I had been forewarned that the northern Ontario village where I grew up was now deserted and devoid of much life. No matter, when the possibility of seeing it presented itself, I wanted to go. A drought in north western Ontario led to a need for hay to be delivered to farms in the area, and I joined my husband on the truck runs to deliver it. On one of our trips, we took an extra day to make the trek into my childhood home of Savant Lake.
We had met up with old friends from Savant Lake (who now live in Saugeen) the evening before, and we all had the good pleasure of reconnecting and catching up. Hearing of our plans to visit Savant, they suggested we park our rig uptown by the motel. The next morning we drove through Souix Lookout and on to Savant Lake, a bald eagle flying ahead of us for a short stretch. After parking at the Four Winds, I went inside and chatted briefly with the proprietress of the place before we began our wander through town.
The two-room school where I got my primary education has been repurposed, but it still stands, surrounded by bush and the bedrock we would climb at recess. Memories of hockey tournaments, art projects, “Watership Down” being read aloud by a teacher, long math problems to be solved on the blackboard, puppy loves, Christmas concerts, and ordinariness of childhood as I knew it were attached to that building. While being a little Mennonite girl occasionally meant I was an easy target for the antics of intimidation, as a whole I liked school with its learning, sports, and peer interactions.
We headed back uptown and made our way across the railroad tracks to the side of town where I grew up. The tracks themselves were a defining feature of this small place. The trains that came through were long and frequent, and if there was a train parked blocking our way across when we needed to get to school, out of necessity we climbed underneath it (this was eventually forbidden by the school). We flattened coins under those churning wheels and stood down the railway track bank as the trains roared past, jumping the strips of sun that lit the ground between the shadows of the train cars. There were also accidents that happened with people being hit by the train. That put a bit of tantalizing fear into us.
It was the Monday of Labour Day weekend so maybe that contributed to the eerie quiet of the place. It really felt like a ghost town. Train station – gone. Post office – gone. Water tower by the tracks – gone. The house where we met for church gatherings – gone. Gramma Skunk’s house – gone. But then there was the old car that had been there when we were kids, still sitting exactly where it always had been in the overgrowth across the way from my house. And the house that was our home still stands and provides a home to an old class mate of mine. He was outside when we came by, and he and Fred struck up conversation while I held the thread of the past in one hand and twined it with the thread of the present in the other. I didn’t go inside, but I saw the dark shape of someone at the kitchen window, and there was a certain comfort in knowing that this house was home to someone still. I didn’t take to the bush trails that were by the house or go see the giant rock that was the size of a small cabin that sat in the bush behind the house. This house was a bustle of activity when our family made its home there. With six of us kids in the family, there was always something on the go – clubs with other kids, after supper games of kick-the-can, fort-building, and endless meals to prepare. Mom’s homemade loaves of bread resting on the silver-flecked, pink arborite counter was a mainstay of those years. It was also a way station of sorts with local people coming by to talk to Mom or Dad and visitors passing through needing a meal or a place to stay. At other times, it was a safe haven on the occasion when someone needed shelter.
Gramma Skunk. I just found out recently that her first name was Mariah which is also the name of one of our daughters. A happy coincidence.
Our ambling exploration took us back to the lake that was close to my childhood home. The road back to it went by one of the houses that Dad built while we lived in Savant. Another one he built was gone, burned to the ground, a sign of changing and troubled times. The lake itself was unchanged, serene and seemingly patient with the passage of time. There was a small beach where kids would swim, but we weren’t allowed to “mixed-swim” so we would go to the more isolated “second beach” and have our fun there. In the winter, the lake would freeze and we would snowshoe across it. I remember the rim of the hole that was chopped with an axe through the ice close to the shoreline. Water was hauled to our homes in the back of Edward’s green pickup truck. I remember – more from family lore than actual memory – the little critters that were floating in this water that was boiled in a “bilah” (large, oval-shaped metal container for the top of a stove) before it was used.
Fred and I walked back up the road through the bush, past my old house, and slowly make our way back to the truck. As we walked, I had this sensation of looking in on my child self. I felt a tenderness for her. I felt a tenderness for this ghost town that she knew as home. While some sadness mingled with that tenderness, I also felt deep gratitude for richness of my childhood years. The buildings and structures were dilapidated or gone, but the lakes, rocks, and boreal forests that were my playground remained. Those first friendships were strong and true and continuous. We are all shaped by our childhoods. Having the privilege of being with my friends of old and physically being in the place that was so defining for me was a balm to my soul. I had a feeling of having come full-circle in a way that didn’t have me going in circles.
The house that was our home. 
The old car that we played in as kids.
In the weeks following our truck runs to northern Ontario, I was reflecting on our visit to Savant Lake and a metaphor of my journey in spirituality began to emerge. My upbringing was steeped in faith. There was no compartmentalizing of this belief system – it permeated everyday life (which I see as a good thing). I made my home in my childhood faith and it informed and shaped my approach to life when I entered adulthood. I was all in and earnest about “doing it right”. As I came into middle-age, I think that very earnestness eventually led to an unravelling or a repurposing to some of the beliefs I had held to closely. Someone once noted that the Christian faith encourages a continued child’s stance which can lead to an acceptance of beliefs and traditions that may actually need continued grow, reworking, and teasing out. A simple, child-like approach to faith can be refreshing when it is full-bodied and inclusive. But can that encouragement to remain child-like in our faith also cause us to become fossilized in the very tenets that were to nudge us into something deeper? I have experienced a robustness in this childhood faith that was given to me that has not only allowed but has enabled me to feel lost again. Lost in the way that Rick Steves’ travel guide encourages getting lost when you’re a tourist in Venice so that you get off the beaten path and see the out-of-the-way places. For me, this is not so much about going forwards or backwards but about integrating and enlarging my journey in the things of faith. At the moment, it even feels more simple.
Like my childhood home, so my childhood faith has become a bit of a ghost town. Some of the structures are gone and I can’t find a pulse in some of the practices I used to rely on. While this has been destabilizing (much like the move from Savant Lake to Waterloo county was for me as a young teen) and left me feeling unmoored, at the same time there is a sense of roots pushing deeper. It is slow and quiet. I was asked recently if I’m in a drought, but it doesn’t feel that way at all. Dormant maybe. Like the ancient and gnarled lilac bush outside my window, bared of its leaves and blooms in this deepening darkness. Could this too be something of Advent?
The church building where my friend got married. 
One of the houses built by my Dad. 
South Lake near our home. 
I had forgotten about this rock that I would walk past on my way to the store. Seeing it as it always was, felt like a touchstone.
Phyllis says:
Thank you for taking us along on this beautifully-described stroll down the paths of your memory as you “held the thread of the past in one hand and twined it with the thread of the present in the other”……..profound! I marvel at your depth of insight into your own emotional and spiritual journeys, and feel privileged that you would share them with us.
Mary Horst`` says:
I enjoyed this post very much. I’d been to your house at Savant Lake but not very often. Interestingly enough I remember meeting Grandma Skunk one time. Her rather different name sort of stood out I guess. She looks young in the picture you posted. All very interesting in your post. I think I remember when you were born.
Judy says:
Hi Mary, my apologies for this tardy response! That is so interesting that you remember meeting Gramma Skunk. I don’t know how old she would have been in the photo. Yes, you would have lots of memories from the north. I was born in ’65 before we moved north, but my younger sister was born while we lived at Savant. Thanks for reading, and I hope you’re doing well.