The Village Squire, 1981-08, Page 41Last Word
by Shirley Piercey Berger
London in 1930: the way we were
Conducting the usual pre -season clean-
up at our summer place on Lake Huron, I
came upon a supplement of the London
Free Press from the previous summer
whose injunction "Keep this section as a
valuable reference" 1 had meekly obey -
ed. "Discover London" was its subject,
and leafing through it again. 1 was
impressed once more by the rich mixture
of industry and commerce, entertain-
ment, education, and the arts that now
composes my city.
It is SO years since we moved away, of
necessity rather than choice, and I often
think about those early days when
London was a just a toddler with a
population of 80,000.
On somnolent summer days we could
hear the kullup-kullup of horses' hooves
as butcher, baker, and milkman went
unhurriedly about their business leaving
the patient animals at curbside while
making their door-to-door deliveries.
Occasionally, for some beast who hadn't
yet learned the ropes, or refused to do so,
a huge anchor shaped like a flatiron and
attached to a leather strap would keep
him from straying.
Scarcely anyone of our acquaintance
had acquired an automobile as yet.
though my older brother eventually did
and disappeared forever under its hood.
We didn't, to my recollection, particul-
arly covet a car for ourselves. On his day
off, my father would take my younger
brother and me by the hand and head for
the livery stable where he would hire a
neat little buggy attached to the spriteli-
est horse on the premises and drive us
out to Nilestown where my uncle had a
farm that was a source of endless
fascination for city kids.
Apart from these excursions, we went
everywhere by streetcar or we walked.
And how we walked. It was nothing for
my older sister to walk hone every day
for noon -day dinner from her office job
downtown, then back again. Sometimes
she indulged herself in a streetcar ride to
work in the morning if she were running a
few minutes late, but five o'clock usually
saw her hiking back home.
There were porches on all four sides of
our roomy brick house. It was a ranbly,
sun -dappled place with flower beds
snuggling up to it and a peach tree in the
side yard annually covered with knobby
green fruit. I don't recall a single ripe
peach, but perhaps my older siblings
polished them off.
PG. 40 VILLAGE SQUIRE/AUGUST 1981
A long lane, just two ruts of powdery,
grey soil really, led back to a large barny
structure of undetermined origin. It
wasn't a garage, certainly, but since I
found its Targe dark interior rather
intimidating. I never did discover its
purpose or function.
Houses did have what passed for
central heating in those days, but I can
remember my sisters' bedroom in winter
being colder than anything I've exper-
ienced since. Watching them wrap
Christmas presents is one of my
fragmentary recollections, and their
noses were as red as the bows on the
packages.
A trip around the block was an
adventure for me akin to the scaling of
Everest. My first stop was the corner
grocery store. It was owned and operated
by Mr. Kidner, a slight. mustached
Englishman who seemed to have infinite
patience while we struggled with the
momentous decisions entailed in select-
ing our penny candy.
My favorite "copper" purchase was a
hard white toffee shaped like a milk
bottle, but it was hard to resist the
"Boodle bags" which contained a myst-
erious assortment invisible to the eye, but
the crisp little brown bag always exerted
a powerful pull since it held more than
was otherwise available for the purchase
price. My brother assured me that was
because the candies had been swept up
off the floor. but this had not the slightest
effect on my decision. It was apt to
shelter licorice whips or paper strips to
which clung pastel buttons of almost
tasteless sugar, small wax bottles filled
with colored syrup of a revolting sweet-
ness, or a selection of similar delicacies.
Around the corner, a wonder of true
delight was waiting --an honest -to -good-
ness backsmith shop housed in an ancient
barnwood structure and manned by a
mighty -muscled smithy. He, too, must
have had the gift of patience. for I can't
remember ever being chased away.
Perhaps it gratified his ego to have the
undivided, open-mouthed attention of
even such an insignificant audience. One
stood respectfully back from the flying
sparks, but the red heart of the fire. the
Shirley Berger, who was born in London,
is former editor of the Enterprise in
Farmington, Michigan. Her year is
divided between a summer home near
Goderich and Florida.
smoky glow of the horseshoe, and the
ringing blows of the hammer cast an
unforgettable spell.
Down a bit farther and across the street
was our church from which, they tell me,
my father had to be summoned on the
night I was born. Attendance was a must
for the entire family, and it was the hub of
our social life as well, mother being a
member of the Ladies' Aid society, and
the older children strongly attached to
their youth groups. Even I careened
blithely across the platform as a slightly
befuddled Christmas angel in gauze and
tinsel.
Nothing much arrested my attention on
the residential block running parallel to
ours; 1 was too anxious to get back to
familiar territory.
Once returned, I was brought to a halt
by the butcher shop run by another
mustached Englishman known as "Uncle
Jim" since that was the relation-
ship he bore to my best friend. 1 always
peered between the fence palings hoping
for a glimpse of his horse who could
sometimes be seen rolling gloriously in
the dust.
There were lots of chickens at the rear
of the yard, occasionally the "bantie"
roosters were on view strutting and
pecking with a comical arrogance that
has attached their name to anyone small
and over -impressed with himself.
Directly across the street lived the
owners of the ponies that were a stellar
attraction at Springbank. My brother was
sometimes allowed to help their boy look
after the little animals, and this rare
privilege made him even more insuffer-
able to live with.
Those magic picnics at Springbank
teem with their own set of memories --the
shrill toot of the miniature train as it
hurtled around its oval track. the few
animals in their pungent cages. races and
prizes and food, the evening trip uphill to
the amusement park, and the sleepy ride
home on the open-air streetcar through
the dank, delicious night air.
On rarer occasions, we rode the electric
train to Pt. Stanley where wild lake
waters always seemed to have a summer
layer of the shed skins of fish flies. But
we frolicked in the waves nonetheless
then sampled the tantalizing grilled hot
dogs and orangeade at Mackey's. As a
fitting close to those outings, we
(cont. on page 30)