alan skeoch

oct. 2020

Louisa Bufton Freeman and her dog Laddie in 1957

EPISODE 158    GRANDMA ALWAYS WRAPPED A HOT BRICK FOR US ON THOSE  DARK WINTER NIGHTS

(and she shook with Parkinson’s disease while doing it)

alan skeoch

Nov. 4, 2020

“Here, boys, a warm brick for each of you.”

“Hot brick?”

“You will need it…the bed will be cold.”

We left the wood stove  comfort of the only heated room in the farm house.  Leaving that room was Like walking into a refrigerator.

Every other room in the farm house was frozen…walls clothed  in  frost where the winter winds slipped through

the cracks in window and door sash.  Footsteps on frozen floorboards echoed back at us from the dirt floor

cellar below our feet.  

“Two tired little boys.”

“Grandma, it is really cold.”

“Climb the stairs, I’m right behind  you holding the lamp.”

And  she began sing…a song of which I only remember fragments.

“Too tired to climb the stairs … off to the land of Nod”  Grandma had a nice singing voice

that we just took for granted as a natural part of life.  Kids  are like that. 

We took a  lot more than Grandma’s voice for granted.  She had serious Parkinson’s disease.

Made her shake all the time.  That lamp that she carried shook  as my brother Eric and I climbed

those cold  stairs.  It made shadows on the wall that seemed alive and plenty frightening.

But grandma never let the disease change her life  She had lived through a lot worse than

Parkinson’s.

We took everything for granted.  Eric and I let grandma light the wood stove in the morning.

She had  made a whole pile of twisted  paper wicks from old newspaper.  Getting that burning wick

in under some kindling and a piece of split maple was not easy because her hands shook so badly.   She knew  the

dangers that an error could light the farm house on fire so she was  as  careful as possible and

in no time the stove was belching out enough heat to drive the frost from the walls while wash

water was warming in the water reservoir attached to the stove.

Funny thing.. I just remember that her hands  were wrinkled and  the wrinkles held

soot from that stove.   She was clean but the soot was deep.  Grandma and Granddad

had  odd habits.  She had her tea cup and he had his.  Those cups were old and

cracked but they were used every day.   The same was true of the plates and  cutlery.

Seemed almost that using those old dishes was some kind  of religious act.  After they 

died  the farm house was  robbed.  The robber or robbers broke in on one dark mid-March 

evening when the fog was as thick as Cream of Wheat porridge.  Why mention this robbery?

Because the thief took his time .  He sorted the dishes.  He did  not take grandma and grandpa’s

cracked  and  beaten plates and  cups.  He took the good stuff, I suppose  But I was glad left those

heirlooms behind.  I wonder if  I will have a  favourite cup when I  get old?

So many memories  about her tumble out of my finger tips as I tap tap tap on the computer.

Around  1957 I was offered a summer job  working in the bush deep in Northern 

Quebec North west of Chibougamau.  It was a tough and lonely job as those of you

who have lived in the wilderness know.   Some of our bush crew were very rough

people.  The meals we made for each other were less than perfect…fly larvae lived

well in our kitchen tent.   To kill the taste of some of  our meals  I lathered it with

Worcester sauce.   That killed  the taste.  Eating in the bush reminded me of Grandma’s

meals.   I always ate what was put in front of me.  Still do.   Grandma always had

a great lump of beef hanging  in the Dairy.  Now there is a misnomer.  The Dairy was a

dark room in the dirt floored cellar of the farm house…a room that acted as  a refrigerator

The slab of beef was always well marbled with congealed fat.  Grandma and granddad

loved that.  I  did  not.  I found that a slab of that beef and  fat on my plate discouraged

eating so I lathered everything with Worcester sauce.   Grandma notice, of  course, and

she told  Mom  on several occasions.  “Elsie, did you know that Alan loves Worcester sauce?”

What is the connection among these disparate comments?  They all came together when the

bush plane landed with our mail on that lonely lake.  Every time there was a letter from

grandma.  I took those letters  for granted.  Just writing a letter was a  chore for her.

her hands  shook so badly.  It would  have been easier for her to use Parkinson’s as

an excuse for not writing.   I took those letters  for granted just as I did everything else

about Grandma.   I never said  thank you…never asked  about her shakes…never 

commented on the cold  marbled roast beef.   All I said was, “Grandma, where is

the Worcester sauce?”   

Now I do not remember Grandma asking  if I had a bottle of Worcester sauce on

that mine exploration job.  She probably did.

I remember so much  about her.

This is  just my opening Episode about Grandma.   Her early life was  not very nice

and initially I was  unsure I should even make into an Episode.   Maybe she would not

want the bad  times in her life put before those of you who actually  read these Episodes.

No, I don’t think she would  mind.  She loved  me.  I knew that.

alan skeoch

Nov. 4, 2020