A River Life: Coming of Age in the Thousand Islands

By Jeff Hebert

Nestled in a sixty-mile stretch of the St. Lawrence River between Northern New York and Southeast Ontario is an area that has been known to the native people for many thousands of years as Manitoana, or Garden of the Great Spirit.

Later, it became known to the French explorers as Les Mille Isles, and today, it is simply called the Thousand Islands.

It is here, more than anywhere else along its 1200-mile journey to the sea, where the St. Lawrence reaches its pinnacle of achievement. It is wide, deep, clear and pristine, teeming with wildlife and scenery that rivals any river in the world.

It is an area of wondrous natural beauty and it captures the hearts of those who are fortunate enough to become its prisoner.

Journey with the author from the 1950s on and share in his enthusiasm of being raised on the River in Alexandria Bay, New York.

From the early fishing escapades as a young boy to eerie interludes with ghostly reminders of an ancient island past, you'll quickly feel a part of the excitement and wonder of growing up in and on the River.

The post-World War II years finds a once elite abode of the rich and famous struggling to find its new place among the emerging tourist destinations of the northeast.

Everyone should experience a dose of the River and Islands as an integral part of their earthly trek through life. If you haven't been there in years, it's time to go back. If you've never been there, this may be the harbinger of a tantalizing experience that waits for your call.

If you were raised on the River, you'll understand...and you'll quickly rekindle an appreciation of what the author brings to mind. Discover and rediscover the awe and wonder of the Garden of the Great Spirit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9781645845737

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A River Life

Coming of Age in the Thousand Islands

Jeff Hebert

Copyright © 2024 Jeff Hebert

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2024

The author has attempted to be precise in any date references, but can’t guarantee their accuracy.

Top Photo: The author fishing on Alexandria Bay’s Otter Creek as a young boy in the 1950’s.

Bottom Photo: Author's son, Brian (and Jim Dog), fishing at the same spot, late 1970’s.

ISBN 978-1-64584-572-0 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-64584-573-7 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Lovingly dedicated to my family…and to the Mosseau girls, Lil and Elsie.

Foreword

Chapter 1

Dawn on the River

Chapter 2

Grandparents

Chapter 3

A River Rat

Chapter 4

The Marathon

Chapter 5

Piscatorial Pastimes (Fishin')

Chapter 6

Tar Island Northern Pike

Chapter 7

New England to New York

Chapter 8

Stock Car Racing

Chapter 9

Adventure Town

Chapter 10

The Candynappers

Chapter 11

The Thousand Islands

Chapter 12

Isle de Toniata

Chapter 13

Indians and Arrowheads

Chapter 14

Grenadier Ghosts

Chapter 15

Heffernan's

Chapter 16

Jim's Secret

Epilogue

About the Author

Lovingly dedicated to my family…and to the Mosseau girls, Lil and Elsie.

Foreword

My mother, Lillian Mosseau Hebert, passed away in December of 1975, after nine long years of battling breast cancer. She died at the way-too-young age of fifty-nine, and her influence, charm, and warm sense of humor was sorely missed by us four kids, all of whom, in retrospect, were much too young (in our twenties and thirties) to experience life with the loss of a parent.

She was a wonderful woman, an extremely talented musician and artist, a great mom, and a best friend. We shared her love for music and art, and her sense of humor was legendary—usually just a tad on the zany side. When she read or heard a cute story that hit her funny bone, she would memorize it, often writing it down, then tell it later and laugh at her own rendition until everyone was laughing with her.

Late one December night, just before she left us, I had stopped to see her in her hospital room in our hometown of Alexandria Bay, New York. I had been with some friends that night and someone had told a joke that I knew Mom would like. The cancer had beaten her down, and it was now just a matter of time before it was all over; yet through it all, she held on dearly to her sense of humor.

At ten thirty that night, I walked into the hospital, past the nurse's station and down the dull, dreary green-painted hallway to her room to see if she was awake, as she so often was at night during her ordeal.

A floor lamp was lit dimly in the corner, and I peeked in her room and softly said, Mom? She slowly turned her head and, seeing me, managed a faint smile. I sat down next to her bed and held her hand for the better part of an hour while we visited.

My once radiant and beautiful mother had become thin and feeble, beaten down by the months of chemotherapy and radiation. Her beautiful hair was now lifelessly thinning and gray, and the feel of her now frail hand in mine made me acutely aware of how the cancer had so ravaged her once soft and youthful skin.

We talked about everything, and nothing…about us kids, the grandchildren, the weather, and other trivial things. Her voice was weak, just above a whisper, and I could tell it was an effort for her to speak. Before long, the nurse came in, asked if she had any discomfort, and adjusted the IV drip.

Realizing her pain meds would soon be kicking in, I started the joke that I had so wanted to tell her. After the punch line, though she wasn't able to muster an actual laugh, she smiled and her tired, gray eyes sparkled for an instant. She then turned to me and said softly, I love you, Jeffie,—a name that only she had called me since I had been a little boy.

Still caressing her hand, I said, I love you too, Mom, and leaned over and kissed her forehead.

Then, with her special sense of humor, she turned her head to me and said, Good thing I got sick so we both knew that, huh…

Several minutes later, I walked out of the hospital into the night air to get into my car for the drive home. My eyes began to water, perhaps from the cold wind coming off the river, though I suspect it had nothing to do with the weather.

It was the last time I had heard her voice…she died the next day.

Several months after Mom had passed, our aunt, Elsie Slattery, presented my sister, Judy, with a manuscript detailing Elsie's childhood and adolescent years of growing up with her little sister, Lil.

The forty-some-page, manually typed document, with several photos, was full of first-hand recollections of life in Turners Falls, Massachusetts, in the early 1900s. It was a thoughtful, wonderfully written gift.

Judy made a copy for each of us three brothers, and it remains, to this day, the single most treasured item I have that offers a peek into the life and times of Mom and Dad's earlier years in New England before arriving in Alexandria Bay. Because we had moved to the north country as young children, and had no relatives here, we knew very little of our parents' years of growing up in the Greenfield and Turners Falls areas.

I revisit Aunt Elsie's manuscript every few years, and when I do, it takes me back to a distant, almost Waltonesque time in the 1930s and '40s, when families made do with what they could afford and displayed a sense of warmth and understanding for each other that rarely exists in today's fast, high-tech world.

One day, years ago, in a good mood after rereading some of Elsie's writings, I had a thought. I wondered if an Aunt Elsie-style narrative of my early years was something I wanted to give to my own children…and future grandchildren. Knowing someone as intimately as a child knows a parent is a wonderful thing, but what about the parents' earlier adolescent years…before the kids came along, before they grew up?

I spent several years contemplating my idea, occasionally berating it, yet continuously fascinated by the idea of actually doing it. (Author's note: One thing I excel at is procrastination—I could easily be a standout in the Dawdlers' Olympics, were there such a thing.)

Still, idle times found me thinking, remembering, maybe even planning, yet doubtful that I'd ever actually get around to putting pen to paper. I was constantly recalling little snippets of things I thought I'd want to write about, events that could be included, inner feelings to be expressed. Years passed.

Then, one rainy, blustery late fall afternoon, after a session with Elsie's manuscript for the umpteenth time, it happened. I sat down and slowly typed, Chapter 1.

From that point on, I began to take to the keyboard every now and then until I had another paragraph or two, eventually an actual page. After an excruciatingly lengthy session of feet-dragging, paragraphs slowly turned into pages, then pages became chapters.

When somewhat finished (Is there ever such a thing?), I began to research publishing companies to inquire about having my ramblings printed and bound…a copy made for each child and grandchild.

So, to Aunt Elsie, who has long since departed this earthly life…thank you for your wonderful and deeply thoughtful gift of what it was like to grow up with Mom, your little sister Lil. Your recollections become more treasured with each passing year!

And to Mom…your influence on us kids was more than you could ever have imagined, and we have all come to realize just how terribly irreplaceable you were. We love you and miss you—you left us way too soon…

Chapter 1

Dawn on the River

The predawn sky in Alexandria Bay, New York, in late June of 1960, was inky dark, utterly quiet, and filled with a zillion brightly shimmering dots of distant stars. I had stumbled out of bed in the dark, climbed into my clothes, quietly crept down the creaky wooden stairs, and was barely awake enough to amble out of the house and down to the water's edge.

I shook the chrome Eveready flashlight until it came to life, and steadied my feet while my sneakers constantly slipped on the grassy path, wet with the early morning dew. Once I reached the water, I tugged at the small wooden rowboat that was pulled halfway up on the shore, in an effort to get it freed up and ready to cast off.

I pointed my flashlight into the boat to see if any water needed to be bailed out before I left for Cherry Island, a little less than a mile's row away.

It was dry as a bone, which was always a good thing, for the old ten-foot boat leaked slowly but steadily, in spite of our ongoing efforts to seal the bottom. We had managed to patch it up enough to keep most of the water out, but it was a never-ending struggle and one that warranted keeping an eye on. To that extent, there was always a tin can kicking around the bottom of the boat, should it be needed.

Next, I brought the bait bucket, containing a dozen or so minnows, along with my small rusted green metal tackle box, a seat cushion, and the landing net. I rarely used a net, as I usually threw back any fish that I caught, but the one thing you learn at an early age on the St. Lawrence River is if you think you might need something, bring it.

Before shoving off, I placed my rod and reel up near the bow, safely away from the clumsy feet of a growing eleven-year-old boy.

There wasn't a hint of a breeze that morning. The water was like it usually is in summer just before dawn—dark and perfectly still, like a sheet of glass. I put one leg into the rowboat, and with the other, gave a mighty push that sent me out into open water and free from the shore. I sat down on the cushion, slipped the oars into the oarlocks, and began to row.

The weather was warm enough that the blue-and-green-striped cotton tee shirt that I was wearing was perfectly adequate. It was one of a whole stable of striped tee shirts that I lived in from June 'til September. My mother bought them at Pearls' Department Store on James Street in Alexandria Bay at the beginning of each summer…and that was pretty much us kids' uniform 'til school started again in September. Cotton tee shirts, shorts, dungarees, a bathing suit, and a pair of sneakers rounded out our summer wardrobe.

The early morning air smelled of cattails, muck, and seaweed—slightly enhanced by the faint hint of a nearby dead fish—all combined to form one distinct odor, eau de Otter Creek. Oddly, it was a great smell; one that I can still recall to this day, some sixty years later.

Faint slivers of dark murky orange, the harbinger of dawn, could be seen through the trees on the eastern horizon and were slowly giving way to a slightly lighter hue. I began to row faster, passing the line of old boathouses at Hutchinson's Boat Works, worrying that I might lose this race to be in position by sunrise.

Predawn on the river was usually absent of all sounds