People, places and events all go to form our individual environments. Certain individual personalities seem to stand out and affect us more than others. There were many in my life. However, I will go into detail telling you about five in particular.

I now recall Uncle Lemuel. We all called him "uncle", but he was in fact some sort of distant cousin on my Pa's side. He was a widower, I would guess in his early seventies. He lived alone in a little old shack on a smallish bit of property. In another little stable he kept his faithful old horse he called "Dolly". Dolly was necessary in his life because he had a little, topless cart to pull. His only means of livelihood was peddling fish, in the Springtime, and celery in the Fall.

Every Spring, as soon as fish were available, he would make his way to nearby Port Franks on Lake Huron. Here he would purchase as many fish as his cart and his credit would allow, along with some ice to keep them fresh in the heat of the day. Then he would set out, calling on the rural folks, to sell his load of fish. One such trip brought him, every spring, to our place, where he knew he could get a good meal, spend the night, stable his horse, and sell us some fish.

Uncle Lemuel always announced his coming by the tooting of his little tin horn. I remember seeing him arrive, sitting on the seat of his topless cart, the horses reins tied around his waist, and smelling very much of fish. It seems he had lost most of his right arm as a young man, while working in a lumber camp in northern Michigan. He usually carried an oil-skin slicker with hood, to be used in case of rain. All of his monetary wealth he carried in a cloth drawstring pouch.

Of course, we would always buy some of his fresh lake fish, stable his horse in a box-stall, for the night, with a good feed of hay and some oats. After a good supper, the best that we could provide on that short notice, we kids would listen to his tall and amusing tales till bedtime.

So, Uncle Lemuel came and went, at least twice a year, until we heard that poor Dolly gave out at about the same time as he did. Uncle Lemuel became a memory and we learned to buy our fish and celery at the London Market.

The Crooning, Wheelchair Farmer

I recall seeing a grey brick cottage on a well-groomed lawn, surrounded by flowers and hop-vines in the garden at the rear. Situated behind the cottage was a small barn and stable for a team of horses and some cows. Some chickens were running free and clucking. This constituted a small farm homestead perched on the far bank of the Sydenham creek. At the foot of the bank by the stream was a small rock grotto. Here issued a flow of pure spring water. Jars of milk and cream and crocks of butter were kept safe and cool here in this natural refrigerator. Not far away was a limestone rock and their old swimming-pool.

From this setting, on most clear days, issued the cheerful, clear voice of, whom, for now, I will call "the Crooning Wheelchair Farmer", crooning his ever-familiar "La, la, la, La, la, la, La, la, la". Everyone called him Will, or William.

Will was a very wilful, yet willing individual. He was a very successful dairy farmer who had become crippled and confined to a wheelchair, in the prime of life. Because of his handicap, he required constant attention for all his needs. His hands were crippled and his limbs were rendered immobile with osteoarthritis. Yet, in spite of all his sense of uselessness, he apparently never lost his sense of hope and love of life. With the help of his loving wife and daughter, who attended to all these personal needs, and the help of two loving sons, he was able to run his dairy farm. At times, he would be wheeled out to the fields where the work was in progress and from this chair as his throne, give instructions and encouragement, followed by his ever-familiar "La, la, la," which could be heard for a mile or more.

There were many interesting folks in our neighbourhood I remember Thomas. He was a distant cousin of the family. He was distinguishable by the cloth cap he seemed to always wear, indoors as well as out, wherever he went. He had an embarrassing growth on his bald head which he wished no one to see. He managed a small farm over on the next concession road. As well as farming in a small way, he also had a cobbler's shop, where he managed to repair shoes for the neighbours. He was fiercely independent, but timid. He was one of the rural folk who benefited by the "Party Line" Telephone system. He used to keep track of the news of the neighbourhood by listening in on other folks' "private" conversations, whenever he heard the phone ring. I also remember he used to drive about in a topless one-horse wagon. That was Thomas.

Then there was Aaran Kester. Aaran was a double first cousin of Pa's. His mother was the sister to Pa's mother and his father was a brother to Pa's father. He came to live with us from Detroit, during the mid-twenties. It seems that he had been married and divorced several times and was now a widower. He was also a cabinetmaker, having worked at his profession in a casket company. Of course, he brought with him a wooden chest full of woodworking hand tools, such as moulding planes, chisels, etc.

He spent several years with us, helping in various ways. His big contribution was lending us his skills in the renovation of our livingroom area. In his comings and goings, he met and became very friendly with a neighbour widow who was trying to run a farm, whose wood-lot adjoined our wood-lot. She had the help of a hired man by the name of Arthur, and two pampered sons, who were too good for farm work. Well, in too short a time, they fell in love and one day Aaran announced that he was going to be married. We thought that he was old enough to look after himself, to run a farm, so we reluctantly gave him our blessing. He persuaded Ma to make him a dress shirt for the occasion. Among other things, there had to be special buttons to make it look more dressy.

It was not very long until he found that he had more than his hands full managing the farm, his firmly-opinionated wife, and his stepchildren, as well as the hired man. It was in a very short time that trouble began to brew. He could not tolerate having two able-bodied men, stepsons, sitting around in the house and his hired man frequently drunk. It came to a showdown when the hired man turned on Aaran and struck him with a piece of board. The police were called in. The case was settled by Arthur being fired, with the order never to return.

In many ways, Aaran was a strange, but likable person. Ma could not quite get used to his pipe smoking, although he smoked many more matches than pipes full of tobacco. I learned a few things about woodworking as well as benefited from his praise of myself and my inventive ability. Aaran Kester did leave a legacy.