the matter settled, menu planning resumed among the women. Jim began a discussion among the boys about other activities to be undertaken at the party, including, he proposed, a game of baseball.
* * *
We were all delighted on the day of the leaving party, when two hours prior to our designated departure time, Aunt Lil arrived at our house, her carpet bag in hand. She looked far less deranged than the last time we had seen her, the green of her long-sleeved wool jacket complimenting her ankle-length green serge skirt. Her red hair, though quite visible, was loosely caught up in a tall felt hat.
She was delighted to be conveyed to Snell’s Lake in the McKechnies’ horse-drawn, low-down democrat. She flatly refused all suggestions that she change her attire into something cooler. It was nearly eighty degrees, and it was not yet noon. She declared her ensemble to constitute her picnic clothes. A suggestion that I carry her carpet bag upstairs into the room in which she would spend the night was similarly rebuffed. She would not put me to the trouble. I silently groaned. I could not help but think of the last time she had taken that bag to a social outing. While she and the rest of my family socialized with others, I was required to stay in one place and watch it.
Aunt Lil and I were the first of our party to arrive at the lake and its popular picnic area. Blankets of various colours dotted the ground before us. A large party was gathering just to the right of the entrance area. The signs posted indicated it was the summer picnic of St. Mary’s Church. One of the signs listed the games to be played by the parishioners. In addition to the usual dashes (segregated by distance, age, and sex), wheelbarrow races, broad jump contests, and swimming races, there was a fat men’s race, a married men’s race, a needle threading contest, and a contest to catch a pig.
Aunt Lil and I found a spot we considered to be ideal. It was large enough to accommodate our party, close enough to the lake to view the swimming members of our family, and not too far from the parking area to carry the burgeoning picnic baskets once they arrived. Aunt Lil and I laid out the three blankets with which we had been entrusted and waited for the remaining members of our family.
The car driven by Uncle William was the next to arrive. Aunt Lil and I waved him, Roy, Bill, and Ina to the area we had reserved, excited about what we considered to be its ideal location. Ina, unfortunately, thought otherwise. It was too close to the blankets of other families. It did not have the right vantage point over the park. The ground below the blankets was too lumpy.
“Look at that stand of trees over there,” she said, pointing to a spot quite some distance away. “Look how even the terrain appears there. We’ll have some privacy. Father will be able to make a speech. You know how he likes to do that. The swimmers can easily walk back to the lake after we eat.”
“Over there?” I exclaimed. “It’s half a mile away. You can’t expect the boys to carry the picnic baskets all the way over there.”
This statement had all the markings of a challenge to Roy and Bill. They liked the look of the distant location. A baseball diamond could easily be created next to it. They committed to carry the heavy baskets. Ina pulled up the three blankets, and we walked to the more distant location, eventually being joined by the rest of our party.
With so much space around us, we were able to assemble the blankets in a long line before spreading a length of white linen across them and laying out the china and silver. As we ate cold duck slices with orange sauce, sausages wrapped in pastry, potato salad with watercress and bacon, a salad of carrots and raisins, another salad of green beans and pimento, and a selection of three cheeses, our conversation occurred much as it would have had we eaten at home.
“You’ll never guess who I saw today,” Uncle William said excitedly. We knew he had spent the morning with Richard Blain.
“Old Andrew Foster.” We looked at him blankly. “You remember him. He was born in Brampton. Left it when he was quite young, I’ll admit. But Charlotte, you’ve heard me speak of him, and Roy, you’ve met him a few times. He manages the movement of supplies for the CPR—the supplies the railway needs and the transport of difficult customer supplies.” Neither Roy nor Aunt Charlotte displayed any signs of recognition. He continued. “He gets grain from more distant grain elevators; gets it to more difficult ports. He organizes special routes and processes when the usual ones won’t do. He’s quite clever.”
Roy nodded. He had no recollection of the man. As few of us could quite fathom the difficulty of his position and none of us could fathom the name or the face, no one had a response worthy of the excitement of Uncle William’s declaration. Finally, Aunt Charlotte asked Uncle William where he had seen Andrew Foster.
“Here in Brampton! He lives in Toronto but has family here. Wanted to see them before he heads off to Valcartier.”
“Valcartier!” Roy said, the conversation now taking what he considered to be an interesting turn. “Is he enlisting? Isn’t he a little old? I gathered he was your age.”
“Thank you for that,” Uncle William said. “Yes, he is enlisting, but not as a general recruit. He is going to be assuming a leadership role in a special division called the Canadian Army Supply Corps, or the CASC. His detachment within it is called the Railway Supply Detachment.” John and Jim, who both loved trains, now became interested as well. “The division will be responsible for the movement of materials–guns, food, bandages, lumber, everything required—and to the movement of men from Canada all the way to the battle lines. It will also be responsible for the movement of men back again from those lines, including injured men. He needs smart men to join the corps—men who understand how to move materials and people.”
“Ah,” said Roy. “Now I understand why such an old man is enlisting. I couldn’t picture him in a combat role.”
Uncle William ignored that, knowing that of course there would be many older men serving in senior combat roles. “Roy that is exactly what you have been doing with grain in the past two years working part-time with me. I wonder if you shouldn’t think of joining the division. Mr. Foster will be at Valcartier for the next month. You should meet with him there!”
The statement had an equal and opposite effect on two people at our picnic. Thinking that such a position would better keep Roy out of harm’s way, Aunt Charlotte was quick to encourage him to consider the opportunity. For that exact same reason, Roy refused.
“Sounds like a desk job to me,” he said. “No thank you. They need brave men on the battle lines; men willing to hold and shoot a gun. That’s where you’ll find me.”
Aunt Charlotte’s shoulders slumped a little. But only a little. She was not surprised Roy would take that position. When she heard what came next, she realized it likely did not matter. The positions were equally dangerous.
“A desk job? Well, I suppose, but the desk may well be at the battle lines—or very near them. Some of their work will be done in England, but much of the supply management will occur near the men in combat. The members of the corps carry a gun; they receive full combat training. Think about it. At the very least, meet with Mr. Foster when you get to Valcartier.”
Of all those in attendance, the only one who seemed not to be following the conversation about the movement of war supplies and men was Ina. She had not uttered a single sentence during the entire meal. Her attention seemed focussed on something closer to our original picnic location. Jim noticed it too.
“Ina,” he said as the women began to scrape the picnic dishes. “Go see if any of the McKechnies want to join our baseball game. We could use a few more players.” Ina hesitated but then agreed. By the time she returned, ten minutes later, Jim and Roy had established the
