Uncle Carson Bowes's Cured Hams
Every so often in life, you run into a scent that can instantaneously rocket you back years... even decades, to a place or event in your childhood. To a lesser extent, the thought of an aroma can trigger a vivid memory as well.
With no exception, my favorite 'scent memory' is that of my Uncle Carson's log house.
Uncle Carson was an eccentric, lifelong bachelor farmer who kept a neat little farm nestled right in behind the old Antrim Truck Stop off of Highway 17 in Antrim Ontario. Uncle Carson took his eccentricity seriously, and was a recluse. He didn't have a driver's license. He really didn't need one, because he pretty much didn't care to go anywhere, and I can't say as I blamed him, being that he had such an idyllic little farm tucked as it were out of sight and out of mind. He had mostly log barns, arranged in a very logical and neat 'U' shape to the West of his house, shielding him from the prevailing wind.
He had a separate little barn in the middle of it for his bull. Among other things we worried about in his somewhat remote, definitely solitary existence was that bull; one solid ton of potential murder and mayhem, but it was a pet to him; happy and willing putty in his calm, caring hands.
There was always a cat weaving in and out between his feet in the yard or the house, blissfully and lovingly rubbing itself against him, just wanting to be near such a friend to animals.
A deep, narrow creek flowed through his property, and teemed with minnows heading to the Ottawa River in the late spring. He would feed them bread off of a bridge over the creek, and the water would rise up in a boiling dome with their feeding frenzy. He took particular satisfaction in that pursuit, and I can't say as I blamed him for that, either. He fondly referred to them as "my fish".
Life went idly and pleasantly on at that little farm without our typical amenities and wants and desires. He had no electricity. He had no phone. He had no oil or gas. And he had no electricity, phone, or oil or gas bill, either. He had a wood stove and cut his own wood off of the bushlot corner of his farm. Cut off as he was, in the dead of winter with his well built, modestly and sensibly-sized house, and an abundance of well seasoned firewood, he likely was snugger and cozier than we ever were, even though he could be snowed in for a month or more at a time. He had a below ground cold storage bunker for food which really did surprise you with how cold it could really be in the middle of summer. Of course, he logically put it where it was shaded most of the time, which really helped. He had it all figured out.
Uncle Carson could only see well out of one eye, the other one having been cleanly sliced open from one side to the other in his youth by an errant splinter from a railroad spike.
His eccentricity extended to his dress code as well; I can't remember seeing him ever wear socks. He went bare feet in his work boots, and I believe quite possibly year round. He tromped from one end of his farm to the other in that spartan footwear, completely at ease.
Uncle Carson had a wonderful, timeless, peaceful self sufficiency about him. He lived so quietly and simply, unfettered by the outside world. He most definitely marched to the beat of his own drummer and I most admire that about him to this day. Uncle Carson for certain lived life in the slow lane, and he didn't lose one moment's sleep over 'life passing him by'.
The sun rose and set over his place in and at the same time it did everyone else's, but he wasn't anxiously ruled by the hours as the rest of us were; he was much more the relaxed master of them. He had cows and pigs and chickens and ducks to take care of, and of course his bull and his fish, but there was time for all of them. And time for himself. What a concept. Stress related medical conditions were not a consideration in his simple, orderly little world.
When the need did arise to go to town for something, he would climb on one of his trusty old Cockshutt 30's and putter the 8 miles or so on Hwy 17 into Arnprior and purchase what he needed. It's a wonder he didn't get killed on that fast, busy Trans Canada highway. You knew he was doing it, and you just scrunched your eyes closed and tried to vanquish the thought from your mind...
Getting back to the scent thing, what immediately - I mean instantly - struck you when you walked in the door off of the veranda onto the wood plank floor of his compact, simple log house was the all-prevailing and completely riveting, heavy saturated aroma of old time country hams hanging from the rafters, dry curing in their socks. The deliciousness of the thick scent hit you like a warm wall, and caused instantaneous, irresistible, and maddeningly ravenous hunger. There were onions and garlic hanging there as well, and, rather than taking away from the overall effect, they just added to it. The effect was overwhelming, but in so, so good a way. It didn't merely waft over you, it crashed over you. It was indescribably fantastic. Just trust me when I say it had your undivided attention. It made your mouth water like you never felt before. The richness of the scent was so powerful it permeated into the wood of the logs, the rafters, the floorboards, and the wooden arch table and wooden benches and saturated the surrounding air. How Uncle Carson in his solitude didn't eat himself into oblivion with that intoxicating environment is beyond me. Either he was so accustomed to it he no longer noticed, or he had the gastric virtue of a saint. I don't know, but I think the hams could have been removed for years and you would still be able to smell them. It was and is an unforgettable smell, and I wish like anything I could walk back to that humble farm and experience that olfactory wonder and excitement again just once.
Very few people like Uncle Carson exist any more, and "we're ever so" much the worse off for it. The simple, lasting lessons of life they could teach us outweigh anything that the hectic world of today could ever offer.
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