Of Potholes & Smashed
Potatoes
con’t from HISTORY ALONG THE ROAD
… as I slowly advance down the road, I feel like I’m driving into a time
warp of a long ago era. Even the air
seems cleaner and smells like freshly-washed, line-dried laundry. Suddenly though, a thin frisson of je ne sais quoi skitters across the back
of my neck and down my spine. Weird.
* * *
I pull into a
small parking area and we get out of the car, happy to be stationary. Sofie bounds across the quiet road and
immediately leaves her pee-mail near the railroad track for the local dogs, if
there are any, to check out. “I was
here”, it says.
As I slowly
meander over to the windmill site, I inhale a few bushels of fresh air,
relaxing me. There are a number of
plaques, which form a story board and explain The Battle of the Windmill, which
took place in 1838, with much loss of life.
What an exciting time it must have been back then in the early 1800s,
albeit bloody.
I make a circuit of
the plaques, spaced in a u-shaped grouping and take images of the windmill-cum-lighthouse.
Sofie dogs my every footstep,
uncomfortable in this area. She seems a
bit on edge and tries to guide me
back to the car. “What’s the matter,
Sofie? Are there ghosties here? Are you ready to go?” Sofie looks up at me, hopefully, but I wander
to the back of the lighthouse. As I
stare out over the water, I wonder what a lookout might have seen that fateful
day.
* * *
The night of November 12, 1838 was close around the many, small boats, which carried 250 ‘Hunters’. Hunter Patriots to
In other words, these Hunters wanted our land and our
country and would do whatever they believed was necessary to get what they
wanted.
It was not the first battle for this wonderful and
great country I call home and it wouldn’t be the last. This grass-roots organization was made up of
armed militants whose plan it was to overthrow British rule in Canada.
In all, the battle raged for four nights and five days
and out of the 250 Hunter Lodge invaders, 53 died, 61 wounded and 136 were
captured.
The defenders, 1,600 strong, British, Canadian and
allied American soldiers fared much better, losing only 17 to death and 60
wounded.
We all know how the battles ended, with Canada being
strong and free. My thanks to the brave
men who fought the good fight.
* * *
Looking down, I
figure it must be a good 30 or 40 foot drop to the shoreline. Catching sight of a path off to the left, I
follow it down to a small plateau.
Looking up, the lighthouse stands in solitary splendor on the
promontory. I take images from that
awe-inspiring perspective and would have continued down to the water’s edge,
but Sofie is getting really antsy. I
wonder if she senses the spirits of the 70 or so souls, friends and foes, who
lost their lives here? This was a
pivotal battle, which started this great land on its way to Confederation
in 1867, some thirty years later.
According to lore,
the windmill was converted into a lighthouse in the 1870’s.
Sofie pushes her
cold nose against the back of my leg and gives a high pitched whine. “Okay, okay”, I say, “We’ll go.”
I slowly trek back
up to the bluff, Sofie’s saucy behind bounds quite far ahead of me and she beats
me back to the car. As I finally get
close, Sofie looks up at the door handle, then at me, then back to the handle,
then at me, ad infinitum, shifting back and forth, from foot to foot. I can tell by her little dance that’s she’s
yelling, “Hurry up, Mom, hurry.”
* * *
A few weeks later
I was telling my friend, Grandma Jacquie (she’s 85ish) about my spine-tingly
experience. Funnily enough, upon
mentioning the Battle of the Windmill, she gasped and said, “My ancestors
fought in that battle.” I’m not sure
which side they were on, or if they were part of the 70 or so men who died
there; or were grievously wounded as they fought; or were captured and later
hanged. Interesting though, that I have
a connection to this bit of history.
What a small world!
* * *
As we turn back on
to Highway 2, I wonder if we’ll see the thin man and his dog again. We go a good few miles and just when I think
he’s turned off somewhere, I see him up ahead.
He’s squatting down beside his bike, on the side of the road, puffing on
a cigarette.
“Hey, Sofie, I’m
going to stop and offer this sweaty guy some of our nice, fresh water,
especially for his dog.” Sofie’s eyebrow
twitches and one eye opens, so I know she’s heard me.
I pull over, somewhat further down the road and onto
the gravel shoulder, trying to go slowly, so the car doesn’t kick up too much
dust. It would surely stick to the
sweaty man. I inch over as far as I can
on the narrow shoulder and stop.
Checking carefully before I open the door, I step out and walk quickly
to the back. It’s a pretty busy road and
I’m not off of it by much. I wonder
where the dog is and then spot him, checking out the greenery on the lush
hillside. He seems oblivious to my
presence. Carefully, he selects a blade
of grass and pulls it out of the ground.
He chews it with obvious enjoyment and I’m reminded of a cow chewing its
cud. Sofie likes to graze too and when
she does, I call her Elsie, after the famous condensed milk cow. The man walks towards me. Just as he draws near and we’ve exchanged hellos, a police vehicle, which I noticed approaching at a pretty fast rate of speed, slows
I see his bushy moustache twitching, as he slows even more and I’m surprised he hasn’t come to a complete stop. Will he or won’t he?
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