Soul Searching

No doubt all of us have roots somewhere, whether it’s in our local community or from a distant shore, so naturally, there are times when we may return to those roots.  My mother’s father came from just outside St. John New Brunswick, and when she was younger growing up in Boston, she’d often take the trip to Black River with her family to visit with family and friends.  There were times when her aunts would forgo the 2-3 day car ride down east, so  instead they’d take her on the steamer out of Boston for St. John.  Once at Uncle Willy’s though, as we later referred to it, life would slow down and the days would become seemingly carefree.  It was definitely a simpler time, but the experience left one rejuvenated in many ways.

After my mother started her own family, she shared this tradition with us.  It started with my older sisters and became a regular junket for years to come.  On one occasion, I recall my father telling me that mom had taken her mother and my oldest sister to BR for a week long respite.  Well, the weather was reported to be glorious, so they were going to stay another week.  This went on for 3 weeks and finally, my grandmother and mother decided it was time to return home to Boston.  For the trouble of staying with my great uncle and aunt, both my grandmother and mother each felt compelled to give them a little something for their stay.  They did this independently of informing the other, assuming  and there would be enough between them to get home.  Well, as my father informed me, they arrived in Boston with a few bananas and 2 dollars in their pockets!  Evidently, that was the price for making the pilgrimage to a small piece of heaven on earth.

There have been many trips back to BR over the years and each one had its own uniqueness.  My mother rescued a wooden sleigh from an abandoned farm, she reclaimed barn boards to repurpose them into a lean-to at home, we had 4 flat tires on one trip traversing the gravel roads of BR, and all of this was woven into the routine of the day, eating, gathering berries, walking the landscape, including the beach, playing in the creek, or whatever suited the moment; life in Black River was decidedly less complicated.

If you asked my youngest brother what he remembers about BR, he’d be quick to tell you about one of the scariest moments of his life.  The bucket for collecting the well water had fallen off the pole and hook while fetching water; it obviously needed to be recovered from the bottom of the well.   My dear uncle came up with a plan.  He enlisted me to help hold my brother’s ankles while we lowered him into the well hole.  I was thankful that my uncle thought that my brother was the best one for this task, as none of us would ever have said no to my uncle.  In a manner of speaking, I was off the “hook” too!  As my brother recounts this story today, we laugh, but back then, it was frightening

On  my most recent trip down to Canada, we pitched camp in the front yard, as the home is no longer habitable,  and spent a few days clearing the brush that had overgrown the property.  We reminisced about our own personal memories and laughed repeatedly over some of the antics, as we likely had done so many moons ago.

As the years have passed, the trips to Black River have become few and far between.  The oldest of the nieces and nephews were introduced quite early on, and there are some who have never even seen the old homestead.  However, for those of us who have experienced this little oasis of calm in life peppered by turbulence, the old sod has been a place where you can connect to the past,  perhaps plan for the future, but clearly  it is the present, a  treasured gift to the soul!