Arlene Stafford-Wilson Quotes

I will always remember that year in Almonte, and how their sun seemed to shine a little brighter, and the Mississippi seemed to rush along a little quicker through their town.

It wasn't until I worked in the Perth Hospital kitchen in the 1970s that I began hearing stories about the ghosts that haunted their halls at night.

Autumn in the country advances in a predictable path, taking its place among the unyielding rhythms of the passing seasons. It follows the summer harvest, ushering in cooler nights, and shorter days, enveloping all of Lanark County in a spectacular riot of colour. Brilliant hues of yellow, orange and red exclaim, in no uncertain terms, that these are the trees where maple syrup legends are born.

Warm familiar scents drift softly from the oven,
And imprint forever upon our hearts
That this is home
and that we are loved.

We need only to close our eyes and we are back on the Third Line, walking up the lane, through the yard and entering the bright, warm kitchen. We are home again.

The eldest ones said that the laughter and tears are sewn right into the quilt, part and parcel, stitch by stitch. Emotions, experiences, heartbreak, mourning, pain and regret, stitched into the cloth, along with happiness, satisfaction, cheer, comfort, and love. The finished quilts were a living thing, a reflection of the spirits of its creators.

We had some memorable times, on those long, hot summer nights, along the shores of the mighty Rideau; but we were by no means the first to do so.

The plants and animals all around us were waking from a long sleep, and our yard was slowly transformed into a carpet of soft green, and the skies above our house were filled with choruses of birdsong once again.

Take it from this Lanark County kid - you won't find any better, more flavourful syrup, than from the Maple Syrup Capital of Ontario

Looking around, from near the top of Foley Mountain, it was easy to imagine why the early settlers decided to make their home in Westport.

On harsh, frigid January days, when the winds are relentless and the snow piles up around us, I often think of our small feathered friends back on the Third Line. I wonder if the old feeder is still standing in the orchard and if anyone thinks to put out a few crumbs and some bacon drippings for our beautiful, hungry, winter birds. In the stark, white landscape they provided a welcome splash of colour and their songs gave us hope through the long, silent winter.

We stepped a little quicker, laughed a little louder and chatted over the fences a little longer. We gathered bouquets of wildflowers, dined on fresh strawberries and began to ride our bikes up and down the Third Line again. We ran up grassy hills and rolled back down through the young clover, feeling light and giddy, free from our heavy boots and coats. There were trilliums to pick for Mother and tadpoles to catch and keep in a jar. Spring had come at last to Bathurst Township and was she ever worth the wait!

Hershey was a source of pride for the townspeople of Smiths Falls, and was the instrument that put food on many tables.

Some things were done a certain way and they had been done that same way for ages. Most of the time it was a good thing, a reliable thing, and we grew up being able to count on life being very predictable and very dependable.