By Bob Gentleman and Kathy Evans. Review printed with kind permission from the Middlesex Banner.
In July of this year, family and friends gathered at Arrowwood Farm, a beautiful property in Riverside, just south of Melbourne, to celebrate the publishing of a book written by my uncle, Bob Gentleman. The farm that is now called Arrowwood Farm (6460 Riverside Drive) has sentimental value to our family, as it was once owned by the Gentlemans, purchased in 1870.
Bob’s book, titled “They Settled in Riverside,” is largely a family history, documenting the arrival of our ancestors in the Riverside area and describing their family branches. But Bob also captures an era now decades past as he shares stories of early Riverside neighbours and of growing up in Melbourne in the 1930s. He recalls his paper route, the school, town merchants and businesses, the railroad, and the neighbours and friends who were important in his life.
Bob wrote the book over a couple of years, beginning when he was 91. I was honoured to serve as editor. I like to think that my sisters and I, who grew up in Melbourne, played a role in its inception simply because of our frequent peppering of questions to Bob about our family’s and Melbourne’s stories. We are not all blessed with the sharp memory that Bob has, so having the stories in printed form is invaluable. What became clear to me during the process is the immense importance of all the stories, the old photos, the heirlooms, the family archives, the cemetery headstones—everything that helps us know our history. Just as important is the need to share stories as a family and a community, through family reunions and picnics, online group sharing, community events, and historical societies. And through memoirs, like Bob’s.
When asked by the Glencoe & District Historical Society to reflect on the importance of sharing family history and of bringing to life the stories of a particular time and place, Bob wrote the following:
The Good Old Days
Bob Gentleman, author
“While the future is uncertain, there are many eras of the past to choose from to remember, reflect on and share. I have been an avid reader for all of my life, mostly of novels, and certain eras have become vivid from the output of a variety of certain writers. Jane Austen, for example, has many fans who are attracted to the Georgian Period. Charles Dickens gave us a bleak view of the Victorians. Zane Grey had us riding into the sunset after we, as white hats, put the black hats in their place. The dust bowl gave birth to John Steinbeck’s vivid portrait of the Okies migrating west in the thirties. Even my village of Melbourne raised a writer, Harold W. Trott, whose “Campus Shadows” was published in 1944.
I have my own favourite era, my own personal “Good Old Days.” It just happens to be the 1920s into the 1930s, the era in which I was born. I imagine that many people would choose the time of their youth as a very special time.
I do not have the imagination to give life to a fictitious character or place a magnifying glass on their every movement. At my age I possess what I am told is a good memory and a bank of stories that were attracting questions of the past from younger family members. My maternal grandmother was a home child, one of those young immigrants from industrial Britain. I did not want the memory of her tragic but worthwhile life to be forgotten. As I was writing, a supporting cast of people, other relatives, good neighbours and the Township of Ekfrid and the Village of Melbourne joined the saga I was putting together. Finally, with the expert support of my editor, my niece, Kathy Evans, a book emerged. The title “They Settled in Riverside” was coined, and lots of family and local pictures were chosen to add interest.
While I have a limited audience of relatives and local residents, this group’s support has exceeded expectations. I hope that my book paints a picture of a particular place and time—a small Ontario hamlet of the 1930s following a lifestyle that no longer exists. The village has grown and now belongs in another era, but I hope readers who still inhabit the area are building up their personal “Good Old Days” and that they see the importance of recording and sharing their stories.”
Excerpts from the book:
“Dad and I would join Uncle Bob—or at least, Dad joined Bob and I tagged along. Uncle Bob was not that comfortable with children—not unkind but a bit remote. In any case, I was quite happy to wander around the stables petting the horses, admiring little calves and being astonished by the overgrown hooves of the bull. Everything in the stables caught my interest, but when we headed for the woods, I knew I was in the company of two naturalists rediscovering their childhood playgrounds, searching out the hidden spots where rare wild plants grew, and admiring aged trees that were old friends.
“I can recall closing all doors in the kitchen on cold winter nights; the oven door would be open to accommodate an armful of wood to dry and fill the room with the smell of maple. Draw up a chair, have your favourite book, prop your feet up on one of the sticks of wood and settle back for a read. Or perhaps you choose to lay on your tummy in front of the open doors of the old Three-in-One heater with its nice bed of chestnut coal and use your crayons in a colouring book. Of course there was the temptation to run a crayon down the hot firebox, leaving a nice trail of melted wax. There was a penalty to pay for that little indulgence.”
“At the heart of any home was the radio. Maybe we would ‘listen’ to a movie on ‘Lux Presents Hollywood,’ or Edgar Bergen give life to Charlie McCarthy or Mortimer Snerd. If you were lucky enough to have a Detroit Sunday Free Press in the house you could stretch out on the floor and follow the comics paper being read to you by Uncle Neal on WJR. Our old radio had seen better days when the war started and was unable to be replaced due to the war effort. If jarred it would cut out, and this gave me the ability to antagonize my older siblings. In the middle of the program ‘Your Hit Parade,’ I would stomp through the rooms—and ‘Deep Purple’ became ‘Deep Silence.’”