Artefacts and Horses

I’m not sure why the image of the piano comes to mind. Sure, the rhythm of snow on the windshield is conjuring; the distant shoreline of Adolphustown in the grey of 5 p.m. plays like the Goldberg Variations; the ceiling of cloud, the amber glow from the deck lights of the Glenora ferry? Time to start up my truck. The deck hand in fluorescent green is waving me on board. I’m next in line.

It’s the part I like best about the ferry crossing, when the loading teams signal like a caller at a square dance. You there! She’s pointing to me. I’m marking time with windshield wipers on low. ‘Come on down!’ she beckons. Over to the far side, do-si-do: Allemande Left to your corners all. I’m thinking the ferry could use a resident fiddler to make the dance complete.

Now, the piano I am referring to is an early twentieth-century affair, LINDSAY etched onto the walnut varnished casing. It sits in my father’s house in Ottawa, where I am headed. Dad needs my help transitioning from his home of 50 years.

On the ferry, the last of the vehicles is in place—I count them; five cars, two trucks including mine on this trip—the whine of the hydraulics as the stern ramp is raised; the slam of steel on steel as the lockdowns jam in place. The lead deck hand raises the thumbsup signal to the bridge and ahoy, a blast of the air horn and the growl of the bow-thrusters announce we’re leaving County shores.

I’m in the habit of getting out of the truck during the crossings. Something about leaning on the deck rail, the cutting February night-breeze at my face; the fat embrace of the shorelines of Adolphus Reach: It’s about the silent push of water at the bow, the putout of ice tailings reeling in our wake.

In my comings and goings, the ferry crossing helps me define an arrangement of place, a gist of being. Living on an island, a setting of characterized enclosure is separate in feel than living in a less-outlined geographic expanse. And as mixed a thought as this may be, it’s the poetry of being out here, standing in the silent darkness, adrift in the ’tween; haphazardly ethereal and grounding at the same time; me, turning in a stew of sentiment wrapped around parting and arrival.

So I am leaving my sturdy little place along Slab Creek in Prince Edward to temporarily relocate once again to a suburb of Ottawa where—talk about a collision of hometown emotion and memory—I am called upon to play the role that cast after cast before me have taken on. And as they will tell you, there is no script, no map, no how-to or instruction manual for caring for the needs of an aging parent. It’s suddenly there, likely brought on by a decline of conditions. And here you are seat-of-pants ad lib, trusting gut instincts in the square dance without the fiddle, all the while riding a sea of chaos. Whew, eh?

Now, about the piano: It has come to a crossroads. While it’s an elephant of a family heirloom, it’s still an heirloom, but one that nobody in the family wants to house. I may end up taking it, but it might tip my dwelling on its foundation. It’ll have to be moved when Dad is relocated and his house sold.

You see, the first to play the piano was my maternal grandmother. She had grown up in England and immigrated to Canada where my grandfather worked as a millwright in Grand- Mère, Quebec. Along with my mother and her sister, who were young at the time, they experienced the isolation and struggle that is the immigrant experience. The Browns were one of 10 English-speaking families settling into a dominant French culture.

My grandma Brown longed for the company of a piano, something that had brought her refuge all through her life. She wasn’t necessarily good at playing; it simply brought pleasure. And so it was the devotion to another love, of knitting, that would ultimately make the dream of owning a piano come true. It was the heyday of piano manufacture and practically every corner of the country had a piano maker—except Grand-Mère, Quebec. Grandma Brown would save the money she earned from selling her handknit socks, mitts and sweaters until the day came that a two-hour train ride to Trois-Rivières landed her in the showroom of LINDSAY pianos.

It was almost on this day in February 1938 that, after making her much awaited purchase, grandmother returned to her home by train with the promise of the piano arriving a day later. Early the next morning, the delivery men of Trois-Rivières loaded the piano onto a work sleigh and carefully wrapped it in padded blankets. The trip to Grand-Mère, with two Percheron horses pulling under rein, would take almost a day. The route followed upstream, along the road through winding hills of the St. Maurice River valley, arriving late afternoon. Then came the challenge of getting the piano up to the Brown’s second floor apartment. The staircase was too narrow. Outside, the men got to work removing the railing of the upper balcony; they hitched one end of a block and tackle outfit to the tall brick chimney. The other end was hooked onto the horse drawers. With a haw and a gee and a groan of the rope, the piano gently lifted off the sleigh and rose upwards into falling snow and grey light and onto the veranda, a concert in itself. From that day on, the old LINDSAY piano that nurtured my grandmother has continued to travel, moving house to house to house, to finally land where it rests today.

The port side of the ferry kisses the wall of the landing port. Deck hands are on the move, heaving the bowlines to the tie-ups on the Adolphustown shore. The snow, now raining flakes the size of hats, covers the road ahead.

I start up the engine, and wipers slapping, I rev up and over the off-ramp. A ferry crossing: passages and change; a piano and one more journey. I’m headed east into the night, bound for tomorrow.