold and windy late November morning, we drove a few miles east to the Ouse River, to give her a test run.  She behaved as she should - light, balanced, nice to handle - the icy waters of the Ouse staying firmly, wonderfully, thankfully outside of the canoe.

It is a thing of beauty, this treasure. 

Built with Doug's own two (and occasionally four) hands, it has now been handed on to Jack.

With love.

Anne Renouf

          

D'où Viens-tu Bergère

 

"D'où viens-tu bergère?"

Where are you from?  Where are you going?

This lovely old nativity scene came with my parents from the U.K. 

when they immigrated to Canada in 1951,

with my two eldest brothers, 

Andrew, 3 and Simon 1.

It was constructed by the daughter of their dear friends and neighbours Godfrey and Hildegard Koenig,

a young teenager named Hildy.

I don't know enough about how or when the Koenigs arrived in the U.K.

except that they were Austrian, and given the timing, I imagine that they came just before or during the Second World War.

The crèche is comprised of 

paper figures mounted onto wooden shapes cut with a jigsaw. It would have been a lot of fiddly work.

Fiddly work that has held up for some time, at least most of it. A few of the minor characters have been lost along the way. It has moved a fair distance.

I have calculated that it has been assembled by someone in my family for

seventy-five Christmases, 

and has travelled from:

Taplow, England

to 

Toronto, Ontario

to

 Auckland, New Zealand

to

Don Mills, Ontario

to 

Peterborough County, Ontario.

"Where do you come from, shepherdess, where do you come from? 
I come from the stable, I have just been walking there;
I have seen a miracle happen this evening."

❆

D'où Viens-tu Bergère

D’où viens-tu, bergère, d’où viens-tu? (bis) —Je viens de l’étable, de m’y promener; J’ai vu un miracle ce soir arriver.	Where do you come from, shepherdess, where do you come from? (twice) —I come from the stable, I have just been walking there; I have seen a miracle happen this evening.
Qu’as-tu vu, bergère, qu’as-tu vu? (bis) —J’ai vu dans la crèche un petit enfant Sur la paille fraîche mis bien tendrement.	What did you see, shepherdess, what did you see? —I saw in the manger a little child Placed very tenderly on the fresh straw.
Rien de plus, bergère, rien de plus? (bis) —Saint Joseph, son père, Saint Jean, son parrain, Saint’-Marie sa mère, qui l’aime si bien.	Nothing more, shepherdess, nothing more? —St Joseph, his father, St John, his godfather, St Mary his mother, who loves him so well.
Rien de plus, bergère, rien de plus? (bis) —´Y a le bœuf et l’âne qui sont par devant Et de leur haleine réchauffent l’enfant.	Nothing more, shepherdess, nothing more? —There’s the ox and the ass who are in front And who warm the child with their breath.
Rien de plus, bergère, rien de plus? (bis) —´Y a trois petits anges descendus du ciel, Chantant les louanges du Père éternel. *traditional French Carol	Nothing more, shepherdess, nothing more? —There are three little angels come down from heaven, Singing the praises of the eternal Father.

Coselen Camp 1966

Coselen Camp, 1960s

I can only begin by saying that I am forever grateful to my life-long friend Carol, (youngest child and only daughter of Cosmo and Helen Canzano), as her existence would alter the arc of my own life, planting the seed which would lead her parents to change the name of their summer camp - Coselen Camp for Boys -  by adding two words - and Girls - as Carol was the reason for girls entering the world of Coselen in the mid-1960s.

I first met Carol, and first fell in love with the camp, with the warm slanting rock, that bit of Canadian Shield rising out of the blue waters of Lake of Bays, in the summer of 1966, the summer I turned eleven.

Anne - age 11  

    Carol - arms akimbo

                                                    

In the mid-sixties, it felt like a long haul from suburban Toronto, up Highway 11, stopping for a picnic at Gull Lake in Gravenhurst, and arriving at the camp early afternoon. Two of my elder siblings, Simon and Kit, were also at the camp that summer, Simon as a counsellor, Kit as a C-I-T. On arrival at the camp, I met my counsellor, we took my things to our cabin where I changed into my bathing suit, then headed, (as instructed), to the dock. I remember that it was a gorgeous day, sunny and breezy but not terribly warm, and I was hustled toward the short swim test, (fifty feet, to the raft and back), which allowed me to join immediately in the free swim.

Swimming was a big part of life at Coselen, a generous hour and a half mid to late afternoon, a time of playing in and out of the water, lying on swim towels, and socializing.

Here, that day, I met Carol. We became friends, diving for stones and jumping from the dock. She was a fair bit smaller than me, not yet 9, but had a certain confidence having grown up at the camp, and was a lot of fun to be with.  We were in the same cabin - G1 - our bunks one above the other, and once back in the sun-warmed cabin, we changed into shorts and hoodies and went with the rest of our cabin mates to supper. 

            Coselen Mess Hall

That evening meal in the large airy Mess Hall, was my first introduction to Cossie - Cosmo Canzano, owner, operator, camp director and program supervisor - at least, my first introduction to Cossie full-on. 

A former boxer, he had a presence, (even though dressed simply in white t-shirt, khaki shorts and high-cut running shoes), a presence which commanded your attention, and despite his big, ready smile, I knew that I didn't want to get on his bad side. He was deeply tanned, grey haired, stocky, barrel-chested. He spoke to the assembled camp, at length, about waterfront rules, the Five 'B's of First Aid, (breathing, bleeding, brains, bones and bandages), getting along with others, listening to counsellors, sticking with your group, etc., etc. 

 Cossie with campers c.1967

                                                                                                                  

Then we sang, from song sheets, for a good half-hour or more, before a short period of free time, then up the hill to a camp-fire, (standard Saturday night activity), at the top of the warm slanting rock, the tip-top of the camp property for more singing, skits, and a big roaring fire. That first campfire, when everything and everyone was new, we relaxed into camp life, giggling together as counsellors performed skits and told corny jokes. 

And, of course, sang.

There would have been forty or fifty campers that first summer. There were five boys' cabins, each housing up to eight campers, and two newer cabins for girls, on the opposite side of the Mess Hall. What I remember is how quickly you got to know everyone. Even that first night, it became evident who would be a good friend, who was funny, which counsellors were fun to be with, which kid was a pain in the neck - it was really a microcosm of society. The Saturday campfire, with the whole camp assembled and each camper knowing where they belonged; who their counsellor was, what cabin group they were a part of, and where they fit into the camp structure. For me, it was the beginning of a deep sense of belonging.

 Saturday night campfire c.1966, singing

'If I Had a Hammer', 'Land of the Silver Birch',

 'The Whistling Gypsy', 'The Happy Wanderer'

'Don't Fence Me In'

Staff performing 'Lemme'

Moe and me (age 14) at the campfire, 1969

It was always a slow process for a cabin full of kids to drop off to sleep that first night, but eventually, after the long day of travel, and surrounded by the dark and quiet night, we slept.

 

That first Sunday morning as we came to, a Bluebird school bus waited in front of the camp office.

This, for transporting campers, counsellors, kitchen staff, and Mrs. Canzano to St. Mary's Catholic Church in Huntsville for Sunday morning Mass. On arrival, each camper was given a dime for the collection plate. Over the years, this weekly excursion became something of a pleasant escape from the routine of camp life. However, being the mid-1960s, it had it's drawbacks. As one had to fast before receiving Communion, nothing was eaten or drunk, (except a sip of water), before the 30 minute trip into Huntsville, the interminable Mass, (a good hour or more), and the thirty minute trip back to camp. I remember someone fainting in church at least twice over the course of my years there - hot church, campers crammed into several pews, (right at the front), and not having had anything to eat - hardly surprising.

Mass began at 9:00. It would have been 10:30 or so by the time we were back in camp, for a quick breakfast, then a swim and a bit of free time before a later dinner at 1:00. As the cook stayed in camp, Sunday dinner was typically a roast of some sort, mashed potatoes, veg, gravy and dessert. This was followed by words from Cossie to set us up for the afternoon activities, usually track and field events on a Sunday - long jump, high jump, hop-step-and-jump, running bases, 50 and 100 yard dash, and the gate-and-back race. Campers were divided by age for these competitions, (Junior, Intermediate and Senior), but not by gender. 

More on this later.

 

Then, the afternoon swim period. The long wooden dock spanned the length of the swimming area with a diving tower at one end, and at the other, a short extension leading towards the raft, where one's '50-feet' swim test was done. Along the shoreline a little farther, a shallow pool for beginners with the water-ski dock at the far end. The swimming area had a 'tag' system, a large mounted board with a numbered tag for each camp member. When you arrived on the dock, you turned your tag to red. When leaving the dock, you turned it back to white. This took a bit of practise, but as I usually swam with Carol, who'd been there forever, I rarely forgot.

Carol and me, my second summer at camp,1967,(with my 12-year-old 'boy' haircut)  

Supper at camp was a lighter meal, usually some variation of cold meats and salads. 

A note on food: Generally speaking, the food was excellent and plentiful. We all had our favourite meals, mine being the classic Wednesday noontime meal, Spaghetti and Meat Sauce. As it was the cook's day off, this was prepared by Mrs. Canzano. A thick rich sauce with ample amounts of spaghetti, after a morning of running and swimming, was about as good as it gets.

Mrs. Canzano was really the driving force behind all things organizational at the camp. She wasn't, perhaps, as visible as Cossie - she ran the office, oversaw the kitchen, dealt with Tuck, and administered medicine - but knew everyone. She was always open and friendly, and was someone that the girl camp members could rely on if personal supplies or advise were needed.

'Tuck' was held daily in the camp office, behind an L-shaped counter where pop, chips, and candy bars were on display. For campers this was heaven - Sweet Marie, Macintosh Toffee, Smarties, Jersey Milk, Hostess Chips...and cans of pop - cola, rootbeer, orange, grape, the cans opened by Cossie using a can-punch on a string, (being the mid-1960's). What you purchased was recorded in a notebook by Mrs. Canzano, under 'Tuck Spending'.


'Free Time' followed, that glorious ever-popular time of doing nothing, before the evening program of capture the flag, field sports, canoeing, swimming, sing-song or games, which varied, often depending on the weather.


The youngest campers were to be asleep by 9:00, after prepping for bed - brushing teeth in lake water, (at the rocky edge of the lake), a visit to the kybo, (camp lingo for outhouse - no flush toilets in those days), pyjamas, and good-nights to all of your cabin mates. Older campers would chat, read magazines, listen to music, play cards, until 'lights out'. I clearly remember (as an eleven-year-old, and after 'lights out'), trying to tune in to distant radio stations on my transistor radio. Under the big open starry sky above Lake of Bays, there'd be some success, as you'd suddenly tune in to a station from deep within the US, with greater clarity than CKAR, the local Huntsville pop music station of the time. 

Evening canoe lessons

                                             

1968, at 13, wearing my first of many 'Speedo' bathing suits.

A typical weekday:

7:30 - Rising (sounded by bell or on occasion, bugle)

8:30 - 9:30 - Breakfast

9:30 - 9:45 - Flag Raising

9:45 - 10:00 - Cabin Clean Up

10:00 - 10:45 - Games and Instruction

11:00 - 12:00 - General Swim

12:00 - 1:00 - Dinner

1:00 - 2:30 - Rest Hour

2:30 - 3:30 - Games and Instruction

3:30 - 5:00 - General Swim

5:30 - 6:30 - Supper

6:30 - 7:00 - Free Time

7:00 - 8:30 - Games

8:30 - Bed

The schedule, (except for meals), was somewhat flexible, depending on how long Cossie spoke after meals, (if he had a bee in his bonnet about something, this could be lengthy), or how long the entire camp was kept singing. After breakfast and flag-raising, there was always a short flurry of activity within one's own cabin - Cabin Clean Up. Beds made neatly, floor swept, clothes put away, outside of the cabin and clothesline tidy, all earned points for cabin inspection, (done by one or two senior staff members). These daily points were tallied up at the end of the week, when the winning cabin would be announced and an award presented.

Weekday activities (games and instruction), usually took the form of archery lessons, BB guns, field sports, boxing, hikes, first aid, and woodcraft. Also, tripping skills. I learned, that first summer, how to construct and light a campfire, a skill I have repeated hundreds of times over the course of my life. That, and being taught, (by Cossie, along with the rest of my cabin mates), how to open a can with a pocket knife. The number of times, perhaps, that this particular skill proved useful could be counted on one hand, but on at least one occasion, I have murmured a prayer of thanks that I,  a) had a pocket knife on me and b) knew how to use it.

Once a week, there was horse-back riding, (for those interested), at the nearby stables, Wallington's. It was a good 20 minute walk to the stables, (wearing blue jeans and boots, even on the hottest summer day), and then a long time waiting in the dusty corral while Mr. Wallington, (who was a wee bit on the gruff side), sized up each camper and selected a suitable horse. I loved going riding, and typically rode a feisty little brown and white guy named 'Dynamite'.

Clarence Wallington

We rode 'Western' in those days, no riding helmets. There was usually a bit of instruction to begin with, and a few irritated remarks from old Wallington if someone played the fool or was completely hopeless.  If the group was deemed ready, Mr. Wallington would lead the trail ride, (a long line of horses with a motley crew of riders), through the field, into the woods, and back up to the corral by way of a bit of a hill, where we were allowed to canter. 

I remember him once motioning for me to ride out of the line as we were crossing the field, and told the others to wait. I must have been twelve or thirteen, and he put me through a few exercises as everyone looked on. I wasn't at all sure that this was a good thing, until he rode up next to me and said 

"I like the way you set a horse."

Over my many years at camp, almost every time I went to Wallington's, he'd peer at me hard, almost uncomfortably long, and then ask if I was "Simon's sister". When I said "Yes",  he'd smile knowingly to himself.

Once or twice over the course of the summer, his daughter Lois would be up for a visit, from where, or what Lois did for a living, I've no idea. She was a younger, female version of Mr. W, pretty rough and ready, in well-worn jeans and a brown flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up - always. She was a little bit 'gentler' in manner, although tough and strong and took absolutely no nonsense. We liked it when she was there, I recall, and if we didn't exactly see her as a role model per se, we certainly were in awe of her.

There was a distinct joy about a trip to Wallington's, perhaps a certain freedom in escaping camp routine.

Officially, riding instruction would have been from 10:00 - 11:00, but we could usually spin it out a bit if several of us offered to unsaddle and groom the horses, then the slow stroll back along the dirt road to the camp gate, and down the long laneway to the camp office, arriving just in time for lunch.

A morning hike, a favourite activity my first year at camp, also offered this sense of freedom.

Our cabin group, if given a choice, would ask (in unison), for "a hike to Rat's Bay". It was a short walk, (wearing rubber boots, carrying nets and buckets), with a happy half hour, (while the counsellors sat in a sunny spot, chatting), wading into the shallow waters of what was basically a frog pond, catching amphibians or insects or reptiles, examining wildflowers, and the mucky shallow underwater floor of Rat's Bay.

It was not unusual to end up soaked.

Longer hikes meant a picnic lunch, carried in backpacks by the counsellors, past Wallington's, past Thompson's Vegetable Stand at the foot of the hill, (the best butter tarts), and on to South Portage. Sometimes, we'd go farther along to North Portage, where once a railway line had connected the two hamlets, being the main route between Peninsula Lake and Lake of Bays. South Portage had a post office with convenience store, where, (as we were each given a quarter), we were let loose to buy a couple of treats - pop in a bottle (chosen from an ice cold water-filled chest, with a built-in opener), a bag of chips, and on return of the bottle, two cents worth of that bright pink paper-wrapped delight, 'Dubble-Bubble'.

BB target shooting

Archery and Riflery were standard camp skills in the 1960's. It seems incredible now, (through a twenty-first century lens), to fathom that sixty years ago, a sixteen-year-old would be teaching an eight-year-old how to shoot a gun. 

But that was the case.

On occasion, Carol and I would beg Cossie to let us shoot at pop cans, which we then carefully lined up on the wooden target stand and took turns seeing who could knock the most over. But even paper targets were hugely satisfying, (one for each camper), and would be returned to Cossie in the camp office, along with the BB guns or archery equipment, knowing that some decent shots on the target with your name on it would be noticed and, possibly rewarded... maybe with a free Tuck treat, or a mention at lunch.

My sister, Kit, instructing archery...

(Me, age 13, in black running shoes)

As I was interested in athletics as a kid, I loved 'field sports' - baseball, touch football, volleyball and field basketball. We would have an opportunity each week to practise skills in all of these, and often in the longer afternoon time slot for 'games and instruction' would have a game against another cabin. This was all in good fun, often with the added incentive of losers being thrown in the lake. 

I don't think this policy would cut it these days but it was meant in fun, and was what Cossie considered 'character-building'.

Cossie was not averse to pitting a girl's cabin against a boy's cabin in a baseball, football, volleyball or basketball game. And seven to thirteen-year-old girls certainly won their fair share of games against seven to thirteen-year-old boys, just as we were every bit as good at races, high jump, swimming and boating. 

Perhaps he was ahead of his time, but Cossie believed in good healthy competition between all children, regardless of gender, and saw no reason for girls to be treated, (with regard to athletics), differently from their male counterparts.

When I was twelve, I accumulated the most points in Senior 'Track and Field' two weekends in a row. I was so keen to make it three, that I asked Cossie to phone my parents to see if I could stay an extra week, so as to be able to compete again the following weekend. My wish was granted, and I managed to make it three in a row, beating out about a dozen twelve and thirteen-year-old boys and girls.

Once or twice a summer, a regatta would be held, with swimming and diving competitions, canoe races, war-canoe battles, canoe jousting and gunwale bobbing. An underwater distance swim competition would always be held, (something at which I was absolutely no good at all), but which was very fun to watch, as some older camper or counsellor would win by swimming the length of the waterfront, underwater, holding their breath for what seemed like a minute or more.

There was a fairly strong emphasis on canoeing at camp, and instruction occurred several times a week. We were all taught the parts of the canoe, the paddle, the various paddling strokes, all leading up to mastering the J-stroke, and being able to stern a canoe. After that, soloing a canoe was a skill to be honed, and something to be practised during a free period of canoeing, usually in the evening. 

When I was thirteen, my time at camp coincided with Thor. Thor was a year younger than me, outdoorsy, rough and ready, and carried a sling-shot with her everywhere that first summer. She was very keen on canoeing, and she, Carol and I spent hours practising canoe racing, in hopeful preparation for crossing the Bering Strait, (which we planned to do, once we hit adulthood).

Thor (right) c. 1970

We were also each other's firm companions on canoe trips.

Once a camper had swum their 'Quarter Mile' swim test, they were allowed to go on a canoe trip, something which I dreamt of and yearned for during the winter months back in Toronto. It meant exploring the farther reaches of Lake of Bays - Blueberry Island, Ashe's Point, (where Carol, Thor and I once reconstructed an old raft), Pigeon Island, Dwight, the Oxtongue River, The Cliff - sleeping under the stars, cooking over a campfire, the best of bonding with one's cabin mates - a time of great happiness for me.

Setting off on a canoe trip, c. 1970

Carol's older brothers Mike and John also worked at the camp my first years there. They would have been about nineteen and seventeen in 1966. They oversaw various aspects of the athletics program and waterfront activities. In the late sixties, waterskiing was introduced, and they were both keen and accomplished at this. A number of us campers were interested too,  and wanted to give it a try. Waterskiing lessons usually coincided with the long afternoon free swim, which meant everyone was in bathing suits and at the waterfront anyway. There was a lot of trial and error, at first, but I can still remember the exhilarating feeling of getting up and staying up.

   

Waterskiing c.1968

Red Cross swimming lessons meant a longer afternoon session at the waterfront. I began to work on my Senior Red Cross badge around 1970, (when I was a Counsellor-in-training), which involved a lot of water safety instruction, practising swim strokes, drown-proofing, even some 'search and rescue'. About six of us were tested at the camp on a windy day with choppy waters, and though we (collectively) thought we had done all right, none of us passed. We were given a second chance after two weeks of further practise, and although we had our second test at another site in foreign waters, we mercifully all passed. It was a happy celebration at supper that night.

Working on our Senior Red Cross c.1970

Held once a week, (on Wednesday evenings, ever since girls were included in Coselen Camp life), was a dance. This really was the event of the week, and if nothing else, meant sitting with one's cabin mates listening to music. A number of counsellors, and some campers, brought 45s and albums specifically to be played at the dance on the big old-fashioned record player. There was usually a fair bit of tentative hanging around to begin, but then a favourite song would come on and it didn't matter who you were dancing with. Cossie had a few tricks to get people up dancing - 'Snowball' and 'Paul Jones' - and pretty soon everyone was up.

It astonishes me now that at such a young age, boy-girl interactions/infatuations/romances were such a central part of life at camp. These were pretty tame, and usually meant who you sat next to at a camp fire, or held hands with in secret, and camp life was restricted enough to keep romances at bay, but relationships were all-consuming at eleven, twelve and thirteen. 

And older.

I remember, (and think of the old camp Mess Hall whenever I hear), 'As Tears Go By', 'Whiter Shade of Pale', 'Hey Jude', 'Catch The Wind', 'My Cherie Amour' and dozens of other hits from the late '60s.

'Rainy Day Program' meant indoor activities held in the Mess Hall. Campers would be divided into teams, to compete in races and games. In my memory, this didn't happen all that frequently. If there was a gentle or intermittent rain, regular activities would carry on. Only a really serious rain stopped the 'games and instruction' and 'free swim' part of the day.

Evening programs were held in the Mess Hall if the weather was rainy or cool. Once or twice a summer would be a 'Movie Night', camp home movies from previous summers, always a favourite. There were fun competitions such as arm wrestling, quizzes, ghost stories, skits, and of course singing. Carol's brother John would play the saxophone, if pressed ('The Pink Panther'), one of my favourite counsellors, Billy, would lead 'Sound Off', Carol's brother Mike would lead 'John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt', or 'The Ford Song', or 'Dunderback'. Carol, Thor and I, ('The We Three' as we called ourselves), would sing something from our repertoire, 'Winchester Cathedral', 'Delilah', 'The House of the Rising Sun', or 'Sonny', my sister Kit would lead 'MacNamara's Band', and my brother Simon, a rousing version of 'Waltzing Matilda', as well as many other favourites led by camper or staff member. There was always, (in my memory), some small camper who would gleefully announce 'Green Grow the Rushes Oh', that long, rambling and somewhat tedious camp standard.

My last summer at Coselen was 1972, the summer I turned seventeen. By then a counsellor, I arrived at the camp a week before the rest of the staff, to hang out with Carol, to set up the camp equipment, and help Mrs. Canzano in the kitchen. We had a fantastic week, sleeping in one of the cabins on our own, and having at our disposal a little dirt bike, (which we rode to death), belonging to Carol's brother Mike. We had the best summer - for me, ten weeks in my favourite place on earth. 

Sadly, it was the end of an era. 

The camp property was sold the following winter, (Cossie being well into his sixties by then), and Coselen Camp, which for thirty years had introduced hundreds and hundreds of kids to the Ontario wilderness, was no more. 

It's not enough to say that I was disappointed or sad or even heartbroken.That twenty acre piece of land on Lake of Bays had become a part of me.  My years there had given me a deep love of the outdoors - canoe tripping and wilderness skills. Later, it informed my work as a visual artist, primarily our 'sense of place', so central to my art practice. My abstract landscapes explore themes of journey, belonging, beauty, isolation, struggle, courage and joy - reflecting my deep connection to, and love of the camp and the people there.

"Life is like a landscape.

You live in the midst of it

but can describe it only 

from the vantage point

of distance."- Charles Lindbergh 

Now, with 'the vantage point of distance', it is the sound of the waters of Lake of Bays brushing up against that rocky shore that I remember just before sleep, the scent of the cedars, the voices ringing through the Mess Hall in song, the slap of water against a cedar-strip canoe, the big clear open summer sky above, that remind me of that piece of land, such a part of who I am. 

To the Canzano family, past and present, to all those who were there, and to those who still remember, my love and thanks.

Anne Renouf

Photo Credits:

Catherine McCarthy

Carol Canzano

Coselen Camp Brochures 1966 - 1972

Renouf Family Archives

Photo of all five Renouf sibs, (taken at Coselen), 1968

Esmé (our mother), Anne, Carol, Pat (youngest sib), Kit, c. 1970

Anne, Kit, c. 1971

Anne, (second from left), c. 1971

Campers, on the rocky shore, c. 1971

Old Country Church

 The windows were flung open. 

On that particularly warm Spring morning, our old country church in rural Peterborough County was jam-packed, every seat taken, and lined with more folks at the back.  

After three years of Covid, of closures, of minimal attendance, this little church had come back to life, paradoxically while marking the death, the send-off and burial, of someone who has seen our rural community through nearly one hundred years - through depression, war, flood, drought and plague, from the inside and from the outside of those very windows of our old country church.

We gathered in celebration of that long life, that of our eldest member, a person so much a part of our little church that it was hard to imagine the space without him.

The service was beautiful. 

There were of course tears and laughter, stories and memories. I listened to it all, and couldn't help thinking back to when I first attended that church shortly after I moved to Peterborough Ontario more than twenty-five years ago. (Yes, I am a 'newbie', having only attended for a mere quarter-century.) This elder was then in his seventies, and was, I recall, warm and welcoming. I remember his handshake, his big farmer's grip, in spite of being lean and small in stature.

All those years ago, it was a daunting task to try to sort out relationships. It took a month of Sundays to connect the dots - partners, siblings, kids, extended families. But gradually, I began to remember the names of each person in my new church family. 

Twenty-five+ years after I first stepped into that warm loving space, our regular Sunday gatherings are small. Even I, (in my comparatively short time there), have seen the attendance diminish - the Sunday School members have grown up, the young mothers and fathers all working full time, the oldest amongst us have passed on. And perhaps the early service on Sunday morning is more of a draw for the elderly. Yes, elderly.  And a small bunch of us at that. 

Small, but mighty. 

We are, in every sense, a community. On the practical side, we pitch in with upkeep and maintenance - with cleaning, re-painting, refurbishing, recycling. We host fund-raisers and coffee hours, potlucks and pancake breakfasts. We care for those in need, we tackle social justice issues, we mark each other's special events, bring floral offerings from our gardens. We struggle with finances.

And we suffer together through meetings and meetings and meetings. 

We bond through prayer and song. We are called and we answer. We are again and again uplifted and inspired and occasionally we are challenged. Challenged to rethink how something may have always been done, and being open to change. 

Perhaps that 'change' signifies that we are alive.

                                                                                *

It's Winter now, and while no less welcoming, those church windows are tightly closed against the cold. Sunday morning, and voices are raised in song - a rousing hymn, well known, belted out, (or at least as spirited a rendition as not-quite-twenty people can make), perhaps faintly audible outside the window. Here, a chickadee has landed, perched on a branch, still, peering in. A tiny thing of beauty, but no less important in the great scheme of things. Then it flits away, (as chickadees do) - head darting left, then right, a tiny flutter. And gone.

So like us, a small loving community in an old country church. A tiny thing of beauty in this big old world. And no less important in the great scheme of things. 

But not gone. Not just yet.