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Paintings by Tom Evans, Tadoussac and the Saguenay River PREVIOUS Tom Evans Paintings NEXT PAGE La plupart de mes peintures représentent Tadoussac et la rivière Saguenay. Les peintures disponibles sont au début. tomfevans@icloud.com Most of my paintings are of Tadoussac and the Saguenay River. Available paintings are at the beginning. tomfevans@icloud.com 320 Tadoussac Bay $400 16x20" 333 CaleSeche $600 20x30" 331 Tadoussac! $500 20x30" 329 Reflections $400 16x24" 323 PointeRouge $500 20x20" 321 Red Canoe $400 16x20" 319 MicroBrasserie $300 14x18" 316 Bergeronnes1950 $400 16x20 303 Hovington Farm $400 16x20" 290 Loading pulplogs $400 16x20" 276 Kayaks $200 12x16" 268 PassePierrePicnic $250 10x14" 225 Noroua&CSL $400 16x20" 332 Ferry on the Saguenay 330 Passe Pierre Inlet 327 RedCottage on the Beach 16x20" 324 Gulls over Water 313 Girls waving at Freighter 12x16" 312 Whitboat Haulout 311 BiblioPlage 310 Village in Winter 16x20" 309 Cliff & Sailboat 308 Red Chairs & Sunset 307 Tadoussac Market 306 Webbling 304 Evening on the Bay 301 Riptide 300 BonaparteGullsoffTadoussac 299 Webbling 298 TennisClub2 297 Sunset on Saguenay 296 Beach at Tadoussac August 2020 295 Cale Seche Houses ~1930's 294 Nor-Shore Canoe and Dory 293 TennisClub withSteps 292 View of Tadoussac 289 Goelette &CSLBoat2 287 Houses onIndianRock 16x20" 285 HousesinCaleSeche 284 PointeBlancinYellowLight 281 Crack boat in the Bay 279 GibardMusiciansatNight 278 Jean Yvan rounding the point 277 Cid'satNight 274 Clouds over La Boule 273 HAB loading at Grosse Roche 272 Dufferin in Fall Colours 271 Cale Seche Boats and Houses 11x14 270 Cale Seche Houses&Laundry 269 Yawl Laura with Relatives 267 Girl and dog at the lake 266 Tennis Club with players 262 Freighter at speed 261 ChapelHotelAptsBoardwalk 260 KidsStreetLaGreve 11x14" 259 Canoe at Cap a Jack 258 CSL Boat passing the Point 256 Belugas 255 Marina Boats and Tadoussac 254wipKids&BoatsatPetitsIsles 252 DebatPetitsIsles 250 Riptide Patio 249 Bonne Chance with LE & kids 248 Trillium with dingy 246wipSaguenayPointwithRays 245 CSL Landing 244 Tad Main Street 1930's 243 CoopViewHouses&TallShip 242 SaguenayRockswithLight 240 MauiBeach 239 StCatherine'sBay 238 Snowy Bank #2 237 StairsinFreighterCanoe 236 PinkRocksandSandDunes 235 3Boats & RedRoofs 231 Winter TadBeach1965 230 HoboEnteringDrydock 229 Caleche & CSL Boat 226 MicroBrasserie &people 224 SmallDunesKids&Dogs 223 Brynhyfryd (2) 222 Freighter (stern) 219 JacquesCartier 217 SnowyBank 215 TadStreetRedsGreens 212 Rocks&Iris 207 PilotHouse1950 206 wipFreighteratSpeed 205 YellowRowboat 203 HousesnearCoop2 202 AnsedeRocheGoelette 200 TadStreet&Market 199 SnowonPtRouge 198 TennisClubandBarn 197 FishingBoat&Hotel 194 GoeletteinFog 192 BayEvening&Lights 179 GoeletteAnsedeRoche 178 SeeingPeopleoffonCSL 176 SailboutTroudelaBoule 172 Windy Beach 169 Spruce Cliff Door Mural 167 Minke Whale on Windward 165 Ice on the Saguenay 164 Bonne Chance in Drydock 159 Tad from Indian Rock 1930's 158 New Cottage in Winter.jpg 155 Cid's.jpg 154 Black Duck (2).jpg 154 Black Duck Mosaic 2012.jpg 153 PointeNoir through Trees.jpg 152 St Catherine's Bay.jpg 151 lesgarsquiontconstruit lamaison1936.jpg 150 Rocks on Saguenay in Sun 149 Evan Landing at PtealaCroix.jpg 147 Cid's_Church inWinter.jpg 144 1860's Boats on Beach 142 SaguenayPointAutumn.jpg 141 Goelettes in Drydock.jpg 140 Tivoli.jpg 138 TadoussacHillside.jpg 133 Tile Mosaic Tad Bay & Saguenay 126 Houses near Coop with colour.jpg 113 Brynhyfryd in Sun.jpg 111 Pointe Noire and Freighter.jpg 110 Boats and Folks on Beach.jpg 109 Betatakin 2007.jpg 106 Tadoussac Village from Indian Rock 2007.jpg 104 Houses on the Bank 2007.jpg 102 Sunset Portugal.jpg 100 Two Red Boats2007.jpg 88 TadBayTilePanorama 86 Hockey Sunday mornings at Glendale.jpg 85 Poppies in Provence.jpg 83 Red Wall in Provence.jpg 81 McKenzie King Ruins.jpg 80 Provence Village.jpg 77 Thunderstorm over Dunes.jpg 69 St Irenee from hill.jpg 66 Red Boat Peggy's Cove.JPG 64 Algonquin Park Waterfall.jpg 62 Sailing the Trillium.jpg 59 Hotel in Quebec City with Red Roof.jpg 57 Saguenay Point below Cliffs #2.jpg 46 Indian Rock 2001.jpg 45 St Tite des Caps.jpg O 25 Walkers Red Rocks and Clay Cliffs.jpg 23 Old Wharf in Nova Scotia.jpg 21 Sandcastle Circle on the Beach in Tad.jpg 20 Cons'tn Navale dans la Cale Seche 1940 2003.jpg 17 Julia and Matt on Beach in Christian Island.jpg 16 Baccaro.jpg

Historic photographs of Tadoussac Quebec in the 1800's and 1900's. A rich history of a beautiful place. TidesofTadoussac.com TABLE DES MATIÈRES & DATES importantes en bas de cette page search! cherchez! TABLE OF CONTENTS & Key DATES at the bottom of this page DATES TADOUSSAC the oldest photos Maps & Images Hudson's Bay Station Anse à L'Eau Buildings Disappeared Main Street Rue Principale Golf View from High Up Drydock - La Cale Sèche Molson Museum Horses, Buggies and Cars The Dunes Shipwrecks The Old Wooden Wharf Yawls & Small Boats BOATS & SHIPS Canoes,Punts,Rowboats Ferries Ma rina Goelettes Dallaire's Boat Rivière SAGUENAY River Geology Moulins du Saguenay Saguenay Mills Cap a Jack Anchorages Lark Reef, La Toupie Endroits Intéressants 1930's 1950's High Tide Club Charlevoix Crater Houses/Maisons à Tadoussac et Québec Benmore, Quebec Rhodes Cottage Spruce Cliff Radford Fletcher Lilybell Rhodes ART Paintings by Tom Evans RHODES FAMILY Rhodes - Family Tree William Rhodes&Ann Smith William Rhodes & Anne Dunn Uncle James Rhodes Armitage Rhodes Godfrey Rhodes William Rhodes Jim Williams Rhodes Grandchildren EVANS FAMILY Francis Evans EVANS Dean Lewis Evans & May & Emily Bethune Betty and Lewis Evans RUSSELL William Russell & Fanny Eliza Pope CONTACT PAGE At the confluence of the St. Lawrence and Saguenay rivers, Tadoussac and its surrounding area were a meeting place and a crossroads for trade between First Nations people that have been here for 8000 years. These two major waterways enabled European explorers and traders to enter into the continent. Natives traded with Basques whalers and Breton cod fishermen as early as the 14th Century. As he was sailing up the St. Lawrence in 1535, Jacques Cartier was taken aback by the sheer beauty of the area and dropped anchor in the bay to visit. Pierre de Chauvin built a fur-trading post in 1600, the first building in New France. In May of 1603, Samuel de Champlain sealed an alliance between the French and the First Nations near Tadoussac. It was a commercial, military and foundational agreement that would lead to the establishment of Québec City five years later. After having lived off the fur trade, fishing and whaling, and then the forest industry, in 1864 the village built its first hotel to accommodate summer vacationers. Since then, tourism has been the pillar of local and regional socioeconomic life. Please email me more DATES to add to this list 1535 Jacques Cartier discovers the Saguenay Fjord 1600 Construction of a house and establishment of a fur trading post by Pierre de Chauvin 1647&1747 Chapel built 1838 Price Sawmill built 1848 Price Sawmill closed 1859 Hudson's Bay Post closed 1860 Brynhyfryd built 1861 Spruce Cliff built 1861 Molson Beattie house built 1862 Tadalac built 1864 Tadoussac Hotel built 1864 Powel/Bailey House built 1864 Cid's built 1865 Price Row built 1867 Protestant Chapel built 1869 A rudimentary road links Les Escoumins to Tadoussac 1870 Hudson's Bay Post Demolished 1873 (Spring) The Governor General of Canada, the Marquis Dufferin, builds his summer residence in Tadoussac. 1874 Establishment of a salmon fish farm by Samuel Wilmot in the former facilities of William Price at Anse-à-l'Eau. 1885-9 Église de la Sainte-Croix built 1899-1901 Tadoussac Hotel expansion 1912? Wharf built 1914 Piddington built Ivanhoe 1923 Bourgouin & Dumont Fire 1927 A ferry between Baie-Sainte-Catherine and Tadoussac is in service year round 1927 CSL St Lawrence Launched 1928 CSL Tadoussac and Quebec launched 1931 Destruction by fire of Radford House 1932 Destruction by fire of Brynhyfryd, rebuilt the same yea 1932 Maison Molson/Beattie or Noel Brisson built (Moulin Baude) 1936 Windward built 1942 New Hotel Tadoussac built 1942 Maison Chauvin reconstruction 1942 Power Station at Moulin Baude built 1946 Destruction by fire of Église de la Sainte-Croix 1948 Turcot House built 1950 Destruction by fire of the CSL Quebec at the wharf 1966 End of CSL boats 1986 Webster house built À la confluence du Saint-Laurent et de la rivière du Saguenay. Tadoussac et ses proches environs constituaient un lieu de rassemblement et un carrefour d’échanges entre Premières Nations, présentes sur le territoire depuis 8 000 ans. Ces cours d’eau majeurs ont permis aux explorateurs et aux commerçants venus d’Europe de pénétrer le continent. Dès le XIVe siècle, les autochtones ont commercé avec les chasseurs basques de baleines et les pêcheurs bretons de morue. En 1535, alors qu’il remonte le Saint-Laurent, Jacques Cartier est saisi par sa beauté du site et jette l'ancre dans la baie pour le visiter. Pierre de Chauvin y construit un poste de traite de fourrures en 1600, le premier bâtiment de la Nouvelle-France. En mai 1603, Samuel de Champlain scelle tout près de Tadoussac une alliance entre les Français et les peuples autochtones. Il s’agit d’une entente commerciale, militaire et d’établissement qui ouvre la voie à la fondation de Québec cinq ans plus tard. Après avoir vécu du commerce des fourrures, de la pêche et de la chasse à la baleine, puis de l’industrie forestière, c’est en 1864 que le village construit le premier hôtel pour accueillir les villégiateurs estivaux. Depuis, le tourisme constitue un pilier de la vie socioéconomique locale et régionale. S'il vous plaît écrivez-moi plus de DATES à ajouter à cette liste 1535 Jacques Cartier découvre le fjord du Saguenay 1600 Construction d'une maison et établissement d'un poste de traite des fourrures par Pierre de Chauvin 1647&1747 Chapelle construite 1838 Scierie Price construite 1848 Prix Scierie fermée 1859 Fermeture du poste de la Baie d'Hudson 1860 Brynhyfryd construit 1861 Spruce Cliff construite 1861 Maison Molson Beattie construite 1862 Tadalac construit 1864 Tadoussac Hôtel construit 1864 Construction de la maison Powel/Bailey 1864 Cid construit 1865 Price Row construit 1867 Chapelle protestante construite 1869 Une route rudimentaire relie Les Escoumins à Tadoussac 1870 Poste de la Baie d'Hudson démoli 1873 (printemps) Le gouverneur général du Canada, le marquis Dufferin, construit sa résidence d'été à Tadoussac. 1874 Établissement d'une pisciculture de saumon par Samuel Wilmot dans les anciennes installations de William Price à Anse-à-l'Eau. 1885-9 Église de la Sainte-Croix construite 1899-1901 Agrandissement de l'hôtel Tadoussac 1912 ? Quai construite 1914 Piddington construit Ivanhoe 1923 Destruction par le feu Bourgouin & Dumont 1927 Un traversier entre Baie-Sainte-Catherine et Tadoussac est en service à l'année 1927 CSL St Lawrence lancé 1928 CSL Tadoussac and Quebec lancé 1931 Destruction par le feu de Radford House 1932 Destruction par le feu de Brynhyfryd, reconstruit la même année 1932 Maison Molson/Beattie ou Noel Brisson built (Moulin Baude) 1936 Windward construit 1942 Nouvel Hôtel Tadoussac construit 1942 Reconstruction de la Maison Chauvin 1942 Construction de la centrale électrique du Moulin Baude 1946 Destruction par le feu de l'église de la Sainte-Croix 1948 Maison Turcot construite 1950 Destruction par le feu du CSL Québec au quai 1966 Fin des bateaux CSL 1986 Construction de la maison Webster DATES 50

Tadoussac Main Street - Rue Principale Pierre Cid Cote Mayer Villeneuve Bourgouin Bouliane Cafe Blue Manior Tadoussac Galouine Boheme Tadoussac Main Street - Rue Principale Then and Now - Hier et Aujourd'hui With Biographies of Pierre Cid and Johnny Maher by Daniel Delisle PhD! 1850-1880 There are very few photos of the main street of Tadoussac prior to the construction of the Église de la Sainte-Croix in the late 1880's. These photos show the Hudson's Bay Post on the front lawn of the Hotel Tadoussac, so they are prior to 1870 when the Post was demolished. One of the first buildings on the Main Street is the building that is presently La Galouïne Restaurant. Il existe très peu de photos de la rue principale de Tadoussac avant la construction de l'église de la Sainte-Croix à la fin des années 1880. Ces photos montrent le poste de la Baie d'Hudson sur la pelouse de l'hôtel Tadoussac. Elles datent donc d'avant 1870, lorsque le poste a été démoli. L'un des premiers bâtiments de la rue principale est celui qui abrite actuellement le restaurant La Galouïne. The Hotel Tadoussac was built in 1864, and around the same time five houses were built on the Main Street further east, today they are Cote, Chez Ida, Hovington, Stairs and Beattie. These five houses were built by the Prices, perhaps as residences for the Hotel staff. It must have been a busy time for construction in Tadoussac! There is a gap between the last two houses, that was filled in much later. L'Hôtel Tadoussac a été construit en 1864, et à peu près à la même époque cinq maisons ont été construites sur la rue Main plus à l'est, il s'agit aujourd'hui de Côté, Chez Ida, Hovington, Stairs et Beattie. Ces cinq maisons furent construites par les Price, peut-être comme résidences pour le personnel de l'Hôtel. Cela a dû être une période chargée pour la construction à Tadoussac ! Il existe un écart entre les deux dernières maisons, qui a été comblé bien plus tard. Just up the street overlooking the bay are the first three summer residences, built by Powel, Russell and Rhodes in the early 1860's. Juste au bout de la rue surplombant la baie se trouvent les trois premières résidences d'été, construites par Powel, Russell et Rhodes au début des années 1860. 1880-1910 Église de la Sainte-Croix in the late 1880's. The first photos (maybe) just before it was built. The panorama with the steamer is early 1890's, after the church was built but before the hotel was expanded in 1900. There's a big gap just east of "Cid's" so the Bourgouin house has not yet been built. Interesting building by the bridge with a gallery on the roof! Église de la Sainte-Croix à la fin des années 1880. Les premières photos (peut-être) juste avant sa construction. Le panorama avec le bateau à vapeur date du début des années 1890, après la construction de l'église mais avant l'agrandissement de l'hôtel en 1900. Il y a une grande brèche juste à l'est du "Cid's", donc la maison Bourgouin n'est pas encore construite. Bâtiment intéressant près du pont avec une galerie sur le toit ! Circa 1905 This photo is from my family album of 1901. According to the biography of Johnny Maher (below) he built a house next door to the Cid Store, and it burned in 1902. He then built the larger building in the next photo. The "Cid's" building has no sign (maybe a small one over the door?), although the store started about this time. Cette photo est tirée de mon album de famille de 1901. D'après la biographie de Johnny Maher (ci-dessous), il a construit une maison à côté du magasin Cid, et elle a brûlé en 1902. Il a ensuite construit le plus grand bâtiment de la photo suivante. Le bâtiment du "Cid's" n'a aucune enseigne (peut-être une petite au-dessus de la porte ?), bien que le magasin ait ouvert ses portes à cette époque. Circa 1910, the Maher building has expanded, and the "Manoir Tadoussac" has a new roof with a tower! (Or maybe it's a new building?) Vers 1910, le bâtiment Maher s'agrandit et le "Manoir Tadoussac" a un nouveau toit avec une tour ! (Ou peut-être que c'est un nouveau bâtiment ?) Closer up the store signs are visible, "J N Maher Épicièr" and "Pierre Cid Marchand General". Biographies of both Maher and Cid below! Plus près, les enseignes du magasin sont visibles, "J N Maher Épicièr" et "Pierre Cid Marchand Général". Biographies de Maher et de Cid ci-dessous ! Tadoussac Main Street - Rue Principale Then and Now - Hier et Aujourd'hui 1909 < > 2023 This diagram from 1909 helps to explain the location of the buildings, the Cote's Grocery store is on the land that used to have 2 buildings, Bourgouin & Dumont Ce schéma de 1909 permet d'expliquer l'emplacement des bâtiments, l'Épicerie Côté est sur le terrain qui abritait autrefois 2 bâtiments, Bourgouin & Dumont Maher Cid's Bourgouin Dumont Galouine Manoir Tad Cafe Bleu Bouliane Construit 1900's 1860's 1900's 1880's 1850's 1860's 1860's 1860's Jusq'ua 1970's Now 1923 1923 Maintenant 1970's? Now 1970's? Johnny Maher Johnny Maher, Merchant in Tadoussac Daniel Delisle PhD At the end of the 19th early 20th century, the village of Tadoussac had a few merchants, among others, the oldest according to our research, which was founded around 1864, François Bourgoing's business. There was also that of Alfred Vaillancourt, the store of Pierre Cid and the store of Johnny N. Maher. Johnny Maher, marchand à Tadoussac Daniel Delisle PhD À la fin 19e début 20e siècle, le village de Tadoussac comptait quelques marchands, entre autres, le plus ancien selon nos recherches, qui aurait été fondé vers 1864, le commerce de François Bourgoing. Il y avait aussi celui d’Alfred Vaillancourt, le magasin de Pierre Cid et le magasin de Johnny N. Maher. Alfred Vaillancourt's store was located on rue du bord de l'eau, in the building that currently houses the Micro-brasserie de Tadoussac. The other three businesses were located on Main Street, then Elgin Street, now Rue des Pioneers, close to each other. The current Intermarché-banner Hovington grocery store succeeded the Côté grocery store as well as the business of François Bourgoing and later his son Ernest. The current premises of Café Bohème housed the general store of Pierre Cid and on the land where the Nima store is now located was the Johnny N. Maher store. Joseph (aka Johnny or Johnney) Napoleon Maher Family Johnny Maher, born in 1863 and died in 1939, is the son of Joseph "Jerry" Maher and Clarisse Gagné. On August 10, 1886, Johnny married Évelyne (Marie Auveline) Hovington (1865-), daughter of Édouard Hovington and Flavine Pedneault. The couple gave birth to a son, Édouard Thomas (1891-1980) who in 1918 married Emma Vauthier (1898-1966) daughter of Édouard Vauthier and Annie-Bridget-Ann Sullivan of St-Godefroi de Bonaventure in Gaspésie. Following the death of his wife Évelyne Hovington, Johnny married again in 1898, Laure Boulianne daughter of Joseph Boulianne and Alfeda Levesque. Two children were born of the union, a daughter, Marie-Paule (1904-1997) married to Ernest Lizotte, and a son, Robert (1900-1970) husband of Florette Harvey (1918-1985). Professional activities Johnny Maher is said to have owned a house on Pointe-de-l'Islet. Forced to demolish it due to its expropriation, he erected a new one near the Côté bridge, next to Pierre Cid's future store. At the end of the 1800s, Johnny Maher experienced some financial difficulties, notably bankruptcy in 1891. The height of misfortune, a few years later, in 1902, a fire completely destroyed the house which housed his store. His home was uninsured. Yet as a shrewd trader he knew the high financial risks and the obligation to be careful. Both at the first marriage, following bankruptcy, and at the second, the Maher spouses ensure a union in "separation of property" in order to protect the family patrimony. In the 1911 census, Johnny Maher declared himself of Scottish origin, "merchant" as his main occupation and "fisherman" as a secondary occupation. As for his Scottish origin, according to genealogists, the Maher ancestors are of Irish origin and not Scottish. For her part, Mrs. Gaby Villeneuve claims that he is of Germanic origin. His business is mainly oriented towards dry food and sewing accessories. Depending on the season, it offers its customers fishing products, in particular fresh salmon. When the municipality of the Village of Tadoussac was created, Johnny Maher was appointed alderman of the first municipal council under the leadership of Mayor Eugène Caron. Later, he will sit on the Peace Commission for the district of Tadoussac. The descendants Johnny's eldest son, Thomas Maher, will achieve some fame in the Quebec City region and beyond. After graduating from the classical course at the Séminaire de Chicoutimi in 1913, he continued his studies in agriculture in Chicoutimi and obtained his diploma in 1914. After his training at Laval University, he became a forest engineer in 1917. Subsequently, a professor at the university Laval where he has had a great career. Involved in the Quebec City region, he is recognized as a “great developer” of Lac Saint-Joseph. He will also be associated with the Deschênes de Tadoussac family when the Compagnie de navigation Charlevoix-Saguenay was created in 1918, of which he was vice-president. The company will obtain a government subsidy to provide a link between the Carlevoix region and the North Shore. Thomas married Emma Vauthier on January 3, 1918, the couple had 3 children. He was a professor at the Faculty of Sciences at Laval University from 1933 to 1958 and professor emeritus in 1958. He was vice-president of the Canadian Broadcasting Commission (now the Société Radio-Canada), “he is president of the National Gallery in Ottawa since 1959; president of the Association of Forest Engineers of the Province of Quebec(1928-30 and 1952-54); founder and administrator of the weekly Le Journal (1929-31); President of the Diocesan Council for Oeuvres de Charité du Québec (1950). He is the author of books on Quebec forests "Our forests in decadence", "Pays de Cocagne ou terre de Caën" and of the novel "Fascination ”, as well as numerous newspaper articles and conferences on the theme of the forest. In 1921 he created with his son Robert and a man named Henri Grenier of Quebec, a logging company, Thomas Maher inc. This company was dissolved in 1932. He died in Quebec on March 7, 1980. Robert Maher, Johnny's second son, and his wife Florette Harvey will have two sons, one of whom they will baptize Thomas, with the same first name as his uncle, a second Marc and a daughter Hélène. Thomas became a teacher at École Saint-Joseph de Tadoussac, principal and later principal of the Commission scolaire de Tadoussac. He will also be Commodore of the Tadoussac marina and the xth mayor of the village of Tadoussac and president of the Corporation de développement tourisme de Tadoussac. He will also be a director on the Board of Directors of the Société des traversiers du Québec. Hélène will marry Doctor Claude Bossé and Marc will marry Michèle Plouffe. Johnny's only daughter was Marie-Paule, married to Ernest Lizotte. Involved in the local section of the Red Cross, she was secretary in 1941. After her marriage, she moved to Chicoutimi where she died in 1997. Johnny Maher died in Tadoussac on June 25, 1937 at the age of 74 years and six months. At the ancestral cemetery of Tadoussac we find his burial place on the east side, at the cemetery entrance leading to the old presbytery. On the epitaph, only his children born from his union with Laure Boulianne are listed. No trace of Thomas in Tadoussac cemetery, the remains of the latter and his wife rest in Belmont cemetery in Quebec. Daniel also added an extensive bibliography, if interested please contact me! Le commerce d’Alfred Vaillancourt était situé sur la rue du bord de l’eau, dans l’édifice qui abrite actuellement la Micro-brasserie de Tadoussac. Les trois autres commerces étaient localisés sur la rue principale, la rue Elgin de l’époque, aujourd’hui la Rue des Pionniers, à proximité les uns des autres. L’actuelle épicerie Hovington de bannière Intermarché a succédé à l’épicerie Côté ainsi qu’au commerce de François Bourgoing et plus tard, de son fils Ernest. Le local actuel du Café Bohème abritait le magasin général de Pierre Cid et sur le terrain où se situe aujourd’hui la boutique Nima se trouvait le magasin de Johnny N. Maher. Joseph (dit Johnny ou Johnney) Napoléon Maher La famille Johnny Maher, né en 1863 et décédé en 1939, est le fils de Joseph « Jerry » Maher et de Clarisse Gagné. Le 10 août 1886, Johnny épouse Évelyne (Marie Auveline) Hovington (1865-), fille de Édouard Hovington et de Flavine Pedneault. Le couple donnera naissance à un fils, Édouard Thomas (1891-1980) qui épousa en 1918 Emma Vauthier (1898-1966) fille de Édouard Vauthier et Annie-Bridget-Ann Sullivan de St-Godefroi de Bonaventure en Gaspésie. À la suite du décès de son épouse Évelyne Hovington, Johnny épouse en seconde noce en 1898, Laure Boulianne fille de Joseph Boulianne et de Alfeda Levesque. Deux enfants sont issus de l’union, une fille, Marie-Paule (1904-1997) mariée à Ernest Lizotte, et un fils, Robert (1900-1970) époux de Florette Harvey (1918-1985). Les activités professionnelles Johnny Maher aurait possédé une maison sur la Pointe-de-l’Islet. Contraint de la démolir en raison de son expropriation, il en érige une nouvelle près du pont Côté, voisin du futur magasin de Pierre Cid. À la fin des années 1800, Johnny Maher connait quelques difficultés, financières, notamment une faillite en 1891,. Comble du malheur, quelques années plus tard, en 1902, un incendie détruit complètement la maison qui abrite son magasin. Son habitation était sans assurances. Pourtant, comme commerçant avisé il connaissait les risques financiers élevés et l’obligation à la prudence. Tant au premier mariage, à la suite de la faillite, qu’au second, les époux Maher s’assurent d’une union en « séparation de biens » afin de protéger le patrimoine familial,. Au recensement de 1911, Johnny Maher se déclare d’origine écossaise, « marchand » comme occupation principale et « garde-pêche » comme occupation secondaire. Pour ce qui est de son origine écossaise, selon les spécialistes généalogiques, les ancêtres Maher seraient d’origine irlandaise et non écossaise. Pour sa part madame Gaby Villeneuve prétend qu’il est d’origine germanique. Son commerce est surtout orienté sur les denrées sèches et les accessoires de couture. Selon la saison, il offre à sa clientèle des produits de la pêche, notamment le saumon frais. À la création de la municipalité du Village de Tadoussac Johnny Maher est nommé échevin du premier conseil municipal sous la direction du maire Eugène Caron. Plus tard, il siègera à la Commission de la paix pour le district de Tadoussac. Les descendants Le fils ainé de Johnny, Thomas Maher, connaitra une certaine célébrité dans la région de Québec et au-delà. Après sa graduation au cours classique au Séminaire de Chicoutimi en 1913 il poursuit des études en agriculture à Chicoutimi et obtient son diplôme en 1914. Après sa formation à l’Université Laval il devient ingénieur forestier en 1917. Par la suite professeur à l’université Laval où il connaît une belle carrière. Impliqué dans la région de Québec il est reconnu « grand développeur » du lac Saint-Joseph. Il sera également associé à la famille Deschênes de Tadoussac lors de la création en 1918 de la Compagnie de navigation Charlevoix-Saguenay dont il sera le vice-président. La compagnie obtiendra une subvention du Gouvernement afin d’assurer la liaison entre la région de Carlevoix et la Côte-Nord. Thomas épouse Emma Vauthier le 3 janvier 1918, le couple aura 3 enfants. Il est professeur à la faculté des Sciences de l’Université Laval de 1933 à 1958 et professeur émérite en 1958. Il sera vice-président de la Commission canadienne de la radiodiffusion (devenue la Société Radio-Canada), « il est président de la Galerie Nationale à Ottawa depuis 1959; président de l’Association des Ingénieurs forestiers de la Province de Québec (1928-30 et 1952-54) ; fondateur et administrateur de l’hebdomadaire Le Journal (1929-31); président du Conseil diocésain des Oeuvres de Charité du Québec (1950). Il est auteur des ouvrages sur les forêts québécoises « Nos forêts en décadence », « Pays de Cocagne ou terre de Caën » et du roman « Fascination », ainsi que de nombreux articles de journaux et conférences ayant pour thème la forêt. En 1921 il crée avec son fils Robert et un dénommé Henri Grenier de Québec, une compagnie d’exploitation forestière, Thomas Maher inc.. Cette compagnie sera dissoute en 1932. Il décède à Québec le 7 mars 1980. Le Robert Maher, deuxième fils de Johnny, et son épouse Florette Harvey auront deux fils, dont un qu’ils baptiseront Thomas, du même prénom que son oncle, un second Marc et une fille Hélène. Thomas deviendra enseignant à l’École Saint-Joseph de Tadoussac, directeur d’école et plus tard directeur de la Commission scolaire de Tadoussac. Il sera également Commodore de la marina de Tadoussac et le xième maire du village de Tadoussac et président de la Corporation de développement touristique de Tadoussac. Il sera également administrateur au sein du Conseil d’administration de la Société des traversiers du Québec. Hélène épousera le docteur Claude Bossé et Marc s’unira à Michèle Plouffe. La seule fille de Johnny fut Marie-Paule, mariée à Ernest Lizotte. Impliquée au sein de la section locale de la Croix-Rouge, elle en fut secrétaire en 1941. Après son mariage, elle s’installe à Chicoutimi où elle décède en 1997. Johnny Maher décède à Tadoussac le 25 juin 1937 à l’âge de 74 ans et six mois. Au cimetière ancestral de Tadoussac nous retrouvons sa sépulture du côté est, à l’entrée cimetière menant à l’ancien presbytère. Sur l’épitaphe, seuls ses enfants nés de son union avec Laure Boulianne sont inscrits. Aucune trace de Thomas au cimetière de Tadoussac, les restes de ce dernier ainsi que son épouse reposent au cimetière Belmont à Québec. Pierre Cid Marchand General 1960's Back row on the right, ?, Beth Dewart, Maggie Reilley, Michael Reilley, ?, Marie Cid (who ran the store with her brother Joe and sister Alexandra) Joe, Alexandra, Marie Cid Joe, Alexandra, Marie Cid Coosie Price and his granddaughter Elise Mundell Herve Desrosiers From the Middle East PIERRE CID, GENERAL MERCHANT IN TADOUSSAC Daniel Delisle PhD Most of Tadoussac's elders remember the Pierre Cid general store, located in the center of the village on Rue des Pionniers, in a pretty period house with attics where the Café Bohème is today. Perhaps some will even have known Joseph Cid, the son of Pierre Cid, who took over the business upon the death of his father. Venu du Moyen-Oriant PIERRE CID, MARCHAND GÉNÉRAL À TADOUSSAC Daniel Delisle PhD Les ainés de Tadoussac se rappellent, pour la plupart, le magasin général Pierre Cid, situé au centre du village sur la rue des Pionniers, dans une jolie maison d’époque à mansardes où se trouve aujourd’hui le Café Bohème. Peut-être même quelques-uns auront connu Joseph Cid, le fils de Pierre Cid, qui a pris la relève du commerce au décès de son père. Pierre Cid (1866-1948) in his time was undoubtedly a well-known person in Tadoussac and the surrounding area. Local history first identifies the character at the general store, and a general store means a meeting place for village residents. But there is also his West Asian origin which makes the character even more intriguing. The oral transmission of Tadoussac's history suggests that he was born in Syria in 1866. He arrived on Canadian soil between 1894 and 1897, aged in his early thirties. He was then accompanied by his wife Marie Halissah (1877-1945), often named Alice, Marie-Alice, Marie-Halissa, or Alisse, and two children: Victoria (1892-1949), the eldest, and Geneviève (1893-1974). ). According to Ms. Gaby Villeneuve, the little Cid family settled in the Quebec region upon their arrival in Canada, a brother of Mr. Cid, Michel, would already be recognized there as a merchant. This point is confirmed by data from the 19017 census. Syrian-Lebanese immigration is now well documented. Middle Eastern Immigrant From its presumed country of origin, Syria, it should be noted that at this time, the end of the 19th century, the Middle East was experiencing multiple changes due to the fall of the Ottoman Empire. France is present as a colonizing state and plays an important role in this region of the world, in particular to put an end to the massacre of the Catholic communities of Mount Lebanon. This French presence also explains the French-speaking nature of Lebanon and Syria, among others, for many years and still today. Of course, the borders between Lebanon and Syria have fluctuated during this century and the beginning of the 20th and certain cities or regions thus see themselves under different influences. From the Ottoman period until 1920, Lebanon was part of Syria. According to the death notice published in the newspaper L'Action catholique on Saturday March 20, 1948, Pierre Cid was born in the town of "Massoun in Lebanon (Syria)" in 1866. Could this be the current town of Massoud (Massoudiyeh or Massoudieh) from the Akkar district in northern Lebanon? This city is in fact located very close to the current border of the country, in a mountainous region bordering Syria, where Wikipedia reports a significant exodus of its population across the world, including to Canada. The hypothesis of this origin of Pierre Cid seems interesting. However, at the wedding in Ontario of his eldest daughter Victoria, the bride's father claimed to have been born in Tripoli, Syria. Here again, the only city named Tripoli in this region is currently located in Lebanon. In the suburbs of Tripoli there is a town named Hasnoun Massoud region. However, at the time of his birth, Lebanon and Syria were one and the same country: Syria. “This geographical and historical Syria roughly corresponds to the current territories of Syria, Lebanon, Jordan, Israel as well as the occupied Palestinian territories of the West Bank and historic Gaza”, region known as Bilad al -Sham. In any case, Pierre Cid spoke French when he arrived in Canada. Like the majority of Syrian immigrants at the end of the 19th century, he is Catholic. This will facilitate his integration into rural Quebec where he initially worked as a traveling trader between Quebec and the north coast. As previously noted, some suggest that Pierre Cid came to join a brother, Michel, in Canada. We found his trace in the 1901 census data. He was 38 years old and lived in Saint-Romuald, Lévis county, in the company of his brother Pierre, then aged 34, Pierre's wife, Alicia who is 24 years old and three of their children; Geneviève 6 years old, Joseph 3 years old and Antoine 1 year old. Victoria, the eldest, is absent from the census data. The spelling of their last name is incorrect and presented as Seed. A few years ago, during Joseph's baptism on January 2, 1898 in Saint-Romuald-d'Etchemin, his name is indicated in the registers of the parish of Saint-Romuald as godfather of the child. Finally, a funeral notice published on March 20, 1908 announced his death in Saint-Romuald d’Etchemin. Pierre Cid, merchant, father, good practitioner Like many of his Syrian compatriots, trade is a strength and a tradition. In Quebec, they are omnipresent in large urban centers and quickly we find them in the main regions of the province. Good traders, they are associated with the profession of peddler, itinerant seller, to the point where a Quebec expression is associated with them: “the Syrian is coming” to signal the arrival of the traveling merchant. After a few years traveling the Charlevoix and Haute Côte Nord regions as a traveling salesman, offering the population small items such as buttons, pins, threads, scissors, lace, fabrics, stockings, pens, etc.8, he settled in the village of Tadoussac at the beginning of the 1900s. This period corresponds to when his brother Michel died in Saint-Romuald in 1908. His commercial activities in his new host village were initially quite modest, starting from a small local located in the house of Mr. Omer Bouliane, merchant and registrar. After a few years, with business going fairly well, he bought the house from its owner and set up his own general store. It was he who, a few years later, had an extension built at the back of the store to accommodate his family. Pierre Cid quickly became an important and respected personality in the village and in the region. He collaborated on all development projects and his name frequently appeared in the Quebec newspapers of the time, Le Soleil, La Presse, L’Action Catholique and Le Quotidien in particular. We note in particular his numerous trips to Quebec, probably to supply his business. The newspapers also mention his Christian community involvement, either as a member of the Temperance League or as part of the 200th anniversary celebrations of the historic Tadoussac chapel. Over the years the family grew and included a dozen births, four boys and eight girls. Unfortunately, in 1917 he lost a son, Antoine, aged 17. Three other children also died at a young age; two boys, Louis-Joseph at the age of two (1905), Joseph-Paul at three (1915) and a girl, Marie-Juliette during her first year in 1915. There was also a death in 1897, a daughter, during her stay in Saint-Romuald. Some of these burials are engraved on the stele of Pierre Cid at the ancestral cemetery of Tadoussac. During the 1911 census, the children identified in the national register were Victoria, the eldest, who was born in Syria on December 17, 1892, as well as Geneviève on March 16, 1893, who died on June 26, 1974. On January 2, 1897, a girl (anonymous) who died the day before in Saint-Romuald was buried (hence the hypothesis of the arrival of Pierre Cid in the country before 1897). Then followed the children born in Quebec: Joseph, baptized on January 2, 1898 in Saint-Romuald-d'Etchemins, Antoine on December 11, 1900 and died in 1917 (on the epitaph it is indicated 1901 as the date of birth, then that the census specifies that he was born in 1900), Alexandra, June 7, 1904, Joséphine, March 5, 1905, Marie and Antoinette the twins, born April 1, 1910. The children are educated in the Catholic religion as the indications in the newspapers suggest. Indeed, some of the girls were even novices among the nuns, notably Geneviève (Sister Marie-du-St-Esprit) and Antoinette (Sister Alarie-du-good-Pasteur). Joseph also studied at the Sherbrooke Seminary. He obtained good results, particularly in English, a discipline in which he earned a mention in 1918. Witnesses from the time claim that Alexandra and Marie worked with Joseph at the store. Marie apparently suffered from Parkinson's disease. Alexandra's death notice, found in the newspaper Le Soleil on November 7, 1978, announces her death on November 6, 1978 in Quebec at the age of 74. The obituary relates the presence at the funeral of Joseph, Joséphine and Marie. We did not find any other traces of them after this date, other than the mention in the Quebec city directory of Joséphine Cid, annuitant. The Cid descendants Victoria, the eldest, and Antoinette, the youngest, will be the only Cid children to marry. Victoria left Tadoussac around the age of 17, wanting to free herself from overly strict parents, according to local rumors and confirmed by the testimony of her granddaughter Susan Stone. Still according to the latter, she will work as a caregiver within a family of Hungarian origin in Ontario. Victoria married on September 20, 1920, in Toronto, Mr. John Moses Cooley, son of James Cooley of Irish origin and Agnès Clair. During the 1921 census, we found traces of the couple in Niagara Falls. Five children were born from the union: Marie-Agnès, the eldest, was born in Niagara Falls on October 13, 1921. Subsequently, the other four children were born in Toronto: James-Bernard, on December 6, 1923, Margaret-Evelyn on November 24 1924, Clair-Edward May 10, 1927 and John-Leo March 7, 1931. The Cid-Cooley family subsequently grew to include five grandchildren, two boys and three girls, including Susan, who kept us pleasantly informed. Five great-grandchildren were added to the family in subsequent years. During her life in Ontario, Victoria maintained contact with her family in Tadoussac, although infrequently. An article in the Quebec newspaper Le Soleil reports the visit of her brother Joseph to her sick sister in Toronto in 1949. She died that same year at the age of 50. Her grave is located in Saint Michaels Cemetery, Dunnville. Haldimand County, Ontario. For her part, Antoinette Cid, the youngest of the family, after having completed her secondary school studies like her sister Geneviève as novices at the convent of the Antoniennes-de-Marie sisters in Chicoutimi, undertook training in nursing. at the Nursing School of Sainte-Justine Hospital in Montreal. At the end of her studies in May 1940, she began her professional practice in Quebec. His last known address at the time was 6056 rue Saint-Denis in Montreal. In September 1942, at the age of 32, she left the country to settle in New York as a nurse. Having received her training in pediatrics, she will be hired at Misericordia Hospital. It was in the American metropolis that she met David Joseph Barr from Baltimore, widower of the late Mabel Dorothy Tuttle. She married him in October 1954 at Saint-Jean-Baptiste Church in New York. The year before her marriage, a trace of her was found in the American Immigration Service, on a list of passengers from the ship S/S Nassau arriving in New York on April 26, 1953. In July 1978 in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, Antoinette died at the age of 68. Having married at the age of 44, she did not have any children, but evidently, at her marriage her husband had a son, Robert W. Barr who gave her two grandchildren. His grave is located in Saint John the Evangelist Cemetery, Hyde, Baltimore County, Maryland. A few years earlier, on March 16, 1948, the funeral of Mr. Pierre Cid, who died at the venerable age of 82 years and 5 months, was celebrated in Tadoussac. Three years earlier, Madame Marie Hallissah Cid died on July 26, 1945 at the age of 68. An epitaph to their memories is inscribed on a tombstone near the stele of Pierre Cid's lot at the Tadoussac cemetery (photo 4). In his will, as a good Christian, Pierre Cid bequeathed to the factory of the parish of Exaltation-de-la-Sainte-Croix, a sum of $1,000 for the repair of the church bell which had been damaged during of the fire of 1946 which left the temple in ruins. When his father died, it was Joseph Cid who continued the family business. Single, he is supported in the store by two of his sisters: Alexandra and Marie, Amtoinette's twin. The Pierre Cid general store permanently ceased operations in 1976. The house was sold to Mr. Guy Bouchard and subsequently to Gai and Gary Brown who have still owned it since 1981. There will therefore be no descendants with the surname of Pierre Cid. However, several Cid-Cooley descendants in Ontario are from Victoria's marriage. Pierre Cid (1866-1948) à son époque est sans contredit une personne bien connue à Tadoussac et dans les environs. L’histoire locale identifie d’abord le personnage au magasin général, et qui dit magasin général dit lieu de rencontre pour les résidents du village. Mais il y a aussi son origine de l’Asie de l’Ouest qui rend le personnage encore plus intriguent. La transmission orale de l’histoire de Tadoussac suggère en effet qu’il serait né en Syrie en 1866. Il arrive en sol canadien entre 1894 et 1897, âgé dans la jeune trentaine. Il est alors accompagné de sa femme Marie Halissah (1877-1945), souvent prénommée Alice, Marie-Alice, Marie-Halissa, ou Alisse et de deux enfants: Victoria (1892-1949), l’ainée et Geneviève (1893-1974). Selon madame Gaby Villeneuve, la petite famille Cid s’installe dans la région de Québec à leur arrivée au Canada, un frère de monsieur Cid, Michel y serait déjà reconnu comme marchand. Ce point est confirmé par les données du recensement de 19017. L’immigration syro-libanaise est aujourd’hui bien documentée. Immigrant du Moyen-Orient De son pays d’origine présumé, la Syrie, il est à noter qu’à cette époque, soit la fin du 19e siècle, le Moyen-Orient connaît de multiples changements en raison de la chute de l’Empire ottoman. La France est présente comme état colonisateur et joue un rôle important dans cette région du monde, notamment pour mettre fin au massacre des communautés catholiques du Mont-Liban. Cette présence française explique d’ailleurs la nature francophone du Liban et de la Syrie entre autres, depuis de nombreuses années et aujourd’hui encore. Bien entendu, les frontières entre le Liban et la Syrie ont fluctué au cours de ce siècle et du début du 20e et certaines villes ou régions se voient ainsi sous différentes influences. De la période ottomane jusqu’en 1920, le Liban fait partie de la Syrie. Selon l’avis de décès paru dans le journal L’Action catholique du samedi 20 mars 1948, Pierre Cid serait né dans la ville de «Massoun au Liban (Syrie)» en 1866. S’agirait-il de l’actuelle ville de Massoud (Massoudiyeh ou Massoudieh) du district de l’Akkar au nord du Liban? Cette ville est en effet située très près de la frontière actuelle du pays, dans une région montagneuse limitrophe de la Syrie dont Wikipédia relate un exode important de sa population à travers le monde, entre autres vers le Canada. L’hypothèse de cette origine de Pierre Cid semble intéressante. Cependant, lors du mariage en Ontario de sa fille ainée Victoria, le père de la mariée prétend être né à Tripoli en Syrie. Ici encore, la seule ville du nom de Tripoli dans cette région est située actuellement au Liban. Dans la banlieue de Tripoli se trouve une ville au nom de Hasnoun région de Massoud. Or, l’époque de sa naissance, Liban et Syrie ne sont qu’un seul et même pays : la Syrie. « Cette Syrie géographique et historique correspond à peu près aux territoires actuels de la Syrie, du Liban, de la Jordanie, d’Israël ainsi qu’aux territoires palestiniens occupés de Cisjordanie et de Gaza historique », région connue sous le nom du Bilad al-Sham. Quoiqu’il en soit, Pierre Cid parle donc français à son arrivée au Canada. Comme la majorité des immigrants syriens de la fin du 19e siècle, il est de religion catholique. Cela facilitera son intégration au Québec rural où il exerce au début, le métier de commerçant itinérant entre Québec et la côte nord. Comme indiqué précédemment, certains suggèrent que Pierre Cid serait venu rejoindre un frère, Michel, au Canada. Nous avons trouvé la trace de celui-ci aux données du recensement de 1901. Il a 38 ans et habite à Saint-Romuald, conté de Lévis, en compagnie de son frère Pierre alors âgé de 34 ans, de l’épouse de Pierre, Alicia qui a 24 ans et de trois de leurs enfants ; Geneviève 6 ans, Joseph 3 ans et Antoine 1 an. Victoria, l’ainée est absente des données de recensement. L’orthographe de leur nom de famille est erronée et présentée comme Seed. Quelques années au paravent, lors du baptême de Joseph le 2 janvier 1898 à Saint-Romuald-d’Etchemin, son nom est indiqué aux registres de la paroisse de Saint-Romuald comme parrain de l’enfant. Enfin, un avis funéraire paru le 20 mars 1908 annonce son décès à Saint-Romuald d’Etchemin. Pierre Cid, marchand, père de famille, bon pratiquant Comme plusieurs de ses compatriotes syriens, le commerce est une force et une tradition. Au Québec, ils sont omniprésents dans les grands centres urbains et rapidement nous les retrouvons dans les principales régions de la province. Bons commerçants, ils sont associés au métier de colporteur, vendeur itinérant, au point où une expression québécoise leur est associée : « le Syrien s’en vient » pour signaler l’arrivée du marchand ambulant. Après quelques années à sillonner les régions de Charlevoix et de la Haute Côte Nord comme vendeur itinérant, offrant à la population de menus articles tels des boutons, épingles, fils, ciseaux, dentelles, tissus, bas, stylos, etc.8, il s’installe dans le village de Tadoussac au début des années 1900. Cette période correspond où son frère Michel décède à Saint-Romuald en 1908. Ses activités commerciales dans son nouveau village d’accueil sont au début assez modestes, à partir d’un petit local situé dans la maison de monsieur Omer Bouliane, marchand et registrateur. Après quelques années, les affaires allant assez bien, il achète la maison de son propriétaire et y installe son propre magasin général. C’est lui qui, quelques années plus tard, fait construire une extension à l’arrière du magasin pour y loger sa famille. Rapidement Pierre Cid devient une personnalité importante et respectée au village et dans la région. Il collabore à tous les projets de développement et son nom revient fréquemment dans les journaux du Québec de l’époque, Le Soleil, La Presse, L’Action catholique et Le Quotidien notamment. On signale notamment ses nombreux voyages à Québec, probablement pour approvisionner son commerce. Les journaux font également mention de son implication communautaire chrétienne, soit comme membre de la Ligue de tempérance ou encore dans le cadre des fêtes du 200e anniversaire de la chapelle historique de Tadoussac. Au cours des années la famille s’agrandie et compte une douzaine de naissances, quatre garçons et huit filles. Malheureusement, en 1917 il perd un fils, Antoine, âgé de 17 ans. Trois autres enfants décèdent aussi en bas âge; deux garçons, Louis-Joseph à l’âge de deux ans (1905), Joseph-Paul à trois ans (1915) et une fille, Marie-Juliette au cours de sa première année en 1915. On compte également un décès en 1897, une fille, lors de son séjour à Saint-Romuald. Certaines de ces sépultures sont gravées sur la stèle de Pierre Cid au cimetière ancestral de Tadoussac. Lors du recensement de 1911, les enfants identifiées au registre national sont Victoria, l’aînée, qui serait née en Syrie le 17 décembre 1892, de même que Geneviève le 16 mars 1893, décédée le 26 juin 1974 . Le deux janvier 1897 est inhumée une fille (anonyme) décédée la veille à Saint-Romuald (d’où l’hypothèse de l’arrivée de Pierre Cid au pays avant 1897). Suivent par la suite les enfants nés au Québec : Joseph, baptisé le 2 janvier 1898 à Saint-Romuald-d’Etchemins, Antoine le 11 décembre 1900 et décédé en 1917 (sur l’épitaphe il est indiqué 1901 comme date de naissance, alors que le recensement précise qu’il est né en 1900), Alexandra, le 7 juin 1904, Joséphine, le 5 mars 1905, Marie et Antoinette les jumelles, nées le premier avril 1910. Les enfants sont éduqués dans la religion catholique comme le laisse présumer les indications dans les journaux. En effet, certaines des filles ont même été novices chez les religieuses, notamment Geneviève (Sœur Marie-du-St-Esprit) et Antoinette (Sœur Alarie-du-bon-Pasteur). Joseph a également fait des études au Séminaire de Sherbrooke. Il obtient de bons résultats, notamment en anglais, une discipline où il se mérite une mention en 1918. Des témoins de l’époque prétendent qu’Alexandra et Marie travaillaient avec Joseph au magasin. Marie souffrait, semble-t-il, de la maladie de Parkinson. L’avis de décès d’Alexandra, retrouvé dans le journal Le Soleil du 7 novembre 1978, annonce son décès le 6 novembre 1978 à Québec à l’âge de 74 ans. La nécrologie relate la présence aux obsèques de Joseph, Joséphine et Marie. Nous n’avons pas trouvé d’autres traces de ces derniers après cette date, sinon la mention à l’annuaire de la ville de Québec de Joséphine Cid, rentière. La descendance Cid Victoria, l’ainée et Antoinette, la cadette, seront les seuls enfants Cid à se marier. Victoria quitte Tadoussac vers l’âge de 17 ans, désireuse de s’émanciper de parents trop stricts, selon les rumeurs locales et confirmées par le témoignage de sa petite-fille Susan Stone. Toujours selon cette dernière, elle travaillera comme aide familiale au sein d’une famille d’origine hongroise en Ontario. Victoria épouse le 20 septembre 1920, à Toronto, monsieur John Moses Cooley, fils de James Cooley d’origine irlandaise et de Agnès Clair. Lors du recensement de 1921, nous retrouvons la trace du couple à Niagara Falls. Cinq enfants naîtront de l’union: Marie-Agnès, l’aînée naît à Niagara Falls le 13 octobre 1921. Par la suite les quatre autres enfants naîtront à Toronto: James-Bernard, le 6 décembre 1923, Margaret-Evelyn le 24 novembre 1924, Clair-Edward 10 mai 1927 et John-Leo le 7 mars 1931. La famille Cid-Cooley s’est par la suite agrandie de cinq petits enfants, deux garçons et trois filles, dont Susan, qui nous a agréablement informé. Cinq arrière-petits-enfants se sont ajoutés à la fratrie au cours des années subséquentes. Au cours de sa vie en Ontario, Victoria garda, bien que peu fréquent, contact avec sa famille de Tadoussac. Un entrefilet dans le journal Le Soleil de Québec, signale la visite de son frère Joseph auprès de sa sœur malade à Toronto en 1949. Elle décède cette même année à l’âge de 50 ans. Sa sépulture est située au Saint Michaels Cemetery, Dunnville. Haldimand County, en Ontario. De son côté, Antoinette Cid, la plus jeune de la famille, après avoir fait ses études de niveau secondaire à l’instar de sa sœur Geneviève comme novices au couvent des sœurs Antoniennes-de-Marie à Chicoutimi, entreprend une formation en soins infirmiers à l’École des gardes-malades de l’hôpital Sainte-Justine de Montréal. À la fin de ses études en mai 1940, elle débute sa pratique professionnelle au Québec. Sa dernière adresse connue à l’époque est le 6056 rue Saint-Denis à Montréal. En septembre 1942, à l’âge de 32 ans elle quitte le pays pour s’installer à New York comme infirmière. Ayant reçu sa formation en pédiatrie, elle sera embauchée au Misericordia Hospital. C’est dans la métropole américaine qu’elle fera la rencontre de David Joseph Barr de Baltimore, veuf de feue Mabel Dorothy Tuttle. Elle l’épouse en octobre 1954 à l’église Saint-Jean-Baptiste de New York. L’année précédent son mariage, une trace d’elle est retrouvée au Service d’immigration américain, sur une liste de passagers du navire S/S Nassau arrivant à New York le 26 avril 1953. En juillet 1978 à Fort Lauderdale en Floride, Antoinette décède à l’âge de 68 ans. S’étant mariée à l’âge de 44 ans, elle n’aura pas eu d’enfant, mais de toute évidence, à son mariage son mari avait un fils, Robert W. Barr qui lui donna deux petits-enfants. Sa sépulture est située au cimetière Saint John the Evangelist, à Hyde, comté de Baltimore au Maryland. Quelques années plus tôt, le 16 mars 1948, sont célébrées à Tadoussac les funérailles de monsieur Pierre Cid, décédé à l’âge vénérable de 82 ans et 5 mois. Trois ans auparavant, Madame Marie Hallissah Cid est décédée, le 26 juillet 1945 à l’âge de 68 ans. Une épitaphe à leurs mémoires est inscrite sur une pierre tombale près de la stèle du lot de Pierre Cid au cimetière de Tadoussac (photo 4). Dans son testament, en bon chrétien, Pierre Cid lègue à la fabrique de la paroisse de l’Exaltation-de-la-Sainte-Croix, une somme de 1000$ pour la réparation de la cloche de l’église qui avait été endommagée lors de l’incendie de 1946 qui laissa le temple en ruine. Au décès de son père, c’est Joseph Cid qui poursuit le commerce familial. Célibataire, il est appuyé au magasin par deux de ses sœurs: Alexandra et Marie, la jumelle d’Amtoinette. Le magasin général Pierre Cid a cessé définitivement ses opérations en 1976. La maison fut vendue à monsieur Guy Bouchard et par la suite à Gai et Gary Brown qui en sont toujours propriétaires depuis 1981. Il n’y aura donc aucun descendant au patronyme de Pierre Cid. Cependant, plusieurs descendants Cid-Cooley en Ontario sont issus du mariage de Victoria. Bourgouin Cid addition Under Construction MAHER CID'S Bourgouin & Dumont Both these buildings burned in July 1923, and were replaced by the Cote Grocery store. Ces deux bâtiments brûlèrent en juillet 1923 et furent remplacés par l'épicerie Côté. Maher Cid's Bourgouin Dumont Galouine Construit 1900's 1860's 1900's 1880's 1850's Jusq'ua 1970's Now 1923 1923 Maintenant In the town plan it is clear that the Bourgouin and Dumont buildings were close together, and thus were destroyed at the same time, whereas the Cid building and the Galouine on either side were saved. Dans le plan de la ville, il est clair que les bâtiments Bourgouin et Dumont étaient proches l'un de l'autre et furent donc détruits en même temps, tandis que le bâtiment Cid et la Galouine de part et d'autre ont été sauvés. Cote's Raymond Cote La Galouine Cafe Blue? Hotel Boulianne Jeanne Olsen The hotel BOULIANNE was owned by my aunt and my uncle EDGAR OLSEN I worked there at 12 years old and I left to get married Jeanne Olsen l'hotel BOULIANNE cela apartenai a mon oncle et ma tante EDGAR OLSEN j'ai travaillé la a 12 ans et je suis partit pour me marié Chez Mme Ida Villeneuve 1960's 77

PREVIOUS Benmore Quebec NEXT PAGE 1848-1948 Col. Rhodes bought the house in 1848. He died in 1892, his wife Granny Ann Rhodes lived there until 1911. Their daughter Minnie Rhodes Morewood (died 1942) and Henry (Harry) Morewood (died 1916) lived there with their children John, Frank, Nancy, Billy, and Bobby Morewood. Frank Morewood writes: It was a great house to me (not a mansion like Cataraqui but I loved spending time at Benmore and I did spend a lot of time there). My parents were living there when I was born, as my father (Bobby) had lost his job in the depression and he went home to his mother's place with his whole family. At that time it housed my father's mother, two sisters, one of his two brothers and two maids. Benmore was in the family from 1848 to 1948. Colonel Rhodes a acheté la maison en 1848. Il est mort en 1892, son épouse Granny Ann Rhodes y vécut jusqu'en 1911. Leur fille Minnie Rhodes Morewood (mort en 1942) et Henry (Harry) Morewood (mort en 1916) a vécu dans la maison avec leurs enfants John, Frank, Nancy, Billy, et Bobby Morewood. Frank Morewood écrit: C'était une grande maison pour moi (pas une manoir comme Cataraqui mais j'ai adoré passer du temps à Benmore et j'ai fait passer beaucoup de temps là-bas). Mes parents vivaient là quand je suis né, mon père (Bobby) avait perdu son emploi dans la dépression et il rentra chez lui pour la place de sa mère avec toute sa famille. A cette époque, il abritait la mère de mon père, deux sœurs, l'une de ses deux frères et deux servantes. Benmore était dans la famille de 1848 à 1948. Frank Morewood (my grandfather) Vue sur la St-Laurent Minnie and Harry Morewood Billy, Minnie and Bobby Morewood 1890's Carrie and her mother Caroline Rhodes, Minnie Morewood, Billy and Frank, about 1893 Granny (1890's) with Frank Morewood & Jimmy Williams Charlie Rhodes Mary Williams Wallace Armitage Rhodes driving, Godfrey's wife Lily, Minnie and Bobby Morewood, Granny at the back, about 1910. Benmore Tennis C ourt Just two stories, 3rd floor added in 1864 Seulement deux étages, 3ème étage a été ajouté en 1864 View of the St Lawrence The horse's name is Jack Le cheval est appelé Jack I took the photo above in 2001 Granny and Hem on the porch around 1900. Next door, Godfrey's house Cataraquai, that's Godfrey with the dog, about 1920's. Juste à côté, la maison de Godfrey Cataraquai, c'est Godfrey avec le chien, environ 1920. Back to Home Page NEXT PAGE

PREVIOUS NEXT PAGE Été à Tadoussac Summer 1920-1940 Page 1 of 7 The Town of Tadoussac La ville de Tadoussac 1933 Travel by Car?? Voyage en Voiture?? Lewis Evans (bachelor schoolmaster) driving to Tadoussac in November 1939, somewhere near St Simeon.... Lewis Evans conduit à Tadoussac en Novembre 1939, quelque part près de St Simeon .... And then the Ferry! Painting by Frank Morewood, about 1930. The goelette at the wharf in Tadoussac is the Pixie B and it towed the barge which could carry two cars. It was replaced by another goelette, built by Armand Imbeau, called the NBT (Noel Brisson Tadoussac) which carried up to six cars on deck. That one was replaced by the Jacques Cartier, a real ferry! Et puis le ferry! Painting par Frank Morewood, circa 1930. La goélette au quai de Tadoussac est le Pixie B et remorquer le chaland qui pourrait transporter deux voitures. Il a été remplacé par un autre goélette, construit par Armand Imbeau, appelé le NBT (Noel Brisson Tadoussac) qui portait jusqu'à six voitures sur le pont. Celui-là a été remplacé par le Jacques Cartier, un véritable traverse! Travel by Steamer Voyage par Steamer Above right 1935 Bishop Lennox Williams Left 1936 Nan Wallace (Leggat) Betty Morewood (Evans) (my mother) Mary Wallace Jack Wallace Michael Wallace Frank Morewood (my Grandfather) Bill Morewood Right Nan Wallace (Leggat) Carrie (Rhodes) Morewood (my Granny) Launch of the CSL St Lawrence 1928 PREVIOUS NEXT PAGE

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Tadoussac Historical Photos and Stories - History of Tadoussac PREVIOUS Mélange - Odds and Ends NEXT PAGE Meteorite hit Charlevoix - 100 million years before the Dinosaurs La météorite a frappé Charlevoix - 100 millions d'années avant les dinosaures The Charlevoix Crater is a large eroded meteorite impact crater. Only part of the crater is exposed at the surface, the rest being covered by the St Lawrence River. The original crater is estimated to have been 54 kilometres (34 mi) in diameter and the age is estimated to be 342 ± 15 million years (Mississippian). The projectile was probably a stony asteroid, at least 2 kilometres (1.2 mi) in diameter, and weighing an estimated 15 billion tonnes. Mont des Éboulements, situated in the exact centre of the crater, is interpreted as the central uplift, a consequence of elastic rebound. The impact origin of Charlevoix crater was first realized in 1965 after the discovery of many shatter cones in the area. Today, 90% of the people of Charlevoix live within this crater. Below, approaching La Malbaie from the east, The hills of Les Eboulements are visible on the horizon, this is the "uplift". Le Cratère de Charlevoix est un grand cratère érodé d'impact de météorite. Seule une partie du cratère est exposée à la surface, le reste étant couvert par le Fleuve St-Laurent. Le cratère d'origine est estimée à 54 km (34 mi) de diamètre et l'âge est estimé à 342 ± 15 millions d'années (Mississippiennes). Le projectile était probablement un astéroïde pierreux, au moins 2 kilomètres (1,2 miles) de diamètre, et pesant environ 15 milliards de tonnes. Mont des Éboulements, situé dans le centre exact du cratère, est interprété comme le soulèvement central, une conséquence de rebond élastique. L'origine de Charlevoix cratère d'impact a été réalisée en 1965 après la découverte de nombreux cônes d'éclatement dans la région. Aujourd'hui, 90% des gens de Charlevoix vivent dans ce cratère. Ci-dessous, l'approche de La Malbaie de l'est, les collines des Éboulements sont visibles à l'horizon, c'est le « soulèvement ». The High Tide Club This "club" is easy to join and has many members. You may be a member without knowing it. All you have to do, is look at a tide table and figure out when the biggest high tide in a cycle is, then go somewhere and observe the tide. This leads to comments like "wow, look how high the tide is!" The club was created by Alan Evans, who has done this many times. He even went to Passe Pierre once at night to observe the highest tide. A good time to enjoy the high tide is the twice annual drydock event, when the boats leave the drydock in the spring and return in the fall. This event usually happens at night, and is a good excuse for a big party in the drydock. It always coincides with the highest tides so the water is as deep as possible. Technical Note: The highest tides occur just after the full and new moons, when the alignment of the sun, earth and moon maximizes the sloshing effect that causes the tides. The high tide can be enhanced by a storm. The low pressure of the air actually results in higher water levels. Easterly winds push the water up the St Lawrence, raising water levels. The combined effect is called a storm surge, and can result in water levels much higher that expected. Unfortunately the biggest high tides in the summer occur at night, but at other times of the year they can occur in the daytime. La Club Marée Haute Ce «club» est facile à rejoindre et a plusieurs membres. Vous pouvez être un membre sans le savoir. Tout ce que vous avez à faire , c'est de regarder une table des marées et de comprendre quand la plus grande marée haute dans un cycle, puis aller quelque part et observer la marée. Cela conduit à des commentaires comme "wow, regardez la hauteur de la marée! "Le club a été créé par Alan Evans , qui a fait à de nombreuses reprises . Il est même allé Passe Pierre une fois la nuit pour observer la plus haute marée .Un bon moment pour profiter de la marée haute est l'événement annuel de la cale sèche, quand les bateaux quittent la cale sèche au printemps et le retour à l'automne. Cet événement se produit généralement la nuit, et est une bonne excuse pour une grande fête dans la cale sèche. Il coïncide toujours avec les plus hautes marées afin que l'eau est aussi profond que possible. Note technique: Les plus hautes marées coïncident avec les lunes pleines et nouvelles, lorsque l'alignement du soleil, de la terre et de la lune maximise l'effet de ballottement qui provoque les marées. La marée haute peut être améliorée par une tempête. La faible pression de l'air résulte en fait des niveaux d'eau plus élevés. Les vents d'est poussent l'eau vers le haut Saint-Laurent, ce qui soulève des niveaux d'eau . L'effet combiné est appelé une onde de tempête , et peut entraîner des niveaux d'eau beaucoup plus élevés que prévu. Malheureusement, les plus grandes marées élevées en été se produisent la nuit, mais à d'autres moments de l'année ils peuvent se produire dans la journée . November 2011 One of the highest tides ever seen in Tadoussac, the water flowed over the road by the boathouse and down into the drydock! Photos by Paulin Hovington. L'une des plus hautes marées jamais vu aTadoussac, l'eau coulait sur la route par le hangar à bateaux et descendre dans la cale sèche! What is that chunk of concrete and steel on the beach just beyond Pointe Rouge? It doesn't look like it could have drifted in on the tide! Photo by David Evans Quel est ce morceau de béton et d'acier sur la plage juste au-delà de la Pointe Rouge? Il ne semble pas que cela pourrait avoir dérivé dans la marée! from Patrick R. O'Neill: Actual story of concrete berm: Many years ago, when the current lighthouse was being built on Prince's Shoal, there was a need for gravel to stabilize the structure on the river bed. The idea was that gravel could be brought down from the gravel pit and loaded on to barges moored off Pointe Rouge. The berm was placed where it now sits by the contractor so that a bulldozer could be offloaded from a barge and made to climb up the incline to the top of Pointe Rouge. The berm was placed at the foot of a sand path from the beach to the first plateau. This hope proved false as the incline was too steep for a bulldozer. The idea was abandoned in favour of trucking the gravel from the quarry down to the CSL wharf, where it was dumped into barges. (That was a noisy and dusty summer as the rocks tumbled down steel chutes from the wharf to the barges!). The berm was not removed after the failure of the experiment, and it marks the amount of beach erosion that has occurred over the past 50 years. Just imagine how much sand has washed away from the hill to leave the berm so alone on the beach! My mother told me this story. de Patrick R. O'Neill : Histoire réelle de la berme en béton : Il ya plusieurs années , lorsque le phare actuel a été construit sur Shoal du Prince , il y avait un besoin de gravier pour stabiliser la structure sur le lit de la rivière . L'idée était que le gravier pourrait être ramené de la gravière et chargé sur des barges amarrées au large de Pointe Rouge . La berme a été placé là où il se trouve maintenant par l'entrepreneur afin qu'un bulldozer peut être déchargé à partir d'une barge et fait monter la pente au sommet de la Pointe Rouge . La berme a été placé au pied d'un chemin de sable de la plage pour le premier plateau . Cet espoir s'est révélé faux que la pente était trop raide pour un bulldozer . L'idée a été abandonnée au profit du camionnage gravier de la carrière au quai de CSL , où il a été jeté dans des barges . ( C'était un été bruyant et poussiéreux comme les roches dégringolaient chutes d'acier du quai pour les péniches ! ) .La berme n'a pas été retiré après l'échec de l'expérience, et il marque le montant de l'érosion de la plage qui a eu lieu au cours des 50 dernières années . Imaginez la quantité de sable a emporté de la colline de quitter la berme donc seul sur la plage ! Ma mère m'a raconté cette histoire . The sand comes and goes! 2016 Le sable vient et va! 2016 NEXT PAGE

Tadoussac Wharf 1916-1950, Steamers, Goelettes, People! The Old Wooden Wharf Le vieux quai en bois 1916-1950 The Wharf in the bay was built in about 1916, this photo from the McCord Museum (Montreal) shows they lacked the equipment used today! Le quai dans la baie a été construit environ 1916, cette photo du Musée McCord (Montréal) montre qu'ils ne avaient pas l'équipement utilisé aujourd'hui! The "Pixie B" about 1925. The goelette at the wharf in Tadoussac (above and below) is the Pixie B and it towed the barge which could carry two cars. La "Pixie B" circa 1925. La goélette au quai de Tadoussac est le Pixie B et remorquer le chaland qui pourrait transporter deux voitures Paintings on this page by Frank Morewood and Lilybell Rhodes Uncle Arthur C-Smith R Lewis Evans ? Nan Wallace (Leggat) Susan Williams (Webster) Joan Williams (Ballantyne) Nan Wallace (Leggat) Jim Williams 1947 painting by Albert Cloutier Thanks to Peter Mc The yellow truck shows up several times, probably a Hotel Tadoussac vehicle Le camion jaune apparaît à plusieurs reprises, probablement un véhicule de l'Hôtel Tadoussac The wharf was badly damaged when the CSL Quebec burned in August 1950, and rebuilt with the steel wharf we see today. Le quai a été gravement endommagé lorsque le CSL Québec brûlé en Août 1950, et reconstruite avec le quai d'acier que nous voyons aujourd'hui. Wharf construction with a crane in the background, and a boat being rebuilt at the same time early 1950's Construction de quai avec une grue en arrière-plan, Et un bateau étant reconstruit en même temps Début des années 50 72

Short Stories by R Lewis Evans R. Lewis Evans was an English Teacher who loved to write. Although his books are quite well-known, his short stories and articles belong mostly to the more distant past. It was during the 1940s and 1950s that magazine short stories were popular and sought after and Dad wrote over 20 of them. Most were published, and many are of interest especially to those of us who know and love the Lower St. Lawrence and Saguenay areas of Quebec, so I decided to get them out of the file and onto the web-site where they can be read once again. I've divided the stories into categories. While he wrote mostly river stories about the Tadoussac area, including some historical fiction, he also wrote 6 stories about World War II (4 of which overlap with our beloved river), and a number of odd inspirations, one biblical, several inspired by newspaper items, and even one (gasp!) Science Fiction. There are also some non-fiction articles which will be coming along later in the year. I love them all partly because he wrote about what he loved and I love it too, but partly because his characters are thoughtful, compassionate and real. I've included a few notes that he kept in the file. Some are news articles he drew his ideas from; others are comments he received from editors either printed in the magazine or sent along to him separately. I've also tried to reproduce the illustrations, duly credited, as all the stories that published were supported by visual art. Only one, Casual Enemy, has no illustrator mentioned. My guess is he drew that one himself. I've read all these stories several times in my efforts to get them up onto the web-site correctly and I've never tired of them. I hope you enjoy them. A fair warning: some readers might recognize a few people! Alan Evans NEXT PAGE R Lewis Evans More Stories "Zeb," he cried. "Zeb, come on up top. Bring your bucket. make it quick." In Case of Fire A Short Story by Lewis Evans (Published in The Standard, October 5th, 1946 - $60.00!) ILLUSTRATED BY MENENDEZ The old hand and the novice found hostility turned to friendship in a battle with death THE windward edge of the fire was below them now, a line that straggled across twenty miles of forest and ate its way in little salients doggedly westwards against the draught. Downwind, ahead of the aircraft, all was confusion for countless square miles—white smoke, and gray and brown, air-borne ashes, and occasionally the peach-glow of flame dimly reflected on the driving smoke. Don Ross, late of the RCAF, held the F-24 on its course, passing over the centre of the vast burning area where thousands of cords of Northern Quebec pulpwood were going up in smoke instead of fulfilling their destiny of providing Canadian and American papers with newsprint. With him in the cabin bronzed, graying Zeb Stearn sat with map on knee, pencilling in the present area of the fire for his report back to the Canadian Forestry Service and the Long Lake, Wolf Lake and River Beyond Pulp and Paper Company, which owned these limits. Old Zeb Stearn concentrated on the job and said nothing. He had been saying just that ever since they had taken off from the North Shore that morning. The northward border of the forest fire seemed to follow the curves of River Beyond, and Don Ross swung the aircraft in that direction. As they approached the river they could see that the fire had already jumped it in several places. Zeb Stearn noted them on his map. Suddenly Don peered at the river beyond the eastern edge of the fire, set the plane on a glide towards it, and then banked on a curve. He pointed, and Stearn followed his finger. A herd of caribou was fording the river to gain the safer north bank. Don turned to smile at Stearn, but the old fellow did not evince interest by even so much as a grunt. He was again working on the map. Don felt rather foolish, as though he had excitedly pointed out the Rhine to a man who had already made many operational tours. THE F-24 was now over the advancing eastern edge, of the fire, and the air was rough. Now and then the thermals rising from the hot earth bounced the plane uncomfortably upwards, and the cabin filled with the raw smell of smoke, making its occupants cough—the first sound Stearn had made so far, Don thought wryly. He started a slow climb to get above the smoke, and suddenly the engine sputtered, livened up again, and quit cold. Don worked at his controls, but nothing happened, and a great appreciation of the multiple engined aircraft he had known overseas was born in him in a flash. He shot a glance at Stearn. The older man’s face betrayed no emotion, but he was peering out at the landscape below — already looking for a spot for a forced landing, Don knew; and Don followed suit. Behind him was River Beyond, but like most northern rivers it was shallow, sown with rocks and seamed with sand and gravel bars—a landing there meant two shattered floats at the very least. To the south, beyond the path of the fire, was Wolf Lake, a perfect landing place, but with a cross wind and his present altitude he didn’t think he could make it. Downwind from the fire was the nearest water—he picked it out between waves of smoke—a tiny lake, almost round, possible for a landing, too small for a take-off. Don tried desperately to make up his mind—take a long chance on Wolf Lake, and maybe not make it and come down in the fire area, or land on this little pond and probably stay there, right in the path of the fire. Stearn grabbed his arm. "Wolf Lake,” he shouted. Don swung the gliding plane towards it, and as soon as he had done so he knew— knew for certain—they couldn’t make it. He shook his head and swung again, losing altitude rapidly. The little round lake appeared and disappeared through the smoke as though it were winking at him. "Okay, honey; here I come,” he murmured, and circled to come at it upwind. The tall spruce round it forced him to glide flatter than he wished, but he almost brushed their tops as he crossed them. The other side of the lake seemed to rush at him, a solid phalanx of dark spruces, but the pontoons took the water with a clumsy splash, the F-24 rocked forward as if she were going to stick her nose down, rocked back, and bucked gently into the matted bushes fringing the shore. “Well,” said Don, “here we are.” “And here we stay till we fry,” commented Stearn. “Why didn’t you try for Wolf Lake, where we could have fixed the engine and had room to take off?” “I knew I couldn’t make it,” said Ross. “It wouldn’t have been any fun putting down in the bush—and the fire.” “It was a chance,” said Stearn. “This is certainty. The fire will be here by tonight.” “We have plenty of water,” said Ross. “We can keep ourselves and the aircraft wet.” ZEB STEARN snorted. “Ever been close to a fire of this size?” he demanded. “Yes,” snapped Ross. “Mannheim.” “You weren’t as close to that as you will be to this, my boy. You try keeping the plane wet, and yourself wet, and breathing at the same time. Take my advice and drown quietly. It’s the more comfortable death.” “Oh, go jump in the lake,” said Don curtly as he opened the door. “I’m going to. I want to find what's wrong with this motor.” He dropped onto a pontoon. “Why?” demanded Stearn. “Even if you fix it you can't get out of here. “I'd feel a lot better if the engine could go, though.” “What're you going to do? Move it on top and take off straight up like a helicopter? We'll get to heaven soon enough without all that trouble.” “Aw, pipe down, and come and help me get this cowling off.” Stearn's reply was to settle back and light his pipe. For ten minutes Ross worked at the engine. The acrid smoke filtering through the bush and bellying out across the lake kept him coughing. Several times he turned the motor over without getting even a kick. At last he opened the cabin door. “Come on and have a crack at this thing,” he pleaded. “The smoke out here tastes much better than that ‘tabac canadien’ you’re inhaling, anyway.” “Fix the thing yourself. You're the pilot,” grunted Stearn. “Oh, come on. You know this engine much better than I do.” “How should I know anything about it?” Stearn's voice was heavy with sarcasm. "I'm too old to know about things like that.” The older man spoke with force, as though he were getting a weight off his chest. Ross stood looking at him for a moment. “Look, Zeb,” he said at length. “Let's have it. What's your gripe?” Stearn's eyes drilled him. “I'm too old – that's what they tell me. For years I fly this bush and never have any trouble—not like this, anyway—” he gestured at the tiny lake. “Then the war's over and they tell me that I’m too old, that young fellows like you must have my job, that I'm on the shelf. On the skids, more like,” he added bitterly. “Who says so?” demanded Ross. “When I got the orders to cover this fire,” said Stearn, “they gave me to understand very plainly that you were the pilot, and I was to leave the flying to you. I was to go just because I knew the country, because I have experience.” THERE was a silence. Don had only come to the base a week ago, but already he had heard the story that Zeb Stearn had learned his flying in World War I, had come to the bush in 1919, and long ago had been forced to reckon his air time in months instead of hours. He felt sorry for the old fellow, and admired his pride and his record. He felt that what he said next—and how he said it—was desperately important. “Well, you may be too old, and you may not—I haven’t seen you fly. But I’ll tell you two things: first, I’ve seen plenty of pilots who were too old at twenty-one; second, I’m darn glad that you’re along.” “Thanks,” said Zeb Stearn dryly. "It’s nice to be wanted on what looks like a fatal journey.” Ross grinned at him. “Come on and play with the engine.” Zeb Stearn climbed out of the cabin, a little stiffly. “Why do you want to fix it?” he demanded. “It’s just work for nothing.” “Feel a lot better when it’s in working order,” said Don, and Stearn snorted. “We can move it to the far side of the lake, keep it wet with buckets, and maybe save it.” Stearn turned on him almost savagely. “You talk a lot of hot air,” he shouted. “Save it for what? A curiosity for the caribou?” He ended up coughing. Ross gestured towards the yellow and black fuselage and the big CF and three more letters on the wing. “That’s the best mark there is for anyone looking for us,” he said shortly. That shot went home, for Zeb Stearn nodded and turned towards the engine. “Air intakes clogged up, I’ll bet,” he said. “Those ashes, maybe.” Inside ten minutes he proved himself right, and the engine exploded into life. Don Ross plunged waist deep into the water and weeds and brush of the lake edge and heaved on a pontoon. Slowly he worked the aircraft round and shoved out from shore. Live sparks were falling round them as they taxied to the down-wind edge of the pond, and when the motor was cut they heard for the first time the actual sound of the fire to the west, a faint menacing roaring that rode on the wind. Zeb Stearn listened to it for a few minutes and shook his head. “There'll be a hot time in the old town tonight” he quoted. “Put on all the clothes you have, get well soaked in the lake, and have a wet rag to tie over your face.” Don nodded. There were a canvas bucket and a galvanized iron one in the plane, and he was tying a length of rope to the handle of each. He got a blanket from a packsack in the cabin, wet it, and draped it over the nose of the aircraft. He climbed onto the wing top and sent a few preliminary buckets full splashing over wing, fuselage and tail, killing several hot sparks. The exertion made him pant a little, and his coughing became steady from then on. IN THE last of the afternoon light he saw a couple of porcupines and a skunk pass along the shore near by, all very intent on their business, which was travel. The faster moving animals and the larger ones must have cleared out long ago, he thought. Smoke snuffed out the last of the daylight, and the fire became visible, like a nearer after-glow of the sunset, silhouetting the tall timber on the west bank of the pond. Right opposite him, across the water, the trees seemed more widely spaced, and Don could see an inferno of flame roaring towards him. Now and then an evergreen ahead of the fire would flare with the roar of a rocket as its branches caught, and then the blackened trunk would be surrounded and hidden by flames. Don had a sudden qualm—the gas in the tank. Perhaps they should have tried to drain it off somewhere, but it was too late for that now. He went on lowering the bucket, dragging it up, sloshing the water on the aircraft. Below him he could hear old Zeb wheezing and coughing as he stumbled waist-deep from side to side underneath the plane, dashing water up at the fuselage and tail assembly. Now and then Don's clothing steamed out and began to feel hot, and he had to climb down and dunk himself in the water. He fought against the temptation to stay in its delightful coolness — each time the climb back seemed tougher, dragging his sodden clothes, and each time the plane was drier and hotter as the first bucketful dashed over it. The hot blast of the wind seared his throat and was painful in the lungs, and coughing was agony that never ceased. His thoughts became disjointed and he knew it and could do nothing to marshal them. In case of fire break glass . . . for use in case of fire . . . those funny axes like tomahawks — if he had one he could chop up the plane and save it from being burnt. Nuts — that was all wrong. Ice — that would be swell, a great big block of it on top the plane, melting and running down all round. Heat, hot as hell, hot air . . . “You talk a lot of hot air." Zeb had shouted . . . hot air bouncing the aircraft upwards — up — hey! wait a minute! Don slithered down into the water and ducked his head under. Hot air — thermals — there must be a lift from all this heat — quite some lift. In the red glare he measured the distance across the water — not enough, of course, but that place where the trees were more widely spaced — even as he looked the branches of the spruces flanking that gap went up with a roar and a fountain of sparks. “With those branches gone and the heat,” he thought, “there’s a chance.” “Zeb,” he croaked. “Zeb, come on up on top. Bring your bucket. Make it quick. He clambered up again, wincing as the heat blasted through the cloth muffling his face. Zeb dragged himself up, and Don told him. “We could hold her while we rev. her up,” he added, “and get a fast start.” Zeb Stearn manipulated his bucket in silence, and squinted at the far bank of the pond. “I don’t like the frying pan,” he said at last. “I'll take a crack at the fire with you." Don left him to sluice her down, and dragged a mooring rope from the cabin. He wrestled it into a sort of bridle on the rear struts of the undercarriage, stumbled ashore with the end, and took a turn round a tree. Already sparks had started fires on this side of the water, he noted. HE GOT up on top again at last, his mind snatching at the problems to be solved. “Go on down, Zeb. Get yourself cooled off, and then start her up. When she’s ripe race her a couple of times and I’ll come down.” Stearn literally fell into the water and Don could hear his coughs bubbling through the wetted mask. Get the blanket off the nose, chuck it in the lake . . . up with a bucket, slosh it on, up with a bucket — the branches seem burned out of that gap . . . the trunks are burning now . . . up with another . . . which pocket's my knife in? . . . got to get it . . . He felt the aircraft heave as Zeb got aboard again, and then the engine started. The slipstream blasted the heat at him and dashed the water away in spray. He couldn’t wait for Zeb to signal. He plunged down, got his head into the cabin door, groped for and found a packsack to wedge it open a bit against the slipstream. “You take her up,” he yelled at Stearn. “No,” shouted Zeb, “You take her — better chance . .” “You gotta take her,” Don yelled. “I’ve got to cut the rope. You couldn’t climb back in — Zeb Stearn nodded. He knew he was too old for that. “Give her the gun,” yelled Don. He had knife in hand now, and crouched on the pontoon, one hand gripping the door jamb, the other holding the blade on the quivering rod-like rope. The engine roared, the aircraft strained, and water squeezed from the taut rope. Don slashed and the plane leapt forward. Water and spray snatched, at his feet, hot air punched and tore at him. Inch by inch, straining and groaning, he fought his way into the doorway. Head and shoulders in, he felt the aircraft lift steeply. He panted and prayed. Zeb Stearn sat like a statue. There were flashes of fire and blackouts of smoke and then, suddenly, he gasped air that was fresh. With a last struggle he got his legs in, kicked the pack out, and the door slammed shut. He lay half on the floor, half on the seat for a minute. Zeb was coughing again, he noted, coughing continually, and he was heavy on the controls. You could feel it. “Take over,” the old man wheezed. “Can’t take it, I guess . . .” They changed places with the supreme care and slow effort of drunken men, and Zeb slumped in his seat. Don Ross settled his course by the stars and shivered. The cold was seeping through his wet clothes, blessed cold. Not good for the old man, though, he thought. “Get out of your clothes, Zeb,” he said. “Get a blanket or something.” Stearn moved slowly and said nothing. He seemed to be trying to stifle his coughing. Don suddenly realized that he was broken by the knowledge that he was too old — too old to climb into a moving plane, yes, but far worse than that — too old to fly it after that tough afternoon. Don eased the plane gently off course, steering a wide arc under the stars. “You sure lifted us out of that frying pan, Zeb,” he said. “Nice piece of judgment. I was glad to be out of that job.” ZEB STEARN said nothing, but went on fumbling with the blanket and coughing sporadically. Don tried again. “Check my course, will you, Zeb?” he asked. “I'm not sure of myself.” Zeb glanced at the sky, and gestured Ross back onto his former bearing. “Thanks,” said Don. “I'm a bit shaky on direction in these parts. You navigate, huh?” Zeb Stearn slowly straightened in his seat and cocked an eye at the sky. “Okay, I'll navigate,” he said. “Steady as you are.” There was a pause, and then Zeb added, “Don't you worry, Don. I'll get us home.” The End Note: 22 years after he wrote this story Dad was interested to find this short article in the Montreal Star, (Sept. 28, 1968) which tells of a similar, if less successful, situation. Team seek to salvage vintage plane from lake Kapuskasing Ontario, Sept. 28 — A federal team will go into a remote lake in this area next week to salvage an ancient seaplane that may be the last of its type in the world. The Curtiss HS-2L has been sitting in the silt in about five feet of water since 1925 or 1927, when the vintage “flying boat” made a crash landing on the lake. Air museums all over North America have sought one of the twin-engined H-boats, used as submarine hunters during the First World War, then as bush planes, but the one on the lake bottom is the world’s only confirmed find. R. W. Bradford, curator of the aviation and space division of the National Museum of Science and Technology, described it in Ottawa today as “a real find.” A team from his division will salvage the plane for the museum. The work may take a year. The HS-2L’s last flight was a colorful combination of ingenuity and farce but not tragedy. Bush Pilot Duke Schiller was forced down by engine failure on the tiny lake or so the story goes. The engine was repaired but to take off from the short lake, Schiller had the seaplane tied to a tree while he revved it up to full throttle. A woodsman was supposed to chop the rope at the appropriate time. The woodsman chopped but the rope was only partially severed. The fearless lumberjack then gave the rope a shake and it broke, hauling him into the lake as the seaplane burst away. Maybe it was the drag of the lumberjack but the plane didn’t gain quite enough altitude to get over the trees. It brushed them, then gently twisted back into the lake. No one was hurt but the plane was written off as a loss. The Fishermen Published in the Quebec Diocesan Gazette, (November, 1968) By Lewis Evans CARRYING the fishing rod, Joe left home at dawn for two reasons: he wanted to be a hero, and he couldn't stand another day of listening to his little brother Johnny whining. He really couldn't blame Johnny for whining, because Johnny was desperately hungry, and not old enough to understand why, or tough enough to be brave about it. Joe was both, because he was seven years old. But he was desperately hungry too, and had been ever since his father had had the accident at the mill, and was still too sick to work. Joe wasn't sure just how he could be a hero, but he figured if he could be the breadwinner even for one day his father would be pleased, and perhaps Johnny would stop whining for a while. The last time his father had gone fishing, on a holiday a week before his accident, he had taken Joe with him, and they had caught nine fat perch. Well, his father had done the actual catching, but Joe had helped by finding some of the worms for bait. As Joe ran down the valley path he had visions of coming home as proudly as his father, with nine perch dangling from a hooked twig. When he came to the place where the stream had undercut the valley side in flood-time, and had caused a small landslide, he stopped and put down the rod and started digging into the soft earth with his fingers. There was a worm - but he was too slow, and got only half of it. Those things could really move. There was another, and this time he was quicker, it took him about half an hour to get a dozen, and he shivered when he felt them wriggling in his pocket. He picked up the rod, and ran on down the valley, which flattened and widened out into grasslands as he neared the shore of the lake. The sun was higher now, and it was going to be hot. Where the stream flowed into the lake and the fishermen’s boats were drawn up it was too shallow for fishing from the shore, but a couple of hundred yards to his right there was a steep bank, and the water there was deeper closer to shore, and shaded at this hour by the height of the bank. Joe scrambled to the very edge of the bank and peered down. The lake water was very calm, and he could see the stones and pebbles dim and wavering on the bottom. He unwound the line from the rod, and impaled a wriggling worm on the hook. There was no barb on the hook, and Joe was afraid the worm would wriggle off, but that was a chance he had to take. He dropped the hook into the lake, and watched it waver down till it was on the bottom. He twisted the rod over and over so that it wound up the line a little and the hook hung about a foot above the pebbles. Then Joe began to learn how hard it was to be a hero. Nothing happened. The sun climbed higher, and it was getting hot. He tried to concentrate on the line where it passed through the surface, watching for any tremor that might be the sign of a bite. He felt a little dizzy, lying there staring down, and his eyes didn't focus very well. He pulled up now and again to check the worm, and twice found it had wriggled off and he had to put on a new one. He began to feel that nothing would ever happen, and he again raised the rod to check the worm. This time something did happen - the line went taut, and there was weight and a wriggle on the end. He scrambled to his feet and raised the tip. The rod bent a little, and there was a flash and then a splash on the surface. Joe heaved back and the perch soared over his head onto the grass behind him. He dropped the rod and fell on the perch, which had come off the hook, finally got hold of it, and banged its head on a stone, bruising his fingers. Triumphant, he laid the perch - it was a very small one - in a shady spot, and baited up. Where there had been one surely there were more. Sure enough, hardly had his hook broken the surface when he felt a tug. He jerked up and thrilled to the pull of the line. He swung the rod up violently, and it cracked and the tip sagged. He dropped it and snatched at the line, pulling hand over hand, and another perch came flipping to him over the edge of the bank. Two! But the rod - it was finished, it wasn't much of a rod really, and his father could make another when he was better, but how could he, Joe, catch more perch? Two little ones wouldn't mean much at home, and without a rod he couldn't get the line far enough out from the bank. He unwound the line from the broken rod, wondering how else he could be a hero. Putting it in his pocket he felt the remaining worms, and thought of throwing them into the water. That would be nice for other perch, but not for the worms. Instead, he dropped them to fend for themselves in the shady spot, and picked up the two perch. They were so small he didn't bother with a twig to carry them, but stuck them in his pocket where the worms had been. He was aching with hunger and discouraged. How could he get something more than two little perch to take home? Suddenly he put his head back and sniffed. A gentle breeze was blowing down the hillside now, and the odour it carried was like an answer to his question. Someone at the little farm had been baking. Perhaps . . . Joe started up the hill, not knowing what he would do, but drawn irresistibly by the smell. There was the squat little farmhouse, and there, off to one side, was the hump of a clay bake-oven. Joe paused in the last cluster of bushes before the open ground around the farmhouse. There was the farmer's wife, laying her baking in a row to cool on a wooden bench in the shade thrown by the house. Joe stared, and his hand crept to find the size of the perch in his pocket. He could hear Johnny's whining, and see his father lying hopelessly on his mattress. The farmer's wife wiped her hand on her apron, took a look at the sky, and went into the house. A moment later she reappeared with a basket of linen, and went round to the back, out of sight. Joe moved forward, and then broke into a tip-toe run. he reached the bench, and snatched up as much bread as he could carry, ramming it under his arm, and darted back to the bushes, he looked back, panting. There was no movement. Crouching, he started away to his right, back towards the valley that led homewards. Keeping among bushes and trees wherever he could, he stumbled along, sweating. He felt the heat of the bread through his shirt, and the smell of it was almost unbearable. Ahead of him was the crest, and beyond was the valley, wide and grassy near its mouth. He reached the crest and stopped dead. The valley was full of people. Joe sank behind a bush and stared, he had never seen so many people in one place in all his life. He had never imagined that there were that many people in the world. What could they be doing there? For a moment the awful thought flashed in his head that they were all waiting for him, to catch him and punish him for stealing the bread. But they weren’t looking at him. They were all in groups of different sizes, some standing, some sitting, some moving about from one group to another, and all, it seemed, talking at once. What in the world could they be talking about? Joe straightened up and moved closer. He had never been more curious. Closer and closer till he was almost up to the nearest group. Why were they there? Suddenly a big strong man, just an ordinary fellow, a fisherman perhaps, turned and looked straight at Joe, and his eyes fell on the bread. He started towards Joe. Joe dropped the bread and turned to run, but in a couple of long strides the man had him by the arm, and swung him to a stop. “Here, my lad,” said the man, “not so fast. You have nothing to fear.” Joe looked up at him trembling. The man did not look angry. He was smiling down at Joe. “Where are you off to with all that bread?” he asked. "I . . . I don't know,” said Joe, and in his confusion he really didn't. “Well,” said the man. “I'll tell you what. How about letting me have the bread? I'll find some way of paying you back for it.” “But I need it,” cried Joe. “That's all right,” said the man. “I'll see you get some more. But right now you just let me have it, will you?” And with that the man stooped, and swept up the bread, took Joe by the arm again, and led him into the midst of the nearest group of people, and up to a tall gentleman in the centre. “What have you there, Andrew?” asked the tall gentleman. “There's a lad with five barley loaves,” answered the man called Andrew, “he is willing to help us.” Some strange impulse sent Joe's hand to his pocket. “I have a couple of fish too,” he said almost proudly, pulling them out. The tall gentleman smiled, and all the people around laughed when they saw the two small fishes. * * * “I think, Joe,” said his father after the men had gone, and Joe had told his story, “you'd better take some of those twelve baskets to the farmer's wife, it may be only fragments of bread and fish, but there is more than you and I and Johnny can use, and, as the gentleman said, it should not be wasted.” The End NOTE: I remember when Dad wrote this story, back in 1968. At chapel that morning at Bishop's College School where he taught, the lesson for the day had been from the Gospel of John, Chapter 6, Verses 1 - 14, The Feeding of the Five Thousand. For some reason Dad took an interest in the actor in the story with the smallest role, and of the smallest size. Dad went back to the staff room and spent every spare minute he had that day writing feverishly and telling his colleagues to go away! I have included the text of the gospel reading below: John 6:1-14 Revised Standard Version (RSV) Feeding the Five Thousand 6 After this Jesus went to the other side of the Sea of Galilee, which is the Sea of Tibe′ri-as. 2 And a multitude followed him, because they saw the signs which he did on those who were diseased. 3 Jesus went up on the mountain, and there sat down with his disciples. 4 Now the Passover, the feast of the Jews, was at hand. 5 Lifting up his eyes, then, and seeing that a multitude was coming to him, Jesus said to Philip, “How are we to buy bread, so that these people may eat?” 6 This he said to test him, for he himself knew what he would do. 7 Philip answered him, “Two hundred denarii[a] would not buy enough bread for each of them to get a little.” 8 One of his disciples, Andrew, Simon Peter’s brother, said to him, 9 “There is a lad here who has five barley loaves and two fish; but what are they among so many?” 10 Jesus said, “Make the people sit down.” Now there was much grass in the place; so the men sat down, in number about five thousand. 11 Jesus then took the loaves, and when he had given thanks, he distributed them to those who were seated; so also the fish, as much as they wanted. 12 And when they had eaten their fill, he told his disciples, “Gather up the fragments left over, that nothing may be lost.” 13 So they gathered them up and filled twelve baskets with fragments from the five barley loaves, left by those who had eaten.14 When the people saw the sign which he had done, they said, “This is indeed the prophet who is to come into the world!” Winged Victory PUBLISHED IN THE MONTREAL STANDARD November 1, 1947 ($50.00!) He'd been waiting since last Hallowe'en to show them he wasn't afraid anymore By Lewis Evans ILLUSTRATED BY JEFF CHAPLEAU Pete cowered, and a sob of fear shook him “WELL, I made them for you,” said the old lady, and watched the light of excitement and anticipation flare up in Gordie’s seven-year-old eyes. He bounced off the chair by the kitchen table. “Oh Granny, did you? Can I see them? Can I see them right now?” “They’re upstairs. You’d better come up and try them on, in case they don’t fit.” Gordie shot out of the kitchen into the hall and up the long flight of stairs. The little old lady could hear his restless feet drumming their impatience on the floor above, but, spry as she was, she did hot hurry. “Wings, indeed!” she murmured as she started up the stairs. “What an imagination they have at that age!” When Granny Tompkins reached the top of the stairs she opened a large linen closet, and from the bottom shelf drew out a complicated black object. As she unfolded it it resolved itself into a pair of wings, and, between them, a sort of hood with pointed ears and nose, and slits for eyeholes. Gordie’s round eyes could not take it all in at once. They darted here and there, and his feet danced under him. He recognized parts of two huge old-fashioned black umbrellas — or was it one of them cut in half ? -— that made the framework of the wings and gave them their bat-like trailing edges. He remembered those umbrellas among countless other treasures he had seen in Granny’s marvellous attic. But over the umbrellas was some shiny black stuff, sewn on as though it were feathers, stuff that shook and rustled as the wings were moved, and the same material covered the head and shoulders. “Oh Granny!” cried Gordie. “They’re wonderful! Pete won’t have anything as good as this for his costume. Why — why he may even be scared of me in this!” Gordie became so enthralled at the prospect that his Granny had to shake the wings to recall his attention. “Here,” she said. “You’d better try them on. Why are you so worried about Peter Martin?” "OH,” said Gordie, as he struggled to get his arms into the tight sleeves that ran across the forward edge of the wings, “he thinks he’s pretty good. At the Hallowe’en Party last year he was dressed like a skeleton, and he kept jumping out and scaring people, and—” Gordie paused. “And?” “And he jumped out and scared me when I was passing the cemetery on the way home. I was dressed as a ghost and I tried to run and I fell down and I cried.” “And he’s never let you forget it all year, I suppose?” said Granny. She knew Peter Martin and had some idea of the constant battle Gordie had with him at school. Peter was a year older, but in the same class, and at everything but school-work he was just a little bit better and stronger and quicker than Gordie. “There,” said Granny. “They fit pretty well. How do you like them?” Gordie contorted himself trying to take in the general effect. “Can I go down to the hall and look in the big mirror?” he asked. “Of course,” said Granny. Gordie bounced to the head of the stairs. He was already savouring a triumph over Pete. “Whee! I’m a bat!” he cried, and he spread his wings and jumped down two steps at once. Then he emitted a shrill squeak of surprise and fear, which sounded quite bat-like, for his feet barely grazed the second step down, and he found himself floating swiftly and silently down into the gloom of the big hall below. Granny Tompkins gave a gasp of amazement and started down the stairs at a speed that did not look much like that of a seventy-year-old, but before she was half way down Gordie caught a wing-tip in the hatstand and crashed to the floor. “Gosh, Granny, they work!” he gasped, struggling to his feet. “Are you hurt, boy?” demanded the old lady. “Gee, Granny, you sure are smart. Betcha Pete’s granny can’t make a pair that really work.” Granny Tompkins took Gordie by the shoulders and shook him. “Listen to me,” she said. “They’re not supposed to work. It’s — it’s an accident. You must promise me never to try to fly with them again. You might break your neck, and then what would your mother say? Will you promise?” “Aw, Granny—” began the boy. “Promise!” demanded the old lady. “Or I’ll take them back and break them up.” “I promise,” said Gordie reluctantly, starting at his macabre reflection in the hall mirror. “Very well. Now get along with you to school. I’ll put these away so no one will know, and you can pick them up here on your way to the party.” She watched Gordie go down the path and turn left along the road past the cemetery and the church towards the school. He had not even thanked her, but Granny Tompkins was wise enough to realize that that was a compliment to the magnitude of the thing she had done for him. He would have thanked her for a doughnut, all right. The joyance in his gait was enough thanks for her. Note: This article is the one Dad had pulled from the paper to inspire his reluctant students: The Montreal Gazette. ADVENTUROUS WOMAN MAKES PAIR Of WINGS Virginiatown, Ont., Oct. 2/46. CP. An adventurous Virginiatown housewife has invented a pair of wings which she uses to jump from buildings 20 to 25 feet high. Mrs. Phil Golden, the mother of two children, began working on her wings two years ago after disecting birds in an attempt to learn how they fly. She made the wings of parachute silk and bits of plastic. They look like a mass of gigantic feather-like pockets built onto even larger feathers. These feathers or air pockets flush the air back through the larger feathers on to a plastic back. In so doing, a vacuum is formed underneath the outer feathers. The vacuum together with a movable outer attachment at the wing tips allows for the possibility of propulsion by means of earnest wrist action. Mrs. Golden said a weak heart so far has prevented her from more stringently testing her wings. Up until now she has been jumping from platforms at least 20 to 25 feet in height. Most of her "flying" has been done at night because she is shy of publicity. She started folding up the costume, but then she paused, and stood in the hall staring thoughtfully at the wings. “YAH! Gordie Allen — think you’re smart, eh? We all know you’re Gordie Allen.” The words ripped through Gordie’s disguise, and inside the black hood his face turned scarlet with disappointment and rage. Peter Martin was supposed to be a black cat, and he had a long black tail made of stuffed cotton stockings. Picking it up in one hand he swung it at the bat, and Gordie felt the umbrella ribs buckle under the blow. Powerless to retaliate, he turned to walk away, and another blow curled itself round his ankles and he fell to his knees. “Weren’t you scared to come?” went on the hateful voice. “Bet you went all the way round by Main Street so you wouldn’t pass the graveyard. “Bet you’re scared to pass it going home. Remember last year?” “I am not scared,” exploded Gordie, forgetting his incognito. “I’ll go past it any old time,” and he moved away, followed by Pete’s unbelieving laughter. There were witches on broomsticks and owls and ghosts and all sorts of spooky creatures in the big assembly hall, and the decorations were all orange and black, and there was even orange coloured stuff to drink and black candies that tasted much as they looked, and were probably designed to induce dreams of “things that go bump in the night.” GORDIE forgot all about Pete Martin for a while and began to enjoy himself again, but all of a sudden his stomach felt empty and his heart dropped into the void. Pete was nowhere to be seen! Gordie knew what that meant. The party was nearly over. Pete had gone to hide in the cemetery. When Gordie went past he would jump out and scare him. If Gordie detoured it he would broadcast the fact that he was afraid to pass it. Miserable, Gordie lingered in the coatroom as the children left. Finally, last of them all, he started homeward, his battered costume clutched under his arm. As he passed the church his steps slowed, and his ears and eyes strained to catch some forewarning of Pete’s onslaught. The tombstones loomed grey in the darkness to his right, and his footsteps grated loudly on the road. Suddenly, far ahead of him, there was a piercing shriek. He stopped, frozen stiff. Then there came the sound of running footsteps, pounding down the road towards him. He couldn’t move. “Gordie! Gordie!” It was Pete Martin, white-faced and panting. He grabbed Gordie by the arm and cowered behind him. “You should’ve seen it. It flew down out of the sky and landed right beside me . . . it was like a great big black bat with big black wings . . .” GORDIE tried to steady his voice. “Where were you?” he asked. “In the cemetery.” “Yeah — down at the end near the old Tompkins place, where there aren’t so many gravestones. I—I was waiting for you. . . . Come on, Gordie— go round by Main Street with me.” In all his confusion Gordie’s mind was able to realize that this was his great opportunity, if he only had the nerve to use it. “There’s nothing to be scared of in a cemetery,” he said stoutly. “Come on, Peter. I’ll take you past.” He gripped Pete’s arm, which made him feel a little braver himself, and set out. “We’re nearly past,” he whispered to the dragging Pete as the black shape of the Tompkins place loomed against the night sky ahead, and the tombstones on their right thinned out. Pete’s fingers sank into his arm. “Look,” he breathed, and pointed. Silhouetted over the roofline appeared a winged creature, and suddenly it launched itself into space, floating down towards the cemetery. Pete cowered, and a sob of fear shook him. Gordie braced himself. If it was Granny Tompkins practising flying with the wonderful wings she had hit upon, he wasn’t scared of her. If it wasn’t—well, they were nearly past, and the street lamps began in another hundred yards. “Come on,” he said. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.” And he led Pete on. NEXT morning Gordie fell in beside Granny Tompkins as they came out of church. “Enjoy your party?” she demanded. “Sure did,” said Gordie, and told her all, ending in triumph with the victory over Pete. “You sure are a wonderful grandmother,” he added. “I bet not many guys have grannies that can fly.” Granny Tompkins made no rejoinder, and after a short pause he clutched her arm. “It was you, Granny, wasn’t it? It was you who flew?” The old lady hesitated, and then glanced round to make sure no one else could hear them. “Yes,” she said. “It was your Granny, all right. Thought I’d scare that Pete for good and all. But don’t you breathe a word of it, Gordie.” She shot a frightened glance at the long line of respectable neighbours filing out of church. “Just think how folk would talk!” “He’d never go by it again, day or night,” she added to herself, “if I told him the truth.” She had gone to bed with a headache last night — right after supper. THE END Short Story 3300 words DEAD MAN STEERING by Lewis Evans UNPUBLISHED (Dad always said there was no accounting for publishers who couldn't recognize sheer genius when they saw it!) AHEAD in the darkness, a pair of red and green running lights, canted at a sharp angle, told Pete that a sailing vessel was beating up the Sound towards him. He stuck his head down the cabin companionway and called to his wife. “Ann, there's a yacht about a quarter of a mile ahead. Want to have another try at a night photo?” “Sure.” Ann left the supper she was fixing in the galley, grabbed up the necessary equipment, and came out into the cockpit. “Careful going forward,” warned Pete. “There's a fair sea running.” They took most of their photos from the forward deck of the cabin cruiser in order to keep their own wake out of the pictures. Pete had built a sort of sword-fisherman's pulpit just aft of the anchor bitts. “Don't worry about me,” said Ann, climbing round the edge of the bridge deck. “Concentrate on getting me a good angle and distance.” Pete altered course to pass close to the yacht on her leeward side, so that her angle of heel would present her deck to the camera. Experience had taught him that most yachtsmen liked to see all their favourite gadgets in a photo, and most of these were on deck. Pete cut down the speed, and the little cabin cruiser's exhaust made bobbling noises as her stern squatted and lifted in the quartering seas. He hoped that the motion of the boat wasn't too difficult for Ann's aim, and that their speed in passing the yacht wouldn't be too much for Anne's camera. It would have been better to turn and run with the yacht, but it was too late for that. The green starboard light was abeam, and the flashbulb went off. Pete got a momentary impression of a yawl under plain sail smashing along close-hauled, and then the blackness of the night contrasting with the white flesh left him blind. He closed his eyes tight for a moment, and then opened them, and could pick out once more the flashing lights of buoys and the shore lights a mile away. Ann clambered back into the cockpit. “Not bad,” she commented. “I got it at the end of a roll, so I don’t think the camera was moving too much.” She went below and back to her job as cook, and Pete advanced the throttle and steered for their anchorage at Porthaven, twenty minutes away. The worst of this racket, he thought, was that it looked to the outsider as if his wife did all the work. And so she did, as far as the photography went, but he was learning the job fast and had some outstanding pictures to his credit already. And the boat was his responsibility - its maintenance and navigation, and the selling end of the business too. He had become engaged to Ann during the war, when he was in the Navy and she was a photographer for a small town newspaper. He remembered the first date they'd had after he'd been demobilized. He remembered the canned music in the little restaurant, and the cuba libra on the table, and that he had had to drink it with his left hand because his right was gripping Ann's under the tablecloth. He remembered too how desperately they wanted to get married, and how they had got the idea that had made it possible. “Got a break last week,” Ann had told him. “Had to cover a sailing race for my paper - it was for a trophy the paper puts up every year. I was lucky and got a really perfect picture of the winner crossing the line, and now one of those boating magazines wants to buy it for a cover, and the owner of the yacht wants a dozen big prints.” “Yachtsmen love to have pictures of their boats,” Pete had said. “Guess it's because it gives them something to dream over through the winter.” “Yes, and they never can take them themselves, because they’re always aboard the boat at the most photogenic moments,” added Ann, and Pete had got the idea. “Look,” he cried. “We want to get married and have somewhere to live - the only thing I know is boats, the only thing you know is photography - “ “Not the only thing, Pete,” murmured Ann. “Well,” continued Pete after a pause while his eyes answered that one, “we get a boat out of what I saved in the Navy, and live on it, and follow the regattas and races and sell photos of their craft to owners. Why, we could go South in the winter and keep right on with the job.” And so it had worked out. “Sea-Photos, Inc.” was well established, and the thirty foot cabin cruiser Photofoam was beginning to be recognized and welcomed at regattas and yacht clubs. Pete eased the cruiser into the anchorage, put her into the wind and cut her way, and went forward to drop the anchor. After supper the cabin became a darkroom, and the day’s take was developed and printed. Later, when Pete had worked over Lloyd's Yacht Register and other lists, small prints were mailed to owners, with a price list of enlargements. “That flashlight job we took on the way home looks good on the negative,” said Ann. “I'm going to enlarge it right away.” Night photos were an experiment they were trying out - the novelty might be good advertisement. So far their attempts had been disappointing. He bent over the developer tray with Ann. He still got a kick out of watching a picture emerge on the white paper like a ship breaking out of a fog bank. Slowly the photograph materialized - much the same as the split second impression he had got at the moment of the flash. He made out the yacht's name, Mistress Mine , on a ring lifebuoy on the shrouds. Suddenly Ann drew in her breath sharply, plucked the enlargement out of the developer, slid it into the hypo, and pointed. Her finger indicated the only figure visible on the yacht - the helmsman in the cockpit. “Look, Pete, look!” she breathed. Pete bent closer. The man sat with the long tiller tucked under his arm, and his bare head was slumped forward and to one side, presenting his right profile to the camera. Down his cheek ran a dark smear. “That man's dead,” whispered Ann, and her voice shook. “Get a magnifying glass and turn up the light.” Pete took the lens and peered through it. He couldn't be sure, but it certainly looked as if that dark smear started from a round dark spot on the helmsman's temple - a spot that could be a bullet hole. “But Pete, it's impossible - the yacht sailing straight on like that....” “No, it's not. With a yawl close-hauled and well balanced, and the hold he has on the tiller, even if he is dead - that's what would happen. She'll plough straight on till the wind shifts or she piles into something.” Ann sat down suddenly. “But who – what....?” she began. “Look up Mistress Mine in the register,” ordered Pete. “I'm getting the hook up.” “But Pete,” cried Ann, “you can't handle this. Go ashore and phone the police.” “Meanwhile the yawl piles up and the evidence is lost.” He scrambled forward and hove on the ground tackle. In three minutes the Photofoam was at full speed, bucking the chop in the Sound. Ann came to his side at the wheel, the register in her hands and a flashlight to read it by. “'Mistress Mine , yawl, built 1938 by....'” “Skip that,” cut in Pete. “Who's the present owner?” “'Joseph D. Bartram,'” read Ann. “Oh, Pete, I know who he is - he's 'Little Joe' - he's a sort of successful racketeer. The paper I worked for used to have a lot to say about him. He's always mixed up in something shady like gambling and the black market, but he always keeps just out of trouble.” “Just the sort of guy who'd get himself bumped off,” commented Pete. “But who - ?” began Ann and her voice suddenly lowered. “Pete, the murderer might still be aboard.” “Uh-huh,” said her husband. “But why should we stick our necks out? If it's 'Little Joe' he probably got what was coming to him, and I'm not crazy to meet his murderer.” “Listen, Ducky,” said Pete; “our picture is very dramatic, but it might be a picture of a suicide, not a murder. If we find the Mistress Mine as she was in the picture, and no gun in Joe’s hand or on the cockpit floor, we know it was murder. Personally, I think we may find the yawl, but I don’t think we’ll find Joe.” “Why?” “Seems to me the murderer would plan to tip Joe overboard with a weight to keep him down, and leave the yacht drifting, as though he’d been knocked overboard by the boom in the dark. That has been known to happen to men sailing single-handed. No body, no crime - and no Joe. A perfect set-up.” “How does the murderer get away from the yacht himself, though?” asked Ann. “Maybe we'll be in time to find out,” said her husband. “The yawl carries a dinghy, but that would be missed. To make it a perfect crime he would have to be taken off by a pal in another boat, or better still sail the yawl in close to shore and swim. Then no one need know he was there.” There was a pause while Ann thought it over. “Pete,” she said, “if you're right the murderer must have been aboard when we took the photo.” “He must have been somewhere below,” said Pete. “My guess is he hid aboard, waited till Joe sailed her well offshore, and shot him from the darkness of the cabin.” “Well, what about our flash?” demanded Ann. “What would he think of that?” “I don't know. He wouldn’t see much from inside, especially when the portholes on the side near us were heeled 'way down almost to the water. I don't think he could help seeing a bit of a flash wherever he was. He might have thought we'd raked him with a spotlight for a second. I don't think anyone would think of a photoflash.” There was another pause, and again the girl broke it. “You'll be careful. Darling? If we find the yawl, I mean?” “Of course. You're the only wife I've got.” “I don't know why I married such a madman,” sighed Ann. “If there was any truth in what you said when you proposed,” said Peter quickly, “you couldn't resist my good looks and you were dying to get your hands on my money.” Ann let him have a left jab to the ribs and Pete slid an arm round her and sought safety in a clinch. The Photofoam ran down the Sound on long zig-zags. The breeze was moderating and the water calmer. It was after midnight now, and most pleasure craft were snug in anchorages, so Pete was not surprised when the first running lights he picked up turned out to be those of the Mistress Mine . As the cabin cruiser closed the distance between them Pete switched on his spotlight and caught the yawl in its beam. She was hove to, fore reaching a few yards and then luffing and falling off. “There's a man moving about in the cockpit,” he said. “Get your photoflash and give it to me. We'll be friendly and pretend we think it's 'Little Joe' - what's his other name?” “Bartram,” breathed Ann. Pete leaned beyond the side wing of the bridge and hailed. “Mistress Mine , ahoy! Do you need any help?” “Sounds just too romantic,” he heard Ann murmur behind him, and his brain took a split second off to think what a swell girl she was. “What boat's that?” demanded the man on the yawl sharply. “Take us alongside,” Pete told Ann, “and give me that camera.” He slung it round his neck and clambered forward. “Photofoam , of Sea-Photos, Inc.,” he shouted. “We saw you hove to, and thought you might be in trouble. Mr. Bartram, isn't it?" The direct beam of the spotlight was off him now, but Pete could make out the man steadying himself with his left hand on the cockpit coaming. His right was below its edge; Pete could guess what that hand held. “No trouble, thank you,” the man replied, and Pete felt he could almost hear the fellow's brain racing to explain his position. At length the explanation came out. “I am cruising single-handed,” he said, “and I was cold, so I hove to to go and get myself some warmer clothes and a drink.” He paused, and then asked as if he couldn't resist it, “How do you know my name?” “It's our business to know yachts and who owns them,” said Pete. “We take photos of them, you know. Mind if I take one now?” “Portrait of a murderer,” Pete's brain quoted at him. The flash was over and he was blinded again before the man's reply started. In the blackness Pete moved quickly to one side. He was afraid of a shot. “No - I don't mind a bit.” The words came smoothly and slowly, and Pete's impression was that the man on the yawl had everything figured out now. “How many have you aboard?” the voice went on. “Can't see a thing after that flash.” “Two,” replied Pete. “Myself and my wife.” Only a yard or two separated the craft now. “Come aboard and join me in a drink,” the smooth tones continued. “The boats will be okay alongside each other - there’s little wind now. Come along.” The last two words were edged with insistence. “Hell,” thought Pete. “I'm behind the eight ball now. He’s got to have the camera....” His stomach contracted as his mind added, “and he’s got to have us, too. We're too close - he can get us both if we try to scram.” The boats bumped gently. “Play along, play along with him,” Pete’s mind kept telling him. “Maybe you'll get a chance to slug him or something.” He moored the cruiser fore and aft and helped Ann out of the cockpit. She slipped and he caught her to him. “It’s 'Little Joe',” she breathed. Pete's brain reeled. 'Little Joe' was the murderer, not the victim. Who, then, was the corpse? Bartram was awaiting them in the cockpit, his right hand in the huge side pocket of the heavy canvas hunting jacket he wore. He motioned them down the companionway ahead of him. “Whisky, rum, gin?” he asked. “Glad to have someone to drink with. Sit down, won't you?” Pete sat on a transom on one side of the central table, and Ann beside him. Joe moved past the table on its other side towards the door in the bulkhead at the forward end of the cabin. Beyond it was the galley, Pete guessed. “Whisky for me,” said Pete. “Ann?” “The same, thanks,” said Ann. She looked at her husband, and for a second her eyes crossed. Pete felt that his senses were leaving him, and then he got her warning - 'Little Joe' would probably fix those drinks, the two of them would go out like lights, and he would dispose of them and their films as he wished. Bartram was standing in the doorway, his left shoulder towards the cabin. Pete could bet that the gun was out of that right side pocket now and handy to grab. Bartram smoothly small-talked about the delights of night sailing and his sentences were punctuated by the clink of bottles on glasses. They couldn't refuse the drinks - that would just bring the gun out. They must drink, and go out like lights - out like lights - like a flash.... Pete remembered the way the photoflash had blinded him twice already that evening. He unslung the camera from his neck, and leaned over Ann as he put the sling over her head. “Here, Honey,” he said, “why don't you try a snap of this cabin? It's a swell job.” And he added under his breath, “You flash, I switch 'em.” Bartram placed the drinks on th e table, Ann's, Pete's, his own at the end nearer the galley. Ann stood up. “How about a picture, Mr. Bartram?” she smiled. “'The skipper at home' - that sort of thing.” She raised the camera. There was a pause and Pete imagined Bartram thinking, “One more doesn't matter - camera and all will be at the bottom of the Sound in a few minutes.” “Okay,” said 'Little Joe', leaning back against the side of the doorway, glass in left hand and his right in that side pocket again. Pete's heart sank, but Ann came through. “Put the drink down, if you don't mind. They spoil a photoflash - er - reflections, you know.” 'Little Joe' placed the glass on the table. “Ready?” asked Ann. “One, two, three....” Pete knew she was counting for his benefit and on three he shut his eyes. The flash was still perceptible through his eyelids, and he opened them quickly, reached out both hands, and switched his drink and Joe's. Then he looked up to find Joe passing a hand over his eyes and blinking. Pete copied him. “Some flash, eh, Mr. B?” he laughed. “Well, here's cheers.” He picked up his glass and knocked back about half of it. Thank Heaven it was whisky too - had 'Little Joe' decided on something different that gun would be out with his first sip. He was glad to see Ann fussing with the camera, not drinking. “Mud in your eye,” said Bartram, and to Pete it sounded as though, he meant it. The Sound had a muddy bottom. 'Little Joe' drained half his glass, and noticed Ann's preoccupation with her camera. “Drink up, lady,” he invited. He raised his glass to her. “Here's luck.” With that his knees folded and he crashed down across the table. Pete leapt on him to pinion his arms and yelled the one word “Rope” at Ann. Their haste was from fright rather than from necessity, for 'Little Joe' was out cold. In two minutes they had him trussed up, and Pete broke open the gun he had taken from his pocket. “One shell fired,” he commented. “But who at?” “At whom,” corrected Ann automatically. She was crumpled on a transom, white and shaking. Pete raised her head and kissed her. “Stick with me a little longer. Darling,” he said. “Pull yourself together.” He pointed forward. “There's a big sail-locker in the forepeak - that's probably where Joe hid when the other guy sailed the boat out into the Sound. But who was that other guy?" His eyes fell on a club bag on the port side berth. He started pulling out shirts, a toilet case, an opened envelope. “Ann,” he said, “ever heard of anyone called Victor Marsh?” “Sure,” said Ann. “He's an associate of 'Little Joe's'. He was up on a gambling rap last year. Got off with a fine or something, though.” “Listen.” Pete had the letter out of the envelope. “'Dear Vic: In reference to our conversation yesterday, about your borrowing the Mistress Mine next week end, you can pick her up at her moorings in Flounder River any time Saturday afternoon or evening. Have a good cruise, and don't worry about being single-handed - she handles very easily. Drop into the office Monday and tell me all about it. Joe.'" “Exit Vic,” commented Ann. “Don't let me hurry you, but don't you think we'd better scram? We're not close enough to land for Joe to swim ashore, so he must have been waiting for a pal to come and take him off.” Pete sprang into action. He lowered the yawl's sails, left them lying unfurled, and took her in tow. When they were some three miles on their course to Porthaven he caught a glimpse of a speedboat's white bow and red sidelight as she whipped by a mile away. Perhaps she was going to pick up 'Little Joe'.” By five in the chill dawn a sleepy Porthaven policeman was in charge of the yawl Mistress Mine and her passenger, police headquarters had been notified, and detectives were on their way. Once more the Photofoam dropped her hook. Pete yawned and stretched. “Bed, bed, beautiful bed!” he exulted. “Pete I'm going to develop those last two pictures first. If they're good we're famous.” “Aw Ann,” expostulated her husband, “for Pete's sake-” Ann smiled at him. “Okay; I'll come – for Pete's sake.” The End (Short Short Story) 1000 words (Date unknown. Sometime in the late 1970s or 1980s.) (Unpublished) FLASH POINT by Lewis Evans We on the planet Nereus, who have through these many aeons communicated with each other by thought-transmission, find it limiting to try to express ideas in the antiquated medium of language. However, as my report concerns the planet which calls itself ’Earth' (but which we know as The Flasher) it would seem appropriate, and an interesting exercise, to express the report, this time, in an 'Earth' language. I have chosen the language they called English, for it was, perhaps, used by most of the people responsible for the recent incident on their planet, though had the incident been delayed for a few of their years the Russian and Asiatic tongues might well have been by then the sole surviving languages. It is with this incident that my report is mainly concerned. We have, of course, been expecting it for some time, for these things generally run true to pattern, but the thing happened while the attention of most Nereans was centred on the Millenium Peace Celebrations on The Blusher (which in 'Earth' parlance, ironically enough, is called Mars after, of all things, a war god), and I was, by chance, the only close observer on this planet. My attention was first attracted to 'Earth' by my happening to notice the detonation on that planet of two nuclear explosions in short succession, evidence that the inhabitants had developed their intelligence and ability to the point where they had discovered and begun to make use of that type of energy. These first two explosions, which occurred at almost the same spot on the 'Earth's' surface, were shortly followed by others, of different intensity and at varying intervals and widely separated points. Assuming that the inhabitants of various parts of 'Earth's' surface were, as usual, at war with each other, I thought it might be interesting, and useful for our records, to have detailed information about the steps leading up to the inevitable climax of a nuclear competition, and so, through our normal channels, I arranged to obtain this information. I dispatched, therefore, a thought-conveyor of moderate size to 'Earth' from an orbit where it had been cruising until needed. It landed successfully in a good central position, and immediately went into action, receiving significant thought emanations from various parts of 'Earth', and relaying them to our receiving recorders here. The accuracy and delicacy of this thought-conveyor were well attested, by the way, almost as soon as it got there, by the fact that it immediately absorbed and passed on to Nereus the news of its own arrival. I record the actual item here as a quaint insight into 'Earth' lore, though, of course, it is scientifically ridiculous: “Saskatoon, Saskatchewan (an English language place name): Scientists here announced today that a meteorite ('Earth' name for our thought-conveyors) is believed to have fallen in barren lands near the northern borders of the province. An expedition under the leadership of Professor Hegstein is being organized to ascertain the exact locality of its crater and other scientific data.” (Though hardly credible to us, there is a widely accepted belief on 'Earth' that certain large circular declivities on the planet's surface mark the landing places of what they call meteorites. We, of course, know what really created these ancient craters, and the latest ones as well.) As soon as I began to correlate the information which came in from our thought-conveyor, I realized that my first conjecture had been wrong. The widely spread and sporadic detonations of a nuclear nature were merely the proving of scientific products by various inhabitants of 'Earth' who were, apparently, working independently of each other, and against 'Earth' time. It seems that each group felt that the more powerful and more numerous the items of nuclear energy it had, the less likely would any other group be to use its own stock against them. This state of affairs, with each group afraid of provoking the other, and yet equally afraid of falling behind in stock and power of nuclear energy, continued for some 'Earth' years, until I was almost convinced that the moments I devoted to its observation and record were being wasted, since the outcome was a foregone conclusion. However, curiosity as to the exact manner of the actual impulse which would promote the final incident prompted me to persevere in my observation. The primary impulse was one that appears to be second nature to the inhabitants of 'Earth', and one without which they do not seem able to survive for any extended period of their time – war. A trifling dispute between two small groups over the control of a small area of solid surface surrounded by liquid - or it may have been over a small area of liquid surrounded by solid, for the thought-conveyor did not seem to be able to gather the details, or perhaps did not consider them worth gathering - and all inhabitants of the planet ranged themselves in one or other of the two camps. Some desultory campaigning with antiquated weapons ensued, but each side existed in fear of the other initiating the use of nuclear energy. This situation might have continued until I was sure that the subject was not worth my momentary attention, had not the secondary impulse suddenly occurred. A single individual of one of the opposing groups, while controlling an air-borne vehicle on patrol over a large liquid area, feeling, no doubt, weary of the situation in general and of his own activity in particular, yawned uncontrollably. His primitive pressurized garment became disarranged, he made a sudden movement to adjust it, and triggered a nuclear item which his vehicle carried as a precaution against the surprise use of such by the other group. This item was detonated in the water area without damage to any inhabitants of the planet, but the detonation was recorded by both sides. At once each side assumed that the other had initiated a nuclear competition, and threw all its most potent weapons into the action. The result was an interesting - even spectacular - sight, and I was glad that I had not desisted from my observation a few moments earlier. First one and then another area of The Flasher, or 'Earth', was momentarily illuminated by the comparatively brilliant flashes that inspired our name for it. Beautifully patterned cloud formations occasionally obscured the play of light, and the emanations from our thought-conveyor became weak, confused, and distorted. Undoubtedly some of the larger detonations meant that the surface of the planet was again being pitted by large craters, and it amused me to conjecture that perhaps they in their turn would be explained by 'Earth' inhabitants of the future as the landing places of 'meteorites'. Hardly had it begun when all such activity ceased completely. The surface of the Flasher reappeared, unobscured by cloud or vapour, its well known features hardly altered, but with no illumination of any sort in any place. Needless to add, there was no communication whatever from our thought-conveyor, for a thought-conveyor cannot convey thoughts when there are none to convey. Such is my report of the most recent of such incidents on 'Earth'. Since we Nereans have been equipped to observe that planet, our records show that this is the fifth time that life on 'Earth' has destroyed itself, and, if the established pattern is repeated, in several Nerean years (or 'Earth' aeons) infinitesimal and primitive forms of life will gradually develop, and finally attain to the intellectual standard which is the prerequisite to the 'invention' of nuclear energy. Almost immediately, control of this medium will be lost, and it will once more destroy all life on the planet. If I thought that there was any hope that the pattern might be changed when next the inhabitants of The Flasher approached the flash point, I would be willing to take the time to observe the course of events. It would be an interesting study if they learned to live with and by what they have evolved, and it might even result in our having to discontinue the name The Flasher as inappropriate. (Short Short Story) (1000 words, Unpublished. Date unknown.) THE PLOTTER by Lewis Evans A great B-47 of a June-bug droned in through the open window of the class-room and started making bombing runs at the chandelier. Flak in the shape of Johnny Calder's Geometry book whizzed up and the dazed insect crashed on my desk. He was still alive, so I swept him into my pocket for future reference and was hard at work, like everyone else, when the master on duty stuck his head in at the door to see what the disturbance was. I wondered whether this particular bug was fast on his feet. The night before I had won thirty-five cents in the dormitory when my June-bug had been the first to crawl from the centre to the circumference of a circle chalked on the floor. Then I had sat on him by mistake at Prayers that morning, and so had to build up a new racing stable. The blank pages of the exercise book on my desk caught my eye. Old Hawk-eye, the English master, a guy with the most extraordinary ideas, had been teaching us the short short story in class, and we were supposed to have one written for him by next day. A thousand words to write, and I had not even the first glimmerings of a plot. I could remember most of his lesson, though. “Short first paragraph,” he had told us; “jump right into the middle of action at the beginning. Get some dialogue on your first page if you can. And don’t forget that somewhere in the first third of your story there must be a clue to your surprise ending - your 'kick in the tale'.” That was one of Hawk-eye’s little jokes - the same every year, they tell me. He had droned on about development of tension up to a crisis where everything was right for the crooks or the communists, or wrong for the cops or the Yanks or the British, and then the sudden twist. Oh, I could remember all that, but my mind was still as blank as the pages. The only thing I could think of was how I hated evening preparation in springtime, with the windows wide open and the smell of fresh leaves and grass coming in from the playing fields. “Hey, Johnny,” I whispered. “Lend me a cigarette? I’m going out for a smoke.” Johnny looked impressed - smoking is against the law at our school for some ridiculous reason. He found a battered butt in his pocket and chucked it across. I waited till the master - it was Davies, the Science man, and he's a bit vague or I wouldn't have thought of skipping out - went past again in the classroom corridor, and then I whipped over the window-sill. There was an eight foot drop to the ground, but I knew there was an old plank near by that I could lean against the wall to help me back. I had found it near the carpentry shop and brought it over for just such an occasion. I ran across the quadrangle, keeping out of the splashes of light from the windows, and ducked round behind the dark mass of the gym. There I sat down and lighted Johnny's weed and tried to enjoy life, but that blasted story was still on my mind. Perhaps if I started with the crisis I might get somewhere, I thought. Let's see - the good guy has to be in a jam. His plane's on fire and he has left his parachute at home - no, that's too tough; I'd never get him out of that. Well, he's a paratrooper, and on his way down. He realizes that he is going to land in the shark-infested sea, so what does he do? I don't know. Let's make him drift down over a volcano, and just when he thinks he's done for the hot air from the cone sends him up again; kind of hard to persuade old Hawk-eye there wasn't too much accident in that, though.... Oh, the heck with it. The cigarette was down to the last half inch so I stamped it out and started back. Half way across the quadrangle a familiar voice from the school steps said, “Johnson, come here." It was Hawk-eye in person, having a pipe in the fresh air - a good idea too, if I know his pipes. I started thinking fast and getting nowhere, except closer to him. “What are you doing outside the building during preparation?” he demanded. “Well, sir,” I began, and then I had an idea, a poor thing, but mine own, as someone said before I did. “Well, sir, Mr. Davies told us all to bring a specimen of insect life to his biology class in the morning.” “Yes?” “Well, sir, that's why I'm out here. I suddenly remembered I didn't have one.” “And have you succeeded in getting your - er - specimen, Johnson?” “Yes, sir,” I said, and produced the June-bug from my pocket. “Get back to your class-room,” ordered Hawk- eye. It was too dark to see the expression on his face, but his voice sounded amused. I don't think he liked Davies much. That meant I had to go back by the corridor instead of through the window, but Davies was quelling a noise in another class-room, and I made it without being seen. “Okay?” asked Johnny Galder. “Hawk-eye pinched me in the quad,” I whispered, “but I talked my way past him. I'm all right if he doesn't check with Davies.” As I turned to the blank pages of my English exercise book the bell went for the end of preparation. The next morning in English period old Hawk- eye made us read out our stories. The first two were passable, in a comic-book sort of way; lots of screaming jets and chattering guns spitting death, and stuff like that. Johnny was the third boy he asked, and he had summarized a de Maupassant story in the hopes that Hawk-eye didn't know any French. He did, though, and an afternoon dropped out of Johnny's life forever. Then it was my turn. “I'm sorry, sir,” I apologized, “but I couldn't think of a plot.” Hawk-eye chose to be sarcastic. “You couldn't have written a story with a June-bug as the hidden clue, I suppose?” he suggested in honeyed tones. And as he measured out my doom I thought, “My gosh! I could have, at that!” The End Dad did submit this story for publication but it was soundly rejected with the following note. I include it because Dad thought the note was very funny and he always kept it clipped to the top of his manuscript. NEXT PAGE

PREVIOUS Lilybell Rhodes 1889-1975 NEXT PAGE Lilybell Rhodes was the daughter of Francis Rhodes and Totie LeMoine, grandaughter of Col William Rhodes (of Benmore, Quebec) and of Canadian author, historian and past President of The Royal Society of Canada, Sir James McPherson Le Moine (1825-1912) of ‘Spencer Grange’ in Sainte-Foy Quebec. She studied art at Les Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Quebec City under Henry Ivan Neilson (Professor of Painting, Drawing and Anatomy), as well as with instructor and noted Canadian artist Jean Paul Lemieux. Several of Ms. Rhodes works are currently on display at the Bagatelle Museum (the house where she lived for many years) in Sainte-Foy Quebec. Lily and her sister Frances in 1913 Lilybell Rhodes était la fille de Francis Rhodes et Totie LeMoine, petite-fille du colonel William Rhodes (de Benmore, Québec) et de l'auteur canadien, historien et ancien président de la Société royale du Canada, Sir James McPherson Le Moine (1825-1912) de «Spencer Grange» à Sainte-Foy Québec. Elle a étudié l'art à Les Ecole des Beaux-Arts de la ville de Québec en vertu de Henry Ivan Neilson (professeur de peinture, de dessin et d'anatomie), ainsi qu'avec instructeur et a noté l'artiste canadien Jean Paul Lemieux. Plusieurs des œuvres Mme Rhodes sont actuellement exposées au Musée Bagatelle (la maison où elle a vécu pendant de nombreuses années) à Sainte-Foy Québec. Tadoussac from the Wharf 1935 (Tom/Heather Evans) Tadoussac du quai Tadoussac Wharf 1930's (George/Susie Bruemmer) Le quai de Tadoussac The colour pencil sketches below are from two small books that somehow ended up in my family. 1956-58 Les dessins au crayon de couleur ci-dessous sont de deux petits livres qui en quelque sorte ont fini dans ma famille. Kamouraska Quebec Tadoussac NEXT PAGE

William Rhodes 1851-1921 & Caroline Hibler 1848-1929 William Rhodes is the third oldest of 9 children of Col William Rhodes and Anne Catherine Dunn. Their daughter is Carrie Rhodes, my grandmother. She married Frank Morewood, their children are Betty Evans (my mother, 1922-1993) and Bill Morewood (his family live in New Jersey). William Carrie was born in 1881 so this is about 1887, Carrie and her father This group photo (early 1890's) is on the Col. Rhodes/Anne Dunn page William isn't in it, but he was there that day, and had his picture taken below! He was probably the photographer. That's his daughter Carrie (right side) and just to her left, her future husband Frank Morewood (first cousins!). In the photo below William is missing his right arm-the story goes that he went to Australia on business, and wasn't heard from for a year, much to the concern of his family...he had lost his arm in an accident and didn't write home until he could write with his left! Carrie and her mother Caroline on the porch at Benmore about 1893, with sister-in-law Minnie Rhodes Morewood, and Isobel (Billy)and probably Frank. Caroline and William Rhodes and their daughter Carrie - William liked to have his picture taken from his left side so his missing arm wasn't visible.

Tadoussac Protestant Church - late 1800's