Canadian at Heart

The far away softness of a morning train whistle intruded into my dream, faint but persistent, like a memory just out of reach and still out of focus. The curtains fluttered in the early ocean breeze and I could hear seagulls arguing over scraps, the throaty hum of a boat engine leaving the breakwater, and the steady rhythm of an axe splitting firewood. These were the sounds of summer, of home and growing up, of comfort in knowing where I was and belonging.

Outside the small motel cabin, the sun was breaking through and burning off the fog, revealing a bright blue sky littered with hazy clouds. I imagined I could feel the day beginning to warm, nearly sense the dew evaporating on the grass and the chilly ground heating up. The train whistle sounded again, closer this time, and from the other side of the trees I could just make out the silhouette of a locomotive as it slowly wound its way from The Valley, keeping to its schedule as it always had. You could plan a life around the Canadian Pacific, my grandmother had often told me, And you'd never be late.

It was late August and there hadn't been much traffic on the road from Yarmouth. The familiar villages were now behind me - Church Point, Bear River, Weymouth - I had taken my time driving, having no particular timetable to keep to and suspecting that it might be years if not a lifetime before I would find myself on these roads again. I had breakfast in Digby, watching the scallop boats come and go with the tides, then slowly headed down Highway 217, "The Digby Neck" as it was commonly known. I was thinking of how many times I had made this trip, through Gulliver's Cove and Little River, and Sandy Cove and finally to the extraordinary hairpin turn at East Ferry, where the road unexpectedly ended at the very edge of the ocean and more than one carelessly overconfident driver had plunged over the guard rail and been taken by an unforgiving tide. After one particularly spectacular night time crash, I remembered Uncle Shad telling Nana that it was a miracle anyone ever survived - Them whats lived to tell the tale, don't, he said grimly, It'd be temptin' fate to brag and it don't make no sense to try and outrun your own timetable.

Across the passage, Tiverton sat in the afternoon sun, a picture postcard of a tiny fishing village. Bait shacks lined the coastline and a dozen or so dories rocked on the whitecaps. A Nova Scotian flag waved from the old post office building and a small circle of old men mended nets on the end of the wharf. After Tiverton, there would be Central Grove at the halfway mark, two or three houses and a lily pond and you were past it, and then I would be on the top of the hill that overlooked Freeport - green and blue and sparkling from the square to The Point - a picture I can still see if I close my eyes and wish hard enough. The small white church on the left, just below the cemetery, the cove at high tide, Curt's candy store by the schoolhouse, the baseball field. The road stretched out like a shimmering ribbon, down for a ways, then flat for a ways - past McIntyre's and the dance hall, past where the post office used to be, then gradually rising up toward the sun and around a gentle, downward curve to where I could see the Sullivan's house and the remains of Willie Foot's, Uncle Len's pale green gingerbreaded one, and at the very foot of the hill, down a steep gravel driveway with a strawberry field on one side, what was once Nana's beloved summer house. It sat, almost untouched by time, just as I remembered, overgrown with high grass except for the shortcut path which led from the top of the driveway to the front road. Knowing that a new generation of villagers still cut through to save the long hike around the curve made me glad - Nana had always fussed about this minor trespassing but never with much conviction or heart. John Sullivan's boat was gone, replaced with a shiny aluminum storage shed, strangely out of place in the weeds and debris. There was not a remnant of the canteen and the ferry slip looked to be new. Sparrow's old house still stood but appeared empty and badly neglected while wildflowers grew in place of Old Hat's chicken wired garden.

Despite my citizenship, I will always be a Canadian in my heart.