“Can’t be,” I whispered back. “Its coat would be white at this time of the year, just like the rabbits.” Then I saw the little white patch under the animal’s throat. This confirmed my suspicions. “It’s a wild mink,” I said firmly, confident in my new knowledge of wild animals, courtesy Red Rose Tea.
Just then the dog spotted the mink. Off she went, after it. The little animal leapt from the dock and landed on the floating ice. Carney followed, but the mink jumped from one ice platform to the next. Soon it was on the outer rim of floes. The dog gave up the chase as soon as she landed on a piece of ice that rocked up and down with the waves. Meanwhile the mink, without hesitating for an instant, dove head first into the heaving sea and soon we saw a little brown head bobbing up and down as it swam along with the waves. About a hundred feet down the beach it turned toward the Island and began to come into shore. I saw with what force the waves were dashing onto the ice ledge, and wondered if the mink would be injured. But by gauging its distance and waiting for the right wave, the mink rode a crest and landed safely, then quickly disappeared into the woods.
In April, at Fred’s suggestion, Dad made a quick trip to Hamilton to give a presentation to a group of prospective investors. Although there was keen interest, and some of those people did invest later, there were no immediate results. So that the trip would not be a total waste of money and effort, Dad brought back a load of the family’s belongings from storage.
Comforts of Home by Mildred Restall
When we first set up housekeeping on the island we had bought all the necessities as cheaply as possible. Our mattress was felt, and was downright uncomfortable until we put an air mattress we had underneath. As time went by it became increasingly difficult to keep the mattress filled with air. It was getting porous and added to that, the bed was used to sit on during the day, so had a lot of wear.
Every night I had to make our bed over, for it would be somewhat rumpled. I found I had to give the air mattress a few puffs also. As the days rolled by, more and more puffs were needed to bring it up nice and tight. First one side and then the other. Night after night, I blew my little heart out while my big lug of a husband sat reading. Finally one night, as I lay back on the bed exhausted and looked at the room spinning and tilting at crazy angles I told my husband, “Something has got to be done, I can’t take it anymore.” So he said he would take care of it and he blew the darned thing up. He did, that is, for one night. The next day he got hold of a bicycle pump and expected that to be the answer to his problem. It didn’t take many nights of pumping like a fiend to find out that this, too, was hard work. He knew he would be going back to Ontario soon and vowed he would bring our own bed back. And that’s what he did two weeks later.
It was April when Bob went back home. He had gone to take care of the usual problem … money and to arrange more permanent storage for our furniture in Hamilton. He came back loaded with stuff he thought I might need. Our box spring and mattress, books, clothes, and, of all things, two huge mirrors from the backs of the dressers. “Whatever did you bring those things for?” I asked. “There wasn’t any place to put them,” he said. “Besides, I thought we could use them.” It was useless to argue. It was done and that was that. So we put one in the boys’ cabin and one in ours.
We installed our bed in the cabin and stored the felt mattress. Along side of the bed we put the mirror, where every time you went near the bed, like it or not, you could see yourself.
Several times the first day I stopped, momentarily surprised by my own reflection, then remembered. It was only me. About the third time I really looked at myself. Was that really me? True, I had lipstick on, but wasn’t it a little cockeyed? And while my hair had some curl, it was kind of long and stringy looking. And this shirt of my son’s that I was wearing didn’t really do anything for me. Up to now we had only a small hand mirror. I hadn’t seen myself full length for nearly a year. And now before me was a bedraggled stranger, not matching at all my memory of myself.
The next time Bob went ashore, I went too. I had my hair cut, bought some face cream, a home permanent, and set about making myself presentable. From then on, I kept a closer watch on myself — shaken by how easily I had slipped off the scale of presentable.
Here is another piece written about events that took place around the same time.
CBC by Mildred Restall
Sometime toward the end of March, Lloyd McInnis from CBC called in to see if an interview could be arranged for his program “Gazette.” It was to be one of those “on the spot” interviews.
It was a rare spring day on the last Saturday of April when the camera crews and staff arrived to do the shooting. They began to bring their equipment over to the island at 9 o’clock in the morning. By 10:30 cameras were set and we had been briefed on what type of questions would be asked. Then they began to shoot.
Mr. Chappell was there, of course. Since he retained all movie rights pertaining to Oak Island, CBC had to get his permission to take the film. He and I stood to one side, well out of the working area. The cameras were rolling and light reflectors were up, and the interview with my husband was taking place. It looked so professional and business-like. I was quite interested, and Mr. Chappell looked very, very pleased. After watching for awhile he nudged me playfully, and said, “Hollywood next.”
At this time, no one knew about our connections with show business. We had not wanted our unusual background to eclipse the work we were doing on the Island. We had let it be known that my husband had been in the construction business all his life. Which is true. Bob always worked at least part time at his plumbing and steamfitting trade. But, show business was a line he went into years before I met him as a means to travel and see the world. It also served as a means of earning a good living when jobs were scarce in the building trade. And they often were, during those first few years after he brought me to Canada.
As for me, I was born and brought up in the theatre world, a dancer. Bob and I knew the ins and outs of the theatre business, and we both knew the outdoor show business well. But the art of putting a show on film was new to us. We had been interviewed in a studio, but our experience ended there. Now we were eager students.
Under the expert guidance of Glen Sarty, the show was wrapped up and we had the island to ourselves by 2:00 p.m. Three weeks later Bob received a check for $100 and a letter telling him when the show would be on. We all went to a friend’s house to watch, and learned a little more.
That summer, Cyril Robinson and photographer Louis Jacques came to the island to get a story and pictures for the Weekend Magazine. Right away Louis Jacques recognized me from a story he had worked on five years before, out West. At that time, he had been with another writer and they had been doing a story of the Western Fairs. He had seen our motorcycle act, and met us all then, while travelling around with the show.
We all squeezed into the shack, had lunch, and a good long talk. It was a happy visit for me. It was like talking with old friends. Louis took his pictures, and Cyril had his story. But it definitely let the cat out of the bag about our show business past.
From that time on, articles on Oak Island referred to us as stuntmen or daredevils.
With no contract and no investment money coming in, Dad and Bobby kept on digging. They located a gravel bed eighteen inches under the roadbed, but it did not look promising. Then they brought the winch up to the clearing from the beach and started to look for the 118-foot shaft sunk by treasure hunters in 1850 near the Chappell and Heddon shafts. Bobby’s journals comment on finding “all sorts of odds and ends … nails, old 3/4” die, wire, etc.” They had to pull out old drill rods to continue their digging. They got down past stones to clay and started hitting wood towards the north.
Soon they abandoned this work and returned to the beach. They needed to relocate the drilled rock referred to in all the Oak Island lore so that they could triangulate markers and shafts in the area. Bobby noted this in his journal.
May 19, 1961
Finished taking brush off main