Letter to Elizabeth Eastaugh

Dear Elizabeth:

When we first met, times were different. The Korean war was a recent memory.

The Ahmek waterfront featured the Pirate Ship and a fleet of magnificent Ackroyd dinghies. The power squadron included such notables as Marmilwood, Scat, Scoot, Zaragozanza, Bathtub, Pollywog and Imp. Stan Murdoch kept everything afloat - and wasn't shy about saying so.

Ghent Carroll was at the financial helm. Chubbie's Island was actually occupied by Chubbie. And, the Chief had recently left on his journey eternal.

The connection of Miss or Mrs. to a woman's name was not a political statement. A wazoo referred to a musical instrument.

In those sainted times, writing a letter to a married woman - when she wasn't married to you - was risque. Reading that letter in front of her husband - and your own wife - was likely to give scandal. But, a letter there will be. A letter about yesterday. And, also about today.

Years ago, I would not have dreamt of telling you what I thought the first time I saw you and Jack together. The truth is, I was troubled. I couldn't understand how such a beautiful woman could wind up with Jack - unless you prefer the Grey Owl type.

Elizabeth, I don't know when my first impression of Jack was formed. But, I remember why I formed it. By the late 50's, Jack was Camp Program Director. He spoke to the Camp daily - after meals - correcting us all on this and that. Jack's speaking style back then was - well - annoying: annoying style; annoying content. If the medium was the massage, Jack was definitely acupuncture.

My impression of your Jack was transformed in August, 1961. Courtesy of Ghent Carroll, I was a just arrived, one month counsellor. Canoe trip time was a day or two after arrival at Camp. I was expecting to be assigned one CIT - maybe two. Then, fate arrived.

Fate first sent a skinny kid from Montreal named Shapiro to be my CIT. Well, life is like that. Then, fate sent me a second - good news/bad news - message. A second CIT was mine. The bad news it was some guy named Jack. "Jack who?", I asked. Yup! Him.

Elizabeth, at that moment, I really appreciated your sense of sharing. And, Dr. Tay's sense of humour.

When I told my cabin group Jack was along, all six of them phoned home. They asked their parents to rescue them. Back then, parents believed in tough love. So, it was a grumpy lot that met Jack to pack the day before our departure.

On the trip, Jack was anything but that annoying presence - Mr. Meditation. Jack was woodsy. He had a deft warm touch with the campers. He even encouraged their leader - to lead. For six days, Jack fished, he cooked, he taught, he enjoyed. We learned a lot from Jack. I sensed he learned something from us.

By trip's end, six kids were converted. I was converted. Even Shapiro liked Jack. We came back into Camp with a much different appreciation of your Jack. Affection, actually.

Things happen on canoe trips - secrets to be shared only among trippers. But, one thing happened on that trip which I must share with you - secret or not. It has haunted me ever since 1961. On our trip, we saw Jack naked. At first, the campers thought it was Bigfoot - they made ready to abandon the campsite. Truly, strange things are seen in the bush.

On the trip we had a particularly beautiful camp site on Big Trout Lake. One with a luminescent vista at sunset. That Fall, Jack gave me a watercolour of that campsite, beautifully rendered, capturing the fading light of a glorious day. That watercolour was one of my prized possessions. Prized by somebody else, it turned out. The watercolour was stolen during one of my university moves. I miss it.

Elizabeth, by the mid 60s, the rhythm of my life changed. Camp became a treasured memory. I visited Canoe Lake periodically. And, then for September Camp. You were always there.

Elizabeth, my strongest September Camp memory of you was created precisely 25 years ago. I know you are acquainted - at least from a respectful distance - with Elizabeth Windsor. It seems that this other Elizabeth was celebrating her 25th anniversary as our Monarch. But, she could not make it to Canoe Lake to celebrate with us. Disappointed, you decided that her subjects needed a regal replacement to mark the occasion. So, you commandeered the Marmilwood. Then, decked out in linen and lace, you fashioned a regal cruise of Canoe Lake - greeting your cheering subjects with a suitably Windsorial wave. Royal stuff! You missed your calling.

My infrequent returns to Canoe Lake told me that you must have spent a lot of time alone. Each year, there was a new banner, a new painting, a new mask. And plaques - interminable plaques - to update and complete. If Jack is the curator of the Ahmek museum; Elizabeth, you are the CEO.

The last few years, I have been close to a "regular" at September Camp - thanks to Carole. No doubt about it, the Camp is one of my life's sacred places. But, what has also dawned on me is that my sacred place became so because of the generations before who created its spirit. Chief and Tonakela, Harry and Couchie, Tay and Alice, Page and Jane, Ghent - midwife of my Camp career - and you and the guy you brought here today. Treasures all; no doubt about it.

As you have probably figured, I have harboured a deep affection for you for many years. I hope Jack won't be offended by that confession. Or, feel embarrassed at the telling of his buffness back in 1961.

Affectionately,
Bill.