Old as dirt - Glimpses of the Past with Karen Webster
There is a saying that when one is getting a bit long in the tooth that they are old as dirt. Well, I am dirt and I am as old as they come.
I wasn’t around in the very beginning. No, then there was just hard rock. Several successions of glaciers and erosion helped create me. I am located in the northern part of what the current inhabitants call Huron County. I have gone by other names, but that is so long ago that I cannot recall them now.
At first, the vegetation on my back was puny and weak, but later became tall and majestic trees. Oh, the splendor of that time. The waters in my wandering creek ran crystal clear. The trees reached up to 80 feet or more. There was a special silence in those days broken only by birdsong and the occasional meeting of hunter and prey in the animal kingdom.
At various times, humans of the nomadic type hunted on my soil. Later, a summer fishing camp was established on the north bank of my little creek. Year after year, a large fire was built to smoke the many baskets full of trout and bass that were caught there. The fires were built so often that even today, when the plot of land is cleared of vegetation, the large fire ring can still be seen. These peoples thrived on my space, but left little trace and caused no damage to me.
Eventually, other humans would come. First, there was just a lonely soul here or there who came and left again. Next there came a group of men who had lengths of chain and sharp stakes to hammer into my back. They were a hardy bunch of guys. The undergrowth of brush made travel difficult and the mosquitoes were extra hungry at the time of year that they were carrying out their task. I believe I heard them say they were surveying.
There was a space of time before another human set foot on my land. This time it was just one man by himself. The first thing he did was cut some saplings and tie them together to make a shelter for him to sleep in at nighttime. Each day, he took his ax and steadily worked away at cutting down my large maple and spruce trees. Such a large task for just one man, but I had to admit that he was persistent in his task. About a year after he arrived, I heard the sound of a team and wagon winding its way around the stumps that the man had left. By listening carefully, I learned that the man was called Robert and that the new arrivals were his wife, Sarah, and two children, called Elizabeth and Rory. The children loved to explore my creek and climb all the small trees.
Robert started to burn the trees he had felled in the previous year and the smell of smoke hung around for weeks. Why was he destroying my lovely forest? The next spring, I found out the answer, for he was planting crops called wheat and potatoes.
It wasn’t long until other families joined Robert and Sarah. Not all were farmers. Sam, a maker of wagons, buggies and cutters, purchased a corner of Robert’s land for his business. Soon, a store, post office and blacksmith’s shop were established on that same corner. The people there were optimistic about the future of the fledgling community and called it Bounty.
A few more houses were erected and it wasn’t long before a log structure was built that was the school during the week and the church on Sundays. Once a month, a minister called a circuit rider came on horseback to Bounty and held a worship service, married young couples and also baptized any babies.
For a while, it looked like Bounty was going to live up to its name. However, as roads were built and travel became a bit easier, people started moving around more. First, rural mail delivery came into existence and the little post office was closed, to be replaced by the one in nearby Malloughville where there were more inhabitants. Next, the owners of the store decided to move to Manitoba in the Northwest Territories. One by one, the buildings of Bounty became empty and some of them were moved to neighbouring farms to serve as sheds.
All told, Bounty existed for a mere 50 years, just a blink in time considering how long I have been around. Today, only three sets of farm buildings stand where once there were families living on every 100-acre plot. Fences, so carefully erected to prevent cattle from straying away, have been torn out to make room for the huge machines that pack down my precious soil as they plant and harvest the large fields. Luckily, many of the farmers are conscious of the preciousness of my soil and have adopted no-till practices. Some trees have been planted over the years, but never again will there be the grand, silent forest that I so loved.
Author’s Note: While Bounty is only a place created in my mind, it is representative of the hundreds of little villages in this region that bloomed for a short while in the fabric of time before gradually disappearing, leaving hardly a trace. It is said that when a person dies, they are not really gone until the last time someone says their name. May we keep the memory of these small habitations alive by telling their stories over and over again.