POINT ABINO AND VICINITY

By

META SCHOOLEY LAWS

              As we travel eastward from Port Colborne, along the county provincial road, which connects with provincial highway No. 3, we leave the old Fort Erie road, at what the old people used to call, “The Come-in.” A dilapidated old shack, the ruins of a hotel, or rather Wayside Inn, still stood within the writer’s remembrance. Over the door hung the inviting sign which gave the place its name-“Grimm’s Tavern,” too was a hostelry noted, and perhaps somewhat notorious hostelry in those days, on the old Fort Erie Road.

             I happened to overhear two elderly gentlemen who, in their youth, drove horses to Buffalo for sale, tell of an evening’s experience there. Of a mirror so placed, that the general proprietor had no difficulty in winning at cards, no matter how well his opponents played; of an invitation accorded one of them to put on the gloves and box with a daughter of the house. He complied, to his sorrow, for the maiden was an expert, and gave him no quarter. He had been too “gallant” to attack her, as if she were a man-but my! oh my!-and he rubbed the side of his face at the recollection.

             What quaint names those old roadside inns boasted! “The White Pigeon,” where a side road crosses Lyons Creek, a few miles east of Cooks Mills, and “The Black Horse,” at Allanburg.

             But these are not very close to Point Abino, or were not in the days of which we are speaking, for the auto had not then almost annihilated these distances as now.

             The new road from “The Come-in,” is almost in line with the old Garrison Road. But we will pursue the old road, through the Sherk settlement.

             To our right is Shisler’s Point, where one of the first lime-kilns was built and operated by the old gentleman some whose family still reside in the neighborhood.

             The quality of the limestone there then came to the notice of the firm of Carroll Bros. of Buffalo. After tests had been made the brothers approached the old gentleman with a view to obtaining the property.

             There were a few sandy acres in the little farm and from them and the small kiln, the family eked out a none too luxurious living.

             Yes, he was willing to sell. Asked to name a price, he did so, but Mr. Carroll demurred, “You do not understand what we want the place for. We could not possibly take it at your price. It would not be honest. Whereupon the agreement of sale was drawn at a price exceeding many times the old gentleman’s estimate and reservation for homes for the Shisler family also included.

             How many business men of today would have so emphatically refused to take advantage of inexperience and lack of information on the part of the party with whom they were dealing?

             But the golden rule, rather than the modern parody of it, seemed to have governed Carroll Bros. business life. Fine, unassuming cultured men they were, true friends of the younger members of the family.

             As was to be expected the business prospered, but the ruins of the little old kiln and the old gentleman’s home were still there a few years ago.

             Past the old Mennonite Church in the grove, surrounded by its silent city of the dead, we drive. Past Auntie Sloan’s old home under the shadow of the maples, Squire Dickout planted. Past Maple Grove, a few of the great old maples of “the forest primeval,” still standing-the school-the Edsall homes and the Baxter homestead, too.

             At the left the road leading to the old Quaker meeting house, past Ellsworth’s and Abraham Sherk’s, whose wife, Rebecca  Law, came from the Grand River country where as a child she had come from Nova Scotia with her mother and step-father, the latter a cousin of Sir John A. MacDonald.

             The Reverend John Baxter, whose farm is, or should we say, was, just where we leave the Fort Erie road to go to Crystal Beach.

             Old Mr. Baxter preached to the Indians on the Grand River Reserve for many years, and could tell many interesting stories of his sojourn among them.

             He used to tell of the convert who came to him, with a hymn of his own composition which he wanted sung at their next meeting. It was:

“Go On, Go On, Go On,

Go On, Go On, Go On, Go On.”

             I hear there were eight stanzas of eight lines each, and the lines were all like these two.

             The monotony of the life among them and perseverance required to pursue it were well exemplified in the “poem.” Doubtless a few of Welland’s oldest residents may remember the tall, spare form of the old pioneer preacher, and his wife. They spent their declining years in the home of their son-in-law, Dr. J. W. Schooley.

             The First Methodist Church in that section was built of logs, on the hill not far from the cemetery.

             The present structure long known as “The Memorial Church,” from the tablet to the victims of the Battle of Ridgeway, June2, 1866, succeeded this.

             One of the features of those early days were the singing schools. Almost any of father’s generation in that section would be to mention Elon Tupper and the “schools” he conducted in those days. Ridgeway church had a good choir in those early days, and one of the first organs, a tiny one of course, but mind you, there was music in them, nevertheless. Elon Tupper’s scholars all learned to sing by note, and to sing the grand old hymns and anthems with expression. Every word sung either by soloist; quartette or chorus had to be distinct.

             The quartette of Ridgeway church, two of the Gorham girls, Elmon Dickout and Frank Schooley, were quite famous, even singing at Brantford, a long way from home in those days. They sang the beautiful old ballads, as well as sacred music, if indeed those old folk songs may not also be classed as “sacred.”

             Sometimes Uncle George Morgan would bring his choir down from Port Colborne. It seems as if as I write I can hear his tenor sweet and clear, as a silver bell. My father’s baritone-it seems as if they carried the melody of the other voices. To attend one of the practices they conducted was surely educational, Over and over again, each stanza of a hymn would be sung, changing the expression till so that the words and music harmonized. How angry Uncle George was at some of the choir when they sang “Antioch” and in the repeat be heard, “And won, and won-ders of His Grace.” Are you folks singing English, or what? he asked mildly; then over and over they sang the strain, “And wonders, wonders of His Grace.”

             Some of these old-fashioned anthems were taboo to him, because of their disregard of this matter, and one could fancy the story which “Josiah Allen’s Wife” tells of how the juvenile choir shocked the congregation by repeatedly and emphatically announcing that “Even Solomon, in all his glory was not arrayed,”-could never have been told of his choir for that anthem would not have been included in their “repertoire.”

             Beyond the pretty little village of Ridgeway, just a short mile is the battlefield. The bullet marks may still be seen on the Athoe house. Along the lake shore is the ruins of the old Windmill to which the early settlers brought their tiny grists of precious wheat, for miles through the forest, or down the lake in canoes, hollowed from big logs from as far east as Long Point.

             The old Alexander home is, I believe, a kind of summer hotel.

             Crystal Beach Park has replaced the sand dunes and swamp, the valueless “lake front,” of the farms of old times.

             Few-ah so few-of the descendents of the brave, true simple kindly men and women who hewed homes for themselves, and as they hoped their families, remain on those old homesteads.

             Do we all hear the voice which bids us remove our shoes from our feet, of this ground whereon we stand is holy-made so by the toil, the privation, the courage, the love of these whose blood flows through our veins.

             A battlefield-aye, verily.

             And why we do honor, and rightly so, to the brave who counted, not their lives too dear a sacrifice for their country’s safety-our soldier dead-let us not forget that this fair land owes a debt, thus far in our history, too scantily acknowledged, to those whose whole life was a sacrifice, in order that we might enjoy the fruit of their labors.

The Welland Tribune and Telegraph

20 May 1926