Perfect Days

Once the morning chores were done and we’d had lunch, Nana would chase Ruthie and me and often the dogs out into the sunshine with the same parting words, “Mind me! Home by dark or I’ll fetch me a stick!” Not everyone, I’ve since learned, is comfortable with saying “I love you.” My grandmother said it often but never used the exact words.

We ran up the gravel driveway and across the strawberry field, headed for the Old Road and the open pasture land beyond Uncle Willie’s farm where all you could see was ocean and wildflowers.

It was late June, a perfect day, there was a sweet breeze coming from the cove and the tide was coming in gently. We didn’t know it then but to be a child in a world you love is a precious gift.

We made our way to the breakwater, then all the way down Water Street to what passed as the town square, then up the highway to the church and left and down Lovers Lane to Beautiful Cove. We passed James and Lily working in the newly planted church flower beds, saw Doc McDonald drinking coffee on his side porch, waved to Uncle Bernie bouncing along on his tractor.

All was right with the world

We had all the shells we needed so we worked on collecting driftwood and by noon we had a respectable pile. We went through it carefully, choosing only the smoothest and most bleached pieces to haul home. Some of the villagers – my daddy among them – could transform the wood into lamps. Others created pieces of artwork for the tourist trade and the villagers were more than willing to part with a nickel or a dime if we saved them the trouble of retrieving the wood. Ruthie and I could make a fair amount of pocket change if we chose well. When we were done, we sat in the shade and ate the sandwiches Nana had packed for us then keeping a careful watch, shared a cigarette we had purloined from my mother’s pack of Parliament 1oo’s. We were so young, so innocent, so naive and so happy.

On the way home, Bill Melanson passed us in his hay wagon and waved us aboard. We climbed on and burrowed happily in the sweet smelling straw all the way to The Point, getting home just as the sun was beginning to set across the pastel sky. The bells on the oxen tinkled brightly and Bill sang lustily the whole way, unending choruses of “The Church in the Wildwood”, his rumbling voice slightly off key but sincere and joyful. Supper was on the stove and afterwards we played cribbage on the sun porch and went to bed to dream of the next perfect day.