Memories of Skeleton Lake by Paul Temple

and storing them in sawdust was a busy winter activity. The whole
family did the milking, because it took time to milk a herd—at least
the barn would be warm and it was togetherness. I tried milking a
cow once. I missed the pail and it ran down my good pants into my
shoe.
There was at least one woman bootlegger. She lived in a farmhouse
across the road from the Raymond store. The house was torn down
years ago, and you will see a horse farm there today. She was a
widow with small children, and very poor. Neighbors would drop by
to bring her vegetables, and make sure she was okay, and, of course,
she would offer them a refreshment—and at times, a beer. They
knew she couldn’t afford it, so they would offer a contribution. This
grew into a little pub she ran in her living room, always making sure
the kids weren’t around when it was open. Dad and some friends
checked it out and said there was no other “Hanky Panky” going
on and she would never serve someone if they had had too much.
The incredible thing was, the beer distribution truck would come
weekly and deliver cases of beer at the same wholesale price they
were charging at the Brewer’s Warehouse and pubs in Bracebridge
and Huntsville. All the local officials and the local MP had to know
about it—they all knew each other, but they chose to look the other
way, knowing she had no other means of support. One day, the
village drunk was walking out the driveway when he tripped over a
rock, fell, broke his neck and died. There was a local outcry about
this, especially by the “Teetotalers”, but several others got together
and said he had come to the door drunk and she had refused to let
him in. Things quieted down for a while, but finally they could see
she could make it on her own selling baked goods, and the children
were old enough to help out. An official came around and told her
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