Too Short - Day 14

Today was my last day in Canada, and I'm not ready to go home by any means.  I do miss my puppy; I do miss my kitties. But with more time, I could do so much more research!  I know.  I HAVE TO COME BACK.

And this proves it:

My official ID for the Library and Archives of Canada (you can't use the archives without one) does not expire until 2018.

What a peculiar place for these days and times.  Roaming security personnel, but no metal detectors at the archives.  Lockers are provided for backpacks, but you can use your own computers and notebooks.  And the librarians are friendly and helpful.

After leaving the Archives, I took a short stroll down the Boulevard of Confederation.  The Parliament building is impressive, but my favorite building was the Supreme Court:

BTW, Canada's first female chief justice of the Supreme Court was appointed by Pierre Trudeau.  Her name was Bertha Wilson and she was an immigrant, born in Scotland.

When I needed to make a U-turn (having passed the entrance to Archives' itty-bitty parking lot), I accomplished said turn by taking the sweeping drive around the front of the Supreme Court building, which was protected by a single police cruiser.  Obviously, not Washington, DC.

Parliament is further along the Boulevard.  Sadly, I did not meet the PM.  The Parliament building is also magnificent, even though its gothic style is in stark contrast to the Court building.

We Americans too often ignore this country to our north.  We shouldn't.  Or we assume that Canada is just like the U.S.  It isn't.

I think a lot about the lessons that the U.S. could learn from Canada.  First, you don't have to come from the U.S. to be an American; folks from the U.S. and Canadians are all north Americans.  Second, Canada practices its own flavor of exceptionalism:  the second largest country in the world in terms of space; a highly diverse and welcoming culture; prosperity appears to abound (everywhere I looked in Ottawa, I saw construction; everywhere I drove, I found roads well maintained and/or under construction; and childhood poverty is half that in the U.S.); instead of fighting endless wars, Canada proudly concentrates its military activity on peacekeeping around the world.   Sure, it's not all beer (I've had good beer too) and hockey.  But it's a pretty cool place regardless.

Nord, Sud, Ouest, Est - Day 13

Quebec was not on my itinerary.  In fact, Quebec was specifically excluded from my itinerary because my French is very rusty.  But Lake Champlain, a very large body of water, intervened, in a very large way.  Ferries, with their unsatisfactory schedules, were definitely not in my plans.  Thus, north from Burlington into Quebec was my only other feasible route from Burlington, VT, USA, to Cornwall, Ontario, and then to Ottawa.

Before I go on, let me mention the wedding (Day 12), which was held outdoors overlooking that massive Lake that borders Burlington.  It was a beautiful wedding for a couple that appears as happy as any I've ever seen.  The Unitarian minister who oversaw the ceremony was generous enough to acknowledge the "conscientious objectors" among the guests.  Thus concludes the religious portion of this ritual.  The other excellent feature of this wedding is that I got to visit with my old friends Tim and Rosanna, Gladys and Victor from Maryland.

Also before I go on, let's think a little bit about that Lake.  I did, as I was driving due north -- nearly to Montreal -- in order to go northwest from Burlington into Ontario.  Early European settlers and Native Americans before them had to deal with that enormous Lake in their travels.  Did they simply ignore it and mostly go north-south?  How, if at all, was east-west travel possible?  This body of water doesn't appear to be canoe-friendly.  How much later did the Europeans have larger boats (bateaux, if I recall, were used during the American Revolution)?  I need to learn more about those travel routes.  In the meantime, on to Quebec ...

Did I mention that my French is rusty?  And the Quebecers are not so good as the Ontarians in making their highway signs bilingual.  In fact, all the highway signs in Quebec are unilingual ... French.  Nonetheless, I did my best.  I greeted the Canadian border guard with a friendly Bonjour (thank goodness, he switched us to English), and I was able to order coffee at Tim Horton's en français.  I did at least as well as the voice of Ms. GPS in conducting today's business in French.  In addition, in the English portion of my immigration interview, I assured my border guard that I wasn't one of "those Americans" when he asked if I was traveling with weapons.

Other than the highway sign challenge, today's portion of Quebec was lovely, in fact.  Primarily farmland, oodles of siloes, a whole cornfield bordered by daylilies, a large, happy patch of sunflowers.  Delightful.

Language notwithstanding, Ms. GPS and I made it to Cornwall (back in Ontario where the signs are bilingual), found the Trinity Anglican Church and its associated cemetery, and ... and ... no dead ancestor anywhere.  I have a photograph of the marker I sought, but it was. not. there. among the couple of dozen markers remaining in the old, shady cemetery.  Let it be noted that this is not the first time that "findagrave.com" has misled me.  I did find this, however, erected at the front of the cemetery:

Trinity Anglican Church Cemetery, Cornwall

Truly, I believe this was the right place, and since the photo I've seen shows a marker in pristine condition, I wondered if it might be inside the church.  Which was locked, of course.  This time, it being Sunday and everything and everywhere that otherwise might provide information being closed, I decided to move on to Ottawa.

Cornwall to Ottawa is a cross-country trip, with very little highway except as one gets close to the city.  But even after the sign for "Ottawa, Population 900,000," the landscape remains rural.  And stays that way.  I got off the highway as instructed, ostensibly headed toward the airport and my airport hotel.  And I followed country road after country road, turn after turn.  I was certain Ms. GPS had lost her mind and we were going in circles.  Then, finally, we arrived.  I love Ms. GPS, even when I have no idea where we've been.

I am in a nice, new-ish hotel, a Hilton Garden Inn.  When I walked into my 8th floor room, I was truly shocked.  I don't think I've ever seen such a huge hotel room.  I could have a party!  I could invite my dead ancestors (except they probably wouldn't take up much space).  In addition to enough floor space for a dance, I have an enchanting easy chair and ottoman, which are too distant from the TV for optimal viewing.  So, I'll move the furniture.  The view outside?  I overlook the FedEx flight operations center, but beyond the runways (there went an Air Canada flight!) is a forest.  I think I found the perfect place to end my trip.

Biggest Hotel Room Ever

Hello, FedEx!

Bye Bye, Martin Van Buren - Day 10

Genealogy is an inexact science.  This morning I discovered that my connection to Martin Van Buren, POTUS #8, is fiction.  I'm not sure how I made it up from available documentation.  Oh, well.  Easy come, easy go.

I discovered an interesting factoid about MVB, however:  He was the first President who was a natural born citizen of the United States; all the prior ones were born in British colonies.  How does that work, given that the President has to be a natural-born citizen, according to the Constitution?  Of course, I looked it up.  The Constitution says,

"No Person except a natural born Citizen, or a Citizen of the United States, at the time of the Adoption of this Constitution, shall be eligible to the Office of President;..." [emphasis added]

Seven Presidents fell under that second, essential clause.  I wonder how much negotiation it took to reach agreement on that language at the Constitutional Convention.

Today's goal was to visit the cemetery in Kinderhook where Van Buren and many dead ancestors (the real ones) reside.  I expected the Kinderhook Reformed Church Cemetery to be co-located with the Kinderhook Reformed Church.  Silly me.  But this lost cemetery (a pattern?) gave me an opportunity to go into the church (open!) and talk to a live human.

The human with whom I spoke was assistant to the pastor, very friendly and generous.  He turned on the lights in the sanctuary just for me to look around.  He told me the history of the church, which has been destroyed and damaged multiple times over its life.  Today's church has a magnificent interior:  beautiful, areligious stained glass windows, glistening organ pipes in a real organ loft, and a soaring ceiling very Dutch in design and feel.

Once I had directions to the cemetery, I asked if the church had ever been located there.  I explained that I had read a story in the Lennox and Addington Archives that Jan Martense and Dirckje Harmense (they died in the 1680s) were buried under the church.  My informant responded with considerable surprise.  He said that bones had been discovered during excavation for one of the church reconstructions.  No one knew whose bones they were, so they were reburied in place under the church.

The cemetery is vast, split into two sections by a country road.  One side is clearly older than the other, so I concentrated my efforts, row by endless row, on the older side.  Probably 80% of the markers are so eroded by time and elements that they are completely illegible.  Lost history, everywhere.  Yet, my visit was productive.  I considered skipping the other side, which was clearly newer.  But with only a brief review, I found that the new side's center section also bore fruit.  Now all I have to do is match up the photos I took with the names I have uncovered for my ancestor tree.  That should keep me busy for a few months!

Reflecting on today's efforts, I realize that, except for the oldest ones, American ancestors don't hold the same excitement for me as the Canadian ones.  Should I have expected that?  Is this simply a reflection of my anti-American-exceptionalism bent?  I think both are worthwhile questions to consider as part of this who-am-I and where-do-I-come-from journey.

Tomorrow I take a break from the search for dead ancestors.  But I'll have lots of stories to share with my friends when I meet up with them in Burlington.  Bernie, here I come!

Welcome to the U.S.A. - Day 9

The welcoming message came from the GPS voice.

But first I hit the Adolphustown archive as soon as it opened ... only to find their Internet down.  I learned, however, that records are maintained, often on paper, at the office that received the UEL certification request.  But identifying the right office requires the Internet.  Fortunately, I now know "the key" and more about the distributed recordkeeping of the UEL.

Next stop:  Canajoharie, New York.  That's where the Van Alstyne Homestead still stands.  Surprisingly, it is tucked into a nice residential neighborhood of mostly older homes.  But since it was built in 1749, I guess the neighborhood did the tucking.  The house -- clearly Dutch colonial -- appears from the outside to be in extraordinarily good shape.  It's only open on Saturdays, so exteriors are all I have.

Getting to Canajoharie was a LONG schlep, even with no waiting at the border.  I didn't choose "Ignore Highways" on the GPS machine, but I still ended up traversing New York by backroads.  After all, I was taking a diagonal route, or would have been, if I had been a crow.

I spend multi-hour drives accumulating odd observations:  The grass had not been mowed along most of the country roads, but the grass along the road at Ft. Drum had been shorn like the head of a private entering boot camp.  I ignored the turnoff to Poland, but I drove through Denmark and Lowville.  Lowville -- isn't that somewhere in a Dr. Seuss book?  And you know those round bales of hay encased in plastic that we see back home?  The ones that look like giant marshmallows?  Well, in New York they don't look like marshmallows.  They're still round, but they are yards and yards and yards long, still encased in white plastic.  They look like mammoth, white hay sausages.  Entertaining.  Finally, for safety, the New York State Thruway has created "text stops."  That's right.  Unserviced spots along the Thruway for the sole purpose of pulling off to read or send a text message.

ICYMI today from the CBC:  Canada has just instituted a new policy to provide cash benefits to lift more children out of poverty.  Just imagine that.  Justin Trudeau's government has this notion that income and poverty are related!  With this policy, Canada expects to reduce the child poverty rate from about 11% to less than 7%.   In case you want to compare, the U.S. has a child poverty rate of 22%.  (That U.S. statistic is my addition.  The CBC never mentioned that Canada already has a child poverty rate half that of the U.S.  Before this new policy to do better.)

Plan Twice Visit Once - Day 8

Ooopsy.  Today was my day to visit Adolphustown, founded by Major Peter Vanalstine, the big kahuna of Loyalists and ancestor extraordinaire, in 1784.  Adolphustown sits on the edge of Lake Ontario with a massive campground (bring your tents and RVs), the Loyalist monument and burying ground (most graves unmarked), and a museum/archive/research centre.  This is the United Empire Loyalists Heritage Centre.  All wonderful things, except the museum/archive is closed on Tuesday.

Entrance to UEL Cemetery

UEL Monument

UEL Museum / Archives

Oops! 

 Although I am leaving Napanee tomorrow for New York, I will do so with a detour through Adolphustown.  I can't miss the archive.  I still have Loyalist ancestors to research!

The day was not lost, however.  I took the Loyalist Parkway along Lake Ontario on my way back to Napanee.  A shocking number of things are named "Loyalist":  Loyalist Township, Loyalist Orchards, Loyalist Country Club, etc. etc.  And Britsh flags fly!  Sometimes in concert with Canadian flags, sometimes alone; never with American flags, of course.  I wish I had counted them on my way from Adolphustown to Bath (yes, Bath).

On my drive today, I marveled at the change in landscape -- I've gone from serious timber country to equally serious farmland.  A trip that began with forests and hills up north has morphed into flat farms sporting massive fields of corn, golden grasses (wheat?), and short, unidentified crops.  My limited knowledge of geology tells me that the northern reaches were carved out by glaciers (evidence all the lakes) and not much grows there, lacking topsoil.  Here, on the other hand, the land has been more gently treated by time and therefore can support agriculture.  At least, that's my story.

Not spending hours in the Adolphustown archive also gave me the opportunity to visit the Lennox and Addington Museum and Archives in Napanee.  I did spend hours there and clarified a few weirdnesses in my ancestor tree.  I also read stories about an impressive ancestor, a woman, Dutch in origin, who was said to have kept bees, represented her spouse in land deals, kept her own account book, and won cases in court, when the need arose.  She emigrated with her spouse and two children from the Netherlands in 1655, so all this occurred in the late 17th/early 18th century--WOW.

Finally, ICYMI, I have to share two of the biggest news stories from the CBC today:  First, Canada is only mentioned once in the Republican platform.  The Republicans are supporting construction of the Keystone pipeline.  That's the only mention of Canada; nothing about building a wall.  (The latter came directly from the reporter's mouth.)  Second, Canada is having a Cover-Oregon style meltdown.  In this case, it is the inaptly named "Phoenix system," which is supposed to process payroll for Federal employees and pensioners.  Except it isn't working.  Hundreds of people are not getting paid and the authorities are scrambling to get payments out, sometimes in cash.  It seems that IT contractors are the same, regardless of which side of the border they're on.

Maynooth to Napanee - Day 7

Up bright and early, left Maynooth, and hit the road to Napanee, arriving early enough to visit Riverside Cemetery where a number of my dead ancestors reside.

And glad I was to have arrived early.  Riverside is HUGE, and in order to collect all the ancestral residents, I walked it all, every lumpy square metre.  Fortunately, Riverside has lots of trees that semi-protected me from the blazing sun.  Those trees were also seriously blowin', so I did a fair amount of chasing my hat and hoping that a weak limb didn't come crashing down on me.  These are observations, not complaints:  without the wind I would not have survived.

After Riverside, I checked into my hotel and set off for the local, air-conditioned public library.  They had a different collection of local history books, which is not surprising given their proximity to Adolphustown (tomorrow's goal).  I also learned about a county museum (maybe time tomorrow) and Family Papers filed in the Archives of Ontario.  The latter, of course, are in Toronto, not Ottawa.  I must come back!  And I should do it in the winter.

Napanee, which may be the same as Greater Napanee (haven't figured that one out), is much larger (multiple Tim Horton's) than the places I've been previously.  Big box stores on the outskirts, with a downtown that reminds me of Corvallis -- old-ish, short-ish buildings with odd businesses.  But this town must have been very prosperous at one time or another, as it has beautiful, old houses in abundance.





  

Moose Hunting - Day 6

Having accomplished all my big goals in and around Maynooth (ma-Nooth, not May-nooth, I have learned), what do I do on my final day here?

Maynooth is the jumping off point for Algonquin Provincial Park, a mammoth green swatch of Ontario just to the northwest.  It is big enough to be a national park in the States.

Algonquin Provincial Park

When I got up this morning I didn't actually intend to go to Algonquin; I intended to go to Lake St. Peter (Lake Street Peter, according to the voice of GPS), Barry's Bay, and Combermere.  But after getting to LSP, paying for my every-park day pass, and seeing how much closer I was to Algonquin, I shifted my plans.  After all, I had been told that Algonquin was THE place for moose.

Most of you know of my obsession with moose.  The major unticked box on my bucket list is labelled "See a moose."  As a child, I loved Bullwinkle (and I still do).  Perhaps that is the source of the obsession.

So, off I go to Algonquin Provincial Park to find a moose.  The ranger at the park entrance told me to follow Route 60 for my best chances.  Route 60 (see the red line on the map) cuts across the park for 56 km east to west.  I kept my eyes peeled because I didn't want to run into one of the beasts.  I barely blinked for 56 km west and 56 km east again.  But ... no moose.

On the way back (east), I figured out why.  There are several signs along the highway that look like this:

Did you know that moose could read?

Most of these signs feature moose only.  Obviously, the moose read the signs and avoid the danger zones.  Obviously!

Not to be squashed with complete disappointment, I proceeded to Barry's Bay and Combermere.

Barry's Bay has Tim Horton's (signifying a metropolis > 3000 population, as nearly as I can tell) and I passed a lot full of tiny houses/pods for sale.  Some places here rent these to tourists.  Without plumbing.  To each his own.

This is a pod

In Combermere, I found a rustic little restaurant called the Bent Anchor, which sits right alongisde the Madawaska River.  The entire restaurant and bar are open air, including an open, shaded deck with picnic tables and a covered deck with tables and chairs.  It reminded me of places in Key West I've seen in movies, except here I needed a sweater.  Food was good, fresh, and reasonably priced, but I set off Canadian regulatory distress by ordering my burder too rare.

Dock at the Bent Anchor - boatside service?

My dinner view

Tomorrow I leave Maynooth and Boulter for Napanee and Adolphustown.  This makes me a little sad because I know I am unlikely to ever return.  Scheduling six days here was good planning.

Where Is Tom McCall When You Need Him? - Day 5

As I recall, my folks only spoke of spending time in two places in Ontario:  Boulter and Buckhorn.  Today I visited the latter.  I was especially eager because Buckhorn is a small town with a giant lake (two connected lakes, actually).

I can attest that my father would be horrified.  I was.  Buckhorn, the town, was teeming with vacationers.  And when I tried to access the lake, I was rebuffed again and again.  Despite a very detailed map (thank you, visitors centre), I could find no road that led to a public park or any other public access point.  I spent at least an hour and a half trying road after road, any road that appeared to go to water.  In every instance, the road led to a resort or some other form of private waterfront property, often very fancy private property.

Where is Tom McCall when you really need him?

For the non-Oregonians among you, Tom McCall was the visionary governor we revere for assuring that the entire Oregon coast is accessible to the public in perpetuity.  There may be fancy beach houses and resorts, but the public still has access.  Not so at Buckhorn Lake.

I managed only a couple of pictures, illegally.  So you know:  I did not get arrested for trespassing.

Buckhorn Lake

Buckhorn Lake

Saw this AFTER I took the photos

Finding My Roots, Literally - Day 4

950 Hass Road, Boulter, Ontario.  That's the current address.

Addresses in the 1950s were probably less formal in such a rural area.  The farm is 5.2 km from the main road, 4.0 km of it is unpaved dirt/gravel, even today.  I can't imagine what kind of road it might have been in the early 1950s when my parents came here.  As I drive these backroads, I continue to marvel at the kind of trip it must have been for them, to come here to vacation and fish.

Dorothy's house is gone due to a recent fire.  The structure was built of round logs over 100 years ago.  I learned this from Don Taylor, a gentleman whose father, who lived to 102, was born there.  Don gave me directions to the farm.  People like Don Taylor have been incredibly generous with their memories and time in response to my curiosity.

I took a few pictures.  But only a few, because I was savagely attacked by an air force of flies (black flies?) that quickly forced me back into my car.

The Farm Today

Forest Across the Road

New House on the Property

Hass Road Today

On the drive back, I had time to contemplate.  What would my life have been like had I grown up here?

In some ways, Boulter is strikingly similar to Elizabeth, where I did grow up.  The hills are everywhere, but not too high. My West Virginia hills were clustered more tightly though.  The roads are narrow and curvy, many unlined, and all of them used to be unpaved.  It is several miles to the nearest grocery store even today.  Over time, the small, rural schools have been consolidated so that it is now miles to the nearest schools.

I have heard stories about people dropping by to visit with Dorothy and share a cup of coffee.  That too is familiar to me.  When you live isolated, visits are welcome, unscheduled, informal affairs.  One major difference is proximity to water.  I grew up next to a river that had a profound effect on my life.  Despite all the lakes and rivers in and around Boulter, Hass Road itself is dry, although the Madawaska River appears to be a couple of miles away (perhaps a mile as the crow flies through a forest).

Those are the obvious similaries and differences.  It is impossible to know how my life would have turned out otherwise.  I can't imagine that being Canadian could have been a bad thing.  But I also can't imagine how different the opportunities that shaped my life (e.g., education, mentors) and their outcomes would have been.  Clearly, we are all the product of nature and nurture, and I can claim no difference in this regard.  But I am sincerely grateful for the opportunities afforded by this trip to explore the nature portion of the equation.

 

Foster Lake, a Peaceful Place to Contemplate My Roots

Cemeteries and Butter Tarts - Day 3

I awoke this morning to blessed rain, a thunderstorm, and much cooler temperatures.  Of course, I had left my rain jacket in the car.  Planning.

Breakfast was a little off.  Ham and eggs sounds like pretty standard fare, but this ham was more like Spam, obviously pressed, very salty.  Another culture thing?

My post breakfast goal was to find that missing cemetery.  Three maps plus GPS coordinates and I still had to stop and ask a human being at the township office where the bloomin' cemetery was hiding.  Fortunately, I was able to find the township office with its requisite human.  And I got to meet the official Carlow Township cat.  Very friendly little fellow, albeit a bit damp.  The cemetery?  Oh, just down the road.  Eureka!

I walked the entire cemetery (very wet, but the rain had stopped and the sun hadn't yet appeared) and took lots of pictures.  My head is now quite lumpy from some little bugs that seemed to like my hair.  No bites anywhere else.  Go figure.

This cemetery has its own personal church, or vice versa.  I'm always puzzled why churches are so often locked up.  Isn't a church exactly the kind of place that should be freely available?  After traipsing through the cemetery, I tried the church door and, to my surprise, it was open.  Inside was a quaint little sanctuary adorned with simple stained glass windows.  As churches go, really nice.

On my way back to Maynooth, I decided a celebration was in order.  Butter tarts.  They are sold singly and by the half dozen.  Most folks seem to go for the half dozen.  After I bought and ate my one, I understood the need for a half dozen.  A butter tart, if you've never had one, is about the size of a small muffin.  In fact, it is baked in a muffin paper.  But it's a tart, think tiny pie.  The crust is a cross between flaky pastry and shortbread, less dense than shortbread, more dense and thicker than pastry.  Really yummy.  The filling -- oh, the fillings:  fruits and creams (like pie fillings), cranberry, maple walnut, pecan, plain, to name a few.  There must have been at least a dozen different flavors.  After much deliberation, I tried pecan, which was far superior to any pecan pie I have ever had.  The filling was silky smooth, warm and creamy and, of course, all the pecans had floated to the top.  The butter tart certainly made up for the breakfast spam.

I also learned why the moose are chained to the porch:  to keep them from being stolen.  Even here.  I. am. crushed.

It's a Culture Thing - Day 2

Today was find-the-cemetery day.  Except I couldn't find it.  I had directions.  I even had GPS coordinates.  The GPS coordinates took me directly to the house of an elderly gentleman who tried to be helpful.  "No, no cemetery here; try up the road just past where X used to be."  I tried "up the road" to no avail, and since I also had no cell service for additional searching, I finally had to give up.

I went to Bancroft, home of "97.7 Moose FM," instead.  I kid you not.  It's the only radio station I can find, and they never give the call letters, just "Moose FM."  Bancroft is a bustling metropolis of about 3,000 souls.  It gives the impression of being a real town.  I found the teeny-tiny Bancroft library to see if they had a bigger local history collection than the Maynooth library (smaller town, bigger library).  I found a geographical reference to my lost cemetery.  But where could one find the translator from "Lot 20, Concession 5" to a navigable location?

The librarian was helpful but easily stumped; then, other patrons got involved.  Nothing like a mystified American to get Canadian charity flowing.  One patron looked up the cemetery (complete with a very detailed map) via a local funeral home website.  Another patron (a substitute mail carrier) suggested I talk with the Boulter postal chief who "knows everything" about the area she serves.  Tomorrow, I try again.

Next stop:  The Bancroft Times, the biggest local newspaper, to search for missing obituaries.  In addition to putting out a weekly newspaper, the oldest in Bancroft, the Times appears to be Bancroft's version of Kinko's -- retail office supplies and full-service copying.  I requested obituaries for three deaths.  It was as if they get such requests every day.  They pulled the papers (real newspapers, two years in neatly bound volumes, the other year a stack of newspapers sandwiched between sheets of cardboard).  Then, I was invited into the back room so that I could have a go at finding my obituaries.  I found two out of three.  Since I could scan them with an app on my tablet, no charge.  Incredibly generous.

More cultural stuff:

I'm learning that this area is much like Oregon in that logging was its main industry, historically.

It is really hot here.  Nowhere named Canada should be this hot, even in July.  If I knew how to translate centigrade to farenheit I would know how hot it is.  But I don't.  Maybe it's better that way.  I'm not going to look it up.  I know water boils at 100 C and freezes at 0 C.  That's sufficient.  I'm certain we haven't exceeded boiling yet.

After my unrewarding cemetery hunt and my very rewarding obituary hunt, I realized that dehydration might be setting in.  Off to Tim Horton's (a Bancroft hot spot) for iced tea.  And they tried to hand me a bottle.  The same thing happened at dinner on Day 1.  Order iced tea; a bottle appears.  I don't drink icky, flavored iced tea.  Today I decided to negotiate:

• Me:  You have steeped tea on your menu board
• TH server:  Yes, but it's hot tea
• Me:  Please take the biggest cup you have, fill it with ice, and pour tea on the ice
• TH server:  Okay!

Problem solved.  I have imported a little American culture of which we can be proud.

My hostel has a shop next door that purports to sell lattes and butter tarts (a local delicacy, apparently).  Outside, it has a collection of carved bears (just like Oregon) and carved moose (not like Oregon at all).  Here they are (click on the pictures to enlarge):

One moose, extra-large

Two welcoming moose, restrained (have they been bad?)

Really?

I found the belly buttons on the restrained pair to be especially humorous.  The hours, not so much.

Finally, here is my view from dinner tonight.  I enjoyed it from air conditioned comfort.  My only problem was that the malt vinegar, which was presented in a spray bottle, spritzed my Kindle on each application to the fish.

Bancroft @ For the Halibut Fish and Chips

Ottawa to Maynooth - Day 1

I like red-eye flights because I typically fall asleep before the plane leaves the ground.  Not this time.  No sleep between Portland and Chicago (the long leg), and only a brief nap between Chicago and Ottawa.  Fortunately, Tim Horton makes really good, strong (redundant, I know) coffee.  One X-large and an extraordinary donut kept me going for the entire day.

So, what's it like here?  GPS worked great, every kilometer.  During my last trip to Canada (1980s), I recall miles and kilometers.  (I also recall doing conversions in my head to pass the time while driving.)  No conversions today.  Since a kilometer is shorter than a mile, I'm convinced the metric system made a long drive shorter.  Another reason for the U.S. to try it.  I also marveled at the cost (and benefits) of having every sign in two languages.  Another lesson for the U.S. -- it can be done.

Ottawa has a surprisingly small airport, and getting around and out was a breeze.  Customs?  No waiting.  Car rental?  No line.  In short order I had left urbanity behind and was ... in the middle of nowhere.  I'm not used to so many interchanges without a single service in sight.  Even my coffee stop involved leaving the highway behind and going on an off-road adventure, confusing the GPS lady in the process.

And highway soon gives way to provincial roads (2 lanes) and county roads (less smooth 2 lanes).  Lots of green; lots of wildflowers.  The cuts made through the rock to build the roads reminded me of West Virginia.  Other natural roadside rock formations had the look of stacked stone walls.

And then, enter the Hastings Highlands!  These highlands are not western states' high. Instead, with a wondrous familiarity, they are West Virginia high.  No wonder my Dad loved this place so.

No roadside services plus one X-large coffee soon add up to "where the hell am I supposed to pee." Huge, gorgeous Gorman Lake turned into an unexpectedly pleasant find.  (No, I wasn't thinking of peeing in the lake.  It appears to be quite protected -- there was a sign prohibiting soap.)  The lake was accessible from the road, the outhouses a welcome bonus and superior to the bushes I was anticipating.

Gorman Lake

A very welcome find

I arrived in Maynooth too early to check into my hostel.  The public library, which lives just across the streeet, lured me in for my first opportunity for local research (and air conditioning and WiFi).  At first, the delightful young library worker (she reminded me of Zoey from Nurse Jackie) thought they had nothing in their collection to help me.  Then, she started to produce: the names of Bancroft newspapers to visit, several local histories compiled and and published in book form, and a referral to the Mayor, who is somewhat of a local historian herself.  I got my own special table for reviewing the reference materials.  Before I could start being anxious about calling the Mayor, she visited me at the library.  I'll never know if she was just passing through or if "Zoey" called her.  Now the Mayor of Maynooth is helping me locate the site of Dorothy's home in Boulter!  Nice people.

The Arlington hostel is just right for the price.  My big room is third floor, funky purple walls, queen bed, big couch, three windows that open, and a fan.

Today's only regret is that I murdered a slow-moving bird on my way to dinner.  Dinner, on the other hand, was yummy.  Kim, I found us a new source for liver and onions!

Final note:  Everyone seems to ignore the posted speed limits.  And not a Mountie in sight.  Is it a local thing?  I feel culturally inept in this regard.

Bills of Attainder

It has been a long time since I studied bills of attainder and ex post facto laws.  Both are prohibited by the U.S. Constitution.

Ex post facto is the easier one to recall:  "ex post" (after), meaning that an act was legal when it was committed but then is made illegal by the law passed afterward.

Bills of attainder are a little more complicated.  First, a bill of attainder is an act of a Legislature, not a Court.  Second, the bill of attainder circumvents all civil rights, including the right to a trial, against self incrimination, and so forth.  Third, it permits seizure of property without due process.  Fourth, because it is a legislative act, there is no appeal process.

Of course, my current interest in this topic arises from my investigations about the treatment of Loyalists during the American Revolution.  But, once again, the past and the present collide.

Interestingly, Thomas Jefferson, in one more display of hypocrisy, is on record as favoring the use of a bill of attainder in Virginia.  Alexander Hamilton, on the other hand, argued vigorously against them.

During the American Revolution, the New York State Constitution permitted bills of attainder, and they were used to label individuals guilty of treason and to seize their property.  Some of my ancestors lost their property through such actions.  New York was not the only state to do this.

Why should this matter now?  After all, the Constitutional prohibition has been in place since its initial adoption.

The short answer is that Constitutional protections are absolute in theory, but often not in practical terms.  Japanese Americans were attainted -- deprived of civil liberties and property -- during World War II, in spite of a Constitution that was written to protect them.  And the bill of attainder was only a fraction of the violations of civil liberties that those citizens endured.

The other answer is that we -- as a people and our elected reprsentatives -- do not learn or remember these lessons well.  Since 9/11/2001, we have been on a slipperty slope concerning when civil liberties may be nullified in the interests of national security.  We have seen that, in times of crisis, the passions of the majority lose perspective (just think of the Patriot Act) and the Constitution is trampled.

Let us, therefore, remember and heed Alexander Hamilton:

"Nothing is more common than for a free people, in times of heat and violence, to gratify momentary passions, by letting into the government, principles and precedents which afterwards prove fatal to themselves."

Sources:

http://www.history.org/foundation/journal/Spring02/attainder.cfm

http://online.sfsu.edu/jaintern/rightsviolated.html