Yesterday Once More

Last night I dreamed I walked through Atherley again. I seemed to be about nine years old, just leaving the little red brick schoolhouse that was SS Number 5, Mara, making the leisurely walk home at the end of the day with no deadlines, and no bell to say,  "You're late" like in the morning. Off to my left I could see the hill where we tobogganed in the winter and on the other side, the fields that sometimes flooded and froze so we could skate. As I passed Pete’s gas station, I thought that Atherley might have been called a village of brothers. Here the Bowers brothers, Pete and Bob, ran their service station and variety store.

The road I walked was called "the cut", which at that time was a recently built paved road cut across the farmlands to shorten the earlier route which went from the highway, over Morrison's Hill to the 11th concession (now Courtland Street and Balsam Road). The cut was a lonely stretch with few houses in sight till I approached the Atherley Arms where I prudently crossed over to the far side to avoid whatever might spill out of there.

Just beyond the hotel, I passed the BA service station where the Morris brothers, Pat and Mike, not only sold gas but also had a small hexagonal kiosk where they sold ice cream and other treats.

Next on my right was the roadway leading off to the railway and the charming tiny station known as "Atherley Junction". One of my childhood wishes was to some day have a ride on The Peanut which was a little two-car train,( hence the name), that journeyed  back and forth between Orillia and Atherley several times a day. Perhaps it went further, maybe to Longford or Washago or even down to Brechin. I never knew. I just wanted to get on the Peanut and cross the Narrows on the railroad bridge and into town.   It never happened.

I walked on toward the bridge, passing an unusual house built just at the eastern end of the bridge. It seemed like a normal house with the usual rooms but underneath, where the basement should be, was a boathouse with slips where the boats could come right in under the house.

The bridge was always a place of fascination and apprehension. I longed to be one of the brave kids who ran up and over the concrete arches that separated the road from the sidewalk.  I crossed the bridge in fear and trembling, always walking at the very centre of the sidewalk, totally convinced that one day a section of the metal grillwork would rust away and I’d fall into the dangerous current of the Narrows. I was even fearful of one day being in the wrong spot and hearing the bell, like the alarm clock of a giant, warning all oncoming traffic that a boat was approaching. I was never one of the cocky ones who stayed on the moving part of the bridge as that piercing bell kept ringing and the gates came gracefully down, and all the cars stopped. Then a fierce grinding sound would start and the centre section of the bridge would rise a few inches and swing slowly to the left, opening a passage for the boat to pass through. It might be a solitary sailboat or a flotilla of boats or even one of the sleek Fairmiles boats that were built and launched in Orillia and sent off through the Narrows to carry out their wartime duties.

Once the boats were on their way, the bridge swung majestically back and the growling sound started again as the bridge settled back into its place in line with the highway.

The gates went up and the bell stopped its incessant ringing. The cars moved off on their way with drivers no doubt fuming and fretting at the delay. But watercraft have the right of way.

On the town side of the bridge I passed a number of stately old red brick houses bearing wide, shady verandahs and names of historical significance like Gill, Gaudaur and Whitney.

Here there is another pair of brothers, the Harris boys. Mansell runs the boat livery and he’s the one you see running to the railway to open and close the railroad bridge when the main bridge opens.  His brother Ozzie runs the little two-pump Esso station and inside his tiny shop, has a small grill where he cooks hot dogs (5 cents) and sells Coke in its distinctive, flaring-skirted bottle, also 5 cents! Best of all are the generous ice cream cones Ozzie serves at the same price. Was it only my imagination or did they always seem to taste vaguely of the gas he had just pumped or the oily rag he used to check a dipstick?

In my dream I keep walking past my own little white house next to Ozzie’s and on towards town. I pass the mysterious wooded cloisters of Invermara, hoping to catch a glimpse of the nuns in their black habits.

Further on there is another mysterious secluded area with a sign that says “The Hermitage”.  Does a hermit really live there?   Not far away is the home of Stephen Leacock. Could the Hermit be Mr. Leacock?   A child’s mind wonders.

My dream fades, as dreams do….

Today I drove through Atherley again. There are houses everywhere! The schoolhouse is no longer a school, but now a place of worship. Pete’s gas station has disappeared. The toboggan hill is now a paved road with houses mushrooming alongside. The skating fields are now  “Approved for Development”.  The cut is no longer a lonely stretch of road. It is now a busy highway with traffic lights and signs beckoning all comers to visit the Casino. The Atherley Arms looks much the same except for some rather lurid pictures painted on the windows, a neon sign that has been vandalized and another, smaller sign with “Atherly” misspelled.

Across the road is the busiest place in sight --- one of Orillia’s many Tim’s.  With parking lots full and drive-thru full, the cars are lined up around the corner causing traffic congestion and driver indigestion as the swing bridge never did on its busiest day.

Pat and Mike’s kiosk is long gone, as is the train station and even the swing bridge with its little boathouse house. Today’s bridge is high and wide with no more arches to tempt brave youngsters, with a solid concrete wall to keep you safe from falling into the water but nothing at all to protect you from the cars whizzing past.

The red brick homes have vanished and been replaced with a row of businesses with names of commercial significance like Subway and Hock Shop. Even our little white house has been replaced by one of the Self- Serve Pay-with-a-Wave-of Plastic gas pumps.

Nothing remains of the wooded seclusion of Invermara. There is no forest at the end of Forest Avenue, no hint of hermit dwelling there. The once private estate of the reclusive gentleman author is now a public tourist attraction. The place I visited in my dream has vanished as with the turn of a kaleidoscope. What was once Leacock’s little Sunshine Town of Mariposa has burgeoned and moved eastward, changing the landscape and altering everything in its path like a glacier that has shifted into high gear.