Frederick & The Middle

I began this blog out of the greatest respect of those who have gone before me, and out of a sincere desire to pass on their memories to my children and theirs.  None of us are here through our own design.  We simply need to look around to realize that people lived and died, stayed and traversed, and loved and loathed for unbeknown reasons, which resulted in us being where we are today.

Many times I have sat under the stars and gazed at the large sky, all too aware of the many connections of lives and incidents outside our control that order our world.  Yet in this vastness, we are simply and also profoundly the link which connects the past, to that what is to come.  We are in the middle of something that is fluid with those coming and with those going.  We all transitioning.  Yet it’s that awareness that makes me want my children to know and appreciate their heritage.

More than ever I am aware of the middle and of how fluid it really is.  With sadness I watch my father Walter slip away into absentmindedness and uncertainty as Alzheimers Disease erodes his identity.  At times there are glimpses of him, yet for the most part it’s memories of a good man who wanted more than his body would allow.

On the other hand I celebrate the great joy of becoming a grandfather to Frederick John Best born just days ago.  He is untainted potential, naïve hope, and unqualified love wrapped up like a burrito belonging to our son Joshua and his wife April.  He may be tall, he could have red hair, or he might be a fireman … who knows?  There’s just so much to look forward to and everyone is so happy.

In a few weeks my father and our patriarch will meet his great grandson for the first time.  Likely neither of them will remember the occasion.  Smiling faces and laughter, and the odd remark of where Frederick gets his good looks will be enjoyed.  However it will be those of us who are passing through the middle that will connect the Walters and the Fredericks.  It is our job to tell these stories, and someday it will be Frederick’s.

The Violet Matilda Harvey - Church Connection

Violet Matilda Harvey is the eldest child of Joseph Charles Harvey and Anna Maria Bates, and the first naturalized Canadian in the Harvey family.  She was born in Dummer Township and moved about 1870 to the first Joseph Harvey homestead on Coon Lake Rd., in Burleigh Township of Peterborough County.

Violet would go on to survive the deaths of her next seven siblings who are all buried in Burleigh.  The sibling gap would extend to Geoffrey who would be the first of a group of six Harvey boys (Ernest, Vivian, Bernal, Eric, & William) to rough it in the woods.

Nineteen years after moving to Burleigh and not far up the road towards Apsley, Violet would marry Allen Church from Mount Julian, a small settlement on the north shore of Stoney Lake.  It is likely they had known each other since childhood.  They would raise their family in the Mount Julian area.

Violet Matilda Harvey

Born on October 9 1866, in Dummer Township, Peterborough Co, ON CAN, and died June 29 1940, Burleigh Township, Peterborough Co, ON CAN.  She is buried in Lakefield Cemetery, Smith Township, Peterborough Co., ON CAN.

Married on September 11, 1889 in Lakefield, Peterborough Co., ON CAN

Allen Homer Church

Born on February 14, 1866, and died on November 1,1950 in Mount Julian, Burleigh Township, Peterborough Co., ON CAN.  He is buried in Lakefield Cemetery, Smith Township, Peterborough Co., ON CAN.

010104-89 Allen Homer CHURCH, 34, farmer, Canada, Burleigh Tp., s/o Oliver & Maturah, married Violet Matilda HARVEY, 22, Canada, Burleigh Tp., d/o Joseph & Maria, witn: George COCKBURN & Ada WARREN both of Lakefield on Sept. 11, 1889 at Lakefield*

*http://homepages.rootsweb.ancestry.com/

Her Father & Mother:

Joseph Charles Harvey (1845 – 1920) & Anna Maria Bates (1848 – 1900)

Their Children:

Oliver Harvey Church (December 12, 1891 – April 11, 1966) 

·      Married Hazel May Walsh (1892 – June 24, 1949) on March 1, 1916 in Burleigh Township, Peterborough Co., ON CAN

Oscar Fuller Church (May 27, 1893 – May 10, 1962)

·      Married Nellie Newell (1893 – ?) on October 13, 1907 in Muskoka District, ON CAN

·      WW1 Veteran – April 21, 1917

·      Children:  Donald Francis Church (1917 – 2000)

Kenneth Joseph Church (May 14, 1895 – June 18, 1970)

·      Married Julia Louisa Wilson (February 22, 1900 – March 24, 1959) on January 2, 1918 in Burleigh Township, Peterborough Co., ON CAN

·      WW1 Veteran – January 7, 1918

Frank Israel Church (May 17, 1897 – October 9, 1930)

·      WW1 Veteran – June 15, 1918

Emiley Amelia Church (April 1, 1899 – 1990)

·      Married Victor Shewen (1892 – 1932) on May 9, 1916 in Lakefield, Peterborough Co., ON CAN

·      Her grandmother Emiley Amelia Harvey’s namesake

William Alexander Church (January 15, 1901 - December 11, 1970) 

·      Married Ella Brown (1895 - October 28, 1977) on December 12, 1928 in Picton, Prince Edward Co., ON CAN

Dolly Maria Matura Church (November 1, 1902 – March 28, 1993, USA)

·      Married Charles R Lindsay (March 6, 1907 – January 12, 1947) on December 2, 1937 in Rochester, Monroe Co., NY, USA

Matilda Church (September 1905 – ?) 

Davie Best

My Grandpa Davie was a funny man and my Grandma Alice was a intimidating soul. They were very much opposites and made every effort to make that known to others. He the Scottish tease and she the British stiff upper lip.

Seeing them once a week or once every other week really didn't lend to knowing them in the way I knew my grandma Lloyd (Mum), yet I was intrigued by them just the same. While the both of them had immigrated to Canada at a young age, they both continued to carry the distinctions of the old country. The accents, phrases, and foods were just some of the obvious things that I found unusual as a boy. I can remember many times kindly laughing at jokes, when I never really understood a word that was said.

My first memories of visiting my Best grandparents are when they lived a the Peterborough Armoury. It was a formidable building that stood in the city centre, surrounded by rod iron fencing, with turrets on each corner.  My grandpa was the janitor and had probably got the job through the Canadian Legion because he was a WWII vet.

Upon arriving at the Armoury we would approach the grand wooden gates that were tightly shut, and give a solid rap. It was a faint sound in view of the ominous doors. From a boys point of view they were gates that led to the mystery and might of the Hastings and Prince Edward County Regiment.  A regiment distinguished for having earned the largest number of battle honours during the Second World War.  Soon we would hear the clanging of metal as my grandpa slid the many dead bolts from one side to the other.  A man size door fitted within the grand wooden gates would swing open, with a beckoning from a wee Scottish man to come in.  I would have to be lifted over the sill of the door just to get inside.

We would follow my grandpa to their apartment in the upper southeast turret.  The wooden stairs turned their way upward with creaks and groans.  I was always careful to never look into the eyes of the mounted moose head that hung imposingly on the landing halfway up the stairs.  That moose head always freaked me out.  I was never so glad than to reach the top and find ourselves safe and secure in their dingy, smelly old apartment. Once inside I would muse myself with a metal castle and soldiers that awaited me in the corner of their living room.

I could always recognize my grandparents home by the smell, no matter where they live.  It was the combined effort of cigarette smoke, stinky feat, beer and french fry grease.  Together they created an aroma that permeated your nostrils and clothes for days.  Now I understand why we had a bath every Saturday after visiting the Armoury.

My grandpa loved to talk about soccer in the UK and football in Canada.  I would often sit at his feet watching these games on the tv. Considering the smell of his socks it was probably the last place I should have been sitting.  He was the first I knew to own a colour tv which made those afternoons even more special. 


Grandma on the other didn't take kindly to watching football.  She thought it odd for grown men to wear tight pants, bend over and hold hands in huddles, and slap each other on the butt.  I think I have described it mildly compared to how she would have said it.

I was his only grandson so he somewhat doted on me.  When I got older I would wash his car or cut his grass and he would pay me handsomely (even though he was a Scot) along with some sweet or trinket he had in his pocket.  Grandma would make us lunch, and it was usually sandwiches and homemade chips.  The sandwiches were the best because they were usually something I never got at home.  Bologna or spam on white bread, and spin wheel sandwiches that had pickles in the middle alongside a Coke.  Lunch was never dull.

If you have seen the comic strip Andy Capp, you will have seen my grandpa. He was a short man, often wearing a Scottish tam with a cigarette hanging out of the side of his mouth, while walking with a distinct limp. He had been injured during the war when he crashed his jeep.  Pins were permanently placed in his knee never allowing him to bend it.  He never complained about it, and it seemed to win him favor in many places.

For five years and at every Adam Scott CVI home game, my grandpa Davie could be seen pacing the sidelines when I played football.  It was not hard to recognize his limp and drooping cigarette.  Every so often he would mutter a few words in his Scottish brogue that no one ever understood, yet I knew in his own sweet way he was urging me on.

Grandpa was proud to be a Scot and a Canadian.  While his roots were in the old country his family and his future were in the new.  I fondly remember nudging our way forward to the front of the sidewalk, to watch the Santa Claus' parade one cold afternoon.  Grandpa could never see the Santa from the back.

The parade was exciting, and you would think that Santa would be the most anticipated attraction, yet not for Grandpa.  I found that out when he began to whistle and sidestep to the sound of the oncoming bagpipes.  The kilts, pipes and drums took him to another place and he wanted all us to go there with him.  The drums gladly kept time, and the sound of marching boots on pavement thrilled the crowd.

Grandpa looked down and muttered at me, "Oohhh aye lad, do ya hear it? It's the pipes!  For a moment the old country had merged with the new, and Davie Best's grandson was there to enjoy it with him.  He was proud that we could have that moment together, it was the very best that he could give to the future Best.  While my grandpa had little to give forward, he in other ways had given everything he had so that his family might have a home in beautiful Peterborough County, and in this great country called Canada.