Prince Edward County, Ontario, Canada
Growing Up Big Island (2021)
“GROWING UP BIG ISLAND”
A look at life on Big Island growing up in the 1950s
Terry’s new book, Growing Up Big Island, is his fifth literary effort, and relates his memories of growing up on “the Island” in the 1950s. Contained are stories of the one room school he attended on the north side of Big Island, the friends he had, milking temperamental cows, ice travel in the winter, operating farm machinery while still in his pre-teen years, growing tomatoes, and the memory of a tragic plane crash in 1955 on a neighbouring farm that still affects him today some 65 years later. Also included is a section written by his late wife on her memories of growing up in Coe Hill. Two books in one with over 75 vintage photos. The book sells for $30 and is available at Books and Company, The Local Store, Printcraft, The Birdhouse Nature Store in Brighton, Carson’s Garden and Market on Wilson Road near Wellington, The Old Hastings Mercantile and Gallery at Orsmby, Kerr’s Corner Books in Campbellford, and from the author (payment by cash, cheque or etransfer). A Belleville area location at Corbyville has been arranged for anyone in that area to pick up their pre-paid books.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A farmer, a newspaper reporter, a country music artist agent and a career as an interpretive naturalist – Terry Sprague has enjoyed an exciting variety of pursuits, but none with as many memories as growing up on Big Island on the family farm on the shore of the Bay of Quinte, in Prince Edward County, near Picton, Ontario. After his rewarding career as an interpretive naturalist with Sandbanks Provincial Park and Quinte Conservation, Terry retired to Big Island beside the farm on which he was raised. Terry wrote a weekly column, Outdoor Rambles for the The Picton Gazette for 50 years, commencing in 1965, and also submitted columns to The Napanee Beaver, The Tweed News, and was a nature columnist for The Intelligencer (Belleville), The Trentonian, and Nature Society News (Griggsville, Illinois). Terry was the recipient of the 2002 Pioneer Conservationist Award from Conservation Ontario and of the 2004 Richards Education Award from the Federation of Ontario Naturalists, and was presented with the Gold Quill Award from the Canadian Community Newspapers Association in 2015 for his long running column. He authored Up Before Five – the Family Farm (2011), and Naked in the Sand (2015)—a humorous look at some of his misadventures during his career as an interpretive naturalist. Terry owns and maintains his own website Nature Stuff – Tours and Things at www.naturestuff.net.
For more information, please contact the author at tsprague@xplornet.com . See a few excerpts from his new book below:
Prologue
I took a walk over parts of our old farm recently with a friend … So much has changed over the years since I was a small boy growing up on our 350-acre farm. Fields that once grew our best crops of corn, and where killdeers and pipits would scatter from the furrows as I prepared the seed bed, are now quiet … The best years of my life were enjoyed on this old farm where each new day brought forth the sounds of farm animals.
The Art of Learning Tractors
I felt the back wheel of the tractor slide slowly past my head, its deep and aggressive treads pulling at my hair and pinning me to the ground as the tire made its rotation …What an incredibly stupid thing to have done.
The Mills Family
Her hair was now silky soft and as white as the sun-bleached shells that lined the shoreline fronting her former home just down the road. Overall, not bad for a woman approaching 90. And not bad at all for someone who had given birth to 17 children.
We Buy Another Farm
Harry takes long drags on his unfiltered Players. A hook of ashes hangs precariously, ready to drop to the floor any moment. “Do you want us to get you an ashtray, Harry?” we ask almost in unison as we lean forward, arms outstretched, ready to grab one from the table. “No, I’m okay, I’ll just drop them here,” he replies, as he taps the cigarette, and the ashes fall deftly into the cuff of his pants.
Grandma Sprague
My mother would shake her head and sigh when Grandma would raise her empty teacup, elevating the dry ceramic vessel elegantly to her lips with her thumb and forefinger, in slow and determined increments, higher and higher, gradually tipping it to her lips as though expecting tea to suddenly pour forth. “She just does that on purpose to aggravate me,” my mother would exclaim later, after we had left the table.
Reading and Writing and ‘Rithmetic
Both outhouses were partly concealed by healthy clusters of lilacs, their lavender flowers and delicate perfume working overtime to mask the unspeakable odours emanating from the structures …the boys’ toilet suffered horribly through the years. Numerous times, the door was missing and boys using the facility sat on the seat and communed with nature as they watched Borden cultivate his field just across the fence.
That’s My Pa!
“Who was that dried up old prune?” my father blurted out, his inappropriate comment exiting his open window and landing squarely on her ears, despite that she was now a good 100 feet past us. Instinctively, I glanced in the rear-view mirror in time to see her spin around and shoot us a glassy stare. She must have seen me slowly sliding down the seat behind the steering wheel as we continued on our way. My father refused to believe that he was speaking loudly enough for his comment to be heard.
Having a Friend is Being One
We shared a few laughs with the casual visitors, mainly at their expense, as I enjoyed messing up their heads with falsehoods about how cows got bred, where their store-bought beef came from, and making sure they were always present when it came time to butcher the hens! Only Lloyd and Stephen learned quickly how to separate the truth from the tall tales. Sadly, all my friends and casual acquaintances did indeed come in and out of my life like busboys in a restaurant.
The Old Fish Shanty and Other Retreats
The first Sunday that comes along, Cheryl and I clamber up on the roof of the old fish shanty with the pail of tar that we had found earlier. We work most of the day applying thick globs of tar and trowelling it lengthways along the cracks to seal them. Our clothes and shoes are smeared in tar and our fingers are cemented together as well. This roof will never leak again, and neither will our clothes leak water any time soon!
Milking the Kicker Was No Joy
That her name is Joy is in no way a reflection of her attitude …Joy is from a long line of similarly named cows all descending from the same mother … Even when Dad is present, Joy eyes me warily, and has been known to kick backwards whenever I walk behind her. She seems to know intuitively that I view her with distaste.
Memory Snippets
- Mrs. Vool. An Estonian lady who came from Toronto to her Big Island cottage every weekend to garden. I never knew her first name; I just called her Mrs. Vool.
- My father: He always asked me at every meal, “Did you ‘warsh’ your hands?”
Upon Reflection
It is getting dark now and time to leave. The reminiscences that I have experienced during the writing of this book have been emotionally pleasant. I often wish I could become a young boy once again and relive those glorious days of growing up on Big Island, of work and play, and of childhood friends.
