Making do

Mom used to have an expression, "making do." No doubt the expression and the discipline arose from her childhood on a frugal farm, peppered with a bit of The Great Depression to deepen the lesson. "Making do" meant mending, improvising, or readjusting your expectations (something our hugely entitled age is not very good at). The alternative was "doing without."

My sister Jo and I went for a lovely walk at Massassauga Point Conservation Area recently. On our way home, I had to stop to take this photo of a homely old barn foundation, limestone rubble bejewelled with round pink granite fieldstones.

My better camera would have gotten us closer

A house in Picton with fieldstone quoins

A kitchen tail in a beautiful Point Petre home, with fieldstone

So often these granite fieldstones, glacial litter left by the great ice sheet's careless passing on the way back north, found their way into foundations - rounded edges, irregular, one would think a poor choice in a foundation made largely of limestone more or less linear in shape, and glued with mortar. But they were solid, and filled the space, and they were available, rising as they did each spring as the frost left the ground. So farmers and builders "made do."

And left us a lovely legacy, an invitation to visit and understand the lives of our ancestors.

Let's hear it for the little guys...

little houses for the little people

...or, Ozymandias goes to the beach.

I stopped to admire a bracket fungus array on an ancient maple, on the road to West Point, the warm October sun belying the strength of the cold wind whipping the lake waves into a para-sailing paradise.

On foot this trip, I took time to truly appreciate the tiny cabins nearby. A neighbourly woman came to chat; she identified their owner, and revealed their story.

The tiny shed-roof cottages to left and right (joined by the later addition) are thought to be maid's cottages, residences of domestic servants who catered to the wealthy tourists beginning to pour into Prince Edward County in the nineteenth century.

(See, there IS nothing new under the sun).

Bracket fungus...the dying tree's gift

The maids worked at Lakeshore Lodge (c.1876), a grand resort hotel (sure, not Lake Como, but elegant nonetheless with its gallery verandah  and its incomparable location on a rocky bluff overlooking Lake Ontario and the dunes of the baymouth sandbar at West Lake.)

Lakeshore Lodge - courtesy PEC Library & Archives, and the lovely Krista

The LSL crest in the terazzo floor from
 a dance pavilion of later date

you're still welcome to come in to dream

Lodge...clearly missing from this image

Lakeshore Lodge was destroyed by fire in 1982. It had sat abandoned for some time after the land was sold for the new Sandbanks Provincial Park, and succumbed to a devastating fire while plans were being floated to restore it for a year-round hostelry. Our dad always wondered if some local with a practical and not-at-all tourism oriented attitude had played a role.

This is NOT an eaves return

No Mr. Property Developer, this is NOT an eaves return.

Shannon Kyles first drew my attention to the appalling misuse of historical architectural elements in today's over-the-top residential developments. Although it is not in my nature to mock, I admit to cringing at the sight of a lintel with three, count 'em three, keystones along its length  in an expensive-enough-to-know better executive enclave north of Richmond Hill. And that was just one of the oddities I observed, as I waited for my fella to come out of a meeting.

I'll grant that the misuse might be based in some sort of homage to early building, or at least the bit that sells.
Shannon insists that it's because most students are not taught to see or to draw, nor of course, are most of them taught any architectural history. It's unlikely they come to love old structures, or they wouldn't hurt them so.

What's not to love about eaves returns? I must say, of all the alluring bits of an early building, the part that catches my eye first is that subtle fold just below the roof. An architectural feminine principle at work ...sinuous, secretive, protective, strong, elegant, multi-layered and complex, and in the case of the 'Aultsville cornice' honoured by PJS, curvy. Eve returns?

'Village store', Upper Canada Village

What are eaves returns?

Quite simply, they are how builders transition from a wall to a roof, providing weather protection and decorative possibilities in the process. It seems those decorative aspects appeared endless to the builders of the Greek Revival (heyday in the 1840's ) whose bold detail of layered mouldings is so appealing.

Cabinet-maker's shop (c.1850, Williamsburg  twp), UCV

I resort to quoting a definition by PJ Stokes, avoiding the foolish urge to say it better than he. "Eaves return: the extension of the eaves around the corner at the gable ends forming a return of the cornice". With his delightful twinkle he continues "..and with a flat top sometimes used by birds for a nesting place; hence the carpenter's term of 'birdhouses' for such features."

Lutheran Pastor's home (1842-44, Riverside), UCV

(that definition from the glossary of Rogues' Hollow, his fine collaboration with Tom Cruikshank on the village of  Newburgh)

Physician's home (1840's, Aultsville), UCV

The 'Aultsville cornice' was noted by PJS, and named for the area (one of the villages lost in flooding for the St. Lawrence Seaway) where it was often seen. It too is a very feminine thing: curvaceous, flexible and diplomatic, a bevelled board creating an effective and beautiful compromise between the horizontal and vertical planes of the roof's construction.

the significant Peter Demill house c.1835,  Northport

Now, make that garage look like this, and I might consider it....no, actually, I couldn't.

What's your story, pretty lady?

Set in wide lawns, the house has presence even now

I took lots of shots, free to wander the property as a park visitor, enjoying all the evocative details. I was confident that I could return to my campsite, consult Stokes and Cruikshank, and her story would be revealed. For this house on Co. Rd. 12, near today's Sandbanks Provincial Park, has stood on this corner under the walnut trees, across from the corn fields, for as long as I can remember.

Doubtless, at one time, she was inhabited. Even today, the lawns are mowed. Squirrels tend the massive nut trees, dropping projectiles at an alarming velocity (to which I can attest), for later collecting.

At some time, the house was modernized with 1950's awnings and stucco, which is being removed, hopefully by the careful architectural custodians of the provincial park on which it doubtless stands. Previously, buildings were not their concern. Today, there appears to be an interest in holiday rentals in the parks, coupled with a bit more assertive heritage protectionism. My hope is that the house will be thoroughly researched, and perhaps restored, as a revenue-producing asset of the park system.

Bricks, uncovered, mossy, flaking - laid in common bond

 My optimism is based on the fact that although boarded up, the sheathing over doors and windows is vented, which is a more thoughtful way to seal an old building...though that could be just to disperse the definite parfum de mouffette emanating from the cellar.

plain but dignified cornice mouldings

textured steel roofing, and lightning rods!

 I am excited to see the Barnum House profile of the Greek Revival style, popular in the 1840's  - a two storey gable-end centre section, symmetrical one-storey wings at each side. Entrance off-centre. The roof slope is shallow and chimneys still standing. No doorcase or window trim details visible.

Mouldings are simple, without the eaves returns and detailing I would expect. But this was the farm after all.

It was a house of some pretentions. Built in early soft brick (you can see the deterioration of the brick, either the cause or the result of the stucco covering), laid in common bond on sides and back, the more costly and showy Flemish bond on the front, the public facade that 'counted'.

Flemish bond brickwork on the facade
 - vents in the plywood

Unfortunately, the esteemed writers of The Settler's Dream, did not see fit to discuss this intriguing structure, so I am at a loss until a likewise esteemed blog reader sees this and gets in touch.

The house sits warm and dry in the October sun. I hope the winter is good to her. I hope help comes soon.

Anthropomorphism

Anthropomorphism: an interpretation of what is not human or personal in terms of human or personal characteristics. Thank you Merriam-Webster.

Walked miles last week from my camp headquarters in Woodlands campground, Sandbanks PP. Walked to West Point, a favourite spot. Hiked the mysterious Dunes Trail. Trudged to the outlet of the Outlet River (mouth of the river now drifted in with sand til spring. Dad, you'd be interested to know), and along the Cedar Sands trail.

Dunes trail...my private desert

As I walked, breathing in the fall energy, heart leaping at the beauty all around, I did note the absence of buildings upon which to comment. But an old house-nut is never deterred for long. I spotted these little structures on my walk to West Point.

Bird boxes...possibly an attempt to lure Eastern blue-birds to take up house-keeping? And what houses! Numbered, of course, so some biology-minded summer student can keep tabs on the population.

But even more interestingly, for this house-nut, little square flat-roofed structures, with cantivered porch roofs. And I wonder to myself, whatever led us humans to create homes for creatures of bush, meadow and tree, building these tiny houses in imitation of our own. Did we imagine little rugs, tiny paintings on the walls, miniature rocking chairs?

Oh well. Let's enjoy the walk. I'll be back in the city soon enough.

Old MacDonald's Farm...really

a despondent garage supported by grapevines

Lakelands - the MacDonald's resort I worked at in the early 1960's
photo courtesy PEC Museum & Archives, thanks Krista

 I recently  returned from a lovely week's camping at Sandbanks Provincial Park. The wooded campground I stayed in was on Keith MacDonald's farm.

I recall our dad's excitement as he took us on a tour of the developing campgrounds, back in the 70's or 80's. From farm fields and sugar bush were carved reasonably private wooded sites (with electical boxes discretely placed at intervals - no, I am too old to sleep on the rocks and pinecones, my little trailer needs a plug-in) connected by winding roadlets.

So much history in this former homestead.

Had a great chat with a farmhand, baling soybean straw

History, theirs and mine. At one time MacDonald's ran a family resort on the lakefront property across from the house, with a view of the Outlet beach. One summer, my first job was to sweep shadflies from the exterior and porch...how does one do that? The job I recall most is washing dishes in the deep steel sinks. But what I really remember was evenings with the girls (all older and wiser than I) at Martins, a local hangout. Dancing to the jukebox, evading the attentions of the boys of summer. Being a teenager for a rare time in my life.

Original farm lane, now on park property

The old farmhouse is being examined for heritage pedigree - brick and fieldstone foundation
beneath the 'improving' 1970's stucco 

Today, the resort is long gone. Only a flagstone path through the lawn leads to the site of the old lodge. The crumbling breakwater recalls moonlight nights by the lake. The screened porch, the dining room with all the windows, the memorable chocolate sauce that the cook made, and shared with even the girls...can that really have happened, in this same life-time?

Behind the house, a most photogenic door. Could this be the privy?

I had a great 'jaw' with a farmer, who has worked for the farm for 12 years. Because although the farm is Provincial Park now, with the occasional brown sign asserting ownership of trails, the wonderful light soil is still cultivated on some sort of lease. I was curious about the round bales being loaded - straw, not oat or wheat - my suspicions born out, soybean! This year, we'll need all the bedding we can get.

Further along Co.Rd. 12, a plaque with the MacDonald pedigree
basks in the lakeside sun

The view from the house, across the road to the site of the former lodge

A scion of the family still lives further along the lakeshore road. Someone (perhaps the family member Keith, who became an MPP) has set up a plaque honouring the family's settlement history in the area.

They settled, they cleared forest and built prosperous farms.

Irony...the farmhand tells me that soon, the lease will expire, and the fields of corn, winter wheat already planted in anticipation of next spring, and those soybeans, will be replanted...into trees.

An evocative farm building...similar to the one we summer girls converted to
a dorm by judicious use of hairspray and Buddy Holly

Blessed are the Bookmakers

Lest there be any confusion, this post has nothing to do with off-track (or on- for that matter) betting. It is a tribute to the clippers - folks who peruse their local papers, glean items of interest, and actually DO something with them - not put them in a forgotten folder somewhere, or leave them in a filing pile. They make books. I have discovered that a favourite medium for this sort of dedicated amateur historian is the 'magnetic' photo album with plastic overleaf which safely anchors photos (to be sure) but most importantly, newspaper clippings, in a neat and accessible manner. From these clippings from 20, 30 or even 40 years ago we learn about ourselves - about what concerned us, what interested us, and even more importantly (like classic films do) they tell us how we responded to those stories. Certainly we were more polite then. But the folks I know, who collected clippings and made books, were hell-raisers in their day - hell-raisers in hats and gloves.

From Dorothy's album - both still standing

Today a lovely neighbour appeared unexpectedly at my door, and loaned me one such book. This scrapbook of clippings was one of dozens made by her mother in the 1980's. It chronicled the actions of preservationists to save significant buildings in our city, and celebrated the human and political history those structures represented. My neighbour's mom was Dorothy Sargent, who was one of the earliest movers and shakers in the local Historical Society, when it was housed in the Registry Office, a building which no longer exists (ironically).

We've lost only one of these

Another clipper extraordinaire is Lois Foster, Belleville's  non pareil 'old house researcher.' Lois has not one book of old house stories; she has a houseful. And she is most generous to share them with writers and researchers. At the moment I have a pile of  6 or 8 of these irreplaceable resources sitting beside me in my study.

And our local library had, until recently, had clippers collecting local stories. I have on many occasions used their 'house books' - binders full of articles pertaining to local buildings, arranged alphabetically by street. Invaluable.

Ladies...start your scissors!