Sky Flyers

By Richard Mousseau

Soaring freely on wings of silky canvas fabric, a colourful kite is barely seen against a clear blue sky. Higher than any of the other kites, it soars above the open fields, and kids resembling ants below. Twenty assorted kites jostled for manoeuverability. Higher above them floated a sky flyer, its fabric skin taunt against a warm updraft and wind. Stressed to the breaking point, the tethered line held fast to the kite’s structural frame. Lazy dog day afternoons are meant for relaxing, and will be recalled in declining years of age.
Higher than any of the other kites, the Sky Flyer waved its long tail. One by one the lines ended in a fastened knot around spool reels. Eyes fixated on the height of the sky flyer. Kids cheered, and town’s folk paused, awed with delight of playful kites. This September of Nineteen-Ten Is a momentous day.
Quote:
Boy, kids had fun back in the olden days. Modern kids are missing out on life. At sixty, I want to go fly a kite!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Moose Hide Books imprint of Moose Enterprise Publishing
• Release date: Dec 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781894650885

Book preview

Sky Flyers

Sky Flyers

SKY FLYERS

by

Richard Mousseau

MOOSE HIDE BOOKS

imprint of

MOOSE ENTERPRISE PUBLISHING

PRINCE TWP.,

ONTARIO, CANADA

cover illustration by Marc Cove

SKY FLYERS

by

Richard Mousseau

Copyright April 7, 2007

Published June 1, 2011

MOOSE HIDE BOOKS

imprint of

MOOSE ENTERPRISE PUBLISHING

684 WALLS ROAD

PRINCE TWP.,

ONTARIO, CANADA

P6A 6K4

web site www.moosehidebooks.com

NO VENTURE UNATTAINABLE

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, NO PART OF THIS BOOK MAY BE REPRODUCED, THIS INCLUDES STORING IN RETRIEVAL SYSTEM OR TRANSMITTED IN ANY FORM BY ELECTRONIC MEANS, MECHANICAL, PHOTOCOPYING, RECORDING OR OTHER, WITHOUT THE WRITTEN PERMISSION FROM THIS PUBLISHER.

THIS BOOK IS A WORK OF FICTION, NAMES, CHARACTERS, PLACES AND INCIDENTS ARE EITHER PRODUCTS OF THE AUTHOR’S IMAGINATION OR ARE USED FICTITIOUSLY. ANY RESEMBLANCE TO ACTUAL EVENTS OR LOCALES OR PERSONS, LIVING OR DECEASED, IS ENTIRELY COINCIDENTAL.

CREATED IN CANADA

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Mousseau, Richard E.

Skyflyers [electronic resource] / Richard Mousseau

Electronic monograph in PDF format.

Issued also in print format.

ISBN 078-1-894650-88-5

I. Title.

PS8576.O977S59 2011aC813'.54C2011-903363-1

SKY FLYERS

Prologue

Soaring freely on wings of silky canvas fabric, a colourful kite of vivid hues is barely seen against a clear blue sky on an early September day.

Higher than any of the other kites, it soars above the open fields, above kids resembling ants rushing about. Twenty assorted kites jostled for air currents and manoeuverability space. These kites sailing twice the height of the tallest eighty-foot White Pine. Higher above them floated a sky flyer, its fabric skin taunt against a warm updraft and wind. Stressed to the breaking point, the tethered line held fast to the kite’s structural frame.

Lazy dog day afternoons are meant for relaxing in the last warmth of southern winds, and the town’s folks of Echo Bay cast inquisitive eyes towards the sky. Hugging the shoreline of Georgian Bay, a body of water connected to Lake Huron of the Great Lakes, there is a clear view of the open farm land leading to the water’s edge. Folks mingled, as those do on a Sunday afternoon, and cast an eye every once in a while, towards the dancing kites above Old Man Barns’ empty farm field.

This is one of those summers that becomes noted in everyone’s mind, and will be recalled in declining years of age. Nineteen-Ten seemed to be a prosperous year, with weather cooperating for the farmers. Loggers were happy with a good cold winter to draw timber out of the bush on ice roads. Folks were pleased with a little savings of money to tide them over an upcoming winter. Echo Bay proper, the little Hamlet, was also prospering with newly painted buildings, a graded street and brand new board-walks on both sides of Main Street.

Settlers were not very imaginative, basically practical when it came to naming streets. The thoroughfare of town was the main street, so they named it Main Street. As for clarification, other roads were named after people that usually lived at the farthest end. It just made sense.

If one would ask for directions to Old Man Barns’ place, people just pointed. The Barns place was at the south end of town and on the other side of a dirt road that intersected Main Street. Long before locals could recall, the Barns clan settled and cleared three hundred acres along the Georgian Bay shoreline. By the turn of the century, kin folk had moved away. Old Man Barns lingered into old age then one day up and died. One evening he laboured a walk to a slight rise of land, sat and watched the sun set over the water for the last time. Without pomp, nor pageantry concerned folks buried him where he lay.

Fields on the Barns place went to seed, buildings drooped with age and neglect. No one arrived to claim an inheritance of the homestead. In the Summer of Nineteen-Ten, wild oats towered and flowed in waves in a gentle breeze in off of the lake. This summer kids had congregated on the open fields to take advantage of the wind lifting off of the lake and the air streams of warm and cold to fly their kites. The technical aspect was unknown at the beginning of summer, the kids just knew it was the best place to fly kites. And they did so all through summer.

Air currents billowed the sky flyer’s fabric, tugging, trying to set it free. The wind is free to travel the earth, to visit places, to bring warmth or a blast of cold Arctic air. A gentle breeze will carry a butterfly lazily along an unplanned path. Able to be cruel, a wind will flatten crops and pry buildings from their foundations.

Today the wind played fair, yet teased with a firmness. Sewed seams of fabric held fast around arched framing. Mankind designs and builds structures to withstand the elements. In turn, the forces of nature test mankind’s inventions. A bout of strength unfolded this September day of Nineteen-Ten. The sky flyer held fast to the tethered line. Three lines, one attached to each side and one on the head of the kite, joined a centre ring coupled to the line earth bound.

Higher than any of the other kites, the Sky Flyer waved its long tail of spinning fan blades. A rainbow of colours flashed from each decorated blade. Competing kids unreeled line in hopes of matching the sky flyer’s height. One by one the lines ended in a fastened knot around spool reels. Eyes fixated on the height of the sky flyer. Kids cheered, some were disgruntled when being intimidated by the sky flyer’s achievement. Town’s folk paused, shaded their eyes and oohed an awed with delight when seeing the display of playful kites. Some wished that their childhood could have been as adventurous and playful.

This September of Nineteen-Ten is a momentous day.

1

In a child’s mind summer begins the day after the last school day ends.

Suddenly every flower, tree and weed is in full bloom. Aromas of scents fill the air. Winter clothes are discarded. It is barefoot season, a time for childhood adventures, after chores are completed.

Silence prevailed throughout the town of Echo Bay. A lone voice would echo on this sleepy main street. Lester Talbout did not open the door of his father’s Mercantile and Feed store. A grandfather’s clock in the front window indicated eight-fifty-five AM. This was the first day of summer vacation and there was not a kid to be found lolly-gagging lazily on their way to school. Lester, all five-foot-three and skinny as a rake, lingered in a slumber, in bed, in the Talbout’s apartment above the store.

Resembling Lester Junior, Mr. Talbout flattened strands of red hair to either side of a centre parting. A stone-cold frown instantly turned into a beaming smile when he opened the double doors and greeted the morning. Sensing an oddness, he glanced right then left along the newly installed boardwalk. The street was deserted. In turn Lester Talbout Senior nodded and waved to the banker, the post master, carriage maker and the baker who were opening their doors to the morning silence.

From past experiences, each person knew that this morning was limited to the moment. By the time a mid morning sun was directly over head, the sounds of children’s voices would be the most prominent sound in and around town. It has been said, by a native fisherman tending a gill net several miles out on Georgian Bay, that he could hear clear voices echoing from town, as if a person talking was sitting in his skiff.

One quiet morning old George Pine was hauling in a good-sized Lake Trout, destined for Mr. Bruni’s Butcher Shop when he heard the voices of Mrs. Bruni giving orders to Mr. Bruni. Luigi, Gustavio Bruni is a quiet man, and an excellent butcher, yet Maria Bruni ran the shop and the house hold, and ran Mr. Bruni. George Pine heard Mrs. Bruni say, ‘Only give Mr. Pine two cents per pound instead of three cents. We’ll keep the fish on ice and sell at ten cents a pound.’.

Before noon, George Pine arrived at the butcher shop with only three eight-pound Lake trout to sell. Mrs. Bruni and George haggled over the price, the scarcity of fish, the factors of weather, the full moon and the fact that George had a big family to feed. Shaking his head of long white hair, George Pine accepted the two cents per pound.

Leaving through the back door of the ice shed, Mr. Bruni offered condolences as an apology and an understanding pat on the back. George accepted the gesture with a deep understanding of the situation and winked before heading home.

By late afternoon when the heat of day begins to cool, town folk begin to mingle throughout the town core. Twenty board-planked buildings within the eighth of a mile stretch of main street constituted the town proper. Most retailers conducted business on the boardwalk, the essence of an open market. Mrs. Bruni set out a half-cut barrel filled with ice and displayed the three Lake Trout. A bewildered surprise to Luigi was the price printed on an explanation card over the fish, ‘twenty cents per pound, limited supply, scarcity of Lake trout, poor fishing weather, no fish until a new full moon’.

Several people mingled, some even brave enough to try and haggle a better price with Mrs. Bruni. All knew the results but had to give it a try. Just when a customer was about to relent and pay full price, everyone was notified of the arrival of the Pine Clan.

George Pine drove a team of horses up to and stopped across the street from the Bruni’s Butcher Shop. Before the creaking wagon wheels stopped, George’s brood of ten children had begun to chant, Fresh fish, plenty of Lake Trout, fresh this morning, all ten pounds or better, fresh fish today only, two cents per pound, fresh fish . . .

Mrs. Maria Bruni stomped into the middle of the street and eyed Mr. Pine. If one believes in curses and of hexes, Mrs. Bruni was telepathically sending them to Mr. Pine. True to his easy manner, George smiled a hello from the wagon’s seat.

George did not move from the seat while the children wrapped the sold fish and handed the coins to their Pa’s open hand. After clenching her hands into white knuckle fists, Mrs. Bruni silently cursed the heavens then stomped angrily back into the shop. Having emptied the wagon of its cargo, George raised the reins and the horses headed home. In passing, George winked to a pleasantly satisfied Mr. Bruni, who offered a smile and a return wink.

The catch of the day fed the multitude. Every family in town and outlying area cooked fish for their evening meal. All except the Bruni house hold. Mrs. Bruni did not cook. Mr. Bruni and children fended for themselves on leftover stew.

Closing up for the night, Luigi put everything away except the iced fish. Based on past experiences, he thought better and refrained from bringing the fish inside the premises. Once darkness put the town to sleep, night wanderers would pick up the aroma of a meal primed for the taking. Old Man Barns’ ancient hound dog was the first to arrive and select a meal. Two mixed breed dogs tangled over a second fish up and down main street for the better part of two hours. A lone skunk, without any opposition from several hungry cats, dragged a meal home for its family.

George Pine often heard echoing voices when out on the water, but never again the voice of Mrs. Maria Bruni. Luigi, Gustavio Bruni met George Pine in the ice shed and paid whatever George asked for freshly caught fish. Luigi never argued or baulked at the price. Maria often wondered why the two men lingered so long in the ice shed. ‘Haggling,’ she presumed.

Both men just liked to talk. There was a reason. Luigi spoke a mixture of Italian and English with a lot of shoulder shrugging. George on the other hand spoke Ojibwa and French which he then translated into a basic English. They enjoyed the other’s company.

So, it goes on fact, that someone named the location Echo Bay. All shore generated sounds echo out onto the open bay of water. Gossip in town is hushed on quiet days when sounds carry further afield. This day started out with a hush, a lack of children scurrying about, their voices giving life to the town was absent. Lester Talbout Senior heard a dog at the end of the street moan and roll into a better sleeping position in the summer’s dry dust.

Silence on the first morning of summer vacation was justified and tolerated. Only on this first morning. On following days, chores need to be accomplished, then the daily planning of events commenced, then the actual events were undertaken. In any given summer, an unaccountable number of events would take place. After all, this small town was overrun by children. The future of any community is governed by the base number of children that will grow up and run the town and hopefully make the community prosper.

Echo Bay, Ontario was in its infancy. Settlers homesteaded farm land, loggers cleared timber for homes, farm buildings and furniture, and business men brought in commerce and trade. Long established, the Ojibwa, Huron and Algonquin first nations hunted and fished the resources of the area. Cultures clashed and harmonized while settling the land and establishing homes. What was common and consistent was their ability to have and raise broods of children.

Farm families averaged eight to twelve children, all required in foresight to help operate the farm. A family with a majority of boys made life a little easier on the father. A father with a majority of girls hoped to marry daughters off to good strong son-in-laws, to add labour on the farm. A farm couple lacking offspring had to struggle and usually their farm died a slow death.

Those men in a labouring trade of timber harvesting sweltered to earn a living. Their families, though poor in wages, prospered in an abundance of children. A balance of boys and girls was ideal. Boys to bring in a wage into the house hold, girls to marry young men to start families of their own. Generations to prosper in the expanding need for lumber.

Assimilation into the dominance of what the white man introduced, Native Peoples, farmed, fished, laboured and logged beside their counterparts. As in the struggle of most people to survive, their native culture needed offspring to contribute to a future existence. Six to eight children usually sufficed to keep the family stable.

Those with the fewest number of children seemed to be the merchants of town. Though equal and as rich or as poor as a farming family, or a logging family, most merchant couples did not need a large family. Too many children would actually be a hindrance. The Talbout family only had Lester. The banker, Mr. Bishop has two children. Mr. Henderson, the black smith has two boys, and the baker, the Hants family have four girls.

Town folk have not gotten around to putting up a population sign at both ends of town yet. Each fall, town council agrees on the size of the signs, who is going to paint and install the signs, and what numbering amount should be lettered on the cedar slabs. Then spring rolls around and Mrs. Bishop, who is good with math, is contacted each day with news of a new born child. Last year’s record was sixty-five children born between January and June of Nineteen-nine.

At one meeting, Mr. Bishop suggested that no sign be put up until the birth rate stops. Council members laughed. Idle gossip around town amongst the women folk was unanimous in the fact that there would be no end based on human nature. Mr. Henderson suggested enumeration every five years. Motion was passed and Mr. Talbout erected the signs. Mrs. Bishop tallied the numbers and entered a rough figure into town council notes. She placed a side note stating that some families had not been counted. With the birth of Mr. And Mrs. Hanns’ fourth daughter, the signs would read, ‘Population of Echo Bay, one thousand, two hundred and one’.

In June of nineteen-ten, Echo Bay proper contained a population of one thousand, two hundred and one people; consisting of one hundred and twenty families, two hundred adults, three hundred and fifty-five singles above the age of twenty-one including old folks, and six hundred and six children ages one month to twenty-one years of age. Thus, children are the majority, yet only contended to be children in the summer of nineteen-ten.

Moaning, stretching, a descendant of Old Man Barns’ old hound dog, rolled over in the dust to warm the other side of its tired hide.

2

Brushing fingers through short bristled hair, Francois Baptist dog-rolled out of a straw filled cot.

Home was warm in winter, cool during the summer. Grandmother Baptist said that the warm, cool factor was due to the thickness of the round cedar logs. A Grandfather, that Francois had never known had built the large one room cabin. Rubbing sleep from heavy eye lids, he watched Grandmother making biscuits at the centre plank table. Cut from the same cloth, with the same demure, he stood an inch taller than Grandmother. This was not saying much, for at eleven years of age, he was shorter than other children a year younger. Standing with a stretch, he stood by Grandmother and gauged his height against hers. Nope, no change, he was still four-foot-nine.

Grandfather Baptist was shorter dan’ me when we was your age, Grandmother said, her speech peppered with an accent of Ojibwa and French. Six-feet when we was married at sixteen.

Grandmother Baptist had a sense of what the boy was thinking and of what questions were being pondered in his head. Idle talk was not their strong suit, and affection was not displayed. They had each other and no one else, so they relied and depended on the other. No longer did she study the facial changes of Francois with her weakened eyesight. Each morning and each night she would place a winkled hand against his cheek for confirmation of recognition. Age was turning on Grandmother, aliments of poor eyesight, aching joints, and a bewildering constitution. Being aware, Francois aided as best as a man in a boy’s body could be expected to do.

There was no want or need for extravagances. The basics of life was all that could be expected. Grandmother trapped, harvested wild vegetables, and tended a small garden patch. On occasion the Reverend, who ministered the rural mission brought dry goods of flour, salt and sugar. ‘Only in exchange for the mending of my clothes,’ he would say to Grandmother, handing over a pair of pants with a seam undone. Francois had seen the Reverend rip the same seam over and over on each visit. Surely Grandmother knew, even with bad eyesight she could tell that it was the same pair of pants. The Reverend certainly knew that the sewing was not adequate. Both pretended to make a mutual trade, and vehemently deny that it was charity.

Dipping hot biscuit into wild blue-berry preserves, Francois studied the only kin he had ever known. This cozy cabin was the only home he had occupied. Over a prolonged period of two years, where both carried out sporadic and limited detailed conversations, a history of ancestral linage unfolded. Francois had a basic need to know, not that knowing created a burden, nor would it change his life or an outlook on life. It was a curiosity that all children have.

I’m gonna go to the lake and catch us some Bar-butts for supper, Francois said through a full mouth. Plenty in the muddy shallows.

Grandmother smiled and nodded in rhythm to the kneading of bannock bread for the evening meal. Fried Bar-butts, the smaller cousin of the Catfish, would compliment the warm bread. Francois knew that Grandmother would make a few balls of Bannock and roll them in sugar and bake them for an after supper treat.

Paying no mind to the slurping sounds of an eating child, Grandmother spoke in general terms, Summer is da best time to chink the logs for winter. Them two girls, and your buddies, gonna come picking berries with us this summer? A couple extra hands mixing mud, straw and bear grease, and the whole cabin be chinked in no time.

Just knows them, that’s all. They just come cause you know where the best place to pick berries is.

With enough said beyond normal for one morning, Francois slipped on leather foot wraps and headed for the door. Picking up scraps of Bannock pieces for fish bait, he stuffed them into a pocket. No further words needed to be said, both assumed that they would be together at an evening meal. Standing at the head of the path leading down to a main trail, Francois glanced back at the cabin. Dark peeled cedar seemed camouflaged against the bush and grey Cambrian rock mountain. Smoke from the hearth curled in a down draft and danced on the sod covered flat roof.

Pondering of life’s limitations is not what a child should be contemplating, yet, he often wondered, each morning when leaving the cabin, what would he do if Grandmother died? Who would want a skinny, brown skinned boy with hair that grew in a confused disarray. Grandmother was old. ‘Beyond sixty-five seasons,’ she had said. ‘and, I stopped counting when you come to live with me.’

The inevitable would happen one day and the man in the boy would do what needed to be done. Figuring out