some glengarry / highland games, etc

My father still in ICU during the long weekend (he was moved to a regular ward a few days after), so this the first he's missed one of our long weekends home [see our entry for last year, for example].

Saturday, August 4, 2018: We packed ourselves up in time to arrive mid-morning at the Maxville Fairgrounds for this year's Glengarry Highland Games. Muggy, and the flash-rain didn't help any.

My niece, Emma, danced as part of the morning's activities, and later, we all marched in the Clan Parade, as we now do. The MacLennans like when we participate in that: basically if my sister and I show up at all, we triple their numbers.

We watched the opening ceremonies (and the highland dancing); we wandered, we bought chocolate fudge (which Rose didn't understand: "chocolate fudge what?" "Just chocolate fudge!" etc).

We went to the children's area, where they bounced on inflatables (including bouncy castle), and saw the animals. They made a mess of ice cream (Rose finished hers; Aoife never does, gets bored of it after a while).

Still, the heat. We arrived around 10:30am or so, managing the beer tent by around 1pm, where the children danced and danced (Aoife kept turning to give me a thumbs up), but all three were overheated and cranky within the hour. We left around 2:30pm, heading directly home, to retire to our cool basement and quiet.

We do usually try to stay at the farm, but harder with wee ones. Perhaps next year? Hopefully.

Sunday, August 5, 2018: We drove back out, just after lunch, to my sister's for her annual bbq, where Rose spent most of the rest of the day in the pool, in-between random bouts of running, trampoline and our attempts to get her to actually eat something. I like that she's big enough to pool on her own (with lifejacket and supervision), and her cousins (as well as Aunt Kathy) took turns being attentive to her pool-ing, as well as some of Aoife's pooling (she is less enthusiastic about pooling).

My sister and her husband have been working the past few months to building an extension to their wee 1850s-era house, extending the second floor upwards to more of a proper living space, and they are getting quite close to completion (five people and three animals in that wee house are quite cramped, I would think).

Earlier, upon first arriving at my sister's, I convinced her to walk across the road with me, to the property beside our own homestead, which had recently been sold. The neighbour, who had let most of the land return to forest from field, and the buildings collapse these past thirty years, had died, and his widow sold the property to a neighbouring farmer, who immediately started clearing. Gone is the driveway, the yard, the remains of collapsed barn, the shed. All that remains is the house, and god knows how long that will remain, given its current state: it will either be bulldozed, or simply come down soon on its own, we wager. I find it all quite sad: the house our great-grandfather built; the house where our grandfather and his siblings were born. Five fields and yard down to a single, expansive field, being prepared for tile.

Children ran around and around. We didn't stay for the fire this year, worn out from the past few weeks of what-nots, and Corey wasn't doing fireworks this year. We were home by 9pm, both children crashed in the car, happily worn out.

(another) weekend in old glengarry,

We didn't make it to the Highland Games this year [see last year's post here], but still headed over to the homestead for the sake of my sister's annual bbq, held at her old log house on the hill. Given we rented a car for the sake of transporting my eldest daughter, Kate, and her boyfriend, it just seemed easier to forego the Games this time 'round and head straight for the bbq on the Sunday of the long weekend, where the kids ran around, and the rest of us took as much break as was possible. I was tempted by the Games, and they'd asked me to do an updated version of the talk I gave a few years back [see such here], but I didn't even have the attention span to look at the essay again, let alone poke at it for updating. And, with the car rental requiring pick-up at noon on Saturday, it just seemed easier to wait until next year. There is always next year.

A nice bonus this year was the appearance of Clare Latremouille, as well as poet Kristina Drake and her husband (all for the first time), none of whom live terribly far away. Technically, despite the turns north, Clare now lives on the same road as my sister and father, only a few miles east, having finally moved full-time to the property they purchased a couple of years ago. Drake, who is launching a new chapbook at the above/ground press anniversary event later this month, lives as far from the homestead as we do, but in the opposite direction, towards Hawkesbury.

It was nice to have Kate and her boyfriend Quinn at the bbq this year, the first he's been to as well. He runs a printing business that Kate now runs media and marketing for, so if you have any poster or t-shirt needs (etcetera), you should totally look at what they're up to. En route to collect Kate, I picked up a new life jacket for Rose, as she would spend the entire day in the pool if we allowed her to (and she very nearly did, corralling a series of cousins and others to watch her splash around). Aoife, on her part, spend the day toddling about seeing what everyone else was up to, and repeatedly went over to say hello to my sister's dog, Tank. Or she was climbing. Always climbing. (She repeatedly climbed up the picnic table, including tipping an entire flower vase of water all over her, which she very much did NOT care for.)

Given the farmhouse isn't entirely set up for baby-sleeping, it seemed easier for Christine to head home with the young ladies once evening begun to set in, as I remained to return Kate and Quinn home the following morning, before returning the rental car. We sat by the bonfire and talked about things and stuff, listened to the absence of noise, and, of course, fireworks.

Just before 2am, I walked the short stretch down the road to the unlit homestead (my father had forgotten that I was staying there; fortunately, he hadn't locked the doors). The dog, at least, at the top of the stairs, said hello.
 

another weekend in old glengarry:

We spent the August long weekend on the homestead again, for the sake of both the Glengarry Highland Games and my sister's annual bbq (my daughter Kate was working, and unable to come this year). Driving straight to the fairgrounds in Maxville on Saturday morning, we managed to miss my niece Rory singing at 10am (it takes forever to get out of the house, as you might imagine), but caught the Clan Parade again this year. I think the MacLennan contingent quite enjoys when my sister Kathy and I arrive with our broods, given we swell the ranks by at least three times when we do.

Unlike last year, we didn't manage to catch any photos of us standing behind the banner as part of the parade. The year prior, we didn't even know the parade was an option.

Rory, at least, sang again later on in the day: we caught that (and found out it was the same set as they'd done earlier).

We walked as part of the parade, and then saw Rory dance as part of the opening ceremonies. After that, I managed to convince everyone over to the beer tent. I mean, they had shade, and benches where Christine could nurse Aoife, after all...

Ah, me. Aoife's first beer enclosure.

And of course I wore my kilt. Where else might I even be able to? Aoife wore the onesie with Nova Scotia tartan we'd picked up for Rose a couple of years back, and Rose wore her more recent kilt.

I'd hoped to actually catch some of the competitions again this year, unlike the past two years, but we didn't quite make it. From the beer tent, it was the kid's area, where Rose's cousin Emma helped her feed some goats (and we too had some kind of lunch).

Rory was singing at 2:30pm, back by the Clan Barns, so we headed that way. Once that was over, toddler Rose, despite the ice cream, was starting to melt down (her lack of nap wasn't helping), so we wandered back to the farm. But not, of course, before I managed to snag a new t-shirt (I'd hoped for one for Rose, but they were long out of kid sizes).

Later that night, as I put Rose to bed (which, sans nap, was far easier than it should have been), I settled her with the lamb that had been my father's, when he was wee.

I'll admit I was enjoying that Rose kept playing with my father at the house, not necessarily giving him an option for a tea party, or one of her games, or colouring. He wasn't the most hands-on with any of us, seeming more awkward about playing with small children, but Rose was undeterred.

On Sunday, we headed across the road to my sister's house for her annual bbq. Given we'd purchased Rose a recorder (we were calling it a "flute") to keep her settled during a dollar-store run en route to the Games, she and I walked over as Christine and Aoife drove, so Rose could play it as loud as she could (she'd felt stymied by our suggestions to play it softly in the house; neither my father nor Christine were impressed with her constant playing). I HAD HER PLAY IT VERY LOUD.

My father asked: You're going to take that with you, aren't you?


She enjoyed catching her own echo from the trees, so she yelled: Hah! Hah! Hah!

Once at my sister's, there was the trampoline, and the pool (and the massive spit, where the pig was being roasted). And the garden. And a bunch of other kids, of various ages. Rose played with a little boy, Phoenix, who seemed maybe eight months younger than her, for most of the day.

Emma accompanied her into the pool for a bit, before she tired of it, and I took over. It was a struggle to finally convince her to come out.

Rose loved corn. More than a couple of times, she simply served herself, picking another cob or half-cob from the plate. She spent the whole day either running, or playing upon the trampoline.

And then there was dusk, when the fire began. Rose sat for a bit with her cousin Duncan.

Before both young ladies crashed. Aoife on me, and Rose on Christine's back. Rose slept through the incredibly-loud fireworks, but Aoife woke; the fireworks were impressive (set off around 10pm), but once finished, we sauntered back to the homestead. Aoife yelled the whole way.

The next morning, I went first thing for coffee etc at the Tim Horton's on Highland Road, and discovered a truck had missed a curve and plowed into a row of trees. The front was caved in, the passenger door ajar and the truck was sitting on a row of stumps, making it impossible to move (they've been expanding boundary road lately). Hoping the driver was okay. Presuming a middle of the night event. By the time I returned with coffee, there was already someone checking out the truck. By the time we were leaving, the truck had disappeared and a cop car was resting nearby.

My father didn't recognize the description of the truck.

Before heading home, we wandered east and south into Lancaster, and towards Cooper Marsh. I thought it might be more interesting to have a bit of running around for the toddler, instead of simply driving straight back to the house.

While looking at flowers, she insisted on doing some kind of 'flower-dance' (instead of allowing me to take a still photo).

We walked through some of the paths, and Rose ran and ran and stopped occasionally to colour and then ran and then insisted upon being carried again and then put down and then carried again (meaning Christine had to re-build her particular carrier-wrap once more), etcetera.

And then it was Dairy Queen in South Lancaster for lunch, before both girls slept the bulk of the drive home.

(another) weekend in old glengarry (+ the glengarry highland games,

We spent the weekend in Old Glengarry again, for the sake of the 68th edition of the Glengarry Highland Games on Saturday, and my sister's fifteenth annual afternoon pot-luck on Sunday [see last year's entry here; the previous year's entry here].

Saturday, August 1, 2015: Kate, Christine, Rose and I left Ottawa first(ish) thing in the morning, and arrived just in time to participate in the Clan parade, alongside my sister and her three children, which bulked up the representatives behind our banner (which the other participants were quite pleased for). Unfortunately, they mis-announced our Clan name ("McLellan"), which annoyed, but they were quickly corrected. I mean, weren't we carrying a big damned banner ahead of us as we walked?

I didn't realize we have a "new" plaque; given we hadn't a Clan Chief for some three hundred and fifty years until 1976, a new one was produced around that time. Apparently we have the old one, with three heart nails. I took a picture of the new one, just to know what it looks like (I prefer the old one).

My sister, Kathy, was there for the sake of her middle child, Rory, dancing as part of the morning's festivities. We sat in the heat and took many photos. Oh, what a warm day to be wearing such outfits.

We spent the day wandering, to see what and who we could see. Neither Christine, Kathy nor Kate could get their cellphones to work, which made us wonder why the Highland Games (incidentally, said to be the largest highland games outside of Scotland) even bothered having a hashtag. They really need to get the space properly set up for wi-fi. And perhaps provide a bit more information on their website. And yet, the event certainly doesn't suffer a lack of crowd...

We wandered; Rose ran around a bit, and even played in the gravel (she was removed against her wishes). Kathy's wee children complained. And I visited with a couple of people there and here I hadn't seen in some time.

Usually, some of the daytime musical entertainments can be, ahem, varied in their quality, but we caught The Brigadoons just before we left, which was quite nice. Rose and I danced a bit, as Kathy and I used up the last of our beer tokens.

The day was long; we were home around 5pm or so, but it meant that we'd been walking for about six or more hours, which explained how we were all exhausted by the end of it.

Once we arrived at the homestead, Rose sat awhile in Gran'pa's chair.

Sunday, August 2, 2015: After a breakfast at the local truck stop, Rose, Kate and I wandered off having adventures for the morning, allowing Christine some quiet time to get some work done. Our pal Clare Latremouille and her husband recently purchased a farm nearby, so we spent the morning with her, getting a lay of the land, and the strange space of land they now get to figure out.

The house was absolutely lovely! And Clare and Bryan regaled us with tales of the previous owner, who frightened the neighbours with his strange leavings, creations and pathways, including mirrors (facing in) replacing every window in the house. Rose was enormously happy, given she was immediately given an orange popsickle, and a variety of other foods while we were there. She wandered around the house, dribbling and sticky and laughing. Clare even let her leave with two stuffed toys, including an Ernie.

The house and the surrounding buildings are impressive, and have an enormous amount of potential. Despite wishing never to move ever again, I was quite jealous of what they've managed to find, and the work they've been putting into it (they're very good at that kind of renovation work, which I haven't a clue about).

Once home, we gathered Christine and headed up to my sister's house for her annual bbq, yard-party, whatever it is they call it now (they haven't roasted a pig in years). Rose swam in the pool a bit with her cousins, and spent the remainder of the day running, running, running and running, most of the time calling for her cousin, Emma.

Occasionally, she would even stop to colour.

By dusk, there was the annual fire, and the eventual fireworks. Rose ran until she couldn't anymore, and Christine convinced her into one of her carriers, where she fell asleep (somewhere around 10 or 10:30pm) on the walk back to the homestead.

another weekend in old glengarry (+ the glengarry highland games,

Saturday, August 2, 2014: We spent part of the August long weekend in Maxville, giving Rose her first taste of the Glengarry Highland Games. I wore my kilt (obviously), and carried our wee babe (who is looking rather red-headed in these shots) in the Celtic wrap Christine picked up some time ago.

Christine took many a photo of myself with wee Rose in the sling, she said, for the sake of posting something to one or two of her baby-wearing Facebook groups. Apparently father-images are a thing of some envy. Still?

The three of us wandered the grounds in the most brutal heat, visiting with various friends and acquaintances we came upon, as well as visiting the Clan MacLennan booth (I did this talk for them last year on working genealogical research), and watched some of the hammer toss.

So many I had hoped to see this year, but didn't. At least we found some. I mean, given some fifty thousand people wandering around (the largest Highland Games outside of Scotland), I suppose I couldn't expect to find everyone I knew (although there were many I did expect to see in the beer tent).

Oh, but the heat, the heat. We went from beer tent to beer building (which, at least, had some version of air conditioning). Christine looked at various garments, and we promised ourselves we would attempt to pick up something for Rose before next year, with the proper tartan. Rose bounced to the music, and wasn't startled at all by the largess of bagpipe din. Given the fact that both Rose and I radiate heat, we spent most of the day with a layer of sweat-blend between us.

In nearly every photo, Rose in her red-headed sweat-curls.

Christine picked up a small onesie-with-kilt for Rose, of course. We didn't see the proper tartan to match with mine, or any of the McNair ones, but did find one with a Nova Scotia tartan (where some of her family originated).

Rose floated between sleepiness, and bouncing to music, unable to sleep properly until we landed in the massive beer tent at the far end of the Fairgrounds. We realized the white noise of the
crowd was enough to lull her, rather quickly, into complete unconsciousness.

Quite a difference from last year. Or the year before that. Or the year before that.

We drove home the long way (in part to help the baby sleep further, and to help re-charge Christine's phone), with a stop-over in Alexandria to pick up a phone charger just in time for a hard-hitting rain. We discovered later it avoided Maxville altogether, which was incredibly fortunate. We drove various back-roads, heading due west from Baltic's Corners, ending up at St. Elmo, right where we married. Some roads I hadn't been on in some thirty-plus years, since my school bus drove me home on the final day of grade eight; some roads I'd never been on at all.

Sunday, August 3, 2014: After a night on the homestead, we let Rose play on the lawn for a while. After a while, her cousins appeared (my sister sending them out of the house so she could get something done), and they played with her as my father told stories of how the yard used to be. He told of a row of trees, including a walnut tree. He told of the big tree still in the front of the yard, planted here by his mother, transplanted from her own parent's property.

At my sister's log house, we had another of our annual barbecues, including family, neighbours and my brother-in-law's birthday. Rose spent some time with her cousins, Rose and Christine spent time in the pool, and I tried to do as little as possible, between baby-time and drinks.

A languid, slow-moving day.

My cousin Kim arrived with her youngest daughter Allison, and her new young man (who seems nice enough; I decided not to hammer him with questions--yet). We discussed many things, including histories not everyone (yet) knows. There are more hidden truths in that family than I can sometimes bear, and more than half, once you really inquire, doesn't even appear to be true. But silence is a tricky barrier, and stronger than steel, it would seem.

After the drinks and the food and the drinks, most left, and we were left to the dusk and the bonfire, as a couple began on the fireworks. They began from the sandbox, but a couple pieces were tossed directly into the fire. We thought them quite mad, and most of the group watched from a slight distance. It was impressive, but I still worried about the stretch of my father's surrounding corn.

We walked back to the farm, late. Late, late. Baby slept, and slept some more. We all awoke sore.

Monday morning, we drove out, exhausted, to Christine's mother's cottage for a few days, deep in the hills of the Laurentians. Can you believe it has been six years since we first went out there, together?

Another weekend in old Glengarry

Another August long weekend, which means we headed off to the farm in old Glengarry again. Just like last year, the year before, the year before that, and the year before that (etcetera).

Saturday, August 3, 2013 [photo of Ruairidh (Rory) MacLennan of MacLennan, Clan Chief of the MacLennans with myself in Christine in the Clan MacLennan tent, Glengarry Highland Games]: We spent the bulk of Saturday at the Glengarry Highland Games, arriving just before 10am and leaving soon after 6pm. This year, ours was the featured clan, and I was invited to do a talk on compiling my McLennan/MacLennan genealogies of the two counties [see the text of my talk, posted here a few days ago]. 

Other talks ensued, including one by David Anderson on some of the famous Scottish-born Mc/MacLennans in Glengarry County (which included a couple of names from my own talk), and David McLennan of Ottawa, who spoke on aspects of the old clan system, and further Mc/MacLennan histories. A highlight of the day had to be the first Glengarry Highland Games visit by Ruairidh (Rory) MacLennan of MacLennan, Clan Chief of the MacLennans.

Where are you from? the Chief asked me. Um, here, I said. Right here.

Walking in from where we parked the car for the day, seeing the house where my great-grandparents, Fred and Janie Campbell, lived until the early 1960s [see my previous post on them here]. Their house sitting just behind the post office.

I was the only one in the MacLennan tent that appeared to be from the Maxville area, although there were various people with Mc/MacLennan connections there from Apple Hill and Laggan, including Stephen Brockwell’s cousin, Jack McRae (apparently a McLennan woman married into the McRaes a couple of generations back). Jack has yet to get me his genealogical information, so I can enter it into mine.

Ruairidh (Rory) MacLennan of MacLennan, Clan Chief of the MacLennans spoke briefly, and performed on the bagpipes. After his father, he is only the second Clan MacLennan Chief in a couple hundred years, and is an entirely nice man.

Apparently he is to be married next year. I asked him, as Clan Chief, do you feel any pressure to have to continue the line?

Since it was Christine’s first Glengarry Highland Games, we wandered around various booths, beer enclosures (tent and building), watched the caber toss, the tug-of-war cup finals, the massed Highland fling and massed pipe bands (we should have brought chairs). To accompany me wearing my kilt, she even wore the small fascinator she had constructed with the McLennan tartan last fall for the wedding. Apparently, being six months pregnant also means that beer enclosures are slightly less entertaining (who knew). We saw people I knew from high school and public school, that I manage to only see now (if at all) when I come through for the Games.

 

It was an enormously long day, arriving back at my sister’s house just in time to sing happy birthday to her husband, Corey, and enjoy cake for dinner.

On the way back to the farm from my sister’s house, we caught the entirety of a rainbow over the homestead, protecting the property like a dome. 

A weekend of rainbows, which also meant a weekend of raining.

Unfortunately, we were kept awake by a bat that wandered into the bedroom we were sleeping. It crept in through the closet, and woke us around midnight. It took ninety minutes for the two of us to get the damned thing back outside.

We took no photos of that.

Sunday, August 4, 2013: We woke with an idea for coffee, and managed to wander from Cassleman (to pick up Christine’s preferred breakfast) over to Alexandria, where we sat at the Dairy Queen and I made terrible jokes, seeing the sign next door at the Giant Tiger. My quip, “did you hear they killed the village chicken?” And then I pointed (see: below). Christine rolled her eyes. This seems very much the kind of joke my father would have made, somehow.

Although apparently a photograph of me was required as well. Dairy Queen, where I spent years coming home to get writing done. Years upon years upon years.

Eventually we wandered over to Williamstown, where we visited both the Sir John Johnson House and the Bethune-Thompson House. In this area, history simply abounds. Here is a portrait of Christine in front of the grounds, taken from the far end of the yard (the cannon, just beneath the flag, was said to have been used during the 1837 Rebellion).

 I’ve shown numerous people over the years the Sir John Johnson House, and enjoy it in part for the fact that you can see the remnants of the grand estate it must have been, and that it currently houses not only the county archive for Glengarry, but is the local library as well. I like very much that it is not exclusively historical, but currently used. We snapped a number of pictures around the property, across the manicured lawns, the old mill wheel, and the old foundation of lost buildings.

In the furthest corner from the house, you could even see where the old mill once stood (the "You are here" helping situate the site of the former mill). The water barely says a single word.

Williamstown, with the oldest county fair in the country, as well as the nearby family cabin where poet Don McKay [see a post I wrote on him here] has written for years (and, for a number of years, his former partner Jan Zwicky as well). I still haven’t managed to figure out where it is.

There’s a North-West Company Museum in the village as well, but we didn’t make it over there, this time around. Historical sites in this area are near-impossible to make in a single day.

And Christine found a bench in the overgrown brush, where she sat for a minute or two.

God only knows how, but I’ve managed all these years to never actually make it over to the Bethune-Thompson House in Williamstown. The oldest remaining house in Ontario, the house is the former residence of Rev. John Bethune (1751-1815; relative of Norman), and the explorer David Thompson (1770-1857). Thompson not only named the Fraser River after his mentor, Simon Fraser (who lies in a graveyard close by in St. Andrew’s West), but mapped the 49^th parallel, famously “losing a country for four days” when he wasn’t sure if he was in British or American territory.

We wandered up to the house, only to discover that this is where David Anderson (one of the speakers at the previous afternoon's Clan MacLennan tent) and his wife actually live. How does anyone live in a museum? He toured us through much of the building, including their Georgian fireplace, said to be the best in the country (as all the sibling fireplaces sat in Niagara-on-the-Lake and were burned during the War of 1812). He has the finest memory for local history I’ve seen, and manages to keep everything in his head, somehow. A collector as well as a bookseller and historian, he and Christine went through a number of historical books that relate to the area.

He did seem pretty excited that Christine works as a book conservator, and said he knew full well about where it is she works. There were a number of books on display the two of them went through, and even other incredibly rare titles on his shelves he showed us.

I can’t imagine that many places around that have not one but TWO historical plaques, and has someone actually living there.

Once through there, we made our way back the hour or so from Williamstown to my sister’s small house, where we enjoyed her annual backyard barbecue. 

Children tore around, it rained occasionally, and, unfortunately, the cool kept us all from the pool (unlike previous years). The children eventually took turns breaking their way into a piñata, pouncing upon the wounded thing once it touched the lawn like the feral beasts they truly are.

We spent the afternoon interspersed with rain and barbecue, with various friends and family wandering in, wandering through, wandering by. Once the food had come and gone, so did most of the crowd (as many had small children). And the rain came through again, as did another few rainbows.

By dark, only a small handful was left: myself, Christine, my sister and her husband and their children (with a friend of Emma's who stayed over), as well as a friend of my brother-in-law Corey. A small group, as the children lit sparklers, and watched the fire burn slow.

We were back at the homestead by midnight, exhausted. Hoping not to see any more bats.

Monday, August 5, 2013: We arrived home in the morning just in time to spend two days with Christine’s young Winnipeg cousin, Adam. En route from parts of Quebec back west through to Toronto, we picked him up at the youth hostel and took him for lunch at The Wellington Gastropub.

An exciting few days, but admittedly, I was looking forward to a couple days of absolutely nothing (but for my usual routine). Soon.