Welcome to The Club Spring 2021

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Welcome to ...
THE Club
POSTCARDS
of
SARNIA-
LAMBTON
See the Dave Burwell
Postcard Collecon at
sarniahistoricalsociety.com
Chipican Grill 1970’s
Sponsored p
o
dBy:
A Better Place For You®
F. Filia & Associates Ltd.
2-565 Murphy Road, Sarnia Franco Filia
519-332-5400 I franco_filia@cooperators.ca Advisor/Owner
Photos from the Krom-o-graph collecon.
Aerial view of the bluewater bridge in the 1940s.
Lake Huron Hotel in the 1900s. near Colborne and Lakeshore
Pesha: The Federal Building
and local post office.
Located at the corner of S-E
corner of Davis and Front.
The Sarnia Ferries that docked at
Ferry Dock Hill on Cromwell and
Front Street would ferry cars and
people to the Port Huron, USA side.
Canatara Beach
The Heritage of My Hands
By Lyn Tremblay, Simcoe • From Daytripping Magazine September-October 2001
There is a “memory” room in our
home where I go to visit some very special
people who are no longer in my life. It is
filled with objects that were so much a
part of their lives that I can caress each
one and feel as if I am holding hands with
my past. An old sewing machine sits in
the corner—when I touch its smooth oak
surface I am back in the kitchen of my
childhood. My mom is bent over it guiding
yards of fabric under the click, click, click
of the tiny needle, the wheel whirs as her
foot works the treadle back and forth. I
have a special memory of matching red
skirts with tiny kittens around the hems,
made for my two sisters and I. Without
trying very hard, I can smell the wood
burning in the cookstove and I can see
loaves of homemade bread, rising like
puffy clouds, sitting on the top of the
warming closet.
In my memory room, the bed
is draped with a “Dresden plate”
patterned patchwork quilt. I can hear my
grandmother’s giggle as she tells a story,
while her fingers automatically push a
needle pulling thread in and out, tracing
the edges of each design. Now I look at
those same patches and I remember a
blouse that covered an ample bosom
and arms that rocked countless babies.
Some of my pillowcases are
trimmed in intricately “tatted” lace and
embroidery. Nearby, a photograph of a
prim and proper lady with lace-edged
collars reminds me that this is the work
of one of my great-grandmothers. An old
tin box is filled with large dark buttons,
the kind you would find on heavy woolen
“mackinaw” coats. My other greatgrandmother
knew a tougher life—her
creations kept her children warm. They
both died long before I was born, but I
feel I know them.
A tiny basket sitting on the windowsill
holds other reminders. A crocheted pincushion
belonged to great-aunt Francis,
we called her Aunt Fanny. When I think
of her, I am a little girl, brushing long
hair that hung to her knees before she
braided it into a neat halo that wrapped
around her head.
The basket also contains a small
wooden crochet hook whittled by my
great-grandfather. It is the only reminder
of hours spent carving with only his
touch to guide him. He could not see. I
can smell his pipe.
Canatara Beach
A rug hook made from a
spoon belonged to my great-great
grandmother—the crevices of the
engraved handle are dark with age. I am
told she loved to create her own unique
designs, working long into the night by
the light of a coal-oil lamp.
There are other things that I cherish
perhaps even more than all of these.
Delicate crocheted cotton doilies spread
out on dresser tops are reminders that
once, not so long ago, other fingers—
spotted with age and swollen with
arthritis, worked the tiny knots flawlessly
day in and day out. These are the works
of art created by my grandmother. These
small webs of cloth are a reminder of her
passion.
She too is gone now, but my memories
of her have not had time to dim. She was
my inspiration and part of the wonderful
legacy that my own hands have inherited.
SPRING 2021 Motherhood is an act of endless forgiveness. (unknown)
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