Gifts

Dad is the reason I am an adventure lover, a story teller, a seeker of wild strawberries and the truths hidden under old stones. Because of him, I am silly without shame and awed without irony. He is the reason I read and the reason I write. This is all his fault. 

It began early...

The Nanquan is a sleepy little river that winds from Lake Scugog all the way up to absolutely nowhere. Seagrave, the town in which my father was born, straddles this river about midway along it's meander. It is a tiny town in which absolutely nothing has ever happened, except all the best things in the world.  My father described it in such a way as to bring to mind a sort of Rockwellian Narnia, with a dash of Robinson Crusoe and a liberal sprinkling of Mark Twain. It sounded perfect, and it probably was.

My brother and I used to beg Dad for stories about his childhood. He would tell us tales about building a raft and poling up the river with his older brothers or his best friend. His stories were filled with wonders, epic battles and great deeds. Pirates were defeated, enemies overcome, dragons slain and, occasionally, if all else failed, a damsel was rescued. They fished and whittled. They cooked over campfires they lit themselves. With matches. Like real cowboys. River cowboys who fought dragons and pirates.

This freedom my father experienced as a child was a magical idea for my brother and I. Of course, we were granted liberties that parents today would recoil from. Even though we were close to a small city, we were heaved out the door on the first day of summer, armed with a Star Wars Thermos filled with green Freshie and told not to come home before lunch time. Still, there were rules. Don't go inside any one's house for any reason, not even with a friend. Don't play in the exceptionally fascinating abandoned barn (whoops) and do not ever for any reason, ever go in the river, ever. No, not even if you see a dog that needs rescuing. No, not to retrieve a fallen sibling. No, not even if you were dared by the local bully to just put one toe in. Never, ever. It never occurred to us that the river was dangerous, but it was verbotten and that was final.  

Fair enough. We figured if we followed rules one and three really closely, that rule two should be a reasonable negotiating point and, should the topic ever arise (for example, if we were ever caught), we were certain the blinding logic of this would be on our side. The Enemy and I would travel miles on our bikes, safe between the boundaries of the Trans Canada highway on the east, and the Scugog River on the west. 

Ah, but at the family cabin, things were different. At our summer campground on a tiny lot of land in Upper Canada, owned by our grandparents, we were afforded even further liberty. We could roam anywhere along the five miles of creek valley and over-grown orchards and homestead foundations, as long as we didn't mess with any cattle and stayed out of the old abandoned mill by the creek (whoops). Provided we were together and provided someone knew, in theory, where we were, the creek was fair game.

Maybe our parents should have been more thoughtful with their edicts. Cattle? Even the hardest fought cow patty battle held scant interest once the wilds of the Maiden's Mill Creek were made available. Fueled with the certain knowledge that we were the children of Canada's own Huck Finn, we had endless adventures on that creek; adventures that took us probably quite a bit further upstream than our parents planned. Whoops. 

We fished, we caught frogs, we dug for clams. We skipped rocks, waded for duck eggs and built bridges. When all else failed, we fell in. Then one summer we salvaged an old pallet and some empty drums for a raft and set out for the open seas.

We discovered that the dragons my father had defeated in his youth had not perished, but had hidden themselves away on our quiet riverbank, to nurse their wounds and regain their strength. Once again, pirates threatened the peace of the land. Wars were raged, battles fought and won, and all before lunch time. 

It was glorious. Not the best time of my life, surely, as there is still so much left to see and do with my new partner in crime, but certainly the best foundation for the yet-to-comes that anyone could ask for.

It was a combined effort on the part of my parents to ensure that my brother and I made it to adulthood alive and armed with a decent set of morals and manners. They gave us guidance, strength, encouragement, and as much freedom as they could, to try and fail and try again. My mom gave us her heart and soul and every moment of her day. My dad gave us a universe filled with wonders to be discovered and edges of the map to fill in.  

Thank you, both. And thank you Dad, for all worlds you promised would be out here. They are.

Also, Freshie was totally a thing in Ontario. Haters will assume I mean Kool Aid. They will be wrong.

The Big Book of Manitoba, Chapter 3: What's in A Name?

I am fascinated by the way my language changes as I move across Canada. It's a testament to the many cultures which have found a home here. I am learning new words for food and animals, places and pastimes. 

Manitoba and it's accompanying seashore is home to quite a bit of the most interesting wildlife in Canada. Some of them I fully intend to go and stare at, and not simply in the rather sad zoo they have here. They are easily recognizable by name, such as Polar Bears, Bison, Belugas and Bowheads, and many others which do not comply with my alliteration. 

But. 

I feel as though I may be the victim of an adorable prairie prank. There are creatures here who's names I simply do not know. What, I beg you, is an Army Worm? Is that a new name for Tent Caterpillar? Is it the same thing as Drop Worm, which they also tell me live here in numbers? I figured out that Fishflies are actually Alderflies. I'm fairly certain that Lily Bugs are in fact Scarlet Lily Beetles, and that there is no such thing as the Kill You in Your Sleep Wasp.

Do not get me started in ticks.

Weather words are different everywhere. In Alberta they have Chinooks and Clippers. Nor' Easters scour the Maritimes, and Vanvcouver Island has Oh-My-Actual-God-Is-That-Snow. If you're in Wawa, Ontario, it's a Nanaimo Bar, but in Gimli, Manitoba, it's a dainty. Presumably in Nanaimo, it would just be a bar. Some provinces generalize locations. "We're going to the lake" could indicate one of literally thousands of lakes in Manitoba or Ontario. You don't get those same generalizations about mountains, maybe because Albertans keep score?

In Ontario, there is a tradition of wedding showers called Jack and Jills, where you might invite the people who would not otherwise attend your wedding. They may bring a gift, but just as likely the bride and groom may simply wish to throw a big bash for all the people in their lives who won't fit in Nana's back garden. You might sell raffle tickets and jello shots, or run a back alley style betting ring on rain gutter goldfish races. The intent is essentially a party and secondary to that, a small amount of funds may be raised to off set the cost of say, the bar at the wedding. In Manitoba, they have socials which, while steeped in fine tradition, seem to be about money. Tickets for entry are sold to all comers, not just causal work acquaintances who would be otherwise awkward to seat at the reception. No gifts are given, but many further tickets for libation and draw prizes are sold. Success is measured in dollars made. I think the ROC could learn a few things from Manitobans, and maybe Manitobans want to consider cutting out the middle man and just set up a standard gofundme page.

There are many more things to learn and I am excited to continue the journey, fully covered in protective netting to avoid insects and regional folk music.