Olin Stansell Culbert (1933-1998) - Part 1

Olin Stansell Culbert (1933-1998) of Woodstock, Ontario, Canada was the great-great-grandson of John Culbert and Mary Ward.

Olin Stansell Culbert (1933-1998)

In the following post, Jason Poole writes his memories of his grandfather, Olin Culbert. (More about Jason at the end of this post.) This is the first installment of Jason's story about Olin. More will follow at a later date.

Jason Poole with his grandfather, Olin Culbert

It is 7 o’clock in the morning, on a Tuesday, and in little over an hour the school bell will ring to start the day. I am nestled up in bed, thinking nothing of my family’s daily routine as I get in the last few moments of rest while the sun slowly starts to enter through the blinds of my bedroom window. There are small stirrings in my sisters’ room, and I can hear my mother and father start their day. The coffee maker lets off the last exhale of steam as the last few drops enter the filling pot and yet, I remain in a clouded space between sleep and alertness. There is absolutely nothing special about this day and yet I am completely ignorant of the pure, calming joy that normalcy can bring at such a young age.

My parents sit quietly, sipping on their coffee, enjoying a moment of well deserved relieve before the house erupts with the sound of three children, under the age of 9 – the energetic brood of Sharron Anne Culbert and Peter William Poole.

There is still time before we will be aroused from bed. Before my sisters and I head to school for the day. Before a sharpened level of chaos fills out modest suburban home and yet before all of this, the echoing ring of the telephone fills the kitchen.  One ring, from what seems like a relic of days gone past – the home phone, mounted unsteadily on our wall. A hushed and murmured conversation ensues and yet, I sleep quietly in my tiny single bed in my Maple Leaf pajamas. The phone is hung up and I am awoken by the tranquil voice of my mom telling me that Grandpa Culbert wants to show me something before he takes you to school. By no means was he a constant chauffeur but I knew what this meant. It is in this rare moment of lucidity, my body perks up, my eyes quickly widen from their slumber and I realize exactly where he and I are heading.

A dark, greyish-blue, two-door Plymouth rolls into the drive as I hold my backpack tight and slide my ball cap on. My LA GEAR, light-up sneakers dredge my path through the morning dew as I rush outside and hop excitedly into the car. And there he is, glasses bridged upon his nose, dressed in flannel plaid, blue jeans and a wind-breaker coat. Olin Culbert – Grandpa.  Most days as a young boy I would tell my mom I was going to walk down the street to Grandpa Culbert’s house to hang-out. She would call ahead, and I would arrive at his front door a few minutes later. He would always be tinkering with something; with his tools or checking in on a new tree or bush he had recently planted. But when Grandpa came to pick me up in the Plymouth, I knew where we were heading.

We drive quietly out of town, along Sweaburg Road towards the hamlet of that same name which lay on the outskirts of my hometown of Woodstock. As the road veers slightly to the right, towards towering rows of pine trees planted decades prior, we take a sharp left onto a dirt road leading into what is locally known as Sweaburg Swamp or Hodge’s Pond We have been here countless times before, scouting out the footprints of rabbit, dear, and fox. Grandpa had an amateur’s respect for nature in our area (flora and fauna) and now that I think back, I have realized he wanted to impart this wisdom and experience onto me.

A few weeks prior, on Old Stage Road near Oxford Centre, he showed me how to spot a racoon’s nest amongst one of the giant maples that edged the winding road. From the glove compartment he pulled out a can of tuna and with one quick movement of his Swiss Army knife, cracked it opened. We left that can below one of the trees as he pointed out a tiny, dark irregularity in the upper part of one of the larger boughs. It was as if he could see a set of eyes peering down on us from, burrowed from up on high. I stood by him, waist height, seeing nothing. The next morning, we left earlier than normal, just as the sun was rising but dark enough that headlights were needed. To my surprise (and not his) the can was gone and almost on cue, I remember catching a black, ringed tale scurry back into the nest, along the same branch as was pointed out the previous morning.

But today was different and seemed more exciting as I began to make out a faint pile of fur off in the distance. With the car parked, and the gentle hum of the 401 way off in the distance, there he was – laying motionless along the side of the gravel road. A barrage of colour scattered along his long lean body; grey, white, black, faint browns and yellows. He had the most pointed snout and held a sombre look upon his face with eyes closed and ears shooting out in perfect symmetry. It was a young, male coyote not yet 2 years old.

We stared at him for a little while as the clouds of hot air from our mouths slowly became less frequent with the rising sun and warmth of the day. He laid there, almost at peace, stoic and untouched. I helped my grandfather measure his length from his nose to the end of his tale to determine the creature’s age. His baseline knowledge or nature always astounded me. I remember him saying something about its size in relation to its presumed health, how well it was eating, how long it may have been here on the side of the road. He would venture a guess as to how large the coyote’s territory could have been in relation to where we were. Even now, my parents can still hear the yipping calls of coyotes from there back deck as their house stands close to the edge of town near a farmer’s field.

Although he had already been out hours before to see the coyote, he took notes and photographs of the young creature as he had done with other live animals in the area. It was his way of doing his homework whenever he planned on showing me something in the area. As for the coyotes, there was no blood, no sharp marks of trauma. Just four large paws, a thinning torso, and the single canine fang we could see as his head lay off to the side. We never knew how he met its fate. Maybe it was struck by a car or maybe it was malnourished – Grandparent’s rule was to never touch a deceased or live animal even if you just wanted to know more. You could do just the same through observation. The rest of the morning was a blur as I was dropped off as the first bell of the day rang out at school. The photos of this coyote still exist somewhere in my family’s basement.

I run and bike along these roads now, thinking of the mornings he and I spent together surveying our natural surroundings. Through all of this, one thing remains certain. You never truly know you are learning something through experience until after it has already happened. He taught me how to identify track marks of the animals in that area not for hunting purposes but for understanding, knowledge and maybe preservation. I could not begin to know exactly why we went on these adventures. Maybe Grandpa Culbert wanted to instill that same respect for how we could treat nature and the environment from a distance onto me. Maybe, later in life with a growing number of grandchildren, he wanted to reinvest time in his family. Maybe it was just as it was, grandson and grandfather.

This is one of the earliest memories I have as a child. I was around 9 years old; the eldest grandson of Olin Culbert and the 4xgreat-grandson of John Culbert and Mary Ward.

 - to be continued -

OLIN STANSELL CULBERT'S FAMILY TREE:

Ancestors:

John Culbert & Mary Ward (2xgreat-grandparents)

Henry Culbert & Margaret Wall (great-grandparents)

Joseph Henry Culbert & Edith Sophia Swalwell (grandparents)

Henry Joseph Culbert & Willena Josephine Stansell (parents)

Descendants (Children):

Thomas Henry Culbert

Charles Richard "Rick" Culbert

Sharron Ann (Culbert) Poole

Mark Stansell Culbert (1962-1996)

Note: The author of this blog post, Jason William Joseph Poole was born 23 June 1988 in Woodstock, Ontario, Canada where he lives today. Jason is currently employed full-time as a teacher at Woodstock Collegiate Institute in Woodstock. Jason received BA Honours at Brock University, B.Ed. at University of Canterbury in New Zealand, and MEd at St. Francis Xavier University in Nova Scotia. 

Jason Poole, the grandson of Olin Culbert and 4xgreat-grandson of John Culbert and Mary Ward.

NOTE: You can read Part 2 of Jason's story about Olin Stansell Culbert by clicking here.