Homefries

"Your dad will tell you why when he gets home from work." And with that she turned back to the sink, and began dealing with another potato.

In our house when something was handed over to my dad to deal with, you knew that you were in really, really big trouble. He usually got home around 4:30, and I can tell you it was the longest hour of my life, which I was willing to bet was about to come to a premature conclusion, once his metallic blue and white '61 Mercury Meteor pulled into the driveway.

So what had I done?

Nothing immediately came to mind, certainly not anything they could have possibly found out about. As I was making plans to either hop on one of the freight trains that occasionally rumbled by on the tracks running behind our house, or set up permanent residence in the tiny crawl space under the basement stairs, where it would be hard for him to extract me, I head the sickening crunch of gravel as his car turned into the driveway.

Glancing at the clock on the kitchen wall, I could see that it was only 4 o'clock, which could mean only one thing - I was in so much trouble, he left work early because he couldn't wait to have at me.

Not having the presence of mind to make a dash for the basement stairs, or the railway tracks, I stood perfectly still in the corner of the kitchen doing my best to be invisible. After greeting my mom, he looked over to where I was standing, quietly observing me with a somewhat quizzical look on his face.

My first thought was that he was probably trying to decide how to dispose of the body.

"Did you tell him?" he asked my mom without taking his eyes off me.

"No, I thought I would let you give him the news." 

Turning his full attention back to me he said, "Your Uncle Sid will be coming by after supper."

Great, he enlisted my uncle to help ensure they didn't leave any incriminating evidence behind.

"And we will be leaving for Gull Lake around 10."

Wow, these guys had it all figured out. Deal with the kid, then head up to Gull Lake, so if anyone wanted to know where I was, my mom could just say that my dad took me fishing. Once back, they could simply tell everyone about the tragic boat accident, and no one would be the wiser. Brilliant.

"So are you just going to stand there, or get a move on and pack up your stuff?"

Packed? Why would I need to pack? Unless of course, I was actually going with them - to fish that is.

Summoning up all of my courage, and uttering what I truly hoped would not be my last words on earth; I managed to croak, "Am I coming along?"

"You sure are. Your mom and I decided that because you have been doing pretty good in school, it probably wouldn't hurt if you missed a couple of days, so we decided to surprise you with a fishing trip."

Leaving aside the fact that their "surprise" almost gave me a heart attack, the sense of utter relief I felt, once I got over the initial shock, was indescribable. This was soon replaced by a feeling of unbridled excitement at the prospect of finally getting my chance to go to the greatest, and most mysterious of all places - Gull Lake.

My dad, together with Uncle Sid and other members of our extended clan, had been going to Gull Lake for as long as I could remember. I would listen with eyes as big as saucers when they got together to tell stories about the fish that were allegedly caught, and the other antics they would get up to while at the lake. The thought of actually being invited to go along was something that never crossed my mind, even in my wildest dreams. 

I was informed we would be leaving at 10 pm on the dot, drive through the night, and with any luck arrive at the lake around 8 or 9 the next morning.

Gull Lake was about 400 kilometers from our home in Welland, Ontario. While it would only be about a five - hour drive today, in the early 60's, four lane "super" highways were few and far between. We would be traveling most of the way on two lane highways, and country roads that ran right down the main street of the majority of the cities, towns and villages along our route, so we were looking at a 10 or 11 hour drive.

We would be driving through places like Northbrook, Ompah, Cloyne, Kaladar, Tweed and Harlow, which to me, never having traveled more than 50 kilometers from home at that point in my life, were every bit as remote and exotic as Shangri-La or Katmandu.

I was soon to realize that adherence to tradition was an absolute requirement when it came to these fishing trips, and one of the most sacred, was leaving home at just the right time in order to make last call at a particular tavern, just outside of Hamilton, Ontario, in order to get one's pump primed for the long journey ahead.

So far everything was going exactly as planned, but when we pulled into the parking lot of the tavern, Uncle Sid informed my dad that he wasn't all that comfortable with leaving me in the car to fend for myself, while they went inside and quickly downed a few cold ones. It was only after my dad assured him that if someone made off with me, I would be returned in short order once they got to know me a little better, that he agreed to go along.

As soon as they disappeared into the tavern, I hopped out and had a quick look around the car, just in case they had hung a sign on it that said, "Kid - Free to A Good Home," or something along those lines.

Hey, you can never be too careful.

They were only gone for about 15 minutes, and now that appropriate homage had been paid to tradition, and their pumps were suitably primed; we pointed Sid's Studebaker north, and headed off into the great unknown.

Sleep was of course out of the question. Although there was not much to see, given that it was the middle of the night, I kept my nose pressed against the window, and just stared at the headlights of the odd car that would zip past us in the adjacent lane, trying my best to imagine what was in store for me over the next three days.

I must have eventually dozed off, because my dad woke me up at some gas station in the middle of nowhere and asked, "You getting hungry?"

" Sure, what time is it?" I mumbled between yawns.

Looking at his watch he said, "Just about 5:30. We should be in Northbrook in about an hour, and we can stop for breakfast there."

"Can I have a hamburger and french fries?" and after a very brief pause, " and maybe a chocolate shake?" 

"For breakfast?" he said with the trace of a smile.

"Ya, well I'm on vacation, right? 

"Well it's up to you, but they may not have burgers and fries this early in the morning."

By the time we pulled into the small gas station/restaurant in Northbrook, I was almost drooling. Burgers, fries and a shake for breakfast - now this was living. I couldn't wait to get home so I could tell my buddies what real men had for breakfast when in the wilds of northern Ontario.

As we walked into the small restaurant, we were greeted by a sea of plaid shirts and baseball style caps, the clatter of dishes and the distinct odors of coffee, stale cigarette smoke and fried bacon. Although all of the tables were full, a waitress, who was standing behind the lunch counter, waved us over.

"There are 3 empty stools here at the counter, unless you want to wait for a table."

Before my dad or Uncle Sid could reply I chirped,

"Lets sit at the bar!"

Without bothering to explain that it wasn't really a bar, we each grabbed a stool and they began looking over the menus that were tucked in behind the shiny stainless steel condiment and napkin holder "corals," that were evenly spaced along the top of red linoleum counter. I didn't even bother glancing at mine, knowing full well what I was going to have.

"Would you boys like to start with some coffee?"

Thinking she meant to include me in her kind offer, I immediately piped up,

"No thanks, I would like a chocolate milk shake please. 

"For breakfast?" she replied, no doubt wondering what rock they had found me under.

My dad just laughed and gave a bit of a shrug, "Fine by me."

A few minutes later, she was back with a tall fountain glass filled with a thick, cold chocolate shake, and after the first sip, I knew that I had just died and gone to heaven.

"Ready to order guys?" she asked, while poised to scribble down our orders on her little yellow and green pad, with a pen she had somehow managed to extract from the nest of red hair that formed a high mound on the top of her head.

Both my dad and uncle ordered bacon and eggs, and the waitress then asked if they wanted homefries. 

Homefries? What the hell was a home fry? No matter, I wasn't having any weird back woods vittles - I was having french fries. Next thing you know, they might try and serve me up a possum burger. 

Turning her attention to me, she asked, with a somewhat bemused look on her face,

"I suppose you would like a burger to go along with that shake?"

Being far too young and inexperienced to recognize when my chain was being yanked, I immediately replied,

"Yes please, and a big order of french fries too" 

A bit taken aback with my rather quick and decisive answer, and while casting a side- long glance at my dad and uncle - probably hoping they would wrap some tape around my mouth - she delivered the fatal blow, 

"Sorry kid, I can do the burger for you, but we don't have any french fries - just homefries - how about some of those?" 

She must have immediately caught the look of shock and horror on my face, because she was quick to say,

"They're really good, why don't you give them a try?"

I looked over at my dad, hoping he would pinch me and I would wake up from what must be a bad dream, but he just shrugged,

"Try them, they're fried potatoes, almost like a french fry." 

Nice try I thought, and without looking up muttered,

"No thanks, just the burger please," hoping against hope that it was not made out of squirrel, or some other furry woodland creature. 

I was too depressed to remember what the burger actually tasted like - it could have been raccoon flavored for all I knew - and while walking back to the car, it suddenly dawned on me that I had now crossed over into some kind of northern Ontario twilight zone, and knew exactly what Dorothy meant when she said:

"Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas any more." 

(The above illustrations are courtesy of non other than JB himself)