A Game of Queens

For the last few weeks, the urge has been strong upon me to play a game of cards called Queens. Now it is no good having the urge by yourself if you have nobody to play it with because it is not a single player game. So, the gnawing sense of needing to play has been tumbling around in the white noise of the day, creeping into silent gaps, and waving for attention. I know the underlying cause, there is a picture of my father on my computer table. He is in the usual stance, shoulders pulled back, arms by his side, and making a funny face. That’s the way he posed for every single picture that he was in by himself if he knew the snap was coming.

If he was corralled to be in one of our wedding or the children’s christening photos, there was still the chance that the developed face would not be “resting face” Dad, but the distorted frame that you got. When he died on February 10^th, 2001, the funeral director couldn’t quite get that proper “resting face” though he was really resting then, because even in death, Dad had the last chance to make a face (just a little one, but I saw it and smiled).

He is gone 23 years today as I write this. There are no tears and not because I don’t miss him or because it’s been 23 years and you can’t possibly grieve somebody for that long, but because he wouldn’t want it. And by the way, only people who don’t experience grief put a limit on it. Do your own grief thing.

The want to have a game of queens is that grief playing in the background sending subtle reminders that somebody is missing, there’s a hole, and that I miss somebody because of it. Back in the day, we wouldn’t get our coats off on any day but would meet Dad walking toward the table with the two decks of cards and the biggest grin. We'd have to have an all-day game with a break for a mug up on the first day of a visit. He wore out some decks of cards and was the most cheerful when he was winning.

He could have had so many reasons not to be cheery because there wasn’t a lot of sunshine for him to brag about. His mother died when he was just a baby, 18 months old, and his dad died when he was a young boy. He lost many of his brothers in their youth and all his siblings moved away. He was a young orphan during the Great Depression which couldn't have been easy. He was working when he was twelve. He spent most of WW2 in the Forestry Unit in Scotland. He learned to read and write on his own and was dubbed to have a grade 8 education even though he hadn’t stepped inside a schoolhouse. He married at 36 and reared a big family with very little. He moved his house from John's Pond to North Harbour all on his own and board by board and then built it back up based on the numbers he’d traced on them as he took them down. Then, not too many years later the house burnt, and five of his ten children were gone. How much more we know nothing about because he never spoke of nor dwelled on hard times.

My father had a reverence for the past. He liked to talk about this old fellow or that old fellow and who he was related to and how. He’d be so proud to know of all the connections we’ve made to relatives in far away lands that are his great nieces and nephews through DNA and my writing. When my oldest daughter was around eighteen months old, he asked me to bring her in one November day. She was born on his birthday, and he wanted to see how big he was when his mother died. He still had memories of her.

As a young girl, I spent lots of time “in the country” with him at rabbits or trouting or picking berries. Bakeapples, especially, required a long hike of more than an hour to get to the right marshes. He had lots of patience with young legs and carried us across rivers on his back no matter how many of us went. And there was always a mug up or two somewhere during the days. He’d light a fire and boil a can of water for tea or bring a thermos or two. The pause in the day was important to him. When all of us got more interested in throwing berries at each other than picking, he’d round us up (not mad or impatient) and we’d head for home.

He also didn’t miss a day going to the church. No matter the weather, he’d rig up to step over our fence and make his way to the church for a few prayers. Even when he broke his ankle, he still went until later in life when his body didn’t allow him to go any longer. He continued to pray at home.

He was resilient because he had to be, a man of faith because he wanted to be, kind because he knew the value of it, happy because he also knew the value of that, and so many more great things that he passed on. Though a man of solitude, he was the epitome of a father by all accounts when we were growing up. I have lots of great memories of all the love that was shown in so many untraditional ways.

We’ve all got stories of how we came quietly into being. My father’s wasn’t remarkable by no means, but like many things, extraordinary happens when nobody is looking. Now I have to round up a crew to have a game of queens.

The Little Christmas Tree of Long Ago

The merriment and excitement in the faces of my siblings, Sharon, Harold, and Barry, undoubtedly matched my own. It was Christmas and time to put up the tree. For the past several weeks leading into Christmas, we had saved the egg cartons and prepared for this day. The box of pressed-cardboard bells were stacked and ready, their colours influenced by whatever our minds could create with the sixteen pack of Crayola’s that we shared. 

With two pairs of scissors, myself and Sharon, the eldest of the four, did the cutting. We carefully snipped off the cover and then across the rows of the carton, being careful not to tear into the cup portion and ruin and opportunity to craft an ornament.

Having the couple of dozen free, their edges shaped in wiggles and triangles by our small hands, we all took to designing. Once we had drawn and coloured stripes, waves, diamonds, and circles on the brownish background, I had the task of making the hole in the top. The puncture was a skilled affair so as not to tear the decoration or make the hole too big that the yarn wouldn’t hold. Sharon carefully clipped off grey yarn while Barry and Harold made whopping great knots on the end and pushed the other end through the holes, sometimes with the aid of the scissors tip. I finished them off with a loop tied on the outer end big enough to hang on the limbs.

When all the bells were complete, the next task was the garland. That year we had a package of multi-coloured construction paper. Sharon and I were again the scissor wielding strip cutters. Harold and Barry contorted them into circles and used the Elmer glue to dab the ends keeping the pressure on them until they dried.

After all the strips were cut and many of the loops were made, we worked together to join the loops and make a multi-coloured paper chain for the tree. We piled the bells and paper chains in a Carnation milk box until we were ready.

With axe and bucksaw in hand, we headed in over the ridge to find the perfect tree. Some of the requirements included a small size that was easy to drag out. We were allowed to venture as far as Soaker’s Path which was on the hill behind the back meadow. This was shouting distance from the back door. There was lots of young spruce growth, so we picked a tree that was Barry’s height and cut it down. We took turns pulling the tree along the top of the snow, all downhill, as far as the woodpile.

There, Dad nailed two splits crosswise on the stump so that it would easily stand. Sharon helped me pick it up and carry it, butt first, around the woodpile, along the narrow path between the cribbing that held up the back of the standing woodpile and the bordering board fence. It seemed so far for our little legs until we reached the corner where the fence took a turn up the hill and the woodpile ended. We had the opening barred off with a section of fence so that we could create our own little house. The only way in was through the magical passageway under the wood where we transformed from child to adult between ends and reverted back again on the way out.

Eagerly, Harold and Barry ran to the house and fetched the box of decorations. The ground was uneven, so the tree was partially leaning against the corner in the fence. We quickly fixed that with a few strings of yarn tied to the fence and the woodpile. It was magnificent. We set to work with the paper chain, each one of us taking turns to fix and move and drape until it was perfect. Then we took the bells and strung them from the branches. The wool from the hangers puffed on the limb and was difficult to move once turpentine from the fresh tree grabbed on to it. That left globs of decorations in some places until we decided to plan instead of just doing.

We admired our creation before Barry mentioned we didn’t have a star. We dragged the milk box back to the house and cut out a five-point star. Mom gave us a strip off the tinfoil roll. We crinkled it over the cardboard until everything was covered and shiny and fingerprinty.

Dad cracked off the narrowest split from the woodbox and we scotched-taped it to what we concluded was the back. We took more yarn to fasten that to the narrow sprig at the height of the young spruce. Away we went again to crown the Christmas Tree. Harold balanced on the top of the fence and held the star while Barry tipped the tree forward and me and Sharon strung the yarn around and around until the star’s fate was sealed. We gingerly placed our Elizabethan tree back in the corner and fidgeted with the paper chain until nothing was bare.

Our tree was complete but for one thing, we had to set our places around it. We raced out the passageway and grabbed four chunks of wood that Dad had clove and threw into a pile by the sawhorse. The biggest ones made the best chairs. This wood was dry so there was no chance of getting sticky turpentine on our pants. We laid the sticks with the rolly side down around the tiny space. I chose closest to the woodpile because it gave me the best viewing angle and I could lean on the sticks when I wanted.

We all sat in silence our rosy cheeks bursting with pride as we gazed at the Christmas Tree in our own little house. The egg-carton bells swayed in the icy breeze of the winter air where it found its way between the cracks of the fence behind it. We discussed whether we’d lay stockings out but decided against it because it might be cold on Christmas morning. It was better if Santa got a rest and warmed inside the house rather than having to get through the narrow passage leading in.

A chill settled on us, so we ran to the house and Mom made us each a cup of tea and a slice of toast. With great care we carried the brimming mugs back to our spots and sipped the warm liquid and chewed on the crispy slabs of toast. Tiny flecks of snow meandered towards us to transform the innocent and homemade to enchanting and extraordinary. And boy was it ever wondrous.

Over the next three days we wore a path in and out under the woodpile to our little cozy den at the corner of the fence where we drank tea, we laughed, we told stories, and we talked about Christmas. We lacked for nothing because we had what we needed in abundance.

Looking back, it was a perfect place for us to keep out from underfoot in the house. We were so grown up in our minds, we sat in wonder of the freedom of that hideaway and the promise of Christmas. This is one of many happy recollections of childhood that shaped me and will stay with me forever in a cocoon of warm memories. Now I want to have a cup of tea in that magical place behind the woodpile.

A writer and a singer pass each other on the road: Me and Ed Sheeran

Today, Ed Sheeran and my mother taught me a lesson in looking back. As groundwork, I am attending a writing retreat in Clifden on the West Coast of Ireland. Funny thing is, I didn’t come here to write, really, but instead maybe to find a story, or inspiration, or something that I didn’t know I needed. Day one, I’m getting closer.

So, what does Ed Sheeran have to do with this? Well, after spending the morning with a bunch of writers and reflecting on life, stories, etc. and thinking of my mother, I decided, since I had nothing to write in the afternoon, I’d challenge myself to a nice long walk.

I didn’t know how it would go because I hadn’t been walking except for the off and on odd time that I’d go for 20 minutes or so, but nothing like the “go big or go home” notion that I had in that moment. I packed my backpack with water and my room key, a few tissues and set out to find Clifden Castle and the great lookout.

I started on a hill, simply because I had to go left and left entailed hill. I did okay, took my time and made it to the top. My heart and lungs were in symphony with the elements. Or perhaps that was my illusion, because in reality, there would have to be a hurricane on for that to be true.

On a flat stretch I heard footsteps behind me and looked back. Having a writer brain, I believed it was better to look a serial killer in the eye before you die and you can somehow bring holy hell on him if you should die, or maybe said serial killer might change his mind once they made a personal connection or eye contact.

No, I don’t always think of serial killers when somebody walks behind me in a strange land, but moments before I had noted all the large gate posts had four standing stones on top – assuming it was for north, south, etc., but I came to a cottage that had large round stones on top of the gate posts that didn’t fit with the picture. To that, I thought maybe I’d ask somebody if they were out in the yard. But, like you never know, it could be a serial killer’s house so that gave me pause. But there was a patio umbrella. Did serial killers have patio umbrellas? I was working up the courage to cross the road when in the next step, I saw vans in the back yard that gave serial killer vibes so I just kept on going intent on not making eye contact with anyone in the yard. I had just escaped the grip of a serial killer – yes my mind works like that.

So that set me up to think of serial killers when I spotted the man behind me. I turned again going forward and he was instantly beside me. “Good afternoon,” he said. “Beautiful day.”

Did serial killers really start with that. I figured I give him a chance. I could always use the throat punch move if he had ill intentions. Saying that, I am obviously overstating any bravado I might have should the situation really arise.

Anyway, the young man looked familiar. He had a red beard, and over his hat he was listening to music on really expensive headphones. Serial killers didn’t pay a lot for such things. “Beautiful day indeed,” I replied as I sized him up trying to figure out where the familiar was coming from.

He had lifted the earpiece from one side. “I’m going to the look out,” I said. Then I tried not to give away my regret for saying that because he could go there and lay in wait for me because serial killers were crafty like that.

“Good for you,” he said. “Me too.” So, I realized he’d made an assessment of my abilities in his “good for you” tone that was off putting in a way if I were somebody who’d be offended by such a thing. Maybe I could see it as encouragement instead.

“Enjoy your walk,” I said. He nodded and left. Now I was able to get my bearings. As he left I thought of Ed Sheeran. That was who I’d been speaking to. Ed Sheeran was on the road. Darn, I missed the opportunity to get a picture with him. But he deserved his privacy, and it was kind of him to say hello to me on the road. And he didn’t really have a tone. That was on me.

As I continued, there were several places to get off the road, paths to take and I wasn’t sure how far the “look out” was, so I followed Ed, who stayed in my periphery for a long time. I took some snaps and continued in my plod toward the lookout which, at every turn and hilltop I was expecting to see.

By and by, Ed was out of sight, and I stopped to take a drink rather than trying to catch him. There were times he didn’t travel too fast, I doubted he was lingering so I could follow him, and he’d have to come back, after all. But, writer brain, he could be luring me to my death.

I digress. I laid the backpack on the rock wall to get my water bottle. I looked over. Below me was Clifden Castle. I would not have seen it if I didn’t stop. Ed was sending me a message about paying attention to what was around me and not being so focused on the end point that I miss important stuff. Thanks, Ed, understood.

I took some pictures, admired the view, and packed away my water bottle. I decided to keep going. I didn’t want to go back yet as my heart and lungs were becoming acclimatized to the distance and had settled. It was truly a beautiful day. Then, I came to a fork in the road and there was no sign of a lookout sign.

I chose the coastal route. Ed crossed my mind. Which way would he have gone? Too late now, he was out of sight. Maybe, I had escaped a serial killer with my chosen path. Curiosity kicked in now that I didn’t have Ed distracting me. Several times I saw a turn and wanted to see what was on the other side. Scenery was unbelievable. I saw a sign that told me to be cautious of the bull, which I figured was an allegory for life. That made me smile.

Then I thought of my mother and how she would have loved to be here. I wore mittens she had knit, a purposeful take to Ireland because it was a place she’d always wanted to go. What would she want me to know? A blackberry thorn grabbed my mitten and stopped me. I looked out over a castle, the gorgeous ocean, the scenery, everything was just awesome. My writer brain zinged again and thought of what I’d seen by looking back, and by just simply looking. Was she telling me that while it was good to look forward, there was also something to be learned and brought into the present by looking back. The castle had been there, I would have missed it by going forward, focusing on nothing else but Ed Sheeran. But the castle would be there whether I’d seen it or not. That’s the thing about things you don’t appreciate or regrets you have for things you haven’t seen. They are there anyway, with or without you.

I looked at the hitch and realize we live a life of hitches. Mending them might be a looking back thing, a looking forward thing, but the hitch would have changed the stitching no matter what way I looked. It was a beautiful hitch. My favourite colour had been pulled out. The hitch had happened, I could mend it if I wanted, and leave it as a reminder of that moment. Maybe I would. Two beautiful memories of Mom and a gorgeous day. We often laughed at the scrapes she got into of which this was definitely not one, but reminded me of those moments. That’s the thing about the little worries and disruptions, in the rear-view mirror, they’re not that bad and are sometimes funny if you want them to be.

I had a chat with a couple of ponies, a couple of donkeys, and then a lady and a dog made their way toward me. I asked her about the lookout, the official one, because up to then everything I looked out over was stunning in an unofficial way. She confirmed I should have taken the other route and, though it was a loop, it would be long after dark when I got back if I had the energy to go around. My mind did want to keep going, but reality said differently. I went to the next turn and planned on going back. There was Ed, again. Making his way toward me.

He stopped and chatted. He’d been to Canada recently. I won’t give up his secrets because they are his to disclose. We said our goodbye’s and off he went. He obviously didn’t recognize me (laugh really hard out loud). But, I let him go ahead a few steps before I turned around and followed him to Abbyglen.

Before too long, he was out of sight. I enjoyed the views on the way back. I thought of Mom. I saw things I didn’t notice in my going. That’s the thing about perspective. You go with what you go with at the time. I believe she walked with me. I felt her presence. I felt her peace. I felt a “letting go” of sorts. A past can’t be changed kind of thing where any regrets should be left, lessons are all you can bring forward. I felt her kindness mirrored in me. I thanked her for being such a meaningful part of all that I am and all that I hope to become under her influence.

And then Ed appeared again. Out of nowhere he passed me on the other side of the road. He’d accompanied me, being there when I needed him as a guide. He’d let me go as I walked back to Abbyglen. I could find the rest of my way alone. Thanks Ed. Thanks Mom. Message received.

Two hour walk, lots of pictures and inspiration. Writer brain engaged - maybe overactive. Writing is a cure for that.

Day two, what’s ya got?

 

 

 

When Memories Come in Orange, Green, and Red.

This is a TANG morning; I can taste it and smell it and feel it and think it back from memory. I'm also thinking about home-made bread toast. The bread made from scratch, dough cracking, wholesome warm kitcheny, bread-bakingy scent that reminds me it is something that I haven't had in about 20 years. Now with these thoughts I'm also wishing there was a cure for Celiac too, even for a day, because I'd be lined up by Mary Browns for a center breast and taters, or maybe three or four. But, I digress.

Remember that delicious cocktail of chemicals and sugar that tasted like orange juice when mixed with the right amount of water. I don’t mean when times were poorer than most and you were trying to spare it and had to water it down, but when you could get the full effect of three cups of water to one package. Then, that was times three because there were two other envelopes in the Tang bag.

When I watch the Tropicana and Minute Made commercials and see all the oranges jammed inside each bottle, I wonder was there ever even an orange considered for Tang beyond the artificial flavour. Now at the time we knew very little about oranges, being only fortunate enough to get a half an orange for Christmas. But that little was enough to know I really liked the taste, artificial or real.

Freshie was also another less popular treat, not because of the taste, but because you had to add your own sugar. So, although the tiny chemically filled pack of Freshie cost much less, the sugar needed at home was a deciding factor. And if you didn't add the 8 cups of sugar to the 2-pint jug, it was awful. Like really awful. Green Freshie was my favourite, I never knew if it was because of the lime per se because we had never seen, let alone eaten a lime. Freshie, no matter the flavour, was also something that needed great care in the mixing, because one bit of the contents would stay on your fingers for days if you were unlucky enough to touch the powder, especially with wet or damp hands. It also made a great colorant for home grown playdough which, for some reason, I can't remember how to make.

In the summer especially, we’d get the green (a lime would be insulted to call it lime) Freshie and fill the jug from the well house. Mom would be baking raisin buns, the name stuck even though they could be with or without the raisins, and when they were pulled out of the oven, I’d put aside a few and pour a cap of watery icing sugar on a couple, and streel them to the top of the hill behind the house. There in the tall grass with the bees minding their own business but keeping us on edge, we’d break out the plastic glasses and fill them to the brim with the cold green liquid and picnic on the warm buns and cool lime taste. A breeze in the trees and sure it was paradise. It was essentially, a summertime ade.

At Christmas, Nanny would have the Purity Syrup, and on occasion there may have been a bottle at the house. That was hands down my favourite because I knew what a raspberry was, had picked them numerous times on the ridge where Dad had cut wood, and they were my favourite berry. You could never duplicate or replace Purity Syrup for the taste. Delicious. Though there wasn’t one raspberry harmed in its making. Hello artificial flavour.

However, getting back to the Tang, not only did it taste great, cold with hot toast dipped in and an oil slick skim of butter forming on the top, it could also clean the inside of your kettle. So, with all the talk of cleanses these days, I bet you that the TANG did the trick. Now I suppose I'll have a slice of warmed cardboard (non-artificial but the look and feel and taste would make you believe it) with a hint of butter and a drop of water for my breakfast and dream of a cure of Celiac. If I think hard enough about it, it will happen. But there are worse things than Celiac to torment a person, I can wait.

 

Cowboys and Indians - Dare I Write It?

Once upon a time, in a land not far away, in a time not so long ago, a bunch of kids got together to play outside. Regularly. So regularly, it was daily. Numbers predicated on the weather conditions. Yes, that was a reality.   

When we were young, we played Cowboys and Indians, or Cops and Robbers, in the spruce nap (or woods, or thicket for the non-nap-understanders) on the hill behind the house. When I say "we", it was the collective "we" of the young crowd in the community, forty, fifty, or sixty youngsters from toddlers to teens, girls and boys, loose in the woods just behind our family’s back fence for hours on end, summer mostly, but often in winter.

We were always worried about a counting equality so we would do half and half of whoever was present and the choice of the leader of the day determined if you were the good guy cowboy or cop, or the bad guy Indian or robber. You had no say unless you were the leader, but everybody got their turn at some point.

Living in St. Mary's Bay, we had no idea what the word Indian meant, nor cowboy for that matter though we did have horses around which was definitely a condition of employment for a cowboy. But I digress. I guess the early TV shows influenced the idea of the worth of the cowboy or the Indian and where equality factored into that.

Television, for the most part, made us believe that an Indian was the bad guy just because he was born an Indian. Though, when we wore the hat or proverbial feathers of Indians on the trail, I don’t recall feeling like a bad guy and believed we had a side to protect, and we wanted to win as a team. Unlike the westerns, sometimes, as Indians we did win. It was really a game of tag - you were caught, herded, and congregated and the last one standing made the team a winner.

We also got the idea of the cowboy being the good guys from the same westerns. But the ordinary cowboy was rarely the hero. It was the sheriff, or the lawmen, or the army, that came in and saved the day and sometimes were even fighting against cowboys not just the Indians.

Generally speaking, John Wayne was rarely a plain old cowboy in any of the 9 million westerns that he starred in. But he was always the hero, only being killed once that I recall and that was by plain old bad guy cowboys and not the dreaded bad Indians. Sometimes in the John Wayne movies there even got to be good Indians. Imagine. But, that sentiment didn’t always shine through, nor was it as emblazoned on our minds.

When we played cops and robbers, the robbers always stole the play money from the bank. That’s how it repetitively started. The fortified structure made from pared sticks and was double dutying as a bank and a jail stood out more than the regular bough structures for the town dotting the trails along the hill. So as a robber, we knew we were bad, we did something wrong. We entered where we shouldn’t have, took the monopoly money that wasn't ours, and went to jail for it if we were caught. As the cops, we were the good guys and were defending the property of somebody else. It was clear - good and bad. Even in the picking, the cops seemed to always have the stronger team.

Cowboys and Indians wasn't so clear. We were bad just because we were Indians in the eyes of the cowboys. We didn't rob the bank. We just existed. So when we were the Indians being chased for the sake of being chased we didn't feel like we were bad. But we ran. Some of us enjoyed the power of being the cowboy more than the subservience of the Indian but some wanted to be the Indian and tried harder to win. Not that it would change the course of history, but maybe it would.

Once the log jailhouse slash bank was constructed, our young minds gravitated to the nuance of Cops and Robbers - good and bad. It was easier to understand. 

I'm sure there is some lesson that I should learn from it. Maybe a person is not bad just because of who they are, or where they come from. I don’t know, that sounds too simple to be true. 

Maybe we just have to run the trail in the woods behind the house while being chased by a passel of (toy) gun-toting cowboy wanna be's to understand that concept with a slathering of a misconstruedness of who we are and how the cowboy rose to become mightier.

Or maybe we just have to be kind. Nothing else. Let’s try that. No woods running required.

 

Our People

 I strolled through the graveyard in North Harbour, a place I often like to visit, especially on my way to what we call “Graveyard Mass.” This is commonly held outdoors in the cemetery in celebration of the ones gone before us.

On this particular hot July evening full of biting bees, about seventy-five people of all ages gathered for the Mass. As with all things, everyone was invited to the community hall afterwards for a cup of tea and a chat. This is all part of the coming together as a people connected by common roots and the people we come from.

We come from people who worked hard, who fished, who tilled the soil, who built upon the land, who hunted, who cut wood, who picked berries, who raised animals, and who stayed. Our people saw more hungry month’s of March than prosperous years. They had no room for dreams for themselves. They lived meagerly, they saw poor times, they made do, they cared, they shared, and they looked out for one another. Our people endured.

We come from people who bore famine and diseases of poverty, people who experience loss, tragedy, still births, and young deaths. Our people went to war and came back less than whole but went on. Our people kept the place alive through hardship piled on hardship. Our people suffered.

We come from people who started again; who began to dream; who gathered and who spread out, who left and who stayed and who returned; who hoped for better for their offspring, who believed in place, in family, and in love. Our people sang, they danced, they played music, they played cards, they drank, they smoked, they worshipped as a community. Our people recovered.

We come from people who were crooked and jovial, straightforward and honest, kind and welcoming, sincere and heartfelt, sarcastic and funny, people who didn’t hold back but didn’t hold grudges. Our people picked others up and didn’t walk over them. Our people had big families, who spread out and spread out again. We came from people who planted foundational seeds of something greater knowing they’d never see the crop thrive but did it anyway because somebody belonged to them would. Our people instilled.

We come from people who trudged, and eked, and toiled. Our people knit, and sewed, and hammered, and nailed. They created, at first because they had to, then because they wanted to. Our people sacrificed with gratitude, gave with humbleness, divided with integrity, and lived with pride and happiness for the generations they created. Our people lasted.

Our people created people who went on to be community builders and leaders all over the world. The kind of leaders that were trailblazers, entrepreneurs, teachers, professors, clerics, nurses, doctors, tradespeople, secretaries, presidents, CEOs, care givers, soldiers, administrators, seamen, captains, fisher people, and the list goes on. The kind of people that other people wanted on their teams, in their companies, at their sides. Our people built good people.

Our people created people they would be proud of. People who returned to honour them and pay respects to their endurance, their fortitude, their suffering, their foundation, and their community. We pay tribute to that North Harbour gene and to being home, be it ever so humble, be it ever so powerful. 

We come from people who loved and we are people who love because of them.

 

 

A hungry Celiac's Adventure in England and Scotland - Journal Day 1

Day 1 Heathrow Airport England to Inverness, Scotland.

How it was supposed to go:

6:35 land

Collect bags

8:35 catch train to terminal 5 and end up in Inverness at suppertime.

Hold my beer. How it went:

6:35 land – the only thing that matched

Waited for luggage for one hour then spoke to a nice gentleman about how I was going to get my luggage that was still in Toronto.

Left terminal 2 via train shuttle to catch train at terminal 5

Delay of train coming into terminal 5 – it was delayed at terminal 2. All around the circle.

Left terminal 5, stopped at terminal 2 and then at Paddington Station where I had to get off.

From Paddington Station I had to go to Kings Cross Station. Got directions for the train, went to the platform and got on. Unfortunately, it was going in the wrong direction, so I had to get off, cross over the top and wait on the other side. That was the train wasteland because I was the only one there. Went in the right direction and got off at Kings Cross. Found the Northern Line like my ticket said after going down three levels over one big old escalator, found out it wasn’t the right place and had to go up the other side on a big ole escalator.

By now I was wandering aimlessly in the bowels of London city streets where people were telling me go up them stairs, take three rights and you are there. I did that but wherever there was, I wasn’t in it. I just want to say that “them” stairs were not like your average 12 step stair program, nope. They were like Dalai Lama of steps with quotes on the right where you want to quit kind of step. Then I’d get to the top and somebody would send me back down again. As I approached the Dalai Lama steps for the third time, I had a sudden sense of defeat mixed with frustration and a dash of self-pity and I had the urge to shed a tear. But I said to myself, “that’s enough of that nonsense, look at where you are.” I sucked it up and went down the 200-foot escalator once more, sure that what I was looking for was down there.

I stopped this young girl who was looking at the train app. I asked her if I was in the right place to get the train to Inverness and this dude came to a halt and backed up. “Lady, the trains are not down here. You are looking for the ones on the ground.” What I didn’t know was put to me plainly and I followed his directions up and out past the Dali Lama to freedom and sunshine.

This is where this couple sent me up the side of a two-storey building (literally, the stone steps were on the side). Up there, the girl pointed to where I needed to be, and it wasn’t up them steps.

Finally, after almost two hours, I burst through the doors of the Kings Crossing Train Station and into chaos. I made my way to the information booth and the gentleman there told me to come back up in 15 minutes and he’d have news for me. It was madness there, trains cancelled, delay, and people gathered watching the schedule. I went back up when the time was up and he told me the train wasn’t posted yet but I could go to platform 2. I did. So did about five hundred others. I managed to get a seat by this time ahead of many of the people. The track was broke on the main line and everything had to be routed around it or through it using one line but taking turns. We were going toward it. Luggage was piled up all around, people were on the floor, standing by the walls, children, adults, seniors, just blocked. People were angry about not getting seats, not getting something to eat, etc. It was bad.

I think there must have been a Murphy fellow who designed that train because everything that could go wrong (except for a head on collision but I digress) did go wrong. We stopped on the track for about 90 minutes as one train went through the bad spot, another came toward us, through it and then we were able to go. When we finally got through, another slower train with more stops got ahead of us and we’d have to stop and wait to be able to pass the station. Finally, that one went in a different direction but the railway put on another one to alleviate the mess of people waiting on the lines. She, too, made more stops than ours did so the trip to Edinburg was delayed in the end by 2.5 hours. By this time, all the trains going to Inverness from Edinburg were cancelled. I was in another pickle. There was another train that would bring me to a station an hour away that still had a non-cancelled connection to Inverness. By 10 pm, I walked in through the doors of my hotel five hours later than planned.

I had planned to sit in first class with lots of room, keep to myself, do some writing, but what I had planned didn’t come to fulfillment.

What happened instead was me really looking at the countryside. The burst of yellow canola patches slivering and patching the land, the gorgeous green grass with that fresh look of spring, the darker corn rows popping through the soil, the cleanliness of everything, and the list goes on.

The man who helped me through the process of having my luggage sent to me thanked me for being nice. Imagine how easy it was to just be nice. I had a chat with two woman who were so positive about the trip even though they were delayed. They laughed and carried on and made everyone’s mood lighter. There was this lady in the wheelchair who shouted, I’ll see you all later and she meant it though mostly everyone never saw the sky over her before. The crowd of workers who kept coming out of the dining car handing out chips, Pepsi, water, beer, sandwiches, cookies, etc. and cleaning up afterwards. They kept apologizing and keeping everyone well informed of what was happening. The hum of chatter and peeks at conversations between strangers that was a pleasant accompaniment to alleviating the stress of the day and passing the time. The old man who got on at the wrong station and the tired travelers who volunteered to give up their seats. The lovely man and wife who chatted me through the last few hours on the way to Inverness and promised to do a drive by wave at Moniack Mhor sometime this week. And finally, when I got to the hotel, I had the most wonderful room. There’s even a mural of a Newfoundland beach (well it could be kind of thing, but may not be) on the shower wall to make me feel at home. And to top it off, I asked if the kitchen was still open and the chef spoke up behind me and asked me what I wanted. (PS I had no food on the train except for two small bags of chips and some candy tots a woman left me when she was getting off). I said a sandwich would be lovely if they had gluten free bread. When I got a chicken salad sandwich, salad, chips, dip and a ginger ale delivered to my room not fifteen minutes later. And there were many more positive things from the day. Instead of being sad, mad, and frustrated, I went with questions, opening my eyes, and that feeling I had when I was down for just that minute, I can recreate that for a character in a book to come.

I don’t want to plan a regret; that's no fun for anyone. I want to live an adventure. Day 1 in England/Scotland, you weren’t so bad. I had sense enough to bring a change of clothes in my carry on and I’ll be just fine until my bags catch up with me. I have all week to write. Lucky me. Hold my ginger ale. I'm allergic to beer.