burnt
Well-known member
Maybe I was just born in the wrong century because it seems things were, in some ways, better they way they were. A recent drive I took through the area where I was born inspired these thoughts -
Original Design
Historical Values?
The return leg of a delivery run recently afforded the leisurely opportunity of a trip down the Bronson Line through my old hometown of Blake, Ontario. Okay, "town" might be a slight exaggeration - don't blink or you'll miss it - but the "home" part stands unassailable. It was so much the same, yet so much changed since we left there almost 50 years ago.
The tiny hamlet was bracketed by old familiar names on the Bronson mailboxes like Klopp and Steckle, and now, Mathonia on the farm where I was born. Pete Gingerich's old barn still guards the northern entrance of Blake, while on the opposite approach the old blacksmith shop that once thrived under the masterful hand of Amos Gingerich has surrendered its space to a newer shop. But I'm sure there must still be a few sparks from Amos' welding torch sailing somewhere in the cosmos.
While some of the names have changed, the topography never does and in my mind's eye I could still see us tobogganing down the steep face of Baechler's Hill. Like the time I split my lip open on the back of Cousin Dale's very hard head when our toboggan dove headlong into a large, unyielding drift at the bottom. Tough ride, but that hole healed.
And like a tireless sentinel in the heart of the hamlet, the Blake General Store still stands. It now deals only in memories for the many that once depended on it for their weekly supply of everything. Groceries, cloth, hardware, Master Feeds - or 15 cents for an 8 oz. Coke and candy bar.
For almost 29 years my Mom and Dad ran that store until it closed in the late '60s, making a livelihood by selling bread for 25 cents a loaf or pumping B/A gas for 40 cents a gallon. I believe that Sam Walton grew his vast chain on the general store model, yet never matched their efficiency and certainly not the personal element. The hamlet still seemed to hold echoes of Mom's cheery whistle, one which belied the inevitable challenges and adversities in her busy life. And one of Dad's quiet mantras, "Live and let live", floated to mind.
However, those memories were pushed aside as I stood outside one of the older buildings in Hay Township, the former Blake Mennonite Church. It was through those windows that I formed an early view of the world and outside this front door that Pastor Ephraim Gingerich would greet his parishioners with a warm handshake and friendly smile after the Sunday morning service.
Then, my buddy Mervin and I would race to the hand pump on the well in front of the church house. Taking the chipped, enamel cup from its nail on the huge elm tree that shaded the entrance, we filled it repeatedly from the pump and drank almost to the bursting point. Did anyone worry about testing water or "community cups" back then?
Sadly, this little church, built in 1885 and one of the oldest Mennonite church buildings in Ontario, has since been demolished, replaced by the much bigger, new construct at the back of the lot. Clearly, in our un-European mentality as demonstrated here, preserving tradition for tradition's sake counts for little. And like most other areas in life, present need and growth trump historical value.
But while gazing across the church cemetery where headstones bore the names of both my parents and paternal grandparents, I was suddenly struck with a sense of my own mortality, realizing that the cold, hard granite will accept the etching of any surname. We seldom contemplate this truth. We live as if the only reaper we will ever encounter is the one we drive up and down our fields at harvest time. Indeed, we need to work to live.
But historical values – a cheerful attitude toward adversity, leaving room for others, forging relationships over the cup - are these too easily rendered disposable by our press for bigger and better, to disappear like an "outdated" church building?
JES/5/2013
Original Design
Historical Values?
The return leg of a delivery run recently afforded the leisurely opportunity of a trip down the Bronson Line through my old hometown of Blake, Ontario. Okay, "town" might be a slight exaggeration - don't blink or you'll miss it - but the "home" part stands unassailable. It was so much the same, yet so much changed since we left there almost 50 years ago.
The tiny hamlet was bracketed by old familiar names on the Bronson mailboxes like Klopp and Steckle, and now, Mathonia on the farm where I was born. Pete Gingerich's old barn still guards the northern entrance of Blake, while on the opposite approach the old blacksmith shop that once thrived under the masterful hand of Amos Gingerich has surrendered its space to a newer shop. But I'm sure there must still be a few sparks from Amos' welding torch sailing somewhere in the cosmos.
While some of the names have changed, the topography never does and in my mind's eye I could still see us tobogganing down the steep face of Baechler's Hill. Like the time I split my lip open on the back of Cousin Dale's very hard head when our toboggan dove headlong into a large, unyielding drift at the bottom. Tough ride, but that hole healed.
And like a tireless sentinel in the heart of the hamlet, the Blake General Store still stands. It now deals only in memories for the many that once depended on it for their weekly supply of everything. Groceries, cloth, hardware, Master Feeds - or 15 cents for an 8 oz. Coke and candy bar.
For almost 29 years my Mom and Dad ran that store until it closed in the late '60s, making a livelihood by selling bread for 25 cents a loaf or pumping B/A gas for 40 cents a gallon. I believe that Sam Walton grew his vast chain on the general store model, yet never matched their efficiency and certainly not the personal element. The hamlet still seemed to hold echoes of Mom's cheery whistle, one which belied the inevitable challenges and adversities in her busy life. And one of Dad's quiet mantras, "Live and let live", floated to mind.
However, those memories were pushed aside as I stood outside one of the older buildings in Hay Township, the former Blake Mennonite Church. It was through those windows that I formed an early view of the world and outside this front door that Pastor Ephraim Gingerich would greet his parishioners with a warm handshake and friendly smile after the Sunday morning service.
Then, my buddy Mervin and I would race to the hand pump on the well in front of the church house. Taking the chipped, enamel cup from its nail on the huge elm tree that shaded the entrance, we filled it repeatedly from the pump and drank almost to the bursting point. Did anyone worry about testing water or "community cups" back then?
Sadly, this little church, built in 1885 and one of the oldest Mennonite church buildings in Ontario, has since been demolished, replaced by the much bigger, new construct at the back of the lot. Clearly, in our un-European mentality as demonstrated here, preserving tradition for tradition's sake counts for little. And like most other areas in life, present need and growth trump historical value.
But while gazing across the church cemetery where headstones bore the names of both my parents and paternal grandparents, I was suddenly struck with a sense of my own mortality, realizing that the cold, hard granite will accept the etching of any surname. We seldom contemplate this truth. We live as if the only reaper we will ever encounter is the one we drive up and down our fields at harvest time. Indeed, we need to work to live.
But historical values – a cheerful attitude toward adversity, leaving room for others, forging relationships over the cup - are these too easily rendered disposable by our press for bigger and better, to disappear like an "outdated" church building?
JES/5/2013
