TriumphAnt

It seems an oddly appropriate address for someone whose childhood was so tough. 17 The Bowery. That`s where my mom and her two sisters lived with their parents, until the three girls were 5, 7 and 9 and their mother deserted the family. It was at the height of the Great Depression in the late 1930s and their father was utterly unable to raise three young daughters on his own.

So the girls were parcelled out to Salvation Army foster homes in Picton and it was in one such home, under the firmly authoritarian hand of a Salvation Army Reverend, that Mom grew up. All her life, her childhood was not a subject that was ever discussed in our house.

It was only in her last couple years that she dropped nothing more than a couple of thinly veiled hints of what that life was like. In one case, it was funny – she claimed she knew where every last one of the “dirty bits” could be found in the Bible. But in another case, it was more darkly sinister as she let slip one evening that she never went to sleep without first checking to ensure her bedroom door was locked.

Whatever she experienced, or feared, it entrenched itself in her as a quiet refusal to participate in any form of organized churchgoing. As kids, my brother and I went to Sunday Mass with Dad, and always came home to a generous breakfast that Mom had prepared while we were at church.

In the photo, 17 The Bowery is the unit at the right end of the building.

My mother’s sister, Barb, whom we met at her small apartment in Belleville – a half hour from Picton – and took to lunch, was only too happy to fill in a number of details of the family breakup. She had actually gone so far as to discover only a few years ago that the girls’ mother was living in a nursing home in Kingston under the name she had taken when she remarried. Barb decided that she wanted to confront her and seek some answers as to why she left three girls in the care of a man unable to meet their needs.

But she said that when she did just that, she found an old woman who either did not or would not recall any of her daughters. She did say that she remembered leaving a man who was an “abusive” drunk. But Barb didn’t remember their father that way and, for her, that still didn’t give her the specific answer she said she had wanted when she went into the home. But she told us that when she left, the gnawing ache was gone, and ever since she has been able to put it behind her.

She also told us that she had asked Mom if she wanted to join her for the nursing home visit but that Mom had simply replied that her mother was “dead” to her.

It was hard to listen to, but it was also a fascinating window into a key part of what defined my Mom. And because of that, I’m really grateful for the time Barb was able to spend with us that day.

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I’m still learning things. All my life, I’ve always assumed that the flag of the United Empire Loyalists was the British Union Jack. And with one huge variation, it is. Check out the photo. Notice anything missing?

The Union Jack – the flag of Great Britain – is made up of three elements: the (English) Cross of St George – a red cross on a white field; the (Scottish) Cross of St Andrew, a white “X” on a blue field; and the Irish Cross of St Patrick, a red “X” on a white field. So where you might well ask (I know I did), is the Irish component in the Loyalist flag – the red “X”?

While we were waiting for the Glenora ferry, I found this plaque that explained the elements that are in the Loyalist flag, but not what was NOT in it.

Actually, with a minimal amount of work with Google, the answer is surprisingly simple. The “Loyalists”, as their name implies, were those living in the 13 colonies of the United States after they won the War of Independence, when the First Continental Congress in 1777 adopted its own “Stars and Stripes” national emblem. As their name implies, the “Loyalists” remained loyal to the British Union at the time – which consisted of England and Scotland. It was under that banner that many of the Loyalists fled north, settling all over Prince Edward County. (As a footnote, the first among them landed on the shore just yards from this historic cemetery, which contains many of their graves – now largely unmarked, although a few surviving stones have been embedded in this memorial wall.)

The Cross of St Patrick was not even added to the flag we know today as the Union Jack until 1801, which is why it does not appear in the flag under which they landed in the latter quarter of the 18thC, and that is the banner that marks historical sites and festoons countless private homes throughout the County to this day.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – every day’s a school day, on the Internet at large and on Baby Duck in particular.

Random whine: Why do guys apparently never have a say in the scent of soaps that go into hotels, inns, even public washrooms? Our room at Picton’s Merrill Inn had one common scent for everything: “hand and body wash” (that would be “soap”); shampoo and conditioner, each in a liquid pump bottle. And without exception that scent was lavender.

More recently, on a visit to Perth to continue the ongoing estate settlement processes, I had lunch with my brother at a pretty damned good little restaurant on Gore Street just outside the town centre: “Michael’s Table”. And the soap in the men’s room (The men’s room, for heaven’s sake!) was “Olive”. On a previous visit to the same restaurant, the soap was “Ice Wine” scented.

Now I’m not asking for men’s soap with essence of Harley-Davidson saddle or Michelin snow tires, but surely something a little less... what shall I say – feminine... than lavender, olive or ice wine is not too much to ask, is it? Maybe Eau de fresh-cut lawn, or barley malt. Hell, I’d even settle for hickory smoke and smelling like barbecue sauce over lavender any darned day of the week!

Here endeth the random whine.

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Speaking of Perth, when I prefaced my visit with my brother with a brief stop at the local Timmie’s I was delighted to see one of the extended family business staff doing likewise.

OK, so the family ain’t the Ewings of South Fork. In fact, there are other trucks in my late Uncle’s business designated for “Water Haulage”, and apparently they do a HUGE business in late Spring / early Summer when everyone opens up their swimming pools.

But it’s always a puff to see one’s name in lights, wouldn’t you agree? (Even if the “lights” in this case indicate that the driver has just stepped on the brakes.)

OK... Picton. Where was I?

This is a little jewel of a place to have lunch. It’s just outside town high up on a rise that someone long ago decided merited the label “mountain”. It has an odd geographical quirk. When you reach the top, you find a lake, named with stunning Loyalist practicality, “Lake on the Mountain”.

And this place is called (wait for it) The Inn at Lake on the Mountain. The old brewery truck is parked out front because The Inn is also home to a really fine micro-brewery. Any guesses as to what it might be called? (And if you read the text painted on the side of the truck, you already know.) The Lake on the Mountain Brewing Co.

This is where Leslie and I took mom’s sister, Barb, for a lunch we all greatly enjoyed. Leslie had the tourtière and apparently it is of some considerable local renown, as unlikely a house speciality as I can think of for a restaurant in the absolute heart of United Empire Loyalist country.

For my part, I discovered one of the best draught IPAs (India Pale Ales) I have had in a long, long time. And it’s nothing like the bland, plain stuff that Alexander Keiths says on their bottle’s label is an IPA.* The LoTM brewery’s Traditional IPA is sublime, top-loaded with hits of citrus, floral and the edgy but tastebud-friendly hops in both its aroma and its taste. It’s as perfect an ice-cold hot day’s tipple as you will find anywhere.

* I’m not alone in my thumbing down of Keiths. Here’s what one especially irate reviewer – from among dozens – had to say about Keiths “IPA” on the vast international beer rating internet site, Ratebeer.com: “Ignoring the fact that this is clearly not an IPA, this beer has other problems. Aroma and appearance are acceptable. But the taste... remember what beer (i.e., macro lagers) tasted like when you were really young? That’s what this beer tastes like now. It undoes years of ‘acquiring the taste’ for beer. Metallic and coppery. Not recommended.” (He gave it a 1 out of 10.) But I digress.

This is another example we noted of the Loyalist tradition of cutting right through the bull cookies when it comes to naming a business – in Bloomfield, in this case, just down the road from Picton, and likely named with a little bit of tongue in cheek, but certainly leaving you with no doubt whatsoever about what you can expect to find if you go through their front door.

The Merrill Inn is a fantastic place to stay if you’re looking for something really special. They offer package deals that include breakfast and one dinner in their dining room – which has a richly deserved international reputation for excellence. It’s also located on Picton Main Street, which puts it in the heart of everything in the town. And no, no one paid me to say this... although I was told both my arms would be broken if I said anything negative – you don’t mess with the powerful (but admittedly little-known) United Empire Loyalist mafia.

Given the County’s soaring reputation for small, but high quality wineries, it’s not surprising that the better restaurateurs are only too happy to suggest local wines to pair with whatever entrée you order.

This is, bar none, the best looking winery cat I’ve ever seen – with a face that registers a perfect balance between their whites and reds. She is also the friendliest darned mascot you’ll ever meet, and will happily hop right up on the tasting counter if you show even the slightest interest in her.

The winery in this case is Karlo’s and, besides their uniquely coloured cat, they have two especially outstanding claims to fame. Their first is Vanalstine’s Port – the only white port being produced at the moment in the entire country. Dense, sweet and lush, it is best served cold after dinner – with dessert. (That’s right. I wasn’t kidding by describing it as “sweet”. It echoes ice wine or sauterne which makes it a perfect companion for desserts. But it also stands alone as a superb late-night-with-a-special-someone-on-the-back-porch-sipping glass in the additional aural company of some great jazz or blues.)

Karlo’s other claim to fame isn’t a wine at all, but a signature bridge along one perimeter of their vineyard.

It’s not an antique – it was built in 2007 by an organization called “Dry Stone Walling in Canada” and like all such structures, it is held together without the use of mortar or cement... no nothing. Just careful placement of the stones, gravity and the incredible architectural strength of the arch. Here’s a bit of architectural trivia for you. When the Romans discovered the strength of the arch, someone got the bright idea of making it a 360-degree structure – and presto, the dome was born. Either that, or the Romans observed the incredible strength of Byzantine domes and made it a two dimensional structure in the arch. Kind of a chicken-and-egg thing but both have been around for a heck of a long time.

And finally... there are two things you probably don’t really expect to see on the shores of Lake Ontario – enormous sand dunes that rival some of the California coast’s Pacific Ocean-side terrain. And white swans. We encountered both during a lazy couple hours spent splashing along the shallows of Sandbanks Provincial Park. On a Monday, the place was almost deserted and it felt temptingly, addictively, almost like a private tropical paradise. (The fact that it was swelteringly hot on this particular Monday helped with the illusion.) Just without the rum and endless offers from locals to cornrow Leslie’s hair.

We both agreed we’ll be back for sure. After all, there’s another 40 or 50 wineries we didn’t get to, and Waupoos cider has been recommended by several friends.

And that Lake on the Mountain Traditional Brewing Co's IPA is worth a day trip all by itself!

Until next time.