My Heritage

My Heritage by Penny Eddy

Since 1907, my family has ventured southeast down the St. George Peninsula. I recall many stories about the adventurous lives we led at the old homestead.

As I travel down the peninsula, it's a sharp clear day in June and the afternoon sun is warm on my face. In the distance the Camden Hills edge the sky, serving as beacons where the mountains meet the sea. I cross the bumpy railroad tracks and I know it won't be long before I will be back home.

Upon entering a small coastal village with only a post office and a general store, the road begins to wind. I pause for a moment to listen to the waves slapping against the hulls of anchored fishing boats in the harbor, which are swaying from the movement of the tide. A group of seagulls are flying overhead in hopes that they might scavenge a morsel to eat. My thoughts of being home are captured by the tranquility of this quaint village.

As I continue my journey towards my family homestead, my excitement grows--I can hardly wait. There is my heritage, a home my grandfather had bought a century ago. I drive into the yard, the grass is overgrown, and the weeds are in abundance. The windows are boarded up for protection as the house has been left unattended for the long cold winter months. It won't be long now before the summer home will once again be filled with joy and laughter--it will be rejuvenated. The time has come to open up this old place, banish the musty smells in exchange for the delightful perfume of the lilacs which are now in bloom.

As I look around, the memories are still vivid in my mind. Every summer I have been drawn back to this special place. It is different, not like anything else I remember.

Back when I was young, there was no electricity, so kerosene lamps were needed to illuminate the night. When nature called, it was a quick trip to the out house which was located at the back of the barn. If water was needed, it was a walk to the well a few hundred feet away.

This is one memory I recall; tying the rope to the old rusty bucket handle and lowering it into the water. Once the pail filled, I pulled it up very, very slowly, hoping by the time I had the bucket once again--there would be enough water to carry back to the house. I remember so vividly lugging buckets of water as it splashed all over me and how ice cold, damp and clammy I felt. If I did not remain steady, my sneakers would fill with water as I walked along. To this day I remember very clearly the squeaky sound my shoes made as the the ice cold water sloshed about. Finally the old house would come into view. Once I reached the porch, I felt relieved but also most fortunate if the pail I was carrying was half full.

Today this would seem like a hardship, fetching water from the well. However, when you are young and energetic--everything you do is an adventure.