HomeMy WebLinkAboutClinton News-Record, 1981-12-23, Page 25•
Naw book by Catherin Pkimtrse fecitures coiIQctIon of columns
Just in time for Christmas, Miss Catherine Plumtree of Clinton has published a collection
of her best newspaper columns:
Her column, From the West Window, was featured in The Clinton News -Record and the
Toronto Globe and Mail in 1955 and 1956 and now in 1981 many of Miss Plumtree's delightful
writings have been brought together in a book of the same name.
In the preface to From the West Window Miss Plumtree explained that during those two
years, while caring for her invalid mother, she began writing. This she wrote, "Provided me
in early middle age with a fascinating hobby, a surge of previously unfelt creative energy,
and the enormous satisfaction of seeing my work published in the Toronto Globe and Mail
and in the Clinton News -Record."
Encouraged by her friend Ina Mae Durst of Clinton, and her cousin Margaret McMillan
Whyte of Holm Farm, Hullett, Miss Plumtree decided to publish a collection of her works
with the Clinton Commercial Printers and noted, "Now, 25 years later, I can still recapture
my new-found joy in writing, and in sut eying my surroundings with a 'ta seeing eye," by
reading these yellowed newspaper clippings.
In From the West Window Miss Plumtree gives her personal accounts and feelings about
down -horse things and gives new, inspiring thoughts to everyday topics. Nature, special •
events, the seasons, animals, columns on literature, coffee breaks, holidays and habits and
a variety of other humorous and touching, subjects are sure to make good evening reading
during these chilly winter nights.
A timeless collection of writings, From the West Window would make an unique and
perfect gift for anyone on your Christmas list. It is available at various stores in Clinton.
For the 1981 Christmas edition of the Clinton News -Record, Miss Plumtree has given us
special permission to reprint a From the West Window column that appeared 26 years ago in
the Globe and Mail.
Prairie Winter Memories Sharp as Sun on Show
( The Globe and Mail — December 10, 1955 )
By Catherine Plumtree
MY MEMORIES of prairie winter are clear and sharp — brilliant as the glitter of sun on
snow, and warm with the remembered comfort of a happy childhood. One by one they ap-
pear on the silver screen of the past, each complete with its own special mood or feeling.
The sound of winter: The moan and wail of the wind sweeping across the prairie with a
blizzard in its wake: the hiss of the driven snow over the hardpacked banks left by previous
storms; the eerie far-off howl of a coyote somewhere out on the white waste, answered by
the frantic yapping of the dogs. A coyote seen in daylight is a sorry sight, slinking along like
an ill-used dog, but his distant cry at night is unmistakably the voice of a wild thing, which
brings a chill to the spine of the listener.
A nearer sound — eerie too, but somehow comforting — the humming of the guy wires
holding the tall stove pipe above the kitchen chimney for better draft. A sound nearer still —
the singing of the kettle on the stove and the scent of frying potatoes. Mother has supper
ready and father is putting the team in the barn after a trip to the town eight miles away.
He carries in the box of groceries and tucked in at the side are chocolate bars for my
brother and me. The storm builds up outside, but we are all safe and warm in the kitchen.
The cats are purring under the stove and father will carry them to the barn on his shoulder
for the night later on.
The feel of winter: Our breath freezing in our scarfs and mittens as we hold them to shield
our faces from the bitter wind. Hoar frost on our eyelashes a beauty treatment a mascara
user might envy. The painful sting when snow is rubbed on a frozen patch on cheek or chin.
The sudden dangerous tug on tender skin when frosty metal is unwarily touched with a
bare hand. Frost shining on the nail heads in the woodwork in my, room, but a lovely big
stone heated in the oven and wrapped in a piece of blanket to warm my bed.
The smell of winter: Green poplar wood drying behind the stove, bread baking in one
oven and a chicken roasting in the other — we never noticed the smell of baking bread in
the summer when the doors were open, but it was a delicious part of the winter smells. A
different smell, but comfortable, too — the tangy pungent odor of the barn when we pushed
the straw in the loft down through the trapdoor for father, or waited for him to finish the.
milking.
The smell of the fresh milk, and the rhythmic hiss as it streamed into the pail. while the
cats sat in a circle waiting for their share. They slept in the loft, all but one who had a
special place. We had a black horse called Dick who had been petted since his babyhood,
and a black and white cat called Fatty who slept on his broad back for warmth, apparently
with his full approval.
An enchanted moment in winter: An evening just at dusk, when my brother and I climbed
to the flat top of a half -used stack of oat sheaves, and settled down to watch the moon come
up and the rabbits come stealing a nibble around_ the base of the stacks. The stacks them-
selves had a certain measure of glamor. There was a definite technique in building a good
oat stack which would shed rain and snow, and father was a master at it.
They were built round and in fours, which left a diamond shaped space in the centre. We
had to tunnel in between the stacks to get to the centre, which was a smothery business, but
once there we had a wonderful hidey-hole all qur own until one of the stacks was used up. But
that happened later on in the winter when the novelty had worn off.
The heart of winter: Christmas. Planned for weeks in advance, we had our school concert
and our night of drama. No actress appearing on Broadway could be more thrilled and
triumphant than we were in presenting drills and one -act plays to our admiring parents and
neighbors. And then, Christmas Eve, with a tree decorated to the best of our ability. It was
usually a poplar, with bare branches wrapped in green tissue and disguised by streamers.
Occasionally in a good year, financially speaking, we had the thrill of an evergreen
shipped in from the north, but I' have fonder memories of the poplars which were so
carefully dressed by ourselves. To buy an evergreen seemed somehow disloyal to our brave
prairie trees. Jslot that I could have put it into words at the time — it was just a feeling.
Our presents were always arranged on a chair beside our beds, stockings filled with
goodies hung over the chair back. The house became bitterly cold at night when the fire was
banked, and we could not be allowed to get out of bed to seek our presents under the tree. We
always woke .before dawn and happily strewed out books and toys over our beds, after the
fashion of children on Christmas morning. I don't remember the toys much except for a
celluloid horse which was the light of my life, but the books I have never forgotten.
They were read over and over again and provided a year's entertaininent and the basis
for many a game. I read my brother's books in preference to my own, and from the Boy's
Own Annuals we absorbed a strange mixture of adventure and the British public school
code. Odd reading for a little girl perhaps, but at that I think it was an improvement on the
comic books so eagerly read by today's youngsters.
From the West Window
By Catherine Plumtree
Clinton, $5.00
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Second Section I
Vi
116th year No. 51 1
Wednesday, December 23, 1981
Christmas tree is symbol of peac�
Each of the f€ICQS is
exquisitely hand_ painted
and has its own personality
By Shelley McPhee
Love, brotherhood and peace - these three words hold a great deal of meaning
for Miloslawa Zablocki of Clinton.
1n her personal pledge for peace, Mrs. Zablocki has made a special effort to
decorate her Christmas tree with an international flavor. The tree is truly
beautiful and Mrs. Zablocki has painstakingly created 15 international characters
to decorate the branches with.
Made from blown egg shells, the faces have been carefully painted, decorated
and dressed in authentic costumes and are a work of love according to Mrs.
Zablocki. Taking about four weeks to complete, the decorations represent
Poland, Spain, Japan, Scotland, Canada, Holland, Africa, Ireland, China, Arabia,
Mexico and Hawaii. Using illustrations from a costume book, she hos recreated
several nations of the world, complete with accurate facial details and dress.
Onion skin dye was used to darken the egg shells to give the proper skin tone
and for the black character Mrs. Zablocki added iodine. Facial features were ar-
tistically recreated and each egg shell head was completed with hair and a head-
piece.
The long blonde braids on Dutch girl are made from pale yellow yarn and the
tiny parka on the Eskimo character features her hand embroidered edging
around the trim. The African figure wears big dangling hoop earrings and the
raven haired Spanish lady wears the traditional black lace mantilla. A. colorful lei
adorns the neck of the Hawaiian girl and the Japanese lady holds a delicdfe fan.
Each figure is different and each is very special to Mrs. Zablocki. She explain-
ed, "Making them was magic. You feel that they re alive. You give some soul to
each one and it becomes a part of you."
Mrs. Zablocki decided to create an international tree after she purchased an
artificial white dove decoration for the top of her tree.
"It's a symbol of peace on earth and brotherhood around the world," she noted.
Her special Christmas tree began from there and hos now become one of the
most popular conversation pieces in town. Mrs. Zablocki plans to make five more
characters for the tree next year.
A patriotic native of Poland, brotherhood and peace are very important to Mrs.
Zablocki in these days of internal upheavel in her homeland. Many friends and
neighbors in Clinton, knowing her devotion to Poland, have too offered their sup-
port. She noted, "I'm just amazed, people have been calling and saying, 'I know
you're Polish I know you love your country.' "
Mrs. Zablocki remembers the tragedies in Poland during World War 11. In 1939,
life in Poland went through dramatic changes and during those war years Mrs.
Zablocki saw many of her family members die. In that battle for national
freedc,;,, Mrs. Zablocki served with the Polish Canteen Corps.
Although she does not like to dwell on the memories of thewar, Mrs. Zablocki
is very proud of the medals she was awarded during her sevice. These include
the Polish Cross of Monte Cassino and the British War Medal.
In 1949, Mrs. Zablocki and her family immigrated to Canada and over the years
she has strived to be an active, enthusiastic Canadian citizen.
Mrs. Zablocki is best known to Clinton and area people as a ballet teacher. In
Poland, at the age of seven she began her studies in ballet under the guidance of
the famous Tacjanno Wysocka, a White Russian refugee who fled from Russia
during the Bolshevik Revolution. Mrs. Zablocki has the Russian Medal to teach
ballet and successfully completed the Canadian Dance Teachers Association ex-
aminations in 1959 and met the Associated Dance Educators of Ontario re-
quirements in 1961.
"Ballet in Poland was just like a subject in school. It was very popular and you
started learning when you were very young," she remembered.
Although retired from active teaching, Mrs. Zablocki taught dance and organiz-
ed a yearly recital up until this year. Hundreds of young women and men have
learned ballet under her careful training, and several of her students have gone
on to the National Ballet of Canada and the Winnipeg Ballet.
With the extra time, Mrs. Zablocki's now making more use of her artistic
talents and spends time working on her ballet scrapbooks, complete with
photographs of her students, letters and memorabilia from the past two decades.
She remains caring, affectionate and interested in community life and the peo-
ple of the world. Her 1981 Christmas tree clearly shows this and she noted, "Each
nation, religion and race has its own special place. They're all beautiful and that
is the way I think a true Christian should believe."
•
Miloslawa Zablocki of Clinton shows off two of here favorite girl and a native Canadian Indian. Eneb are handcrafted from
"people of the world" Christmas tree decorations, a little polish egg shells. (.lames Fitzgerald photo