With regards to Milano’s, there was a music store selling new CD’s when I opened the restaurant. It was owned by a guy named Bruce who used to come in for lunch. Great store and he employed several high school students. As a teenager, I spent all of my allowance on music from Sam the Record Man and others, so I thought Bruce’s store was great. He was in business for 5 years, but he told me he wasn’t making enough profit to stay open – that was his time limit to become viable.
After that, it was a sheet music store. It was also a coffee shop called ‘Sounds Like Coffee’ which was run by Roger Weldon and his girlfriend. They marketed to high school students and allowed smoking in their establishment to attract that segment. Then it was Simon Gold.
Proof-I could ride. The girls are from the Richmond area-tin the saddle, left to right-Unknown, Elizabeth Wallace, myself, Rodger Wallace (not related), The couple holding the horses remind me of the Costellos, but can’t be. 1957 or so.
Although I grew up playing/working in the mill area and spent many hours fishing at the pikehole ( readd-Down by the Old Pike Hole–The Island Bridges of Carleton Place- Before and After), I had not heard of a Hackberry tree previous to you mentioning it some years ago. I was intrigued to the point of visiting the area, to satisfy my curiosity, wondering why I had not been previously aware of them.
In my youth, I had spent many hours with my dad, working in the bush (on one end of a crosscut saw-not very good at it; going by the remarks that dad made/shouted at me) and knew the names of most of the trees that grew in the area (all but forgotten now). Particularly a small Ironwood tree that I had decided to chop down. I knew that there had to be a reason for the name and after a prolonged effort, which proved fruitless decided, to go chop a cedar, as I knew that it would bend to my axe.
This tribulation was duly noted by the owner of the farm (Bill Saunderson) since the following summer, he hired me to cut the trees along his fence lines. This appeared to be right up my alley and I looked forward to the undertaking; whereupon, Bill provided me with an axe and a couple of saws (in spite of my previous achievements with a saw). What he neglected to tell me, was that the fence line was really a rock line, populated with stunted trees, of course, some of which were the dreaded ironwood. Of course, loaded with experience, without trepidation, I set upon the upstarts, ending the day with a very satisfactory swath-at least to me.
Bill came to examine the results of my efforts and while I was proclaiming my success, he was eyeing me strangely; scowling as he stared at the axe in my hand, grabbing it, examining the pointy end-well, it should have been pointy. “You ruined a perfectly good axe”, was his wail. I explained (or tried to) that the trees were almost as hard as the rocks and you couldn’t be sure if the trees were at fault or the axe bouncing off the trees into the rocks was the problem. To be sure, this ended my career as a woodsman.
Bill wasn’t sick of me yet and allowed me to work around the farm. He might have been a little bit sick of me as he sent me out to pick weeds from a field of mustard or was it to pick mustard from a field of grain. Anyway, I sucked at that (bending over in all that heat wasn’t to my liking) and looked for opportunities to while away the afternoon and get to the next chore which was more to my liking-also, I had a plan.
The cows spent most of the day in a pasture that included a wooded area. My job was to collect and herd them back to the barn for milking. It was a long walk-Bill had a horse. Almost every cowboy movie included the round up the cows. It must be easy-at least the horse was-throw on a bridle-find something suitable to allow climbing onto the horse’s back-think it was the horse trough (potentially dangerous). The ride to the pasture was quite calming and I had no trouble locating the herd-that was later. I began the roundup but the cows weren’t co-operating, in fact they didn’t seem to be aware of the concept.
Anytime I brought the horse in to play to set them off for home, they would disperse willy nilly and we (the horse and I, the cows) ended up going in circles until I, at the end of my tether, jumped off the horse and tied him to a branch. At which point the cows joined up and headed for the barn, with me following on foot. I had to return later for the horse! Thus ended my farm/cowboy career.
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
Christmas is a very special lime of year, and one that conjures up a flood of memories of Christmases gone by. Most particularly it is a time of year lor sharing warm wishes with acquaintances and friends. So in this holiday spirit the staff of The Gazette would like to share a few memories of our past Christmases with our readers.
Linda O’Connell was one of a large family and the excitement! I remember getting up in the wee small hours of Christmas morning with my brothers and sisters and sitting on the stair steps to watch the clock. Six am was the magic hour when her parents got up and the present unwrapping could begin.
Being from a Catholic family, Angus Mantil remembers the custom of going to midnight mass on Christmas eve. After mass, the family came home and enjoyed their presents right then After the excitement of all the unwrapping, a snack of homemade turkey maybe, and then to bed.
Don Runge has fond memories of the Christmas where he spent on a kibbutz in Israel He and a carload of friends took a trip to Jerusalem on Christmas eve. Don remembers stopping along the way in the middle of the desert on that cold, clear night Being so far away from any sort of Christmas as commercialism was very beautiful, he felt.
Barbara Shenstone recalled a Christmas as when her family was living in Cairo, Egypt. She worried quite a bit about whether Santa would find them in that strange country, and was so concerned for the plight of his reindeer in such unaccustomed hot weather.
Susan Fisher has memories of an extra special treat around the long table at her grandmother’s house. At the Christmas meal the children were allowed to have gingerale in their wine glasses and that was the only time of year ‘junk food’ like soft drinks were allowed.
Allison King remembers large family parties of 10 or more people on Christmas eve. In fact, one Christmas the turkey was so huge her mother couldn’t fit it into the oven.
Doug Lorimer remembers the days before electric tree lights when the family Christmas tree was illuminated with candles. Because of the danger of fire, the candles were lit only for a brief moment while everyone admired the tree.
Bev Dodd also went to midnight mass on Christmas eve with her family Being just a little girl and as it was such a late night, Bcv has memories of falling asleep during the service.
Kerrine Lyons and her family went to her grandparents house after all the presents had been unwrapped. She remembers a great crowd of 10 or 40 aunts, uncles and cousins sitting down to lunch there After all that excitement, the rest of the day was a bit of a let down.
Halloween Hangover Memories– Linda Knight Seccaspina
In the 50s and 60s when I grew up in Cowansville, Quebec socks were darned, baths shared, kids roamed wild, and we licked the cream off the paper tops of milk bottles. As a kid, my mother and I spent the entire month of October, being excited for Halloween and costumes were planned. There was happiness in the air Halloween night with lots of “thank you,” and “please come again” as doorbells rang and the words “Trick or Treat” were heard in the air.
I don’t think in those days that we got that much candy at home so the biggest pillowcases we had came out for the anticipated haul. Our neighbourhood was full of families up and down Albert Street, so we would get apples, Tootsie Roll pops and some paper bags full of candy. Most of the kids that lived on Albert Street climbed the big hill to William Street first. Word on the street was “the best candy in town” was located there. It was the first place I ever saw treat-size chocolate bars, and you could barely move because there were so many children.
My grandmother Mary Louise Deller Knight was not like anyone else. She would have what was called: The Halloween Buffet. She had trays of marshmallow cookies and all sorts of things that parents would advise about taking these days. She would fawn her hands over the table almost like a Price is Right model to all the trick and treaters on South Street.
In 1962 I officially became a Beatnik at the age of 11. There were no official notices, no immediate black clothing; I just got up one morning and started to write bad poetry, and that was that. The primary inspiration was the fact that my father said that Jack Kerouac was a bad influence on young people, and that was enough for me.
That year my Halloween costume was a green wool mohair sweater that barely covered my derriere, thick red tights, and a red beret. Yes, I was dressed as part of the Beat Generation. As one of my friends said it was Halloween and everyone was entitled to one good scare– and I was it he said. It was that time of year that there was a great chill in the air and sometimes it rained, and other times snow challenged us. However, most of us wore a coat over our costume, but I remember never wearing a coat with that Beatnick costume. If I remember it was basically just a sweater, tights and no pants. It was definitely the costume without dignity.
High school came and it was now that part of my life where I wanted to be accepted. Unfortunately fitting in on Halloween included toilet paper, soap and shaving cream. We teepeed quite a few houses with one ply and eggs were thrown. I knew repenting later would not cure mischief, so I declined to participate after that. Thankfully nowadays, deer destroy the carved pumpkins, and eggs are hopefully being celebrated as part of a local food drive.
Nowadays kids seldom know the past joys of trick or treating we enjoyed. Along with non-flammable costumes they only accept gluten free, non GMO, and locally sourced candy. There’s no “App” for the past to portray the scary plastic costumes of witches, vampires or ghouls of days gone by.
When I was attending Cowansville High School we would get a free morning pass to attend All Saints Day services at our local churches the day after. The reality of it all was a lot of us were tired from Halloween the night before, and it was a good way to be “out of focus” for an hour or two. While the drone of the minister’s voice carried through Trinity Anglican Church, there were some of us fast asleep in the back pews.
It took a long time to go through that bag of Halloween candy. By the end of November there was nothing left except those hard taffy kisses wrapped in orange and black wax paper. I can’t remember anything like the Pumpkin Spice flavour to keep the memories of October alive. Now I hear we might even have Pumpkin Spice Xanax for your seasonal anxiety.
Once upon a time, when Halloween came it seemed a great excuse to watch horror movies and eat candy. Now, as the last leaves fall we watch Pumpkin Spice say its last goodbyes and say hello to Eggnog and Gingerbread Lattes and the latest scare fest on Netflix. Gone may be the memories of tomorrow but never stop be-leafing. Don’t forget to turn your clocks back soon– I’m actually changing mine back to when I was 11 and the era of no pants. I’ve heard your pants won’t get too tight if you don’t wear any.
The image in the photo is that of the Service Station and gas pumps where Red Munroe and others worked. The Main Office, Parts Department (Laurie McPhail and others), Service Bays and Paint Shop were located across the road from the Legion. The car lot area had its own service bay located to the rear of the lot which had an upstairs office where all the sales staff were located etc. (Edgar Carroll, Des Smithson, Cameron Smithson, Mike Vaughan and a young Clarke LaRocque). Jack Smithson, my father, was the General Manger and as I recall, Evelyn Lotan provided administrative assistance for the business, Dalton Burns was Finance and Stewart Burns the Owner. I recall that Jack Vanbridger, Elford Giles and Don MacIntosh were the mechanics along. Can anyone else add some other names and details
Omg – that is terrific to see the old golf gas station of my father’s! Thanks for sharing! If anyone has any memorabilia of “Burns Pontiac Buick” I would be happy to pay someone for such items as key chains, callenders etc… please contact me directly!
Yes Tom, Edgar Carroll, Clark Laroque, Des Smithson, Cameron Smithson, Laurie McPhail, Teddy Metcalfe, Hughie Whitten, Mrs Lotan, Mrs Wrigglesworth, Fuzzy Barr, Ray Gallant, Billy Southwell Eddie Gosset and the list goes on!!! Fun time working between the hotel and the Legion haha!!!
Continuing on, Mike: Body Shop>> Ronny Arthur, Frank “Shorty” Morrow, Ray Pretty, Steve Mundt, Ken Brown, Paul Raymond. Front End Alignment>> Don McIntosh. Additional mechanics>> Clarence Hazelwood, Ken Bennett. New Car Prep>> Jack VanBridger. Parts>> Jack Greer. New Car Wash>>Grant McDougall and Mike Villeneuve.
Yes Don—Jack was there often as he owned Almonte Leasing. he stored some tires in the basement at the Gulf station across the street. He leased the 5 ton Flour mill trucks and we would service them on Saturdays!!
My Dad Des Vaughan worked for Jack Smithson in the early 1950’s,but I thought it was across the street from the Legion – can anyone help out with that? Before my time, as it was when he worked for Jack that he met a Bell Telephone operator who worked on Mill Street named Elizabeth, and well, the rest is history. OK, i checked with my mom, and she has corrected me. My dad worked for Gord Hill at Hill Motors
Hill motor was across from superior restaurant. Burns Pontiac Buick was across from the legion
The building on the left that my Dad Don Lockhart grew up in still has my great Grandfather’s safe in it. Unfortunately I don’t think we will ever get it back as my Dad says it would need to be lifted out with a crane.
J.C. started-up a Car Leasing Company as part of Burns Motors, and eventually went on his own working from his basement office. He eventually became the County Registrar in the Land Registry Office until he retired.
For nearly 28 years I think I watched every single episode of the Lawrence Welk Show– or, sometimes it felt like I did. Lawrence Welk was the musical voice of my Popeye candy cigarette generation. His shows carried on for almost 30 years, and after I stopped watching them I knew that my Grandmother and others had not stopped the tradition. In all honesty, Lawrence Welk never ever really went away.
Through the magic of syndication and of course the internet, the late Lawrence Welk still blows his signature bubbles to this day. I was born from a generation that has long forgotten Welk’s music, comparing it to music found in second hand shops or those occasional visits to your granny’s home. Then there were some of the odd things that I will never forget about the program. Maybe they weren’t strange to some, but I couldn’t figure out what kind of allure those Irish tenors had. Or, was there ever really a wrong time to get up and polka?
But, really it was the innocence of it all, something the whole family could watch and enjoy– especially those Lennon Sisters. It was a very different era when they were known as America’s sweethearts with their sugary smiles and angelic voices. Actually, did you know that most of Welk’s musical numbers consisted of pre recorded lip- and finger-sync performances? Finger -synching means accordion player Myron Floren was just tickling those accordion keyboards and not really playing.
Those were the days of no remote control and you had to get up to change the channel. My grandfather not only got up to change it, but he also adjusted the “rabbit ear” antenna on the top of the television set. I can still remember the clicking as it turned to one of the 5 channels we had.
What was watched on television was determined by the elders in your family. Evening television wasn’t watched until dinner was done, dishes put away, and the only television was in the living room.
We watched specific programs at night and never really strayed. Lawrence Welk was a favourite, but so was Hockey Night in Canada on Saturday nights. Then there was the Sunday afternoon Hymn Sing, Ed Sullivan and Bonanza on Sunday evenings, and of course Tommy Hunter’s Country Jamboree on Friday night.
Every Saturday night my grandfather would cross South street to Varin’s Pharmacy and buy a large bar of chocolate. In the winter he would sit in his chair and carefully break apart the bar so we could all share while watching the Admiral television. In the summer the treat would be a bag of Laura Secord Fruit Flavoured Jelly Slices.There are many cosy memories of huddling around the TV set with my grandparents that I will never forget.
My grandfather would only sit in his upholstered chair beside the old radio that he listened to the BBC news on. My grandmother was in her well worn armchair on the left with a stack of Reader’s Digests on the small table along with whatever needed darning that week. I sat on the long blue couch that was covered in plastic that had never been removed since its entry into the house decades ago. It made a loud crunch each time you sat on it, and the plastic stuck to you in the summer heat. But, everyone covered their couches in those days to preserve its beauty, and it was as normal as having a daily cup of tea. Today, I wondered if they all had been secretly preparing for a virus.
I still occasionally watch Lawrence Welk on PBS and memories of my ageing neighbour comes to mind who loved this show too. In the mid mark of her dementia a few years ago she and I were watching a rerun of the famed bandleader and she turned to me and quietly said during a commercial,
“You know dear, I’ve always liked Lawrence Welk. But, I think he was better before he died.”
Now that statement was worth any bar of accordion music any day of the year. Thanks for the memories Mr. Welk!
Sometimes people drop the nicest things in your mailbox. Last week I got a photo and a message from Pat McFarlane. Thanks Pat! It was all about the Storyland Bunny that sits in my yard.
Keep sending those memories in!!
The Storyland Bunny was a great joy to their family and visitors. John and her husband Richard ( Dick) met when we were all much younger before children at the Bank of Montreal. In those days we all got transferred often and kept track of our friends.
We visited John and Maria in Renfrew on our honeymoon ( before Storyland) and we kept in touch when he lost Maria.
The boys on the top left are Richard (Toronoto) and Kevin (Carleton Place).The young boy in red I have no idea.
Ronald (Toronto)- Girl in yellow top is Kristal, Carleton Place.
Was it Because I Have AB Positive Blood? Element #1
I was told by my doctor once that 10% of the world’s population has AB Positive blood and it’s where I get my “oddness” from. Funny, I never thought I was odd! All I knew was I didn’t want to end up in the military like my Father had daily visions of. It had come to his attention many times that I was different, and I stuck out like a sore thumb in my rural hometown in Quebec. When your father is a prominent municipal fixture, and the only electrician in town, word travels around like a bush fire that your daughter is weird or a character as they called me. Honestly, there are lots of people like myself, and then there are those that pretend not to be.
My friend Wanita Bates said something once that made complete sense to me after all these years.
‘Linda, some of us have gifts to feel what is going to be in style, and you and I are one of them.” When I had my store I was way ahead of fashion trends, but when major retailers grabbed on to it and money making was involved–I was long out of it.
So after heated arguments with my father, I left home and headed to Montreal, Quebec. I attended fashion design school on Bleury Street where I became instantly bored. Instead of great 60’s fashion and styles that I was expecting my teacher made me make pattern after pattern of 1950’s styles. After classes, I would venture into store after store, just absorbing the culture and the fashion.
After almost completing my course, I decided I needed to find a job. Well Twiggy, Mary Quant, and all the Carnaby Street styles were afloat and guess who was wearing them? My Dad was getting remarried and gave me $75 dollars to buy something for his wedding. Being the drama queen I purchased a black velvet Twiggy mini dress and a black floor length Dr. Zhivago style coat. It was a real floor duster with black faux fur trim, and Omar Sharif would have been proud.
So when I went for job interviews I insisted on wearing the same “ultimate”outfit I wore to the wedding. Most clothing manufactures were not into the “Carnaby look” yet and I was told time after time, “Kid, get yourself another coat”. In layman’s terms I was scaring all these fashion people with my wardrobe. Defiant, I kept wearing it. A few weeks later I got my dream job. It was working for trendy Le Chateau on Ste. Catherine Street hemming pants. It was their first store, and their clothing styles were worn by anyone who wanted to be someone. I was right up their alley– or so I thought.Sadly, I only got to work there for about 6 months, as I was basically hired for the Christmas rush. In those few months I got to meet the Montreal trendsetters, wore “Gabardine Mod” pants, and so began my lifetime eating disorder. But, it was a time I will never forget, and believe fashion has never been so exciting. Just being able to sneak into the Boiler Room on Crescent Street and watch fashion happen was mind blowing.For some reason only known to God, I was just not ‘cool” enough to work as a salesperson in their store, and rent had to be paid. In the middle of the coldest winters ever I hauled my derriere all over the Island of Montreal looking for a job.
I finally found a job at The Fine Togs Clothing Co. It was a childrens manufacture run by Blossom and her husband Hy Hyman. Actually Blossom ran the company and Hy smiled a lot and played golf. They thought I was a spunky kid and if I had stayed there, I would have probably be retiring from the company about now. They were good people.
If my grandmother Mary was my foundation for my hard working ethics, then Saul Cohen was the drywall. He expected me to arrive 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 been born to a Jewish Mother 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.
One day he decided that I was ready to represent the company selling their clothing line at the Place Bonaventure clothing mart. He told me I had to have, no, must wear, something conservative.So I did what every other girl my age did. I went to Sears and bought “The Suit”. It was navy blue, a box jacket complete with a knee length pleated skirt. I had red shoes and red earrings to match. That was the last time I wore something so conservative. It just wasn’t me.
I applaud Saul for everything he taught me and how someone actually got me into something that wasn’t black. Word got around the clothing market about me and I was soon hired by a competitive children’s wear company run by Palestinians. Yup, I was no peace maker between the people of Israel and Palestine, but this was a time I will never ever forget.
Every year my father, Arthur J. Knight would be in charge of the electrical work for the BIG BROME FAIR and my sister Robin and I would be there all weekend. My grandmother would pack egg salad sandwiches and bottles of orange crush soda, and we would just spend the days there eagerly awaiting the evening show. We saw the great high wire acts, magicians, and even motorcycles riding up thin wires into the crowd from the “electrical pigeon box” above the stage. The acrobats were always my favourite and gave me goosebumps on my arms.
As a child I always had a smiling face as I walked a cow for the 1 o’clock livestock parade, and I can still hear the snorts of the horses pulling decorated wagons behind us. How could I not remember the rides that made me sick or dizzy while listening to the screams of the kids exiting the Fun House?
Saturday it all came back to me as my friend and I walked around a local country fair. It was warm, and there was no mistaking some of the scents floating through the air. We spoke about the baking contests we had entered as children–hoping to win a coveted prize ribbon. As we glanced at all the entries, we imagined how delicious it would be to sample a few at that particular moment in time.
We walked by the jams and jellies and knew that someone had worked really hard for the perfect batch. One of our favourite handicrafts was a shadow box with a vintage infant wool coat in it. Glancing at the photo inside, I knew it was once worn by the child and this memory box would now be with them for generations.
A woman in a pioneer dress carefully spun her hand dyed wool. We knew if we had lived in the past we too would have been spinning yarn to make wool sweaters for our children. Life was simple then – when no one wanted a brand name and they just wanted something cozy and warm.
I ached to go back to the age of 13 and dance to the sounds of Johnny Rivers coming out of the jukebox in one of the Brome Fair tents. After I could dance no more, a hot bag of buttered popcorn was next, and then I would try my luck at one of the games. If I was lucky I might win a small silver bracelet and they would personally engrave it on the spot. Instead of my name I would have had them etch a boys’ name I had a crush on and giggle while I watched him do it.
As children we used to watch in awe at those who were brave enough to ride the wild rides. My favourite was the Ferris Wheel. I loved it when they stopped at the top and the chair would swing back and forth. The last few years I have found the Ferris Wheel therapeutic as I find myself closer to heaven as I sit at the top. When I finally get up there I feel like my late sister is looking down at me and still shaking her head that I am still too afraid to ride the wild rides.
As I get older I search for memories to cherish and pass on to my sons and their families. Hopefully one day when I am long gone my friend will think back to the afternoon we spent together at the fair. I am sure she will remember that it was way too hot, the cow barns were very smelly, and I took way too many pictures. But, she will remember the joy on my face and the shared bits of my life that she will pass on to her children.
When I had my store in Ottawa I would get all sorts of circus performers shopping in my store that reminded me of the country fairs. Cirque De Soleil, Barnum and Bailey and finally one day “la piece de resistance” — The Moscow Circus. They came into the store in a huge group and could not speak English. I finally figured out they wanted flesh coloured Danskin fishnet hose for their high wire /acrobat costumes and purple feather boas for costume trim.
After 30 minutes with a dictionary and hand gestures I had all the women outfitted.They were thrilled and immediately all jumped into a pyramid in the middle of my store much to the delight of my customers. I smiled from ear to ear as they gave me a decorated Russian spoon for my service and I wished I could have been one of them.
My memory is still filled with past thoughts of the country fairs, but is also measured out with 7 colourful wooden spoons in a jar that sit on one of my kitchen counters given to me by the Moscow Circus over the years. In reality the memories of the Big Brome Fair will never ever leave town in my life because you can’t buy memories like that no matter how hard you try.
Brome Fair Launched in 1856, Brome Fair is an annual agricultural fair which takes place every Labour Day weekend. It is the largest rural agricultural fair in Quebec. For over 160 years, it has welcomed visitors from near and far, giving them ”a taste” of what agriculture is today- 345 Chem. Stagecoach, Brome, QC. Have Fun for me!