On to Huntsville, Ont.

For sale in Sudbury, an old 9 panel ambassador, $ 6990 canadian dollars

The execution of assigned tasks is essential to establish "esprit de corps", which in the jargon of the modern day Marine, absent any profanity, translates to ' your turn, soldier'. So in the pre-dawn darkness you rise earlier than usual not because you must, but because you want to.

Lynn and I, along with four others, left Sudbury early as the PARKERS, much better described as the advance team. Our responsibility is to arrive at the destination early, set up camp in Huntsville, have a leisurely lunch, and then await the dribblers, the tardy, the easily distracted, to direct them to their designated areas. This liberation from routine is intoxicating, as if you've lost weight, gotten new bifocals, or found the last Hershey bar in the back of the freezer. The excitement of the trailer parade backed up as far as the highway off-ramp, clogging traffic, eagerly awaiting your instructions, and you, resplendent in fluorescent orange wal-mart vest are the authority. Oh, the power.

Pictured, L-R: Ernest Till, former commanding officer of a polaris submarine; Tucker Yee, doctorate in biochemical research; Lynn; and an old druggist; CB radios on the right, clipboards on the left, have the situation in control.

Huntsville, Ont., is Canadian quaint. It could be an Indiana county seat in the 60s, handsome main street, outdoor entertainment, town hall, and sidewalks drooling with natives desperately in need of a style makeover. The morning was spent interviewing local residents, enjoying their peculiar Canadian sense of humor, which is best not to describe as dry, but rather, parched. It helps to be thirsty.

Now for the boring part (use of your fast forward command is strongly recommended), I took a trip back in time in the afternoon. In 1947, this writer at age seven and his dirt-poor family vacationed in the nearby beautiful Lake of Bays at the cottage of our great uncle and aunt, George and Helen Jones. Citizens of Hamilton, Ont., elderly, retired, and childless, they were the precursors to George and Florence Jefferson, movin' on up, to the east side. Summers here, winters in Havana, they truly had a piece of the rock. Old uncle George had a larcenous streak and on each trip would always smuggle cigars and pipe tobacco under the front seat of his Lincoln and into the empire...untaxed.

East of Baysville, on the south side of the lake, and after only a single wrong turn, we located the cabin, now called Braeside, occupied for the last forty years by a charming family, the Connells of Victoria, BC. The visit with Liz and her two sons (l-r, Brendan, Ryland, Liz, and Lynn) was delightful, exchanging family histories and memories. 58 years had done little to change the interior of the cabin or my mind, the enclosed breakfast porch, the porcupine scavenging for a free meal, the rock lined path to the pier, or the royal blue of the water. The warmth of the Connells' greeting, the boys the same age as my brother and I were then, the diaphanous haze of a cherished childhood memory, all too abruptly became an emotional sledgehammer. It was necessary to leave soon, to hide the quiet cascade of tears that followed.

Dr. C.