Casa Loma: Through the Looking Glass

    The mid September sun shines bright, reflecting thoughts of Casa Loma through the bright blue waters of Moira Lake, and into my head. In the distance, an odd shaped vessel circles beyond Ross' bar making it's way toward the ramp, her final spin before being put up for the winter. An old ramshackle boathouse, located at the head of the old ramp, situated on the inner side of the channel connecting upper and lower lakes, was cater corner to where I am now standing. Not only has the site been moved from the channel to a marshy area beside our old cottage, but my perception of it has been brushed by the many years that have passed between then, and now. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and pause momentarily. The moment grows longer. The faint smell of varnish, and thoughts of time spent here with my own father, waft through my mind like the gentle breeze that is now rustling the autumn leaves; the surreptitious smile blowing across my face, however, cannot belie the warmth of that distant memory.



         As I stand within sight of that very place some forty years later, the sense of calm, bordering on naiveté, returns to me disguised as a friend. The face belongs to the time, but the vision is different. Looking back, I couldn’t have realized how one single event could forever change that inner peace we all had prior to that incident. That it happened simultaneously, within the backdrop of horror playing out in a world, thousands of miles away, was coincidental. There were hints that all was not well with the outside world. The Cuban Missile crisis, and later, the assassination of JFK, to name just two; but those did little to ripple the waters in these parts. The events of this day showed how thinly veiled that security really was. Though it left us enveloped in endless summer days, somehow we seemed to be looking over our shoulder for the other shoe to drop. It plays like an old movie in my mind; the difference now being the ending.



      In the years before television washed visions of dying soldiers, civilians, and student protesters across our living rooms, days seemed filled with boundless energy, and opportunism. Summer, the quintessential time for all kids to explore the immeasurable ramifications of freedom, lasted forever in our minds. It was a time, and place, when doors needn't be locked, people stop to pass the time unannounced, and children are allowed the freedom to run off to whatever adventure called that day, without cell phones, pagers, or other tracking devices. Frank Sinatra and Herman’s’ Hermits share the sound waves coming from the radio, Mickey Mantle was driving the ball out of Yankee Stadium, Punch Imlach and the Toronto Maple Leafs had just turned back time to win their third Cup of the decade; a bunch of aging plumbers and painters putting the finishing touches on what would be their last championship to this day. All that, and much more, wrapped around this moment during a period of innocence and enchantment that now rests forever frozen in time. It stands now as the demarcation point between childhood, and the beginning of ones’ adult journey.



         As I watch him close the door, put the truck in gear, and pull the boat up and out of the water, 1 can’t help but drift back through the waves of emotion coursing through my mind at the moment. Like water tumbling over and through swift river rapids, I feel myself lost for the moment, eager to give way to the force of it; I sense something come over me just then. Unrecognizable, yet certainly manifest in the pleasant sensation of the moment, time seems frozen in what appears to be deja vu. Before my brain can fully process what is happening, my ears catch the sound of the door to David's truck opening once more. I was about to turn and speak to my wife when the truck stops to allow his son to jump out of the boat, and into the cab. With water still dripping from the frame of the trailer, forming small puddles in potholes on the ground, his son turns before reaching the cab door and tells me that this might indeed be the last ride in the old boat. Dad was thinking of selling the house where he was raised, the one David and Carm had built after selling Casa Loma. Funny, I can’t imagine the Lake without the Mullets. In some strange way, having David and his family there has put anchor to so many of my childhood memories that happened there, especially those involving Casa Loma. What is Casa Loma anyway, a feeling, a distant relative, or something else?



      From where I stand the leaves would have partially obscured the view of the old boathouse by the side of the gravel and stone ramp. On the right, entrance to the old ramp is marked by the concrete piers from old route 62 on both sides of the channel. Many a boater was often viewed from this perch, as frustration mounted, trying to back his boat down the rocky, twisted, incline, to the water. Once at the bottom, the ramp afforded one the first glimpse of the narrows at Moira Lake. To the right, west winds that often blew whitecaps through the old train bridge, before finally running aground at Carms* Island, often made going into upper lake through the narrow trestle opening quite tricky for the novice waterman. Looking straight out from the launch, and slightly to the left, was the walking bridge connecting Casa Loma to the Island, and beyond that, the main body of water that is lower lake.



      Entering the bridge from the mainland, the gas pier is located to the right. From here, one could see all the way to Stony Island. To the left is the main dock, where for many years, Ila had stood watch from the canteen above as kids piled into the lake for a swim during the warm summer months of June and July. That day was no different than any other that I can remember. Bright sunshine, the sight of happy lads splashing about in the water, the sound of the screen door slamming, signifying another happy customer about to devour some tantalizing summer refreshment; it all seemed so perfect. And then it was gone. In the next minute, like the all too familiar summer storms, that seem to pop up from nowhere, winds reached up and grabbed what was left of our youth and moved it along to a new understanding that chilled us all like the rain might have done, had that been the case. Instead, I see Ila running down the slight hill that separated the canteen from the dock, hands half covering her face, unable to hide neither tears, nor the look of fear in her eyes, unforgettable to this day. This was real, and it was unfolding right before my young eyes. How she had noticed the one that did not float back to the top, after everyone jumped in seemingly at once, was testament to her vigilance. This time, however, she was too late. One young life was snuffed out that day, as was apart of all of us who were there to bear witness. For many of us, too young to remember, that was the first time we had been touched by the loss of human life. The shrieking, and panic, that was to accompany the long cry of the ambulance siren, was soon replaced by the loss of our innocence. Somehow, the feeling serious harm, or any unknown terror could ever touch us, now washed away in the current just beyond the docks at Casa Loma. Suddenly, our world had become a bigger place.