How the magic of rural life got the city kid a job

There is a magical 13-hectare, century-old homestead that straddles the Queens and Annapolis county lines in the very centre of Nova Scotia. A cleared hectare with a 130-year-old farmhouse surrounded by a dozen more of pine and poplar, marsh and swamp, facing a half kilometer of Pretty Mary Lake.

Pretty Mary Lake…could anyone intentionally name a lake so beautifully?

It has always felt like a magical place, with loons and turtles, bear and pheasants. Even the howl of the coyotes in the distance—although chilling—comforts you with the certainty that you are in a place where the conventions of the 21st century have very little bearing on your day-to-day life.

I am always unusually conscious of the weight of personal history in this place where our family has spent almost 40 summers exploring, loving and living. It’s not just the guest books, which begin their record of visitors the day my late father-in-law bought the place for a ridiculously small amount of money in 1973. There are no comments from the rich and famous, but there are rich, and certainly near-famous, stories recorded in those volumes. And there is a snapshot of a fairly typical eastern Canadian family as the 20th century folded into the 21st.

It’s not a place of convenience. Most of the locals shop at the Foodland or N. F. Douglas Home Hardware in nearby Caledonia. Except when they need mod-cons, then they travel an hour into Bridgewater. But with Kejimkujik National Park ten minutes away, there are summer businesses like the M & W, where Marilyn will serve you coffee, local news and the most wonderful pies, but only between May and October.
A firm—if reluctant—believer in coincidence, time and time again, the coincidences of this place astonish and befuddle me.

First, there was my partner’s mother who discovered shortly after buying the place that she had relatives buried in the local churchyard. Then there was a conversation with a long-time colleague from Prince Edward Island, who revealed he had spent many weekends decades earlier partying with former university roommates at my neighbour’s—the same weekends that dozens of our friends were doing the same just down the road. The final straw (or so I thought) came last summer when, following a weekend of Canada Day celebrations with friends and family, the stragglers who had stayed on were enjoying an evening on the veranda. A friend of my 20-something daughter was distracted by an ongoing text-mail conversation with a woman he had never met. After we had all dispersed, I was called by another the porch-dweller from that night. He had gone to his favourite pub in Yarmouth for lunch and the waitress, noting he had been missing for a few days, learned he had been near Keji. “What a coincidence,” she told him, “I was texting with a guy from near Keji just the other night. He was at a big house party deep in the woods…”

But even my father-in-law must be laughing from his grave tonight.

“Granddad” bought this place as somewhere the family could drop all the stress of modern life and enjoy each other—a place where we could relearn what family and community really meant. My three children grew up here (when they weren’t busy enjoying their real lives in the city) and my youngest, who is just approaching 20, long ago made it clear that he would be the guy who would keep grandfather’s legacy alive.

He finished his formal training as a bricklayer last week. All that remained to ensure his certificate—and 600 hours of apprenticeship credit—was five days of work placement. He called every company on the list given him by his instructor. No opportunities. He called the small company with whom he had done a placement in the fall. No work. He even called the president of the union, who told him that he would hire him if he had work.

Boy’s predicament weighed heavily on his parents. His mother, who works in the mental health care system, was bemoaning her frustration with colleagues last week. A doctor said “Oh, I have a friend with a small masonary company. I’ll call him.” She set it up, and the kid got his week’s placement.

Yesterday, he was offered a labourer’s job on the project, just four days after starting his placement. The offer came during a conversation with the site manager—who is the other partner in the company. When my son admitted that he did need weekends to get down to the country, the manager offering the job suddenly realized that my son was the kid at the old farmhouse from down home, and that his mother, Marilyn, had known him since he was a seven-day-old baby. My son countered with his own terms—hire me as an apprentice mason and give me a few days off in August for a family reunion. The deal was sealed.

Tonight, even the wonderful song of the spring peepers, the sight of my dogs dozing by the stove and the glory of the Lyrid meteor shower overhead in the night sky can only begin to describe why I am in love with this magical, mystical place.

Missing the boat to Cuba

When two gardeners at the resort in Varadero split a coconut and stuck a straw in it for a lone Canadian who couldn't find his bungalow, I started to warm to the Cuban people. Within hours, my 19-year-old son was on a first name basis with the pool man, maître d’, poolside bartender, and several waitresses and housekeepers. That's when I really began to enjoy Cuba.

I fell in love with the island partly because it is gorgeous, but mostly I fell in love with a generation of Cubans that is on the cusp of leading their country. Remember, Cuba has one of the most well developed public education systems in the Caribbean. Attendance is compulsory until the end of Grade 9, and most Cubans continue through high school with many going on to university. There are more than 800 Cuban-trained doctors working in South America alone.

But a huge divide is opening up in Cuban society. It is fostered by the “convertible peso”; the currency every visitor must buy (but never sell) in order to purchase anything in the country. The convertible peso is worth about 25 times the Cuban peso, the currency used to pay workers their monthly wages, and with which they must buy fuel, electricity and food. Food is rationed and the rations usually last the average family 24 days out of each month. Food and lodging aside (God bless the socialist state), the average Cuban makes about 60 convertible pesos. A convertible peso is currently worth about $1.15 Canadian. One young, well-educated Cuban I spoke with told me that he believes the convertible peso must eventually become the currency of Cuba.

To be fair, the recent history of Cuba has been cast by two events—the fall of the Soviet Union and the American blockade. The first brought to an end an era of dependency on the aid, foreign investment and trade that the Cuban economy relied on. The second has throttled virtually every aspect of daily life on the island.

Quite accidentally (at least from the viewpoint of America), the embargo has also fostered a spirit of self-reliance, deepened patriotic fervour and led to a burgeoning business sector. The latter has been greatly bolstered by tourism, which today is Cuba's largest industry.

Those Cubans who serve the tourist industry—whether as direct employees of the state-owned resorts, taxi and tour companies or as artisans, musicians and entertainers—not only often earn significant incomes in convertible pesos, but are also exposed to visitors from many different cultures, offering them an enticing glimpse of the world outside their own society.

One might think that young Cubans would resent America for the current sanctions, but as my new friend told me “You have to remember that there are millions of Cubans living in the United States. Every Cuban is related to someone in the US. We are family.” He also doubts, despite promising signals, that President Obama will be able to thaw relations between the two nations.

“The current political reality for any president is that Florida has become the tail that wags the electoral dog. Without Florida, you cannot govern and some 40 per cent of Florida politicians are Cuban-Americans,” he says and shrugs.

Meanwhile, fueled largely by the demands of the tourist industry, trade patterns continue to strengthen with South America, Europe and Asia; patterns that will over time become so ingrained in the economy that the US business community may never be able to overcome them in a post-blockade world.

Ironically, at a time when a free enterprise sector is flourishing in Cuba and a young, well-educated generation is poised to move into leadership roles in both government and the economy, America is missing the boat.

How ice dancing costumes exploit men

At first I subscribed to the popular idea that, like women's ice-dancing coaches, there existed only a handful of costume designers "qualified" to create women's figure skating costumes. My received wisdom was "if you are serious about your sport, you really, really have to be good enough to land yourself with one of these seamstresses". But then I asked:

Who are these freaks that are still foisting 1970's misogyny on these poor young women? And why do women, in particular, not just tolerate this but defend it?

I found no answer, but the question led to the more important consideration of why such immensely talented athletes would wear costumes that even a self-respecting Playboy bunny would consider "way over the top"…if the world still had bunnies and if they actually had thoughts.

Why would any self-respecting woman wear a full-body suit replete with flesh-coloured panels suggesting that her decoulletage extended below her (non-existent) navel? Or wear a costume where her legs appeared to be real skin but, on close examination, turned out to be flesh-coloured spandex? Why not just suit up like a speedskater and do your sport?

The women in my life appeared to be very taken with the costumes of these athletes. They patiently explained that this is part of the tradition; the "art" of the sport.

Myself, I argued that the costumes detracted from the art, citing the skater whose glittering waistband moved in a completely different orbit from her body during a crucial part of her dance. I got nowhere. Apparently I just didn't get it.

Perhaps, I argued, these costumes are just another example of the exploitation of women. My female friends were outraged about this idea. So, finally, alone and nursing my wounds, a realization as thick and heavy as a quarterback's bark stunned me…these costumes are not about the skaters or their art; they are, at a deep level, about attracting men, not just to the sport, but to some fashionable ideal of "femininity", and that's why so many women, particularly, defend them.

To me, the inevitable conclusion is that they are more about the exploitation of men than women. Worse, sadly, they exploit each of us, regardless of gender.

Three clicks and you're dead

There is a maxim in website design--"three clicks and you're dead." This design rule means that if any user has to navigate through more than three different links, you are likely to lose them.

It's time to apply this to health care.

My 80-year-old father was taken by ambulance to Yarmouth Regional Hospital (45 minutes away from his home) a week before Christmas. The problem--gall bladder--was diagnosed very quickly, and a surgical remedy agreed to on the spot. Then Dad reminded them that he has had clotting problems during most surgeries. In their patient-centered way, they did all the blood work and sent it off but, since it was one week until Christmas, it never came back. He was "stabilized" and sent home on Boxing Day...click one.

On January 4th, he suffered a second attack at home and was rushed back to Yarmouth. Again, they stabilized him and, since the blood work results still weren't available, decided to send him to Halifax for  surgery.  Four hours by ambulance and he was into an admitting crisis at Capital Health. He was given a bed eventually, dog-tired from the trip and hours of waiting...click two.

After several futile trips to the operating room--and several days of no solid food--he finally had surgery on Friday and, despite the haphazard care of the past two weeks, it went well. He was sent back to his bed at the Halifax Infirmary site. The challenge then became how to get him up and moving. The moving part was solved Sunday, when he was shipped across the city to the old Victoria General site...click three.

Now, more than a little confused by being moved time and time again, Dad found himself in a bed that may or may not be his for a few days and was finally faced with the challenge of cooperating in a regime that might get him home again. Except, being of full mental faculties, he is understandably sceptical about any advice his health care team might offer and therefore no longer fully cooperating in his care.

This is a fiercely independent man, who worked as a minister, teacher and union activist. He and his partner--now living in an institution in the last phases of Alzheimer Syndrome--raised four children who all went on to university and successful professional careers. He is as mentally acute as he was at age 30, looks after himself and has a wonderful private care-giver who will care for him if and when he ever escapes our health care system.

His family awaits click four and hopes that, unlike websites, 80-year-old humans can survive the poor design of our health care system.

The loss of artiface

When you look into the eyes of an Alzheimer sufferer, what do you see?

When that victim is your mother, what do you read into her expression? Do you occasionally see the "Mom" from your childhood? Do you see the lost old lady looking for help? Or, do you see the sweet young thing your father married 55 years ago and wonder "did I really every know my mother?"

I see them all every time I visit Mom. Yes, a lot of it is painful, but there is also a whole side of her that, as a parent, her child never saw; and now it's out there. And even as someone who cares deeply about her, a part of me is thankful for these unwitting insights.

The visiting time is long…competing with that amazing flap on her walker or the way the circular floor drains in the nursing home spiral down the hall, or a mis-placed slipper on the desk at the nursing station are all challenges that life does not well prepare you to deal with…so a half an hour seems like half a day.

I want to scream "I'm here, Mom, deal with me!": Yet, I know she won't; I know she can't.

My mother is now eight years into a diagnosis that has an average survival rate of seven. Never a large woman, she has shrunk to a size I never could have imagined. It is a terrible thing to look into the faces of a room full of elderly women hoping you might recognize the one who gave birth to you, and fearing you might not. But that's the fear that grips me with every visit.

On some levels, we have become much closer over the past few years. There is no longer any artifice on my part, she made it quite clear several years ago that artifice is one of the first things that is lost to this disease.

Instead, there is an honesty and warmth to our relationship that hasn't existed for close to fifty years. And that, if anything might be just the compensation I seek.

Shutting down the old girl

Perhaps the most melancholy ritual of November is shutting down the old girl on Pretty Mary Lake.

The old girl is a late 19th century, five bedroom farmhouse in which our family has spent much of three generations of summers. Lest you get the wrong idea, this was not built as the county seat of some member of the landed gentry of centuries past. It was built by a farmer and forester as the best he could afford; the house is narrow, and the rooms are small. There is no insulation and the plaster in places is being supported largely by layers of wallpaper and paint. No central heating; though our little Irish wood stove, "Reggie", manages to keep the kitchen warm well into the fall and, given a couple days, will take the chill off the rest of the house.

It does, however sit on an acre-plus of lawn in the midst of a forest, and has a screened verandah that stretches across three of its faces. It features several hundred feet of lake frontage as its longest boundary. It is natural and wild, has stands of pine so large that two men cannot touch hands while hugging them and marshy sink holes so deep that generations of children have been warned off with stories of tractors disappearing into their depths.

However, one shouldn't be taken in by the interpretive signage at nearby Kejimkujik National Park, which talks about local farms being built on the fertile south side of moraines formed by advancing glaciers. Ours was built on the south side of a moraine that passes quickly through shale flour into swamp.  

Every November, when  evening temperatures begin to dip below zero, the plumbing must be drained, screen doors--and there are four--replaced with plank storm doors, all paint, boxed and canned goods packed into the car, the refrigerator emptied, dahlias dug and any other remnants of a wanton summer cleared away.

If the weather is nice around mid-month, shut-down can become the occasion for one last spell of rural idyll. Twenty acres of forest, marsh and lake shore to be checked, a city dog who revels in the freedom of the country and around every turn of every path the reminder of past wonderful times.

If schedules come together, a friend or family member might join me for part of the visit, especially if the weather forecast is promising--though two out of the last four years we have managed to get caught in unpredicted early fall snowstorms, so most tend to be a bit wary about accompanying me.

While I work away at tidying the yard, neighbours pull in--or merely wave as they speed by on the dirt road out front--and I catch up on all the news since the last time I was around. I read final copies of the Bridgewater Bulletin and Liverpool Advance, have pleasant chats with Suzie at the local corner store and stop by the hardware store and gas station just to demonstrate that we are still around and still part of the local economy.

But as each hour passes, I get closer to that final act of draining the plumbing, locking the door and driving away. I write in the journal we have kept for almost 40 years, read about the joy of opening the place up each past spring and the melancholy of closing it down each fall.

Finally, I walk through the house, checking the windows and lights. As I pull the kitchen door shut and firmly click the padlock, I might catch sight of one last lone bat picking off insects unfortunate enough to have been awakened by the warm afternoon sun or evidence of a bear having visited the apple trees overnight. I smile and sigh, get in my car and drive away.

When H1N1 crashes your retirement party

I left the office building in which I had spent the best part of 32 years of my life Friday. I reached the parking lot and bent double, wracked in a coughing spasm that re-awakened my bruised ribs from a fall three weeks earlier; straining to breathe, the sweat rushing to my face, the bile rising in my throat, the tears springing unwillingly to my eyes.

Not an emotional response...although I was prepared for one...but a physical admission that I was sick; that despite my willingness to give it one more try, one last day, my body was telling me what my brain already knew. Elvis truly had left the building.

My body, or at least my unconscious, seemed to intuit this a day earlier. Thursday I awoke feeling that my oft-abused lungs had been filled with Jello overnight. Okay, a loose cough but still juicy. By the time I made it out of the shower, it was obvious that the couch was as far as I would journey that day. I just had no energy. And I needed some energy to drag myself in for the final luncheon, the congratulations, the best wishes, the hugs the following day.

So Friday, I went off to my last day in the mines, trying not to cough on any co-workers and quietly blaming the person in the office next to me for sharing her cold. And I largely carried it off..."no, no, it's not H1N1, merely so-and-so's cold..."

Friday evening, family and friends ganged up on me.

"Your eyes are red and puffy. Your skin is hot to the touch. You appear muddled. You're not well, are you?"

No, it didn't take a flu clinic to tell me (what are friends for?) that on this day of all days on which I wanted to be in top form--to be at my best--I ended up feeling as sick as I had in a decade.

The mental health experts say there are a very few things that stress you more than these few life events--the birth of a child, getting married, the death of a child or partner, or retiring from a long career. What my conscious brain had rejected, my unconscious brain had proven with symbolism and physicality that could not be ignored. Damn brain! It had robbed me of my ability to sail smoothly through a final stressful situation; to laugh off, one last time, the pressures in the face of which I had made a career of remaining unflappable.

Gee, I know this to be true...because the boss, even calling me "friend", told my co-workers this in his speech. And yet, all the while, that finely honed social conscience that had so carefully guided my every action through three decades, was screaming "Are you nuts? Are you exposing those who you love and admire, who carry forward your life's work, to the much-hyped and much-dreaded swine flu?"

In retrospect, the answer--to my shame--appears to be "yes". So with my thank you cards will go an apology. Too late, perhaps, but it just proves I was more human than I, or my boss and co-workers were prepared to admit.

Not the send-off we had planned, but I am content to live with this little irony that convoluted my last day at work, and accept it as one more proof that it was time to go.