09/03/2026
Bayview Park: Throwback Thursday! Today we share 'apple tree history' from both sides of the family, treasured family stories connected to the apple trees at the main house. These are memories that stretch across continents, generations, hardships, and blessings. Every apple tree at Bayview Park carries a little piece of Otto and Pauline's story, and through them, a little piece of our family's history.
Both Mom and Dad arrived in Canada from different countries in the early 1950s. Europe was still suffering from the devastation of World War II, and their homelands of Lithuania and Croatia had been forever changed by the suffering and uncertainty of those years.
Dad came from a long line of farmers, with more than 200 years of family history rooted in the land. His father and uncles operated large farms, and Dad often spoke of the many workers who helped tend the crops, care for the animals, and keep the farms running through the busy seasons. Cows, horses, pigs, chickens, bees, orchards, and fields stretching as far as the eye could see were all part of daily life for the Lingertat family. And apple trees. Countless apple trees. Although Dad built a new life in Canada, a part of his heart never left those family farms.
When Mom and Dad built the main house at Bayview Park, they planted apple trees near the entrance. Those trees became much more than a landscaping feature. They were a connection to cherished memories, to family traditions, and to a homeland that existed mostly in stories by then.
Dad loved those trees. You could see it every harvest season. Every blossom in the spring and every apple picked in the fall seemed to bring him a special kind of joy. I have to admit, I didn't share quite the same enthusiasm. I liked eating apples, but I wasn't overly fond of the work that came with them. Much like my ongoing battle with petunias (see last week's story), the apple trees often felt like more work than they were worth. We tried growing cherry and plum trees as well, but they couldn't withstand the insects or the harsh Canadian winters. The apple trees, however, like Mom and Dad, were survivors.
Every year they faithfully produced hundreds and hundreds of apples. Applesauce, apple pies, apple butter, apple cake... it seemed endless. More than once, I remember thinking, when these trees are gone, that's it. No more apple trees. Surely one family doesn't need this many apples.
Looking back now, I smile at those thoughts.
Because somewhere along the way, I realized the trees were never really about the apples. They were about Dad. They were about family. They were about remembering where we came from.
And so, despite all my declarations over the years, with the help of Jay, we planted northern pears, plums, along with and yes, you guessed it ... more apple trees. Now we're busy trying to protect them from the deer that love them as much as they love my sunflowers.
Now for a story from Mom's side of the family. Pauline and her family were forced to flee what was then Yugoslavia to escape the horrors of war. They left behind their home, their possessions, and the life they had known. On foot, they made their way toward Austria where they were accepted as refugees, hoping to find safety and a future.
Mom often shared stories about that journey. One story, in particular, stayed with her throughout her entire life. As they travelled, they depended on the kindness of strangers. Some nights they found shelter in homes. Other nights they slept in barns when there was nowhere else to go.
One evening, they arrived at a farm and asked if they could stay in the farmer's barn for the night. The farm was surrounded by apple trees, and countless apples lay scattered across the ground beneath them. The family and the children were hungry. Seeing so many apples that would simply be left to rot, they asked if they might eat some of the fallen fruit. They promised not to pick any apples but only eat some that had already fallen.
The farmer allowed them to stay in the barn, but he refused to let them have any apples. Even today, I struggle to imagine that moment. A family with young children, fleeing for their lives, exhausted, frightened, and uncertain of what tomorrow might bring, being denied apples that would otherwise go to waste. Mom never told that story with anger. She told it with a sadness that never seemed to leave her, carrying the heartbreak of a hungry child who could not understand why kindness was withheld when it was needed most.
The next morning, however, something beautiful happened. One of the farm workers had watched everything unfold. He had seen the hungry children. He had seen the hardship written across the faces of their parents. Before they left, he gathered some of the finest apples from the orchard and generously filled their bags. It may have seemed like a small act to him, but to a refugee family who had so little, it was an extraordinary gift. Those apples represented far more than food. They represented compassion, hope and love for your fellow man, regardless of what country you came from. A reminder that even during life's darkest moments, kindness still exists.
Mom never forgot that man. And neither have I. Today, whenever I walk past the apple trees at Bayview Park, I think of both Mom and Dad. I think of Dad standing proudly beside the trees he planted and carefully tended. I think of the stories he shared about family farms, orchards, and a former life an ocean away. I think of Mom and the hardships her family endured, and of the stranger whose simple act of generosity left an imprint on her heart for the rest of her life.
The apple trees standing at the front of the Park are more than trees. To our family, they are living reminders of resilience, sacrifice, gratitude, and love. They remind us of where we came from. They remind us of those who helped our family when they needed it most. And they remind us of the responsibility we have to help others whenever we can.
That is why each year we share our apple harvest with local schools and the food bank here in Marmora. There will always be people facing hardship, and there will always be children who arrive at school hungry. Every apple shared is our way of honouring the kindness shown to Mom's family long ago, and the love Dad poured into every tree he planted.
Today's photos span four generations: Dad celebrating one of the earliest harvests from an apple tree that still stands proudly at the front of Bayview Park. Two great-grandchildren, Trace and Sydney (many years ago, who are now both in university) in front of a crop they helped pick and two great-granddaughters, Ava and Molly, this year, celebrating some of the first apples from our newly planted trees.
As we look ahead to future harvests, we are reminded that the greatest legacy Otto and Pauline left behind was never measured by the trees themselves. It was measured by the values they passed on. Kindness. Generosity. Faith. Love for family. And gratitude for every blessing, big or small.
The seasons change, harvests come and go, and generations pass, but their legacy continues to grow here at Bayview Park. In every blossom. In every apple picked. In every child fed.
And in every story lovingly shared, so that Otto and Pauline will never be forgotten. 🍎❤️🌳
