Howe Island Stories
Submitted by Kristin Zita;
Memories of Howe Island, circa 1937
My Dad, Bob Fitzgerald, visited Howe Island for the very first time back in 1937. He was just seven years old at the time, but fortunately a few impressions of his trip have remained lodged firmly in his head in the 66 years since he made the journey to the " family home".
For background information, Michael Pickett and Mary Ellen Mohan were my Dad�s great grandparents. William John Fitzgerald and Elizabeth Pickett were his grandparents. My Dad was born in Toronto in 1930 to William John Fitzgerald (Jack) II and Stella Dickinson.
It was a dark and dreary night when Jack, Stella and the boys (my Uncle Bill, two years older than Bob, also made the trip) arrived at the Howe Island ferry after an 8 or 9-hour drive from Toronto. The main ferry was closed, so they had to go to the one used only during storms. Only two cars fit on the barge, and my Dad remembers his grandfather Pickett standing at the back of the ferry, navigating it across the river.
He also remembers the combination store and gas station that stood at the site of the main ferry � near Pickett�s lane. He said there was a "tough old broad" who ran the store and pumped gas. She came out in rubber boots and a full-length trench coat to give the weary travellers gas. He remembers her as "quite a character" but doesn�t know her name, and doesn�t know if he ever did. She�s one of those memorable people who don�t play a large role in your life, but still manage to make an indelible impression nonetheless.
They stayed at the "family home" on the island, which was once Michael Pickett�s homestead. It was the first time my Dad � a city kid � had ever stayed on a farm. One thing that stands out in his mind was the sound of the rooster crowing. He had never heard one before and was shocked at how loud and how early it crowed, especially since sleep didn�t come easy to Bob, who was wearing brand new pajamas his Mom had sewn especially for the trip. The inseams were rough � no doubt because the pajamas were made of the most cost-efficient, depression-era material his Mom could find � and he was in agony every night. Between the pajamas and the rooster it was a wonder he slept at all!
But sleep he did -- enough to give him lots of energy for playing and for exploring the farm. In fact, he explored a cow pie. Close up. He left a boot wedged firmly in the middle of one particularly large specimen, and hasn�t seen it since. He still wonders about the fate of the boot � wonders if it might still be there, encased in a 66-year-old pile of cow manure.
Prior to the trip Stella was warned that cleaning up a 7-year old farm kid was very different than cleaning up a 7-year old city kid. I�m sure that was never more obvious to her than the afternoon Bob wandered back to the farmhouse wearing one boot and one particularly muddy sock.
My Dad also remembers a tall, white-haired lady with a big bun in her hair. They called her "Aunt Nell Pickett" but she was more likely a much older cousin. She had the classic Pickett shape � or lack thereof. She wore a dress that covered her from neck to toe and cinched up what she could with a white apron. She made mashed potatoes with a big fried egg right on top. Along with roosters and cow pies, this was new to Bob, and like the gas station lady, he�s never forgotten it.
My Dad and I visited the island together back in 1991. It was my very first trip and his first in probably 50 years. We were taken aback by the beauty and charm of the island � and by the kindness of its people. During one visit we spent the better part of an afternoon in the beautiful sitting room of Jack and Joan Kane�s house on the river. They had recovered a backpack full of research that I�d forgotten in St. Philomena�s church days earlier and kept it safe until we could return to get it.
I was glad to have a chance to experience the island with my Dad. It really is a magical place, mostly because of the memories it holds, but also because of the people � those living and those long gone � that still call it home.
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