Up the Gatineau! Article

Chelsea is becoming the boudoir for people who work in the city. But it was not always so.

Chelsea has had a day of its own — though perhaps now no one would bother to remember. From the Burns‘ rambling white cottage called “Shalimar" at its southern end, to the forgotten glory of O'Neill’s red painted hotel on the hill to the north, Chelsea had a character.

The road was dusty, but only Carbide Willson’s car stirred it occasionally. All the other traffic was horse drawn — Harry Dunn’s mail rig — Bill Murphy's bus to Kingsmere — “Prince”, the pony which the Bambricks drove — “Darky", a horse with a fabulous local reputation as a winner of great races. Hugh Smith never claimed much for Darky; he just smiled approvingly when people fussed. There were farm horses and carriage horses and there were drinking troughs set up at roadside springs. There was a tethering post near the post office with a well worn hole near its top. Even the gypsies tied up there on their occasional visits.

Chelsea also had a sidewalk which was a thing of beauty. It ran down the east side of the road. A broad ditch separated the two. There were few sidewalks as wonderful. In June it smelled of clover — in July came the daisy and the buttercup. In August there was the blue weed. Everyone said the blue weed was a blight but no one wanted it cut away. So it continued to add to the charm of the walk — a high banked green-bordered pathway, with colours and smells to suit the seasons.

Chelsea had its trees too. There were huge willows at the south end of the village and there were maples in front of Charlie Church's and Edith and Sam Hudson’s. Birdie‘s house was at the end of a nave of lovely elms. Then there was the grove. It was near the station, just across the tracks, in fact. The grove was of pine, clean — high — sweet smelling. It had an open space called “the picnic grounds" in its midst — a cool shaded field surrounded by high walls of pine. But there were few picnics held there. It had springs in it, did the grove — and the water was clear and cold and musical. The way to the loveliest part of the river lay through the grove. But the river was treacherous there, so it was not a much used part. When the falls were harnessed for the power plant, we were sure the grove would go. But it didn't. So you can go there still and see what I mean. (Now, in 1969, I think not.) The houses in Chelsea told you of the kind of people who lived there. It didn't matter whether the owners were permanent or summer residents. You knew by looking at Hudson's red brick house that Sam was a thoughtful, methodical farmer and that his wife was full of common sense, pleasant, and a pillar of the church. You would not have been surprised that his daughters were not only very pretty but very dignified and that his three boys were sturdy and self-reliant.

The Prentiss’s, too, had a house on the main street — a rambling white clapboard house, which was furnished as you would expect a New England house to be furnished. And so did Mary McKay Scott, who wrote poetry and lived in “Yarrow Cottage". Well, the Prentiss’s came from New England when the Alonzo Wright settlers came to Hull and the lower Gatineau Valley. As I think of Mrs. Prentiss I remember a small, stooped, white-haired lady, with a transparent skin and pointed features. She had an air of authority about her and when we were brought to her place on infrequent visits, not only was our hair brushed, but we knew we had to sit quietly. But this we didn’t mind. There were many things to see in her place, including a small Stars and Stripes.

George Prentiss was a civil servant and he went to town every morning on the train and returned at night. So did his sisters, Lottie and Nettie. You could set your clock each day by watching them go on their way to and from the station. But you didn't have to, because you always knew the train time. Village life was largely governed by train arrivals. This was not true the year of the caterpillars, of course. My father and George and others walked from the bottom of the mile hill some of those nights. It was dark when they arrived and I was quite afraid for them. George's fame rested upon his roses — and well it might. His garden was his hobby and his life.

Charlie Church was the laird of Chelsea. He owned the most farm land — the only gravel pit, the largest stand of timber. He was a member of the Municipal Council — probably the mayor, and everyone thought it only proper that this be so. There was general concern when he sold his cut of timber on the hills to the north. The large pine stand disappeared forever. Snide remarks were made about him, too, when fire rushed through the slash the next summer and threatened the village. But when wild raspberries appeared soon after, all who came could pick, and Chelsea became a berry-pickers’ Mecca. He never complained that so many needy people gathered the berries in such great quantities.

My mother, being a Scot and a most matter-of-fact person, used to have conversations occasionally within my hearing with Charlie. I imagine they had little to discuss — but there was a dignity about those talks which, as I think about it now, grew out of a mutual esteem. I write now as if he was a familiar friend of mine. He was not. He was always Mr. Church.

All during those years he was a bachelor. His sister Alice was his housekeeper. Only one word can describe the impression she made upon me. I thought she was wonderful. She was one of the busiest people I ever knew. She managed the farm and the house with a cheerfulness and an even-tempered efficiency at which I always marvelled. The Church's furnished us with our milk. Every morning I took the pail and went to their farm house. I can close my eyes now, and see myself sitting in her bright kitchen on a sunny summer morning as she fluttered through her work, talking all the while about local happenings and people. Alice had a ready and wonderful smile. She had a way of making a small boy feel that he counted. She had a lively interest in my school work and I remember with gratitude and affection, the encouragement she gave me in those impressionable days.

Anyone who lived in Chelsea then will remember the Sunday night singing at Church’s. They had all attended evening service in the little white church on the station road. Thereafter men and women gathered in Church's parlour. Alice Played the organ for the hymns. We were not of their church so none of us were ever invited. I can still hear the fine clear voices and the distance of the Years adds to the enchantment.

Edith Church, Charlie's cousin, lived with her widowed mother just across the road, but down a piece. I scarcely remember the mother, but Edith I do. She was a tall, dignified woman. A rather severe appearance hid a mild, kind disposition. When we went to see them in the gabled brick house, we behaved! Charlie had another cousin called Birdie. I think she too lived with her mother in a tree — surrounded, pretty, low cottage. Unlike Edith, Birdie was short and cheerful looking. Their lives were quiet. Even the advent of war in 1914 made little change in their smooth course.

The main merchant in Chelsea was Charles Dewar. He and his son Alex conducted a general store in the centre of the village. lt was a joy for a small boy to go there. They seemed to stock everything — groceries, vegetables, hardware, yard goods, boots and shoes, farm implements — everything. One day the building burned and thereafter, although it was replaced, the establishment was not the same. I think Alex went to California. l cannot believe he could have found another place with quite the same charm as that of Chelsea.

I could not forget either, Mrs. McAdam and Mrs. Dunlop. They had small houses near each other at the upper end of the village. Though they were completely different characters, they were an integral part of the world that was Chelsea. Mrs. Dunlop was an lrish widow. She had the love of talk of her people. One day she came across the field to visit my mother — a field of Charlie Church’s in which he had sown turnips — and she brought my mother a present of two fine turnips! There were no questions — no explanations — but we always wondered.

Mrs. McAdam owned a store. lt was not a big store. ln it she sold thread and needles and a few groceries and small candies she had bought from Mr. Bonnell. Mr. Bonnell was the man with the green cart, the white mustache, the grey suit and grey fedora. He looked like Sir Charles Fitzpatrick and his cart smelled better than any other cart except the baker's. Mrs. McAdam was a small person, full of news, very business like. I never knew how she made a living but she was nice to us as boys.

Chelsea then had two smithies. One was owned and operated by Henry Trowse. He and his wife and his daughter, Lily, were quiet people. They also went to the little white church on the road to the station. Their house and smith were just around the corner from it, on the main street. Mr. Trowse had a long nose and a transparently white face. When you looked at him you knew he was a quiet man. On Sunday, when he wore his black suit and black hat, his face seemed whiter than usual, and he seemed more stooped. But that l suppose, was because of the work he did at his forge. Mr. Trowse was a craftsman — an artisan. He could turn out andirons and fireplace instruments which were works of art. His prices were more modest than he was.

Brian Kenney also had a forge. Brian was a horse-shoer. And Brian was a character. He was Irish. His skin was not transparent. He was voluble, profane, and thought that John L. Sullivan was the greatest man in the world. His heavy black mustache and swarthy complexion set him off completely from Mr. Trowse. His wife was a small frail person. I often wondered how anyone so quiet could have married Brian. Their two sons left home early, but Mamie, the daughter, stayed on. Mamie was a girl among girls — pretty, pleasant, smiling, probably scrupulously religious. And everybody loved her. Life could not have been too easy for her but she was always cheerful.

When Mike Cullen came to Chelsea for a summer, he discovered Brian and he also discovered Brian's hero worship for John L. Sullivan. Mike provided much entertainment that year. He bought all the American papers he could find and spent the evenings reading the training camp news to Brian. I am sure the Promoters got less out of that fight than the people in Chelsea.

There was a spring in a deep ditch across the road from Brian’s house. We all went there for our drinking water. There was a set of wooden steps leading down to it and a platform at the bottom. As little boys will, my younger brother went there alone one evening to sail a toy ship. Of course he fell in and screamed. It was Brian Kenney, with all his rheumatism, who heard him; he hobbled across the road and saved him from drowning. No one remembers this, of course.

Every blacksmith‘s shop has a few hallmarks in sound. The crash of the hammer on the anvil, the pumping noise of the bellows, the heavy stamping of the horses on the wooden floor, the swish of steam as the red hot shoe is plunged into the water. But this shop had another. It was Brian. He was old, he was irascible, he was rheumatic. l never quite knew what he shouted at the horses. But it was seldom a gentle admonition.

The McCloskeys were, for us, the mainstays of the village. For eight summers we rented a cottage next to their house. As children we were in their home as much as we were in our own. I don't remember a single occasion when we were even scolded, though I am sure we were often in their way. Mr. McCloskey was the postmaster. He was also secretary of the Council. He knew all the municipal law to be known. He also knew where to find the best raspberries on the hill out near Berrigan’s farm beyond Old Chelsea. He knew where and when to catch brook trout in the creek off the Meach Lake road. He could make whistles from willow shoots.

One day in the spring he was burning up old leaves in the yard. As might be expected of a boy of six, I fell into it and burned my left arm. l can still feel the coolness of the molasses on it. On Mrs. McCloskey’s insistence l spent the day with the arm in a jug of that heavy syrup. But best of all, Mr. McCloskey sat with me and made whistles. l always thought he looked like my grandfather Macdonald. But that was only because they both had grey beards.

Mrs. McCloskey was an unusual and talented woman. She was for many years the organist in St. Stephen‘s Church. She sang in the choir — sometimes she was the whole choir. She painted. She wrote verse. She was a pious person, but with all her talent she was a most practical housekeeper and postmistress and storekeeper. The death of a young married daughter in childbirth cast a sadness over the village one summer, and it affected Mrs. McCloskey deeply for many years. But her spirit was irrepressible and long after her husband died she was active in the church and the life of the village. One of the daughters became a nurse, married, and later settled in Chelsea with her family. The other, the youngest, Kathleen, we knew best because she was a little girl when we were little boys. It is not too much to say that she gave us much of our summer upbringing. We had always thought of her as being as close to us as any member of our family.

When war came the two McCloskey boys went off. In their uniforms, as members of the Chelsea ball team we thought they were spectacular. When they appeared in the King’s uniform, we knew the war was as good as won. Both of them returned from Overseas. D'Arcy died before his family grew up. Rick, the younger, and my particular hero, l find hard to describe. Despite the considerable difference in our ages, we had been friends through the years in Ottawa and in Montreal. Rick was a man of great capacity. He had a genius for friendship — a great laugh — a way, with a story and, as a result, a host of friends. Like his father, he knew the fishing places and the berry patches and, although he lived most of his life far from Chelsea, he loved the village and all that it had been.

Then there were the Burns and the Smiths. We always knew the Smiths. l was brought there when I was 9 months old. Later we lived next door to them. Rex was the boy — and a handsome one he was. Dot was the daughter. She was musical — she played tennis. One day some smart banker came along and married her and she left Chelsea forever. After Hugh's death, Mrs. Smith stayed in Chelsea for some years, and even then her house was somewhat a center of activity. But the frantic action of early years — the dances, the tennis — even Darky — were never to be recaptured.

Thomas H. Burns owned a big place called Shalimar. It was the first house on the right as you came into the village from the city. Behind it he built a tennis court. Never was there a better one. it had a green backdrop like Forest Hills, but this one was better. It was of lilac trees. It had a seat for a referee and benches for spectators. We literally spent summers on that court — on the good days, we played; on the wet days, we worked. Mr. Burns gave me my first tennis lesson. l think he gave me my first dip in the river. Through the years he never lost touch with us. We must have been a source of annoyance to Mrs. Burns often. But she was always so good to us. Perhaps we reminded her of Harold, her son, who died very young and whose short life had given his parents such high hopes.

No one could reminisce about Chelsea and forget Mr. Merrifield. He was the gardener at the station. l suppose the C.P.R. paid him. But the station garden was his own, and not even Sir William Van Horne could have trespassed on its lawns without a warning from Mr. Merrifield. What he made there was a thing of beauty and he guarded it with his life.

Of course we did not spend our time as small boys making character studies around the village. We jumped in Fred Aubin’s haymow. We built spruce-covered huts in the gully grove to the south. We even staged Cinderella in a barn behind Macdonald's cottage. We went to swim at Donovan's hole behind Old Chelsea. We picked berries. We went for drives with Father Dowd in his 4-90 Chevrolet touring car (but we were bigger then). But most of the time we spent at Brooks’s creek. There wasn‘t a part of it we didn't know. Our parents took us there first. Then we went with the Hudson boys and we haunted the place. We fished. We cleared swimming holes and learned to swim. We dammed the creek and learned to dive. We made slides on the blue clay banks which ended in the water and we would slide all afternoon on our bare bottoms. This was boyhood’s painless play!

Then we came, as did all Chelsea, under the magic of Mike Bristow. He was an Englishman who loved tennis, He built a clay court behind his cottage just beyond the station road. He organized a tennis club. He staged dances on the court, which was decorated by Japanese lanterns. For the first of these he hired a military band — and the court became a fairyland.

About this time the Buckleys entered the world of Chelsea. I could write much about Mr. and Mrs. Buckley. They were real philosophers — critical — practical — and always the door was open. The family was athletic and musical — and with such talent they did much for the community. They always had a piano — so their cottage was a gathering place. Charlie, Bill and Jim, we thought ranked with Tilden and Johnston on the tennis courts. No one could sing like lrene — not even in the Met, and Helen at the piano, could play anything and she did.

As we reached our middle teens another community came into our ken. lt was the island. Years before, Gilmour and Hughson had built a few hundred houses on the Gatineau for the families of the men who worked in their Chelsea sawmill. One day the mill closed. For some time the Island was a ghost town. Then it began to be leased to summer residents. Two developments flowed from the establishment of this community. One was the Lawn Bowling Club; the other was a second Tennis Club. I was the caretaker for both. I can remember one year when five of the seven tennis titles won in the Ottawa District Championship play came to Chelsea. The greatest athlete to emerge from this club, of course, was E.A. "Bud" Thomas. One year when he was senior city champion, he also won the junior Canadian title, and he was at the same time the outstanding end on the Grey Cup Team at Queen's University.

If you ever saw it you would never forget “AIexander's Bus to Meach Lake" — mounted on a Model T. Ford. Nor would you forget Johnny DunIop’s two “touring cars” with passengers standing on the running board. I'm sure the maximum speed on the old gravel road was 20 miles per hour loaded. They were built to carry 5 people. I can remember 13 aboard once. We knew. We used to count them. The standees had to walk up all the hills.

Of course, there was Alonzo Campbell and his stories, and his willow switches with which, to our amazement, he did locate springs of water.

Reverend Mr. Nicholson was the resident Anglican priest. He lived up on the hill on the road to Kirks Ferry. His congregation was very small but he was a friend of all — with his wide—brim hat and his ready smile.

Although we were not part of the community that was Old Chelsea — a whole mile away — we went to St. Stephen’s Church there. I was too small to remember Father (and later Archbishop) McNaIly before he left, but the stories about him abounded. He first became Bishop of Calgary. When I went there first I went to mass at the old cathedral. Somehow I had the feeling that I had been there before, and worried that the long planned trip might have affected my mind! Certainly there was some explanation — and, of course, there was. I was then in my forties, and I recalled that Father McNalIy had gone to Calgary from Chelsea. This was the clue. Just before leaving Chelsea, he had two Austrian artists decorate the Chelsea church. Obviously he had hired them for the old cathedral in Calgary for the decoration was the same. Having solved the puzzle, I had more confidence in my continuing sanity.

In later years we watched McKenzie King drive by so often on his way to Kingsmere — though he had been going there for many years. In fact the first political speech I heard, was one he made, at the wonder of wonders, the Old Chelsea picnic — and he made it. It interrupted the ball game and the square dance, but no one minded. Mr. King was greatly respected in the area, but his doings were considered to be the normal doings of any other resident.

During the constitutional crisis in 1926, when Mr. King challenged the Governor GeneraI’s stand on the right of a Prime Minister to dissolution on request, the debate took place in June. That year the growth was lush and the scent of the clover in the hayfields pervaded the air. Friday afternoon was overcast. I was at home for some strange reason. I still see the dark blue limousine moving slowly up the Old Chelsea road. In the front seat, with the driver, sat Lord Byng, his hat pulled down to his eyebrows and deep in thought. Unquestionably he was trying to think his way through the dilemma in which the turn of events in parliament had placed him.

In those early days Meach Lake was far beyond my ken. I had seen it from Sam Holden’s boat house at the lower end, but no more. To get there and back to Chelsea was an afternoon's undertaking in Harry Dunn’s coach.

But we knew of the people who lived in Kingsmere — the Quains, the Grimes family, the Seybolds, the Crannells — and, of course, Bill Murphy, Mrs. Murphy, Paddy Dean's sister, we also knew. She was said to be more Irish than St. Patrick, more Catholic than the Pope, more Liberal than Mr. King — and she scrupled not at proclaiming all three qualities on every possible occasion.

Years later when we acquired a car we spent many a long summer day on the Harris‘ tennis court and swimming at their dock. The Grimes family had a fine court and later so too did Red Quain.

There would have to be another chapter on Old Chelsea. The Hendrick families, the Misses Edmonds, the Donovans, the Mulvihills, the Bolands, the Ryans, the Chamberlains, the Welshes — even the Childs from Meach Lake whose coach you heard every Sunday night as they made their way to the Presbyterian Church in the lower village. They had chains on the harness and you heard them from as far up the road as Tom Links, when the wind was right.

Yes indeed Chelsea had had another day. And, through the mist of the speeding years, it seems enchanting, for a young boy.

August 25, 1960

This paper was presented by Senator Connolly at a meeting of the Society held in the Church House, Chelsea, Que., built in 1870, which was the home of Charlie Church and is still owned by the family.

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