Precious Days March 23 to May 27

Every year, the days between March 23 and May 27 were precious ones. I was the youngest one of  a particular branch of the extended family. All my cousins were older and cousins were an important part of my life.

I wasn't the youngest by a lot, but I certainly felt younger. I think I may have spent a lot of time in my own little world. I do remember spending inordinate time watching the tadpoles, that swam by the big rock at the lake, growing arms and legs; spying on the older boys building forts in the woods and smoking under the drooping willow tree by the water ; sitting at the edge of adult conversations absorbing something of their world.

My cousin Myra, or Myra Lea as she was known in the family, was only ten months older than me, but, that was an impressive ten months. She was a grade ahead in school and always seemed more aware of the ways of the world. She knew the mysteries of Elvis Presley and Pat Boone.

Today she sometimes refers to herself as mini Martha Stewart. I have no trouble imagining her as mini mini Martha Stewart . Her hair always appeared freshly braided with their crisp colourful ribbons co-ordinating with her outfit. Their were never spots on her shirts nor untied laces on her running shoes. I myself was the epitome of messy in many interesting ways.

For the significant days between our birthdays, we were the same the same age. I could dream about moving from my little girl life into her far more sophisticated world.

Perspective sometimes changes much.

This year on May 27th my cousin turns seventy, yes seventy.  I feel strongly that seventy is definitely not the new fifty. We both know something of the surprises that older age brings. From now on I may be on the better side of age.

Whatever, whatever, May 27th will remain a very important day of the year for me. I will be thinking good thoughts for her in her amazing aged house looking down on the fields of Upper New York State.

Happy 70th Birthday Myra Lea.

To all those who loved the old Lake Simcoe

Remembering Lake Simcoe, I cry.

Myra, my mother, and her little sister Barbara, board the train, in Toronto, with their grand parents set towards happiness and freedom on the sandy cove of Lake Simcoe. The air fresh, the water pure.

Their parents meet them and all their summer baggage at the Craigevale Station. They had taken the longer journey by horse and buggy. They stayed overnight in Aurora.

All embrace each other, embracing summer.

Grandfather had bought the land, almost a concession, for the timber in the 1880's. The trees provided the British Navy, with mighty, tall, straight masts for ships, that ruled the Empire. Other trees provided the sounding boards for Heintzman pianos.

It turned out, that what he was really purchasing was fresh air, fresh food for his loved grandchildren away from the hot, dirty city.

In the simple cottages along the shore, his grandchildren and their grandchildren were able to breathe deeply, think deeply, create and be. This was an imaginative life beyond imagining.

Swimming,  exploring, hiding, hoping, being. Summer.

My children met this world, that belonged to my cousins and me.

Bonfires on the beach, stargazing with the generations, oldies and newbies frolicking in the big waves, rowboats, canoes, card games, boardgames, corn roasts, popcorn among so many loved and loving.

I cry. The city eventually swallowed the magic of the place. Fairy circles were covered with interlocking brick. We were unable to protect this place from the power of money.

May other places escape this brutality of time. I continue to cry.

Sorry

I'm sorry I didn't get to this earlier, but the inspiration just hadn't arrived.

A sweet little boy in my life, is being indoctrinated, like all little Canadian boys and girls, with the importance of saying sorry. I know many will find it hard to believe he isn't perfect, but when it comes to perfection in little boys and girls, I think naughtiness is a prime ingredient.

He has quite a selection of sorries. There is the sorry with the the twinkling eyes, that means he isn't the least bit sorry; there is the sorry that comes  quickly to lessen the repercussions of some dastardly deed and there is the sorry that comes from his very being when he has broken a favourite christmas ornament, and knows the sadness that will bring. There are many, many more. Just spend some time with some five-year- olds for an afternoon and you will be exposed to most of the sorries on  the spectrum.

Yesterday, I was half listening to something on the radio in the background, as I was lost in busyness. The panelists were discussing some worldwide phenomena, that had been given appropriate names for the country in which they had occurred, Angus for Scotland, Hans for Germany, Priya for India and Vinnie for Canada. The Canadians found Vinnie an odd choice, none of them ever having met a Vinnie, and thought perhaps Doug would be better. Some one else on the panel suggested Sorry might be a better reflection for the country.

There seems to bean outbreak of Canadian sorry jokes.

The reality is sorry is a word that slips easily and often into everyday  conversation. I get to the grocery cart before someone behind me and automatically say sorry. A man backs up his shiny red truck into a lady's blue Toyota. They both jump out of their cars saying" I'm sorry".

To many, so much sorriness is ludicrous, essentially, because it is. But, and it is a big but, sorry sure beats an automatic fuck off.

Sorry is linguistic balm that soothes human interactions and promotes civility. There is a something almost magical about it all. Sorry recognizes the presence of others. Sorry, but it seems to work for us. We may seem a little wimpy, but still hurrah for us.

Sorry I have to go. The dog needs out.

Edging Towards Old Age

I am about to nudge up against my three score and and ten years, an accumulation of years that somehow officially declare my arrival in old age.

I have never worried much about aging. One year follows another. But as the time arrives, it suggests that the time has come to take time to reflect on it.

My reflection in any mirror tells a story. The silver threads are definitely there among the gold. My face has a fullness, that I see in the photographs of  the face of my paternal grandmother. I don't  worry about wrinkles, as long as I earn the smile wrinkles, I have cherished in so many of the older women I love.

My mother lived exactly one hundred and a half years. Many were challenging years, but I am sure she would say the challenging years were also happy years. She loved being a grandma.

As the years tallied up, even my mother questioned the soundness of of her lifelong appreciation for fresh air, organic food and plenty of exercise that had served her living so well. Her extended lifespan had separated her from her generation of family and friends. She was not pleased. A compatriot told her she had to wait for her invitation to join them. She was only slightly amused.

Time is priceless at all times through life. Perhaps it is only as we get older we understand the value. I have also noticed in some of the very old I have loved, time seems to slow down. A day is too long to hold so much loneliness.

So it is time for me to set aside things over which I have no control, and focus on things I can do something about. Life is challenging and life is good.

I am most thankful that I am a grandma. One of my biggest regrets is that my young Toronto granddaughters have not been able to share in my everyday life and I in theirs. My impish little grandson is not so far away

I hope I can fill my time well and celebrate life, even if I have to celebrate with some from a distance.

After all love, laughter, companionship should  have no boundaries

Funerals, Nancy Reagan.

I have been to many, many funerals. My grandmother was the eldest of a family of seven and her father was one of eleven. As sure as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, a human being born into this world will someday leave it. Funerals are a part of living.

Funerals continue to hold importance in the Mackay clan. The family continues to spread throughout the country and beyond, from our early Canadian, deep roots, that took hold in the rich soil of Southwestern Ontario. The strong Presbyterian faith that was brought with them, as they left Scotland in the Highland Clearances, no longer dictates living in the way of the ancestors. Members of the huge extended family hold many differing understandings of an evolving universe; but, the equality of all people and respect for the preciousness of life pass from generation to generation, almost genetically.

We were all taught that we were no better, nor any worse in the sight of the Presbyterian god. (As a child I sometimes got sense that this was not completely true, because to be born Scotch gave a little extra something.)

Here in Nova Scotia, I find a respect for lives lived, that seems to be getting lost in large urban areas. Cars pull to the side as a funeral procession passes, the people of the communities continue to bring food from their homes for refreshment after a service and for the family and friends, and the empty space the living, now dead, took up is noted by all.

Most of the funerals, I have attended, both large and small, have really been celebrations of a life lived. Of course, sometimes, the crushing grief of a death makes this impossible; the death of a small child, a young mother or father, or an individual whose task in humanity is left tragically incomplete.

I watched Nancy Reagan's funeral. The hollowness of the occasion was hard to absorb. All was perfect. The ceremony she so meticulously planned was carried out exactly as she had planned.The flowers were beautiful, the coffin was impressive, the military pall bearers made no misstep. The speakers were honoured members of society, the day was glorious. The view from the room where the funeral was held, looked over the burial sight, where her husband waited and beyond to the rolling wild hills of California. The Anglican priest's white surplice was perfectly starched and ironed and the gold cross he carried shone

But where was the love? Where was the grace? Much was made of the of the completeness of the great binding love of Ronald and Nancy for each other. What was left unsaid by all except their daughter  Patty, was there had never been room in the perfect circle for anyone else.

Ron Jr. and Patty sat in the front row, very attractive, very composed and seemingly detached from each other and the illustrious guests around them.

It seemed to me that there wasn't much love left behind, as Nancy set out on her eternal journey, with the man she she adored above others.

It was sad indeed.

A Celebration of The Union Street Cafe and Sisters

Tonight I am going to a celebration of a little cafe, with a great big heart.

In the mists of time, The Apple Cafe, a welcoming place, on Union Street in Berwick, Nova Scotia became The Union Street Cafe. This was no doubt a good thing for Berwick, but an even better thing for the people of the Mountain.  Here was a place in town to meet up with friends and soon to be friends, over a cup of tea and a fine pastry.

The place changed in a changeless way. The seasons were marked with fanciful decorations. Things from times past found places of prominence, where they were admired and opened doors to nostalgia.

In time a small platform, a really small platform, was built into the corner of the cafe. It was fun  to find Don Osbourne or Cathy Arsenault and Kate Adams and their friends strumming and singing their music to fill the room. Those were the days.

Before long, as popularity grew, the inspiration was picked up and put into a pocket, to be let free in  in Rice's Restaurant, a longtime Berwick establishment, that was closing its door, after serving the community well on Commercial Street. Here Union Street Cafe on Union Street, became Union Street Cafe on Commercial Street. Things changed and remained the same in new ways. Fine food, fine wines from the  local  abundance of the Valley and Sea, drew people from near and far. The friends and patrons left satisfied in body and spirit.

In time a large space, adjacent to the dining room was transformed into The Wick Pub. It didn't take long for music, with the accompaniment of beer wine and spirits, to fill the venue with merriment. Posters of the well known talent and local entertainers cover a wall.

For all this, I will raise a glass in celebration of good people, good food, good music bringing good times to so many.

But on a personal level I will be toasting a celebration of family. Jenny and Megan, following in the footsteps of their mother Anna and aunt Kate, along with their father, uncle, cousin, not to mention their husbands and children,  have done a spectacular job creating place out of space. Now is the time to pass on the future of Union Street Cafe into new hands.

As I raise a glass tonight I will also be raising a glass to Sisters. To Anna and Kate. To Jenny and Megan and all sisters of enterprise, who join together to create new good things, through good times and bad, and who most importantly, when all is said and done, emerge Loving Sisters of the First Order.

I hate Name Tags

I hate name tags, probably as much as a steer, on the range, hates brands. For the most, part I live a name tag free life. They were part of another time, when for practical  reasons, it was supposedly necessary to label the people who were floating through each other's lives, like ships in the night.

On the other hand, in this small community life, there is the time to get to know a name as as we get to know the person. Some names become an integrated part of everyday living.

I see from my daughters' photos, that sometimes they wear lanyards around their necks, attached to  plastic pockets holding, no doubt, their names as well as the necessary business information of their being, as they navigate their way through business doings. Very practical, but try to imagine name-tagged guests at a wedding. Somehow it goes against the spirit of the celebration,

A family story I love is about an encounter, my favourite aunt had in her later years. She and my uncle were at a neighbour's cocktail party, an event that was not all that common in her life. At some point she became part of a conversation with an older gentleman, about her age. My aunt for me was an especially interesting woman, because she was always interested in what was going on around her.  She was engaged in a long animated conversation, not always the hallmark of cocktail party chatter. In time, they parted and my aunt went off to find her somewhat shy husband. His eyes were sparkling with amusement. "What on earth were you talking about all that time ?", he wanted to know. My aunt said she was telling the tales of her childhood growing up in the house across the street that her grandfather had built and where she had raised her family and continued to live.

My uncle asked if she knew the name of the man with whom she had been talking. She replied she had no idea. My uncle was delighted to tell her, the man was none other than Marshall MacLuhan, the guru of communication theory, the medium is the message. My aunt laughed at the amusing serendipity of the encounter. If he had been wearing a name tag, it wouldn't have happened. She likely would have been uncomfortable with the conversation. My aunt and Marshall MacLuhan would have been the lesser for it.

If others want to join the name tagged, I have no objection, but I know I am not the only one who is uncomfortable with the practice. Some do not want a sticky piece of paper shoved on a favourite sweater, some do not like the aesthetics of it all and some think that it in some way diminishes a sense of privacy.

I perceive there are those who are affronted, when some individuals decline the fine offer to be labelled, along with the other labelees and valiantly try to make contact between name tag and the nameless.

Whatever the reason, just let the nameless be. Put down your pen and sticky paper. They know who they are and just like me, may hate name tags.

Kitchen Renovations

I am about to start a kitchen renovation. Some may be surprised that I am taking on such a project. House renovations, aside from a coat of paint or two are just not my thing.

Unfortunately, this past year my dishwasher died. Before I had put this dishwasher in, I had written with a marker at the back of the space where the dishwasher was to go, DISHWASHER. CHRISTMAS GIFT 1998. So I  guess it didn't owe me anything. I am saving euphemistic pennies for a new roof and thought a dishwasher was  not as essential. My family thought otherwise.

My daughter lives in an area outside Halifax, that has a local community website. Lo and behold, she opened the site to find a working dishwasher, was going to be put out on the street nearby. She called to ask what I thought of the idea, which was not much.

Nevertheless she called the owner and learned only a small attachment piece, was missing.

In the stealth of night my daughter, her husband and small son set out to somehow force the big dishwasher into their small car. The strength of their next-door neighbour was required, as my daughter's older sister still every so often refers to her as spaghetti arms.

The strength of my neighbour was required to get the dishwasher from the small car to my kitchen. There it sat waiting. I finally gave up and on a second try I found the missing attachment at a hardware store.

The dishwasher is the moveable type that I push to the sink, plug in the cord and attach to the faucet. When all goes as planned I have clean dishes to put away. This isn't my first choice, but the dishes get washed, my kitchen is big and there is that extra surface space, whenever I am in the frenzy of creative cooking, which is not that frequent, or just plain cooking. There is also a place for my dirty dishes. I don't have a "dumb waiter ", a cupboard on pulleys going down into the cellar, as my great aunts did with their dirty dishes, when unexpected guests arrived at the door.

I have made peace with the dishwasher.

During the Christmas holidays my kitchen was sometimes filled to capacity with rambunctious little boys. They claimed the opening the dishwasher left. Much to their delight I found a box of stickers and some small stick on, coloured lights. Later I found an old kitchen cabinet door in the basement that my cousin reluctantly attached to the opening.

So I begin my kitchen renovation, on a scale perfectly suited for me. My little grandson and visiting children will soon have a tastefully decorated "snug away" place of their own, and if I am lucky I will be able to find a cart to roll in and out to hold kitchenware excess.

I am not sorry to say goodbye to 2015

I am not sorry to say goodbye to 2015.

No year comes without joys and sorrows, surprises, disappointments. This year just broke my heart. The world seemed to whirl in incomprehensible ways.

Close friends died and my lifelong compatriot in adventure left so unexpectedly.

In a very small community each loss diminishes us all, and we seemed to lose so many. The Harbourville "originals" leave one by one taking untold stories and other perspectives of place with them.

Moses, my dog, who shared so many of my stories, wore out and died.

Happiness is a vapid and overused concept. We all know what it means, sort of. But the pursuit of happiness seems like such a hollow pursuit.

I would rather create space for joy, though joy just seems to burst in through sorrow,  uninvited  to help mend a broken heart and sprinkle living with the new and the familiar possibilities that make life liveable.

The universe sent sweet infants to waiting, loving arms. I watch all of them grow with the little ones, who came before them. Dark and light times wait ahead for all of them.

I am thankful for the joy they bring all of us, from the twinkling stars with their twinkling eyes, filling all darkness with light.