The Hay Wagon

His name was Johnny. He was tall and a little on the thin side with a shock of dark red, wavy hair and brown eyes. He had a chiseled type of face with high cheekbones and a come-and-get-it grin. He was the oldest boy in a family of nine, a third generation fisherman and the only one to complete grade 12. After a summer of serious dating, he joined a crew of islanders who were going north to pick apples and we were able to continue to see each other all through the fall. My family loved him as did I.

Apple picking season ended in October and he made plans to return to the island. One autumn afternoon, a dozen roses were delivered to me with a simple card that read "Marry me." I was 18 and he had just turned 20 - we were young, we were in love, on fire with passion and blinded by the moment - we saw no obstacles we couldn't overcome, no objections we couldn't wear down, no real problem that we couldn't solve together. We imagined a small house overlooking the ocean, a veranda with rocking chairs, kids and dogs playing in the yard and a vegetable garden out back. We imagined a dream made of endless summer nights and sleepy mornings. Love conquers all.

He's dirt poor, my grandmother allowed, you'll be barefoot and dirt poor the rest of your life.
Are you crazy? my mother snarled, marry him before he changes his mind! How many offers do you think you're going to get?
Think it through, my daddy said mildly.

In the end, it was snow that did us in. He couldn't imagine living anywhere except where he'd been born and raised and I couldn't imagine surviving a lifetime of Canadian winters. It was a sad, sweet
goodbye.

I saw him again almost 20 years later. He'd married an island girl and had raised four daughters on a house overlooking the ocean with a vegetable garden in the back. He'd barely changed. We walked along the old road on a warm summer afternoon, taking our time and talking of the past. At the breakwater where he'd first kissed me all those years ago, we stopped and watched the sun go down. The ocean was calm and the clouds were streaked with red and pink and gold. The boats were coming in for the night - their slow moving silhouettes were outlined against the sky and we could hear the shouts of the fishermen as they hauled in their nets. For a few moments it seemed as if the past could be brought back, as if we could travel backwards in time. Who will it harm, he asked softly and I was about to say No one at all when the hay wagon rounded the corner with a clatter of horses hooves and rickety wheels rumbling. Uncle Shad - wearing a top hat and a brightly colored woolen scarf - was driving the team, trying to avoid the ruts and keep his seat at the same time. Willie Foote was lying flat on his back atop the hay bales, a crowbar in one hand and a Union Jack flag in the other. Uncle Shad tipped his hat to us and nearly lost the reins and the seductive spell of lost love dissolved into laughter as the unlikley pair passed.

We walked back hand in hand, leaving the breakwater, the magic spell, the nostalgia and the temptation behind. Just two old friends walking down a dirt road, bound by what might have been and separated by what was.