Author: Nancy J. Bond (Nova Scotia, Canada)
Contact: nbond at ns dot sympatico dot ca
Photo location: Nova Scotia
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Categories: [beautiful]  [home]  [nature]  

A small village in Nova Scotia has been my home for all but a few of my forty-eight years and has seen many changes. Boasting one of the largest deposits of barites in the world, this sleepy, seaside hamlet once hummed with activity.

The mining of barites was a multi-million dollar industry that once employed more than 200 people. The small village grew steadily as new homes were erected to accommodate mine employees.

In the early 1970's, however, a flood in the mine forced its closure. All but a handful of employees were laid off and made a reluctant exodus. All commercial shipping eventually ceased and the village underwent a metamorphosis.

As families moved away, the population dwindled to the point where even the school closed. The lighthouse that stood sentinel at the entrance of the harbor for over 100 years suddenly stood in darkness. The village of my childhood was gone.

How I miss it all! Even now, on nights when sleep eludes me, I need only throw open a window, close my eyes and inhale the salty, night air and it all comes back: the resonant clang of a ship's bell; the rattle of anchor chain; the dull, rhythmical chug of the pilot boat that safely guided ships into port.

It is only a memory, yes, and it fades much too quickly into the gentle lap of a receding tide, but for a moment, it is real again. A more soothing lullaby was never composed.

It is easy to forget, as real estate signs continue to be posted, that although the village now stretches lazily and yawns, it is still a beautiful place in which to live.

I had often wondered if we had deprived our children of some chance to expand their horizons that a larger, busier town might offer-music lessons, ballet, museums, etc. It is easy to give way to melancholy, to forget why, after several brief absences, I chose to come back. A very poignant reminder was presented to me through the uncluttered vision of my youngest daughter.

On an unusually warm November afternoon, my daughter, Erin, and I went for a walk. As we moved along in silence past the peeling paint of vacant houses and the abandoned wharf, I asked her if she liked living in here. Her answer was an immediate, "Yes."

When I asked her why, she explained simply and matter-of-factly, as only a small child can: "Because in the winter, beautiful birds come."

I smiled. She was referring, of course, to the myriad birds that grace our backyard each winter with their sweet song and beautiful plumage. They are truly a bright spot in an often bleak and harsh winter on the Bay of Fundy.

"What else?" I asked. With an expressive gesture of her arm toward the harbor, she indicated, "The beautiful sea, the beautiful gulls, the beautiful leaves." She continued The Beautiful List like Pollyanna and her Glad Game and it made we warm inside. I squeezed her hand in unspoken agreement.

How awesome is a child's ability to see the beauty in every thing. How wonderful it would be to be able to absorb life through their eyes once more.

Unbidden, fragments of my own childhood sprang to life as vividly as if it were only yesterday: days of skating on Card's Pond; swimming for hours in the Second Quarry; running along the beach with icy cold water splashing our tanned legs; coasting parties and bonfires; star-gazing on our backs in a sweet field of freshly mown hay. All melancholy evaporated as quickly as the early morning mist and I was left with a feeling of complete contentment, of being one with the world, of knowing that I belong here and that a seaside village is, indeed, one of the best places in which to grow up.

Yes, larger towns and cities offer opportunities that are undeniably attractive, but I would not trade even one faint childhood memory for the chance of an urban existence.

Instead, I will cling to simple things. I'll take joy in the first peep of the spring frog chorus. I'll listen to the ponds and fields. I will walk the tranquil beaches and savor each sunset that paints its crimson path along the Bay.

And when spruce and pine are bent and groaning under the weight of winter snow and the world is silent and white, I will stand at a frosty window and wait.

For here, every winter, beautiful birds come.

Other submissions by this author: :  Autumn Tapestry  ::  Alive  :

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