Snowbound with ‘Rabbie’

John Crippen’s former blacksmith shop in the village of Hillier. His brother Ernie with ‘Pat’, circa 1900.
PEC Library/Archives.

There is an eerie silence to the woods this morning. The rise of light on the horizon hangs stiff in the pines. The snow beneath my feet grumbles at every step. Even after leaving the daily handful of peanuts on the tree stump, I don’t hear the shriek of a bird-call that belongs to Jack one of a band of blue jays. Generally, the jays appear out of nowhere; in a flash they jam the unshelled peanuts into their beaks then ride off like bikers grabbing onto handlebars.

My boots find the windswept path of yesterday; the creek is quieted under a blanket of ice. Over there, a Cooper’s hawk is on the prowl, gazing down from a stick of swamp maple; The Cooper’s a likely reason for the hush. My guess is that the word is out that his appetite is whetted.

I head down to the barn. I still call it that despite that fact that the timber frame structure— a former 19th century blacksmith shop – is slowly transforming into a studio space. Inside, coals murmur in the stove pit, remnants of last night’s fire; the wintry steel poker is mean on bare hands; bits of cedar tossed onto the embers resurrects a flame to greet a new day, a new month in a new year.

In past weeks, here by the fire was sung Robbie Burns’ Auld Lang Syne: the fire greeted the first footer on Hogmanay—the Scottish tradition where the first person to enter on New Year’s day is a bringer of bounty for the coming year. The Greeks and folks from the country of Georgia buy into a similar realm where a coin, bread, salt, coal, a drink of whiskey or a little moussaka—a sort of offering to the gods—brings on good fortune. Nowhere did I find reference to a cup of espresso laced with French brandy to be on the list of contributions to New Year prosperity, but hey, it was worth the try. The fire also heard the readings of Burns on his snowbound birthday. But by now, snow shovel worn out, the shine of Hogmanay and Burns gone, Chinese New Year underway, I suffer cabin fever.

This being the year of the horse, I hold in my hand an old photo taken out front of a horse named Pat. It was a year before Confederation, when John Crippen and his new bride Matilda (great-granddaughter of Joseph Dorland the founder of Dorland’s Creek, now the village of Hillier) bought the building I’m in. It seems that it had been standing for a few decades already. Learning the blacksmith trade under Robert Pye, a villager who was also the keeper of the Scotch Bonnet light, by 1870 Crippen had set himself up in business here. His building had become ideally situated when the limestone structure of Hillier Hall was built next door to it in 1867. The village had Quaker roots, and council meetings were brought to the new hall, a more neutral place of inquiry than the Protestant-influenced Orange Lodge across the road, where gatherings were previously held.

Crippen served many in his smithy’s duties. At this time of year he would sharp-shod the horses to prevent slipping, and look after the saws and axes, or maybe forge a new link of logging chain. The hand made u-shaped tie-ups for the horses remain lodged in the tamarack beams above my head, now ideal for hanging mitts and socks to dry.

There was much going on in the village that later became known as Pleasant Valley; tanneries, sawmill, a cidery and farming drove day-to-day affairs. And I would short- change the opportunity if I didn’t slide in another Scots reference just about now. Macdonald: Yep, that Macdonald.

Sir John A was right in there with his cousins the Macpherson’s, who lived around the corner, and also tight with cousin Mary Ann Whitten, who kept house steps away; the Scots crowd took in village life alright, keeping regular company over in the Orange Lodge. Word on the street that found its way into the history books has it that Pleasant Valley was Sir John’s hideaway; his ‘pied a terre’ so to speak, where he removed himself from public scrutiny. January 11th next year will be his 200th birthday celebration, so maybe I’ll scrounge around for material evidence to build a case to have a highway sign put up.

But before I do, I’ll have to incorporate into the road sign another gem I came across while cleaning up in here: a 1965 calendar from Pleasant Valley Canners once located just down the road. The Taylor family, who owned the business, unabashedly proclaimed on their labels that Pleasant Valley was home to ‘Taylor Made Tomatoes’. Maybe a suggestion box will help out with ideas for a tourist-hook kinda catchy sign: ‘Hillier —aka Pleasant Valley— home to canned tomatoes and a hole-in-the-wall for our first prime minister’ or something to that effect. I’ll check with the highway sign folks, but my guess is they’ll likely rule that the sign’s wording will make it over-width. We could put warning flags on it, I figure, but maybe we’ll just live with history and not fret about drawing attention to ‘sleepy-hollow’ down here on the banks of Slab Creek.

The snowplough just growled through here for the third time this morning; the wall thermometer is telling we’ve reached the comfort zone. I’ll hang the photo of Pat and throw another stick on the fire before settling into work. Come to think of it, seeing how lunch time is already coming on and everything seems content, I’ll dig my way through the snow drift at the door and head up to the house to put out another handful of peanuts. I hope Jack and his pack of blue jay friends show up. I’ll bet they never heard tell the legend of the hole-in-the-wall.