You Talk Too Much? Linda Knight Seccaspina

You Talk Too Much? Linda Knight Seccaspina

I have been told I talk a lot, or, I believe the word is–‘chatty’. I don’t mind being labelled that as my Grandmother always told me if you didn’t ask questions, you’d never know anything. By the looks of my baby book, my family began their entries in “Babies First Words” after I was born in 1951. I know they wanted me to say “Mama” first but I dropped my old Dad’s name instead at 8 months.

I’m honest, I failed math three times in Grade 8 and got a final mark of 29 out of 200, so I am not a brainiac. I remember my poor Father’s face when he saw that report card and asked if I couldn’t have convinced them to have given me more marks for neatness. I should have asked him if saying “Bye Bye Daddy” at 17 months made up for anything.

My family was not going to accept the sound of crickets between us so allegedly the vocabulary was flying until I was 18 months. They stopped documenting after that, so obviously we all were having many fireside chats at the age of 2. Apparently word at the A & P was that there was a child in town that didn’t talk until he was 4. That was about the time Diefenbaker was running for Prime Minister. Somehow this child’s first word was “Diefenbaker’ and it was gossip fodder for months on Albert Street in Cowansville.

My Grandfather Crittenden used to visit on weekends and would always rub his hands before he ate and say “lordy, lordy, lordy”. When I was a wee gal I would sit next to him and mimic everything he did. One fine morning at breakfast, I broke the seal on my voicebox once again with new words and said “lordy, lordy, lordy” in sync with him. Funny I never saw that documented in my baby book.

Another family story was that my Father was chopping wood for my Grandmother Knight when the axe head came off the handle, and the blunt end struck him on the foot. This caused him to yell “sh*t,” which caused me to repeat it for the rest of the day. Sixty years later and that word is still my instinctive response to being startled.

When I was a child my father would bring me to many Eastern Townships rural auctions. We would sit for hours on hard wooden benches in some old barn while he bought a lot of old furniture he didn’t need. During that period of time I learned a lot of different vocabulary. My Dad met a pair of elderly twins at those auctions that had lived in the hills of the Eastern Townships for most of their lives. One of them had been nicknamed Hillside Johnny. Johnny was a recluse and seemed to talk to just a chosen few, and very few seemed to be on that list. When the folks at the auctions spoke about him and his home, it was said that his was not “a home of culture”. The more they talked about him, the more curious I became.

Johnny used to walk up and down the length of the auction barn sporting a strange shirt, soiled pants, well worn work gloves and “highwater” pinkish underwear that seemed to explode above his pants. Every 15 minutes his hat seemed to change like magic and the holes in his socks appeared larger.

As the long-haired man spoke here and there to some I overheard that his brother lived with him, but they had not spoken in 5 years. He no longer used his kitchen after they converted it into an extra bedroom and cooked on a hot plate in a disgusting over-crowded garage. There was little conversation in a home in a highly sought neighbourhood in Bromont with a view that would soon cost mega dollars in years to come.

I listened carefully as Johnny told my Dad things in so many words. He was comfortable that he had not driven a car in years, but instead rode his bike the 3.5 to 5.5 miles up and down the hills that would give a younger man a heck of a workout.

Each time my Dad saw him he handed Johnny something in a coloured shopping bag that seemed to match his underwear. What was in that bag? I never found out, and after the auction Johnny used to slowly wander silently down the road speaking to no one.

I was never neurotic about speech with my own children like my family was. I believe my oldest son’s first word was “Holstein” at 10 months, and he hasn’t stopped talking since. Skyler was a collicky baby so rides in the country were a daily event to calm him. I was always pointing out the different cows in the fields for his vocabulary benefit. As long as you talk to your children and keep them interested you can’t go wrong making animal sounds in the car which was interesting to him and the folks passing by in their cars.

Today’s baby’s first words have been said to be “tablet” or Amazon’s “Alexa” which shows how many children have switched to tech modes of entertainment similar to Ipads and the like. It just amazes me how my young Granddaughters can manoeuvre these things while I can just play slots on my iPad.

I have come to the conclusion that at 71 my conversational skills encouraged by my family will never stop. They say the less you talk the more people listen–maybe that’s why no one ever listens to me these days. I just consider myself lucky that I can walk and talk at the same time now. People who don’t know me think I am basically a quiet person. People that do know me wish I was. Or so they say!

Sending big hugs- see you next week!

Conversations with Agatha Yuill –The Buchanan Scrapbook

Conversations with Brian McArton– Henry Wilson of Carleton Place and the McArtons of Ramsay

A Conversation With Ivan Duncan — Barber — John Dunn

Mother’s Day Emotional Glue by Linda Knight Seccaspina

I am the one in red.. My sister Robin and mother are both passed.

Mother’s Day Glue by Linda Knight Seccaspina– Sherbrooke Record Column

At one time our grandmothers would wear a rose, either white or red, on Mother’s Day. The white was for those who had passed and the colour red was for the living. My mother passed away decades ago but I will not be wearing a white rose because the memory of my mother lives with me every hour. As the shadows lengthen and the days pass more swiftly; I am older and I grow to miss her more and realize just what she meant to me.

I am not writing this to be personal, but to tell the story of a mother I knew better in years after she passed. I often wonder if the world would not have been better had there been more mothers like my own. She told me she had never kissed any man except my father in the Cowansville Post Office. At night she would read wonderful stories I was too small to read but I learned the greater things of life through all of the books in which she was interested in. By the time I began to read for myself she had cultivated in me a taste for better literature.  We sometimes wandered through the woods of Calls Mills together gathering flowers. There seemed to be so much to learn and I could not follow her then, or I did not try perhaps. In those days I was interested in less important things. Now I regret it. 

I was too young to realize that her sickness was taking her away from us. Then before I could comprehend what was going on my mother had passed. I shall never forget coming back to the empty house into an empty room where I had gone to seek her for everything.

Friends have told me that I am rather brave, but my bravery wasn’t with me the day she died. I went out and lay down upon the ground where we had planted Lilies of the Valley. When my mother passed my father gave me her suitcase that she had taken to the hospital. When I opened up the blue Samsonite suitcase a few days later a bottle of her perfume Coty’s Lily of the Valley had broken inside it. For years after that suitcase still smelled of Lily of the Valley and her memories.It’s not fun to be motherless any day of the year, but sometimes you have no choice in the matter. Is one ever ready to lose a mother? Some days I feel I missed out on so much, but because of a kind neighbour

named Agnes Rychard in Cowansville, Quebec–a little of my mother was returned to me.

We all have issues to deal with. I think this is part of life’s journey back to our true pure selves, but without a real feeling of love early on, it’s challenging. How do motherless children get through Mother’s Day? I personally would like to think that some of us have had people like Agnes in our lives. Adoptive mothers, or those that chose to be by our side, were born with the ability to change someone’s life. They gave us places to feel safe, loved, and shed a few tears.

Agnes remembered each and every birthday with a greeting card, and we still sometimes swap photos, stories and treasured mementos through the mail. She allowed me to know my mother in a new way. Thanks to her, when I look at these mementos I discover new pieces of my mother all the time.

This woman took the time to rescue snippets of my mother’s plants while a construction crew tore my childhood home down. With my horticultural talents, I successfully ended up killing every plant she gave me, but I still got to enjoy them for a short time. I always knew in my heart she had a dream, but there was never an ounce of anger shown when my late sister and I chose others over her sons for partners.

To all these women who took the time to befriend a young girl or boy in their time of need I am sending you my heart. If your doors had not been open we would have never become part of your “kitchen table family”. Mine was a table that was filled with comfort food, conversation, accompanied by the songs of Hank Snow and Jim Reeves playing in the background.

I used to hate Mother’s Day, but thanks to Agnes, my mother still lives somewhere within me in a very real way. Each of those moments and days she spent with me worked to create a world in which my sons will carry me within themselves as they move forward in their lives, no matter what lies ahead. These women were always busy with their own families and their hands were always full, but so were their hearts.

In memory of Agnes Perrott Rychard who passed away in August 2021..

Memories of my Grandmother

I saw this picture on Facebook and the tears came down my face. I was raised pretty well by my grandparents and they were the beginning footsteps to making my life a kinder softer world when life wasn’t so grand.

Years have passed since my grandmother Mary Louise Deller Knight died. I was her granddaughter, yet I also was her daughter, as she was always there for me with her comforting hands and warm smile. There was never a day that went by that she did not smell of fresh baking, and Evening in Paris perfume.

I want to sit in her kitchen again with my feet dangling off the chair watching the flames of the wood stove, and smell the first pot of coffee, while I watch the sun come up. I want to see her boil my grandfather’s egg, and watch her tap it exactly four times to break it, while wiping her brow with one of her dishtowels.

I want her to send me to the Dairy at exactly 11:30 am, to buy one quart of milk in a clear glass bottle that has the paper closure tab on top. I want to feel her press that shiny extra dime in my hands that she will give me when I go. I sit here and imagine the cold creamy ice cream I will buy with just a hint of strawberry sweetness, that will slide across my tongue after my lunch.

I want to go grocery shopping with her on Friday nights like we used to do, and watch her ask the butcher for suet to feed the birds. She could never ever just give the birds in her yard bird seed. I want to hear her tell everyone in the grocery store how much she loves her granddaughter. Some of them will not understand, as they only speak French. But, they will nod their heads and smile, and call her ” Madam.”

I want to hear the clock strike nine once more on a Friday night, and watch her put Cheese Whiz on Saltine crackers while the overture for the Tommy Hunter Show begins.Then she will pour me a tall glass of milk to wash it all down while I ask her why we have to watch Tommy Hunter again.

Most of all I want to smell her macaroni and cheese baking in the oven while she dances around to the music on the radio. She will make a huge garden coleslaw to go with it, and everyone will have seconds and we will serve each helping with our matching aprons.

I want to hear her scold me again for messing up the clear plastic cover on her teal blue uncomfortable couch. Yes, the same couch I will make out on, with my boyfriend years down the road, and she will not know. One day I told her I did not want to be left here alone after she died. As she wiped her hands on her apron she told me I had to remain and carry on– so I do.

If I could save time in a bottle
The first thing that I’d like to do
Is to save every day
‘Til eternity passes away
Just to spend them with you 

The Good Bad and Ugly of Kissing— Linda Knight Seccaspina

The Good Bad and Ugly of Kissing— Linda Knight Seccaspina

An old local tale I was told many times flashed through my mind today: about a wife and a boarder that went missing. Fred Smith and his wife made a somewhat small income by keeping boarders. One of the boarders, as reported by the husband, had become very attentive to his wife.  So much so that the husband  decided to leave for a few weeks until the boarder was gone.

Once Smith left the house he refused to go back until household matters were adjusted. The renter stayed on just the same. The boarder was unemployed, and as Smith said, had paid them no money. He was literally just a fixture in the house.

Mr. Smith also supported the house of his sister-in-law’s children, besides the rest of  his clan. He obtained work in Farnham and went away to work a few weeks later. However, he became suspicious and returned to his home in Cowansville. He found nothing, as the wife and the boarder had cleared out, and there was no trace of them to be found. Smith laid a complaint before the police and said he would prosecute the parties if he found them. But, why had she left him?

Physicians had started an anti-kissing crusade from time to time telling some fearful stories of transfer of bacteria from lip to lip. But, whatever truth or danger there was in the warnings of the medical men, few cared. Kissing lost none of its fascinations, and everybody, including the bacteria, continued to be happy.

It seems Mr. Smith’s dentist had told him some fearsome tales. He told him that no matter how fine a set of teeth he may have– if you kiss a person — you will soon need the dentist’s services. That information did not sit well with Mrs. Greene, and hence she took up with a man not interested in bacteria.

I had heard this tale of fear from my grandparents many times and ignored all warnings when it came to kissing. Here is a tale of my first kiss:

We met one day in the sunshine while we were both picking raspberries from bushes so tall they seemed to touch the sky.  I had just turned seven and he was barely eight. His body was hidden on the other side of the shrubberies but his voice hit me like a ton of rocks.  The high volume of his vocals insisted I was not to pick from ‘his’ raspberry bush.  He kept insisting that he needed a lot of berries so his mother could make him some jam. She had told him emphatically that he had better not come home unless that big silver pail was full.

I pushed my blonde bangs out of my face and told him in a loud voice that he did not own the raspberries. His round face full of freckles had a look of defiance as I saw him walk around from the other side of the bushes.

He stopped dead in his tracks, put his pail down and wiped the sweat off his face with his blue chequered shirt. He smiled, and said he was sorry, and that he didn’t usually yell at pretty girls.

I looked down at my white sandals and socks that were now covered in dirt and berry juice and smiled. No one had ever called me pretty before so we began to talk and pick raspberries together. I had seen him in the school yard at recess and one day he had waved at me from his verandah as I walked home from school.

When our pails were full and our lips bright red from eating fresh raspberries he held my hand as we walked home. We reached his house first and before I could say a word he kissed me hard on the lips. It tasted like a river of sweat combined with tributaries of fresh warm raspberry jam. He suddenly ran across the street and flew up the rickety stairs hugging his mother who was hanging clothes.

Buzzy Lickfold never did kiss me again, but I will forever remember that heartfelt affection as my first kiss. Sixty five years later I wonder if he still picks raspberries and kisses his wife tasting warm fresh jam. Maybe some days he thinks back to the day he kissed the little blonde haired girl with her stained red lips; because she still remembers that kiss to this day. It wasn’t my lips he kissed – it was my soul.

After that for a good many good years my kisses were more of only the Hershey Variety. The only kiss with no strings attached– okay maybe one– and maybe a dentist warning too.

My Personal Story About Royalty

Before the storm at the North Lanark Regional Museum in Appleton. Mississippi Mills Mayor Christa Lowry and Lanark County MP Scott Reid and myself

A Royal of a Story Linda Knight Seccaspina– Sherbrooke Daily Record Column

The late Prince Phillip was once quoted “that when a man opens a car door for his wife, it’s either because it’s a new car, or a new wife”. My very proper British grandmother Mary Louise Deller Knight was never a fan of his, but one thing she definitely was– was a top fan of the British family. So was my Grandfather who listened religiously at noon each day to the BBC News. If anything came on about the Royal family Mary was quickly summoned from her lunch preparations to sit with him listening to details. After that great discussion was had over lunch about what was going on with the Royal family. 

For years I wondered why we had such close knit conversations about the Royal Family and one day, when she felt I was old enough my Grandmother told me. The story stemmed back to my Grandfather’s side living back in London, England. His father was a music publisher and ran British music halls and his Grandfather Henry was a barrister. Henry had a sister that was what Grampy called “worse than Princess Margaret”. 

Louisa was actually a lady in waiting for Queen Victoria and it seemed she was doing more than waiting on hand and foot. In my Grandmother’s terse diction Louisa was said to have “loose skirts”. For years I imagined Louisa wearing baggy skirts until one day while drinking a cuppa tea I figured it all out, and then proceeded to choke with laughter.

Sad to say Louisa was banished from court, but I wish to tell you just in case you are concerned at all– that she ended up marrying quite well. Louisa married a Duke of Essex and her descendants down the line owned the trucking company that hauled the milk for the Nestle Pudding Company. It goes to show you that the proof is always in the pudding as there definitely are no instant pudding stories in my ancestry.

After Harry and Meghan’s vs The Royal Family presentation on Oprah I wondered to myself what my grandparents would have thought about it. I know that my Grandmother would not have put up with it. If you were raised in a British family: it’s a stiff upper lip, even if they chop your head off. My Grandfather would have taken a quick trip to the basement, had a drop of sherry and been totally mortified. He would have looked at my grandmother and said, “Well Mary, they mucked that one up!”

I honestly don’t think they would have understood today’s modern royalty. They also would not have been amused to see their own granddaughter (me) frequently wearing tiaras to the grocery store or for council meetings. But, you know my dentist told me I needed a crown one day and I was like, “I know right?” 

A phone call would have been immediate to their granddaughter who was also writing about the history of  ‘taking sexy back’ with Brothel Bertie (King Edward the VII). My grandparents had a hard enough time with me liking the Beatles, let alone write about King Edward the VII who was secretly called “The Prince of Pleasure”. His royal highness routinely gave his mother Queen Victoria, a royal headache with his frequent trips to the Parisian brothels. They say he literally killed his father when dear old Dad found out what a “luster buster”  Edward was. 

Honestly, there’s nothing really more to say except I am grateful that my Grandparents were not alive to watch The Crown. They would not have been amused, and my Grandfather would be rolling out the Encyclopedias every ten minutes fact checking.

Anyways, the sign of a true Queen is that she holds respect for others, as well as her crown. I agree with Queen Elizabeth, some days you just have to throw on a crown and remind everyone who you are dealing with.

We send to Your Majesty our heartfelt wishes and pray that this year will bring happiness, good health and many blessings as the entire Commonwealth pays tribute to you for your constant service and duty to us all.

God Save the Queen!

The Queen’s Cousins — Locked in a Mental Ward

Taking Sexy Back with Brothel Bertie aka Edward the VII

Communicating About History with Humour? — Jim Sharp Comments

Tales of the Queen’s Underwear and all those “Accidents”

FACT – The Queen is Not Affiliated with Freddie Mercury
Taking Sexy Back with Brothel Bertie aka Edward the VII
The Dolls of Queen Victoria 1899
Should we Change the Name of Victoria Day? Another Assault on Dead People

Too Hot For Teacher Linda Knight Seccaspina

Too Hot For Teacher Linda Knight Seccaspina

Hard to remember those days, but there I am in Grade 3 –third row,  number 4- big smile–blonde Bette Page haircut– soon to have massive dental work done in the 1990s. On the top right hand corner lies our beloved teacher Miss Righton from Cowansville High School. Everyone loved her, especially the boys. There were only two teachers that my fellow male classmates considered ‘’too hot for teacher” when I went to school and they were: Grade 2  teacher Miss Spicer, and my Grade 3 teacher Miss Righton. In a sea of the matronly and the spinsters were two teaching women that wore stiletto shoes and petticoats that peeked out of their 50’s circle skirts. Remember Van Halen’s music video “Too Hot for Teacher” in 1984?  I wondered if anyone ever had a teacher like the video model Lillian Muller in their lifetime.

As I looked in the mirror today I wondered if Miss Righton still looked the same way– or was she still alive? Even though I still think I see the same young person in the mirror at age 70, I know that I am gazing at a mirage. By the looks of also 70 year-old Muller she has had some Botox, a wee bit of plastic surgery (she denies it) and some media photos of herself appear photoshopped.

When I Googled her I was relieved to also find a few unflattering pictures of her. One has to imagine that there has to be a little something sagging under those clothes, and where the heck was her bellybutton on one website photo. Once again, the miracles of Photoshop mysteriously eliminated another body part of a celebrity.

Many years later Muller has made a career as an inspirational speaker and author. Unlike Miss Righton and myself, she has been a raw food vegetarian since she was 27 and has never had a drink in her life. When Muller auditioned for the Van Halen video she thought she wouldn’t get the part because she was 30 at the time. Now, at the

same exact age as myself she is now posing for senior publications instead of Playboy, but really she has not changed much.

Miss Righton and I had parts in the Cowansville Elementary School Grade 3 “stick, triangle and tambourine” band while Muller went on to star as Rod Stewart’s affection in “Da Ya Think I’m Sexy?” video in 1978. Muller also posed in matching white bikinis for a photo shoot with her 21 year-old daughter before she went to college. I can feel quite positive in saying that there is no way that Miss Righton and I followed suit.

Muller is still acting and became the author of “Feel Great, Be Beautiful Over 40” in 1995. She was never married, even though she dated “Magnum P.I.” star Tom Selleck and Hugh Hefner. If I do remember correctly Miss Righton married a country lad, and let’s not get started about my private affairs. 

As I pop my second Arthritis pain caplet into my mouth I salute her and former teacher Miss Righton. Do we women really want to look like Muller and have to maintain an illusion on a daily basis? Personally, I’d rather be me; and besides George Clooney said he was comfortable looking older because it’s better than the other option, which is being dead. High five to that!

Ten years ago today I posted this note to Mrs. Hawke at Cowansville Elementary.- that I wrote in Grade 3 in 1959. Same age as my Granddaughter Sophia. My friend Decker Way put this up on our Cowansville High School group and my late great friend Audrey said I was a suck and her brother Bob said I was blogging before blogging was invented hahah. This made my day

Pour some Sugar on Me– Linda Knight Seccaspina

Pour some Sugar on Me– Linda Knight Seccaspina

I can’t remember what year as a teen I began wearing fashionable tops made out of Sugar Bags. All I know is when I did my grandmother had a fit. It was bad enough I loved corn, but this? My grandfather said in England corn was only fed to the cows– but to purposely show yourself out in public in such a garment was a travesty to the Mary Louise Deller Knight.

My grandmother said all she could think of was the great poverty of the Great Depression. But in my mind there was a romance to the idea that anyone could make something beautiful from something so mundane as an old sack of sugar or flour or anything else.

In truth, feed sacks were used for sewing well before the depression and for several years after.  The evolution of the feed sack is a story of ingenuity and clever marketing. Women looked at these sacks and began to use them for everything in the household and also became popular for clothing items. Manufacturers saw what was happening and they began to print their cloth bags in a variety of patterns and colours.

Every mother and grandmother knew how to sew when I was growing up. Grammy and I would always go to the fabric store and pick out patterns and cloth to make clothes. Unfortunately, my grandmother loved the colour brown, because it was sturdy and basic, much like the sugar bags. I might have been sturdy in size, but I was never basic, and I grew to really not care for the colour brown. 

Truth be known I never liked much colour and still don’t, and even though I had creative genes, sewing wasn’t really my forte. In fact I should have walked away from the sewing machine. But, I pinned, I taped, and if it fell apart, well it fell apart, but the general public got the idea of my styles. I am very grateful the glue gun did not exist in those days– truly grateful.

I had never listened to anyone who tried to talk me out of my views on life, fashion, and being yourself. I was sturdy like the mighty feed bags. At age 15 I marched into the CHS Vice Principal’s office who doubled as a guidance counsellor and told him I would not be returning to school the next year. I also asked for my $10 dollar school book deposit back.

I can still remember to this day where his desk was positioned in the room, and the look on his face that was partially hidden by his oversized spectacles. In a crisp but curt tone he scolded me.

“My dear Miss Knight, what golden path have you chosen for yourself?”

“I am going to be a fashion designer Sir,” I said emphatically.

He got out of chair and perched himself on the edge of my chair and asked me loudly if I was joking. He continued in a loud monotonous drone telling me young ladies became either nurses or teachers. The elderly gentleman suggested that maybe I look into the world of home economics if “I enjoyed sewing”. 

With that I stood up and again I asked him to cut me a cheque for $10.00. With a look of defiance, a shake of his hand, and $10.00, the world was now my oyster

If my grandmother Mary was my foundation for my hard working ethics, then Saul Cohen was the drywall. He expected me to arrive at my job in a children’s wear manufacturer at 7:30 every morning and I had to ask to leave around 7:45 pm at the end of the day. The man worked me to the bone, and I just chalked it up to experience. I worked in the cutting department, sewing, swept floors, did book work, and worked in the show room. There was not one stone that he did not make me turn over, and turn over again.

‘Sauly” was relentless, and when he found out that my Mother had ties to the Jewish religion he made sure I knew about my heritage. Anytime I asked to leave early he would turn around and say to me,

“Do you know how our people suffered?”.

Enough said.

Another person I owe who I am today is the late Morty Vineberg from Au Bon Marche in Sherbrooke, Quebec. I learned the retail trade from the bottom up from him, and to this day, if there is a spot for just 50 items, and I have 300; I can whip that into shape as fast as you can say “bargain designer clothes”. In those days you took pride in your work, listened and worked hard, and you learned from those that knew.

How do you explain to kids today that’s how life was? You don’t– you had to be there– when life was never sugar coated and as sturdy as an old sugar bag.

The 1960s Almonte Fashion Show — Names Names Names

Fashion Faux Pas in the Cemetery

The Poker Face of Corsets and Waist Training -1800s Fashion Comes Back in Style

The Stack Perm or the Disco Wedge ? 1970s Hair Fashion

Pass the Ambrosia! Memories of Cookbooks Linda Knight Seccaspina

Photo is a typical Robin Hood Float that was in every local parade– this one was in Delta 1937)

Pass the Ambrosia! Memories of Cookbooks Linda Knight Seccaspina

Years ago before I went to California I had 100’s of cookbooks. My favourites were the church cookbooks from the local rummage sales and I have given away a lot–but today I still have about a 100 left. 

Remember the well worn coil- bound cookbooks put out by Canadian companies? I still have well-used copies of Robin Hood, Maple Leaf  and Red Rose which are probably museum items now. These little books are full of things our grandmothers used to make, such as dinner rolls, pickles, jams, jellies, and the beloved tomato aspic. 

By today’s standards some of the ingredients are not for healthy eating: canned soup, shortening, MSG and lots and lots of mayonnaise. But these books were especially big on baking and contained classic recipes for breads, cookies, squares, cakes, and especially pies. This is perhaps where their timelessness shines through for everyone.

The recipes from my vintage cookbooks are from times I still remember, and in the 50’s my mother used to make Tuna Pinwheels and Canned Devilled Ham Canapes for her canasta parties. Bernice Ethylene Crittenden Knight was a stickler for an attractive food presentation, and she also made something called Congealed Salad for holiday meals. A combination of Orange Jello, Cool Whip, crushed pineapple, and wait for it, shredded cheese. I think my Dad called it “Sawdust Salad” and I seriously tried to remain clueless as to why. 

I’m sure everyone has a family member that says they’ll bring a “salad” to a family dinner, but then they bring some Jello concoction they found in one of their cookbooks. Bonus points if it has marshmallows in it like the amazing Ambrosia Salad.  Actually, I feel more justified in calling anything a salad if I dump leftover taco beef and salsa onto a little lettuce topped with shredded cheese.

There are many loving memories of my grandmother baking on Saturdays. The old beige crock which held the flour under the cupboards — a hint of yeast — and the mixture of sweat pouring from her forehead. This mixture was placed in loaf pans, and if the day was bright the bread was set out in the sun to rise, otherwise the pans were placed near the big black wood stove which made the room toasty and cozy.

After the dough had risen to twice its size it was quickly placed in the oven. Making bread was only the beginning of the baking day– cakes, pies and cookies followed. There might be homemade applesauce for supper, toast for breakfast, bread pudding and the other delicious dishes which came from my grandmother’s magical kingdom. It was always homemade with love. That meant that I had sneaked the spoon out of the mixture and licked it and no one was the wiser when it was used again.  

The steamed brown bread baked in a can was certainly one of Grammy’s few baking tragedies. It was so horrible my Dad took my Grandmother’s failed recipe target shooting at the Cowansville dump. I would like to think that some of those rats got to feast on one of those brown breads. Of course, maybe after sampling it, they might have wanted to be put out of their misery.

The best is all those hundreds of recipes lovingly collected, saved from the newspapers or magazines, with notes written on the side. Finally assembled into cookbooks, the secrets were still not there. I remember writing down some of my Grandmother’s recipes and next time we made it she had changed the amount of pinches and methods on her recipes.

Despite living in a healthy society, or trying to, cookbooks seem to remain every bit as popular as romance novels and mysteries. Nostalgia triggers a story about our lives, helping us reflect on traditions and moments about the days when our  parents and grandparents were alive. That’s why we should never lose print recipes, and real paper-based cookbooks. 

Those mystery meat recipes, and foods that were the same colour as rainbow radiation will always resonate with us. That’s because we get to see and relive the gravy stained favourites, and the memories of family. If reading about cookbooks has you craving a big slice of cake, you’re not alone. I was always told if you can read you can cook. I can attest that my cooking is so fabulous that even the smoke alarm cheers me along from time to time.

CLIPPED FROM
Standard-Speaker
Hazleton, Pennsylvania18 Jul 1963, Thu  •  Page 22

Funky Soul Stew was Once Cooking in Carleton Place

Pig Candy — Cooking With Chef Dr. Dusty from Ballygiblin’s

What was a Fowl Supper?

Was the Butter Tart Really Invented in Barrie, Ontario? Jaan Kolk Files

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Men that Stare at Balls — Superbowl Sunday February 5, 2102 — Linda Knight Seccaspina

 

Men that Stare at Balls– Linda Knight Seccaspina

The things I know about football:

My father cheered for the losing Toronto Argonauts until he died and even when comedian John Candy took over as owner, he still could not resurrect their life-force.

There is a difference between the CFL and the NFL and it has something to do with the size of the field but don’t ask me about it.

Upon leaving a Canadian University, my best friend’s boyfriend got picked up to play for the Edmonton Eskimos and after a week of practising with men that were double his size he left. The town of Cowansville, Quebec talked about it for at least a year.

I once was a cheerleader for the *Cowansville, Quebec Colts, who only won one football game in two years. I had no idea what they were doing on that field but I can still remember the cheers word for word.

American lobbyist J. C. Watts once played for the Ottawa Rough Riders and was dating one of my staff at the same time. He came to dinner one night and absolutely hated my Italian soup. Watts played football the next day and blamed my soup for feeling ill. No one else was sick so I cursed his game.

When the clock says there is 5 minutes left in the game you know that it’s really somewhere in the neighbourhood of at least 22 minutes.

                                                             Superbowl Sunday February 5, 2102

I have always been on a stadium free diet and knew that “The East Coast Bowl” extravaganza would be on all day.  The only thing I cared about on Superbowl XLVI was the commercials and seeing Madonna. My joys would be the halftime show and eyeing the linesmen bend over during the game. Between you and me there is nothing better than seeing a man in tight pants blocking other players.

If it were not for the commercials and Madge I would rather watch a faucet drip or knit a sweater for the Easter Parade.  Tom Brady’s wife, Brazilian supermodel Gisele Bündchen, did send me one of her mass emails begging me to send good vibes and prayers so her hubby could win the game. Stupid is as stupid does.

Of course I have already watched most of the commercials online but still enjoyed watching David Beckham once again for the same reason I like the linesmen. I still think some of the commercials should be more geared to women. Women are the ones who are busy dishing out stadium style snacks with the Slim Jims lined up in the dip like goal posts.

There is nothing worse than listening to hours and hours of male cheering for those on the field that are getting beaten up and tackled. I have also heard them say that the next best thing to being in the stands is sitting on the couch with friends. Their fragile egos are so geared to sports that if they can’t be out there playing then they like to watch. Note to all the women is that particular view on football seems to be the same way they feel about sex.

This year was the best lip synched show thus far, featuring Madonna and friends. The “Like a Virgin touched for the 3000th time” is nothing but an icon to me. People complained that Madonna could have been the mother of any of the players and everyone wanted to hand her a cane. May I remind you of former older entertainers who also did Super Bowl appearances, like Bono, Springsteen, Aerosmith and the list goes on. I scream double standards and age discrimination and was shocked Betty White was not joining her on stage to do squats and ride the male ponies.

If you were not into football there were the alternatives from the puppy bowl to marathons of AbFab and Downton Abbey. Personally I would take Patsy and Edina’s drunken insanity on AbFab over football any day. I did however vote for Maggie Smith from Downton Abbey for MVP.

Does the football game really say that there is less aggression in women or is it really a matter of a man’s dreams and personal glory? I understand men do not like to explain football to women and I have absolutely no interest in asking why the man in my life does the end zone shuffle screaming,

“We’re number 1!” We’re number 1!”

In the end I may not care for the sport, but I do cherish the few moments during a football game when you can watch a loved one “move like Jagger”. Got to love your personal linesman and worth every second of the irritating sporting event.

Notes from the Peanut Gallery:

What “self-respecting guy” would shell out $14.95 for a pair of Beckams briefs? I can get a 5-pack of boxer briefs at Wal-Mart or Target or Costco for about $12.- Walter B

*Yamaska August 8, 1962

Brome-Missisquoi Junior Football League Schedule

Aug 5 Cowansville Colts vs Farnham Frontenac

Aug 11 Farnham Frontenac vs Knowlton Larks

Aug 18 knowlton larks vs cowansville colts

Aug 25 Farnham Frontenac vs Cowansville Colts

Sept 1 Knowlton Larks vs Farnham Frontenac

Seven 8 cowansville colts vs knowlton larks

Sept 15 Playoffs

Sept 27 Playoffs

Oct 8 Playoff

Yamaska, August 29, 1962

Cowansville Junior Football Club, after a long stand, will host its first game in Cowansville on Saturday, September 1st against the Knowlton Larks. This game will be played at the Municipal Playground, located on Bernard Boulevard, and at 2 PM. There will be a parade if the weather is favorable. She will depart from City Hall at 1hr 15p.m. leading Cowansville Youth Harmony, followed by the league, executive club and players in convertibles. If sometimes it rains, there will be no parade but the parade will still take place at the usual time of 2 P.M. The parade will be rescheduled to next week when Cowansville hosts Farnham Frontenacs.

The Colts will try to hold on to the top spot in the league, having a slight lead over the teams.

Come support your local football league.

The Yamaska Sept 5, 1962

Cowansville Colts play their first game at home. Knowlton Larks win 21-18

The Cowansville Colts were hosted by the Knolwton Larks this past Saturday, September 1. The game took place at the Stadium on Bernard Street in C’ville. Spectators witness a football game being held for the first time in Cowansville. Even though the Larks defeated the Colts by a small three-point margin, these teams displayed a well-balanced game.

The ride was preceded by a parade that rocked City Hall formed by the Cowansville Junior Harmony. She was followed by convertibles carrying Brome-Missisquoi Junior Football League executive and Cowansville Colts Club executive, as well as Horseman M. Armand Beauregard reppin’ the city. Plus the Cowansville players in their blue and white uniforms followed.

The referee was under Mr. Hubert Dubois former Assistant Chief of SRFU and assisted by Dick Ferris of Farnham, Rupert Dobbin of Sweetsburg. A large crowd of supporters were present to support the local club, as well as supporters from Knowlton Larks and Farnham Frontenacs. The latter being the club that will meet Cowansville this week on September 8th at 2 p.m. in the Cowansville township.

Thank you to Cowansville Junior Harmony for showing out during the parade as well as at halftime convertible owners who provided their free help during the parade. Thanks also to Mr Hubert Dubois of the QRFU Montreal has provided his good competition in terms of professional arbitration and it is understood that he will come for future parties. Although the Cowansville Colts lost this game, they are still a great team in the league, and that will be proven at the next game in Cowansville Saturday, September 8th at 2 p.m. vs. Far Frontenacs. Lava.

Come along and support our local club.

The Yamaska 19 Sept 1962

Farnham Frontenacs defeat Cowansville Colts in the last minute it was a surprise 21-19 definite record

COWANSVILLE – In a surprise final, the Farnham Frontenacs lined up to make the winning touch over the Cowansville Colts who will play strongly into the end of the game or the Frontenacs made the final touch to do so win the game. It was apparent that near the final minutes Cowansville’s defensive line was considerably weakened and Farnham’s backfield used a bit of strategy to lock in all the winning points. Colts scored 6-0 in the 1st quarter, 7-6 in the 3rd 19-15 But in the end, the Colts just didn’t look like they were able to go ahead enough to stay near a touchdown margin.

While it was another disappointment for the Colts who just missed a loss to the Knowlton Larks last week, the Colts will play next week for a semi-final first leg, the first ever will be held in Knowlton next sat 15th sept. The second leg will be held at Cowansville, the semi-final will be the series total points between the two clubs. The semi-final winner will play first place with the Farnham Frontenacs in a 2 of 3. Today’s points were counted for Cowansville by: M. Liberty (13), D. Peacock (21), each having a touch, and P. Jordan scores a hit. Farnham was G. Harrison (31), one touchdown, R. Pie (25) two touch, D. Root (27) and H. Takeda got one and two points, respectively.

Colts cheerleaders supported their club perfectly like Farnham’s well organized. M. H. Dubois de Montreal QRFU referee was umpiring the game with the help of Dick Ferris from Farnham and Rupert Dobbin from Sweetsburg. M. A. Just from cowansville was taking minutes and M Ray Tetreault of Farnham was the corrector on these. Young football fans are invited to go to Knowlton for English school semi finals.

Come and support your local club.

Yamaska Oct 17, 1962

In the Brome-Missisquoi Junior League Farnham’s young representatives finished their season in style by winning the Grand Final at Knowlton Larks 24-19

The Horrors of Wool, Bread Bags, and Red Dye Number 7

The Horrors of Wool, Bread Bags, and Red Dye Number 7 Linda Knight Seccaspina

During the 50s because of the baby boom, there was suddenly a high demand for more stylish clothing for children. Many boys began to wear jeans to elementary school– but girls of all ages were still expected–if not required-to wear dresses and skirts for school, church, parties, and even for shopping.

Out of all the outfits I wore as a child I remember my 3-piece red wool winter snowsuit. It was a short red wool swing jacket with matching jodhpurs and a hat. That particular red outfit and enduring Toni Perms would have been enough to drive me to a psychologist for years.  

There was nothing like playing out in the snow with this 3 piece red wool outfit on. I have to wonder what manufacturers and mothers were thinking. It wasn’t warm, and when it got wet it weighed triple its weight. The scratchy wool fabric rubbed my thighs so much that chafing couldn’t even be called a word. 

Red dye number 7 has never been safe for the world, but in the 50s when you removed coloured wet wool your skin matched the shade you had been wearing. It took a lot of scrubbing to get the colour residue off, but nothing was redder than my raw inner thighs. I had matching red rubber boots and sometimes I had to wear bread bags on my feet in those boots to stay dry.

My friends next door hated the snow boots they had to wear. They were black boots with buckles on the front that every male in any generation seemed to wear. They were tough to put on and were even more difficult to remove. Worn over shoes, the heels of your  shoe would tend to become wedged in the narrow neck of those boots.

To remove the boots at school, the boys would have to sit down on the hallway floor and try to unbuckle the now soaking wet buckles, which was difficult to do with cold hands. The boys could never seem to get their feet out of them without a fight. One boot or the other was always stuck halfway off, with one foot seemingly wedged in at some strange angle. Parents thought the solution to this was once again to place empty bread bags over their  shoes before the boots, but it never helped. That idea only caused them to have to deal with wet, empty bread bags along with the boots. At least their parents were there to help in the fight to get the boots on at home, but at school the kids were on their own. By the time those feet got into the still damp boots, the school was nearly empty. 

I hated wearing navy blue school tunics and white blouses and Monday seemed to be the only day I could wear the same white blouse as Friday without anyone knowing. In those days we wore uniforms so everyone would be dressed the same and no one would feel slighted. 

Then there were the tights– yes, the tights. They were so uncomfortable and scratchy that I couldn’t help but complain. I even snuck into one of the church’s closets one Sunday before the service and took the tights off. Unfortunately my Grandmother caught me  without my tights under my Choir robe and told me sternly, ”you have to put them on now!” I told her that they were uncomfortable but she told me I had to wear them for the rest of the church service at least. There just seemed to be something unfeminine about not being able to sit down comfortably with the crotch sagging down to your knees.

Now, most fashion for kids is just as trendy as adult fashion– even more for school. Every style comes back, even if you don’t want it too. Today, you need a small loan to buy a school uniform and as for the bread bags, well, I hear Reynolds Oven Bags, size Large, do a better job than Wonder Bread bags! As for the chafing– at my age my thighs don’t chafe anymore. They just applaud my efforts as I move around.

Stay safe!!

Dressed for winter. Note the storm door and the wooden bucket. No names to protect the innocent.

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