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.