Author: kimmymac (Page 1 of 3)

Losing a parent has to be one of life’s most defining moments. Life is never quite the same afterwards. You find yourself wishing you could go back in time to relive some favourite moments and memories. I lost my father recently and like a boat that has lost its anchor, I feel set adrift.

My father lived a quiet, unassuming life. He travelled and saw the world as a young man in the Royal Canadian Navy. Once he returned home however, he was content to stay put. He planted his feet and his roots firmly in the little village of Morell and never had any desire to journey farther. And he never really did. His family and his trade as a fisherman became his world, and it was enough for him.

He and my mother raised three children in the little house on Maple Street. Dad worked hard to provide for his family. It wasn’t a life filled with riches but it was a good life. My brothers and I had everything we needed as children….nourishing food in our bellies and a roof over our heads and the freedom to run wild and just be kids….all under watchful and loving eye of our parents.

I have so many images of my father from my childhood; knitting heads for the lobster traps, tying my skates on a cold winter’s day, drives to the harbour in the old red station wagon, rising before dawn to prepare for a day at sea. He was a man of few words, but his actions spoke of the love he had for us.

These last few years, when age and poor health started to take hold, my brothers and I spent more time with our father than we have since we were children. We spent many hours visiting, playing Scrabble and driving almost every road in Eastern PEI. We are grateful for the gift of all the extra time we got to spend with him. We know we were lucky to have him with us for so long, but when the time comes, it never seems long enough.

The little house on Maple Street seems lonely when I drive by these days. The windows are dark and there is no smoke rising from the chimney. I keep expecting to see Dad standing on the doorstep waiting for me, eager for a drive. I hope wherever he is, he is with Mom, and they are sharing a cup of tea and watching over us. And I pray that I will see them again one day.

Once the sadness dulls, I hope I will be able to remember and celebrate the parts of my father that I loved and admired most: His love of the sea, his quiet gentle nature, his life-long work ethic, and the way his eyes would light up for his children and grandchildren. Those are the pieces of my father that I want to carry with me.

One of my favourite things these days is when someone tells me a story or shares a memory they have of my father. Someone recently pointed out to me that Dad always ended every phone conversation with, “bye for now.” It always made her happy because it implied that they would see each other again. It is a lovely thought and one I cling to.

Thanks for everything, Dad. Thanks for quietly loving me and my children and teaching by example how to be a good person. I will think of you often and feel your spirit every time I see the boats leave the harbour. And so until we meet again….Bye for now, Dad…. Bye for now.

I am a collector of memories.

It seems that every year at this time, as I unpack and display my cherished Christmas decorations and treasures, I also unpack a lifetime of Christmas memories as well. Memories of Christmases from my childhood, memories of my mother baking and preparing for the holiday season, and memories of the wonder of my own children when they were little. There is a sweet melancholy in the remembering.

Some of my most endearing memories involve Christmas Eve. For as long as I can remember, Christmas Eve has always been my favourite day of the year, especially when I was a young girl. The day has always held an excitement and promise that comes with the sweet anticipation of Christmas. As much as I would look forward to the thrill of Christmas morning, I never wanted Christmas Eve to end.

In the weeks leading up to Christmas, my mother would shop and wrap gifts for many young nieces and nephews. Come Christmas Eve, it was my father’s job to deliver them. He would pack my brothers and I into the family car, along with all the brightly wrapped gifts, and off we would set on our journey, just like St. Nicholas. I don’t remember my mother joining us very often. Looking back now, I realize she was probably enjoying the peace and tranquility of a quiet house before the hustle and bustle of Christmas Day.

We would have at least a half dozen stops to make on our travels. At each each house, we would visit with aunts, uncles and cousins. The adults would sit around the kitchen table, talking and sharing the odd drink of spirits. I remember the thrill of being led into the family room by my cousins to admire their Christmas tree. Every light and decoration seemed a little more magical on Christmas Eve.

By the time our last visit was complete, it would be dark, and we would all pile back into the car for the drive home in the peaceful darkness. There always seemed to be silent stillness to the evening, as if even the animals and trees were holding their breath in anticipation. If you were lucky, there would be some snowflakes in the air as we made our way home. I felt like an a space traveller as the snowflakes flew by the windshield like stars in the night sky.

Back at home, a few extra strands of tinsel were added to the tree for good measure and my stocking was hung on a nail on the wooden window ledge in the living room. A plate was piled high with my mother’s homemade molasses cookies and a glass of cold milk in the old mustard glass was placed out for Santa. My mother and oldest brother would head off to midnight mass, as I tossed and turned, waiting for Christmas to come.

It is hard to recapture that magical feeling from my childhood and I often find myself lonesome for those childhood days. As an adult, that magic has been replaced with the contentment of having both of my children home for Christmas or the sweet satisfaction of being able to celebrate another holiday with my father. However, every once in a while, if I am lucky, I get that familiar flutter, as the Christmas spirit from my childhood finds me once more, and I find myself listening for sleigh bells in the sky.

Growing up in the 1930s, my father’s childhood was filled with all the trials and tribulations that came with belonging to a large family in rural Prince Edward Island during the Great Depression. It was a time of toil, sacrifice and hardship. Parents sent their children to school to receive an education, with hope that their children’s futures would have more opportunities and less struggle than their own.

For my father Joe, going to school meant heading to the little red schoolhouse up the road. Starting first grade wasn’t too intimidating….with so many brothers and sisters, there was always at least four or five of them attending school at any given time. The school had three classrooms: one for primary aged students, one for intermediate students and one for junior/senior high. The highest grade you could attain at the local schoolhouse was grade ten. To study at the grade eleven and twelve levels, students had to attend an upper level school such as St. Dunstan’s or Prince of Wales.

Each classroom had wooden desks for the students and the teacher, as well as a little pot bellied stove in the corner for heat. It was the responsibility of the teacher and older students to keep the fire burning and the wood stocked. There was no running water. When nature called, students had to head out to the dreaded outhouse, no matter what the weather. There was a pump in the basement for drinking water but no one had a cup. Joe and the other students had to make cups out of their hands when they wanted a cool drink.

The school taught all the classic subjects such as reading, writing, arithmetic, geography and history. My father always loved geography the best, learning about countries and places he could only dream about visiting someday. School supplies consisted of the bare necessities…..scribblers and pencils. He claims he never owned a schoolbag or a satchel. He doesn’t recall doing much studying or homework in the evenings, but does remember “borrowing a few answers” from his friends in school the next day.

Some children brought bag lunches to school, but most of the students who lived close enough went home for lunch. Before he left for school in the morning, my grandmother would ask Joe to bring her in a fish….salted cod that was stored in an outbuilding on their property. When he and his siblings came home at noon, she would have fish, potatoes and vegetables ready for their dinner. It was the big meal of the day. They had an hour for lunch, but the village kids often stretched it as long as they dared by stopping and lingering at the Dingwell and Rossiter General Store on the way back. Here, they would admire the penny candy and other treats for sale, and listen to a few of the local men swapping stories before rushing back to school.

The school day ran from 9:00 am -3:00 pm. Besides lunch hour, the students also had a couple of recess breaks. There was no playground equipment, so they played a lot of baseball and other schoolyard games, like hopscotch and tag. In winter, you could almost bank on a snowball fight to break out if the snow was just right. One time there was a scuffle in the schoolyard. Joe was the last one coming in after it disbanded and the principal took one look at him and said, “You must be the ringleader.” There are no corroborating witnesses, but she was probably not wrong.

In the 1930s, there were very few phones and not everyone had a radio. On a stormy winter day, there was no way of knowing if school was cancelled or not. Students had to make their way to the schoolhouse and hope that the teacher didn’t show up. One teacher who was bound to show up was Mabel O’Brien. A strict, no-nonsense woman, Mabel had an exemplary record of showing up to teach no matter the weather. On stormy days, the students held their breath and hoped she wouldn’t show so they could head home and enjoy a day off from learning. One student was posted as lookout and was constantly peppered with the question, “Is she coming?” Much to their disappointment, Mabel almost always materialized , walking down the road with her purposeful stride, ready to start the school day.

When all else failed, the students relied on a bit of mischief to get a day off. I have it on good authority that one of the village lads was tasked with occasionally plugging the chimney to smoke out the classroom and get school cancelled. I am happy to report that this mischievous young lad eventually mended his wayward ways and went on later to become a priest.

Perhaps my favourite story that my father remembers from his school years involved his friend, David. David could be a bit is a rascal in the classroom, much to the dismay of his teachers. This one particular year, the teacher also had the dubious distinction of being his older sister. One day, she reached the end of her rope with David’s shenanigans and suspended him for the rest of the day and sent him home. Their mother, who was not worried about offending the teacher in this particular instance, was having none of it, and sent him right back to school.

Even though my father’s school experience was vastly different from today’s students, there were some commonalities that transcend the years. For every generation of students past, present and future, school will always mean making friends, getting into some mischief, praying for an occasional day off and hopefully, a little bit of learning along the way.

Everyone comes from somewhere.

I am blessed to come from a magical little island cast out upon the sea, where the land is filled with rolling hills and endless shoreline. It is here among the red dirt roads and the patchwork fields that I find all the pieces of myself.

When I was a child, I ran wild and free, exploring every inch of my little corner of this tiny island. I climbed trees and scraped knees and counted stars in the sky. This little island nurtured my spirit and imagination and gifted me the heart of a poet.

As I sit by my open window I feel the warm summer breeze on my face and hear the familiar ballad of the songbirds in the trees and I am content. If I inhale deeply I can detect the faintest hint of sea salt in the air as I breathe in the essence of this beautiful place.

One day, when I am gone, pieces of me will remain in this place that I love. My voice will be the wind that whispers through the jack pine at dusk, my spirit will lift with the fog in the harbour at dawn, and my clay red heart will go on beating to the rhythm of the tide.

Like a seed planted in rich soil, I have taken root. I am part of this island and this island is part of me.

I have always loved the simple pleasure of going for a drive…just jumping in the car and hitting the open road with no particular destination in mind. I have also always loved to explore this beautiful corner of the world I call home, where there are endless scenic vistas and where every road seems to lead to the shore.

As a child, there was no sweeter delight than going for a drive with my father. Often times, it was just a routine trip to the harbour to give the boat a last once-over before nightfall. My father would check the lines to make sure they were secure and holding fast. He would turn the key to start the engine and I could feel it rumble to life beneath my feet. I have always loved the harbour at dusk. There was a quiet stillness to the place that belied the labour and hustle of the day. The sound of the water lapping against the hull of the boat was broken only by the indignant cries of the seagulls we disturbed.

Occasionally, he and I would slip away by ourselves and go exploring. We would climb in the old red station wagon and set off. There were endless little dirt roads that lead to the unknown and we traveled a lot of them, leaving a cloud of red dust in our wake. Somehow, the fisherman in my father always steered us towards one harbour or another, like a compass pointing north. We would get out to stretch our legs and inspect the local fleet of boats . I would admire the colorful cabins and the clever names on the boats, but always come to the conclusion that my father’s boat was the best.

Back in the car, we would find our way to a local country store in search of refreshments. I can still taste the delicious, tangy flavour of the orange popsicle I would choose. I would roll down my window and feel the warm heat of the sun on my face as we turned our vehicle towards home. The rolling hills and red-tilled fields would roll past my window like a moving picture, as my sleepy eyes struggled to take it all in.

We have come full circle these days, Dad and I. Now I am the captain steering our ship and he the passenger, watching with childlike wonder to see what beautiful scene will appear over the next hill or around the next corner. He makes me slow down and appreciate the little things…..the beauty of the clouds in the sky, the excitement of seeing the horses running in the field or the mouthwatering delight of a delicious cone of ice cream.

These days you can often find us meandering down some road or another, not sure where it will lead us, but enjoying the ride. I am not sure how many miles we have left to travel together….I hope there are many. In the meantime, we are busy making plans for new adventures and taking the scenic route whenever we get the chance.

Long before Christmas lights and expensive decorations, candlelight and lamplight bathed everything in a soft, flickering warmth, creating a magical mood…especially at Christmas. These were the Christmases of my father’s childhood; a time when things were simpler and Christmas was a much more modest affair. My father’s memories of those Christmases of old portray a time when the focus was on celebrating the birth of Jesus by going to church and spending time with family.

The first signs of the approaching season were often performed by the women of the household. My grandmother would clean the house from top to bottom as if she was expecting the Holy Child himself to pay a visit. Weeks ahead of time, she would also begin her holiday baking. Labouring in the heat of the kitchen, she baked fruit cakes, cookies and plum puddings, filling the house with the rich, warm aromas of Christmas.

During my father’s childhood, decorations, which most often consisted of fresh trees and fir boughs, did not appear until the week before Christmas. The older boys would head to the woods a couple of days before Christmas to cut down a tree. My grandmother would fuss, and make them turn it this way and that, until it looked perfect in the corner of the family room. There were no lights and my grandfather did not trust candles on the tree, so the tree was adorned with only a few homemade decorations. However, to my father and his siblings that tree was as grand and as beautiful as the elaborately decorated tree in Rockefeller Center.

There wasn’t a lot of shopping for gifts. With such a large family and very little money, store-bought gifts were the stuff of childhood fantasies. For the most part, children received practical, homemade presents like hand-knit socks and mittens or the dreaded long woolen underwear. My father does remember receiving one special store-bought gift when he was a boy. It was a toy milk truck. It was painted bright blue, and it had a little crate of tiny milk bottles in the back. It was a prized possession and one of the only special toys he ever remembers owning.

Occasionally, if you were lucky, parcels would arrive from relatives in Boston with cards, gifts and treats for the whole family. Those packages held a charm and a mystique, filled with exotic treasures that came “from away.” He also remembers some of his mother’s unmarried sisters being especially good to them, giving them small gifts and treats at Christmas time.

The school Christmas concert was not only the highlight of the holiday season, but also the highlight of the school year. It was held a few days before Christmas in the old Hall, which was located approximately where the current Coop parking lot is today. The whole village would come out for the show, and the students would show up wearing their Sunday best, ready to perform. The older boys would cut down a tree and the girls would decorate the Hall. The students would practice for weeks beforehand, and performed skits, recitations and songs to the delight of the audience. Of course, the best and most memorable parts of the evening were when a child messed up his lines or forgot them altogether, much to the dismay of their frazzled teacher. The main event of the night was a visit from Santa Claus. The young and the young at heart alike did not seem to notice that Santa was wearing a borrowed coat and a black pair of rubber boots that held the distinct aroma of a barn.

On Christmas Eve, my father and his brothers and sisters would hang an assortment of old woolen stockings by the old stove, in anticipation of Santa’s arrival. All the children would rush and wrestle not to get the one with the hole in the toe. In the morning, they could expect to find apples, oranges, scribblers, pencils and barley candy in their stockings. One memorable Christmas Eve, his oldest brother, Ivan, dressed up as Santa Claus, and came knocking at the kitchen window, to the thrill and delight of his younger brothers and sisters.

On Christmas morning, my grandfather would rise early and light the stove, hoping to take the chill off the house before the others stirred. The highlight of Christmas Day was going to mass in the morning, especially for my grandfather, who took the solemnity of the holiday very seriously. After mass, there was a big Christmas dinner feast. There was no turkey in the MacDonald household on Christmas; my grandfather preferred roast beef. Every December he would purchase a large roast of beef from Kelly’s meat shop. My grandmother would prepare the roast with all the fixings….potatoes, vegetables, gravy and those long-awaited desserts and sweets. Everyone left the table with full bellies and full hearts.

With the week off from school, the rest of the holidays were spent with family or visiting relatives. The kids got to visit and play with cousins, as the adults chatted over tea and plates of Christmas sweets. There was also always time to organize a game of pick up hockey on the frozen river or start a snowball fight with the neighborhood kids.

Sometimes it seems as if today we have lost our “True North” when it comes to Christmas and it’s real meaning, and I find myself longing for a simpler time. I will never get to experience those Christmases from long ago. However, thanks to my father’s wonderful memories, I can close my eyes and be transported to a place and time where I can feel the warm glow from the pot-bellied stove and hear the ringing of sleigh bells, and experience an old fashioned Christmas of my own.

The sun hangs low in a melancholy sky as I walk along this gentle shore, the lonely cry of the seagull my only companion. Shore birds scatter and flitter away on agile wings when I venture close, as footprints mark my path in the sand. The sound of the waves lapping the shore lulls me and I let my thoughts drift.

Here is a paradise of golden sand and the infinite blue of the sea. Majestic dunes cradle its shores like a mother’s embrace, the landscape ever changing with the tides. The stately lighthouse stands guard, it’s light a beacon to call us home.

Today the shore is gentle, but I love all her moods; the still calm, the pounding surf, the ferocity of the storm. She is beautiful in the soft light of morning and when bathed in the radiance of day’s end.

This is the beach of my childhood. On these sandy shores I have frolicked in the surf and combed the beach for rare treasures. I have sat with friends around a flickering fire as we shared secrets under a sky of stars. I smile as memories rain down upon me and dance away on the wind.

I have raised my children on these shores. Warm, summer days of building sandcastles and long, lazy walks by the water’s edge. Driving home with sleepy smiles and sun kissed cheeks. Those long, languid days seem to last forever, yet they were never long enough.

The ghosts of summer walk with me now. Soon the world will turn its head towards the cool, crisp days of fall and the earth will be resplendent in its coat of red, orange and gold. The beach will be forgotten for another year and my footprints in the sand will be washed away with the tide.