​Julie sees Doug, twisting in a slow circle, clutching at drifting balloons as he falls. The balloons burst into images: there is Doug teaching, Julie laughing in the canoe, the first day in North Bay, the mountains in the distance as Doug drives through Alberta, a wide-eyed young waitress smiling, a snow blower growling through the drifts. Each slips from his hands and Doug continues to fall. He will come to earth eventually, because it is, after all, such a small world.

• A Canoer of Shorelines, Chapter 16

 
Yes, Doug, it is a small world, and there is a place for each of us in it. There is a place for the Julies, the Rachels, the Lailas – and the Tinas.

There is a place for you, too.

Having a place in the world does not mean you fit in. Tina does not fit in, but she belongs, because in all her pain, she embraces and affirms life. Do you think it was easy for Laila? Do you think she was born living by the side of the road, being a friend to humanity? No. She worked for it, Doug, and to you, she might not fit in, but in truth she fully belongs.

Doug, the world is small, and everything we do affects the world, even as the world affects us. Be careful in your dealings in the world, Doug; not many of us like what you are doing.

We have, however, hope for you.
 
Why am I speaking to a fictional character? Well, all fictional characters are inspired by our life connections and experiences, so perhaps it is my life connections and experiences that I am addressing. These names I mention are fictional characters in a fictional narrative, but each is someone we know. We know them in flashes of memory and impressions; we have known them all our lives.

Julie and Rachel in the novel are introspective, introverted seekers, fumbling and not confident. Laila is Woman Arrived: she has not traveled but she sees the world; she has been hurt but she knows love. Tina is a broken and heart-breaking child; marginalized, misunderstood, and abused, there is power in her grasp of life.

Doug is a selfish and self-serving person, and people report to me that they do not like him. He is not lovable; he is not kind or good. He is, however, a person, and although his dreams are self-centred and mean, they come from a desire to simply be. The Dougs are not easy; they are disturbing. 


Yet, we must try.

It is, after all, a very small world, and we cannot avoid them.

I am thinking about Doug today because our world hovers on the brink of madness. If I do not believe that people can change, that they can find their place of true belonging, then I will not believe that the world can draw back from that brink. I will not be able to look out over a calm lake with joy, because its calm is illusory. I must believe that its calm is a sign of hope for a future that will continue to nurture such joy.

I am thinking of Doug, too, because I have not been working much with Canoer since December; several events have led me to surgery, but I am now recovering and working on a new draft. I have faced that my life is changing. I cannot lift or load my kayak or canoe, but that is such a small part of who I really am. I can design ramps and pulley systems, I can break a task into its component steps, and I certainly can find joy in the calm of Wasaya.

So, Doug, open yourself to a new way, before you become one more element in an angry world. Learn a new way, or you will miss out on the beauty that is possible on the earth. Remember how Julie ditched you when she was going to the cabin? It is because you weren’t ready. It wasn’t really because you were sleeping, although that helped.

I will be fully alive, Doug, and I have no time to waste figuring out who has caused my problems. I will be on the water, enjoying the light and the shoreline.

There is a place in the world for each of us, as we come to earth in our small world, with eyes and mind open.

In the eighth month of the sixth grade, Tina demonstrated vocabulary recognition equivalent to that of a child in the fourth month of the third grade…. Perhaps Tina was sick that day, her stomach cramping and her attention lagging. Or, possibly, someone had stolen her dog that day, and vocabulary recognition was not her main concern. Is Tina’s first language English, or perhaps a dialect of English that differs in content and patterns from the standardized test? The tests indicate a pattern of need, but is this pattern Tina?

• A Canoer of Shorelines, chapter 12

 
The Christmas season draws to a close. Shall I write about the loneliness of the season, the bewilderment as we sink in flames in the most horrific wave of the pandemic to date, or the fears and struggles of family illness and surgeries?

No. I want to step past my fears and re-enter Julie’s world, the world of special education marvels and the stories behind the stories. Like Julie, we must come to accept Tina as a human being of vibrant potential; we do not define her by her disability. And we do not define her by our expectations.

A parent once exclaimed to me in tones of despair: “My kid is special ed.” I could only answer: “No, your child is Mary. And yes, she is special, because all children are special. True, she is having problems with the work we give her. Special ed is simply better work, meaningful work, something WE do to teach Mary the way she is meant to be taught.”

Over the years, children have taught me these key points:

1. Seemingly innocent remarks can break hearts.
2. A sound in one ear can be two sounds in another.
3. Beware Grade 8’s providing second language lessons.
4. Most important: A is for dog, and B is for cat. You have to know their story!

 
Seemingly innocent remarks can break hearts.
I sat with a twelve-year-old student, coaching him with his ESL lesson on the five senses. “What do you do with your eyes? You see. What so you do with your ears? You hear!” He seemed to be getting it, when he suddenly burst into tears and could not be comforted. My apologies and bewilderment made no difference, and the boy departed for lunch, leaving me baffled and worried.
 
Halfway through my lunchbreak, the light burst over me. “What do you do with your nose? You smell!” Student face crumpled. “Yes, you smell,” I nodded. I believe that tears are justified when a person in authority tells you repeatedly that you smell. Why didn’t I say, “What do you use your nose for? You use your nose to smell. You use your nose to smell wood smoke, to smell partridge cooking….”
 
We need to plan. And we need to accept that it is our phrasing that smells sometimes.
 
A sound in one ear can be two sounds in another.
My grade six student wrote about his trip to the Big Rabbits in his journal. He sounded it out carefully. In his language, there is no /b/, no /p/ There is < and that is both. A b-p that is neither b or p exactly.
 
Hold your palm before your face. Make the /b/; feel the puff of air on your fingers. Make the /p/ and feel it press to your palm. Make < and it falls between. Try ‘/t/ and /d/. His sound lies between. His eyes widened when he learned that in English, there were two sounds to watch for. Once he knew, he could apply his knowledge. There was no spelling problem; from his language base, rabbits and rapids had sounded the same.
 
Beware Grade 8’s providing second language lessons.
When the eyes dance as students teach new vocabulary, it is best to refer to a second source. My first English class offered to teach me their language; if I told them to sit down, loudly and clearly, they assured me that they would immediately sit down. Well, they were in one sense right; the term they provided is usually produced in a sitting position. I hope that at least one of them is reading this! They might not remember, but they opened my mind in so many ways and I am forever grateful.
 
Thus, years later, when teaching phonics to a group of happy ten-year-olds, I could enjoy their laughter. “This sound is ‘meu’,” I explained. “For this one, you say ‘meu’, not MOO.” As the sound left my lips, I knew what I had done. They tilted back their heads and howled with laughter, molars shining in the recesses of their mouths. This translates, in their language, to the word that does not mean ‘sit down’ in another.
 
A corollary lesson comes also from my first year. “How was your first morning?” I asked the new teacher. “Great!” she replied. “But there seem to be so many students named Atsuk. I wonder what it means?” Literally, it means “I don’t know”, but it can mean much more: Forgive me, for I am shy and I am not ready to tell you my name yet. I am not sure what to say, what to do. Please be patient with me. When they are ready, when they are safe with you, they will teach you many things.
 
A is for dog, and B is for cat.
I am so proud of my Grade 1 phonics group. We are matching beginning sounds with words and they are doing it well! Now we are on a felt board app, sliding objects into position beside letters. “We are looking for /a/ things, like /a/ for…. Apple…. alligator…. no, no! That is /d/ dog. Let’s find /a/ apple!” The little face scowls, and the tiny fingers shove the dog onto the /a/ line. I sigh and turn to another student. Goodness! They seem to be phonetically challenged!! This one is pushing the cat into position beside the /b/. “That is /c/ cat. It goes here.”
 
“Nope,” he declares. “This is /b-p/ b-pisu!” Light surges across my mind. This is the word for cat in his language, and this…… this is not /d/ dog – this is /a/ animoosh!
 
My nickname was Animoosh, for obvious reasons. (I only had two dogs, but many other dogs followed me.) Why did I not make the connection? It took a six-year-old boy (his dad and my son went to school together years back, point of interest) to remind me that phonics is not restricted to English! Their language has a phonetic base, and they were going to use it!
 
So, enter the learning moment. Embrace the wonder that awaits when we honestly recognize the reality of children.
 
Oh! I miss the wonder. As soon as I get medical clearance, I am going to strap on my mask, sanitize my hands, gird up my loins, and go back to learning!  

As I, too, find those things annoying, I fully agree. Although I confess that I talk to my dogs and generate responses in voices I have designated for each, I am not comfortable with treating children or dogs as cute and adorable playthings. The Husky is a wise and noble confidante and companion; she is not a sweetie or a fur-baby. The Shay is a joyful and exuberant being, rich in affection; I would never dress her in a clown hat to celebrate that fact.

My girls are friendly, but please do not insist that your friendly dog push its face in theirs. They will demonstrate hostility toward your friendly dog, with expressions that might disturb the sensitive. Please listen and let me finish as I advise you, “Don’t put your face down to her –”. Please do not interrupt and say, “Awww, I’m used to dogs,” and then turn to me with accusing and streaming eyes as I finish, “because, as I was trying to say, the Husky loves to bump noses.” Please do not swing your palm down to pat the Shay on top of the head; she will click her teeth to advise you that she dislikes that. If she banged a paw on top of your head, perhaps you would not like it either.
​
They are my canine companions, the keepers of my secrets. The Husky lies behind me, watching as I write. The Shay studies the front window, and at precisely 4:30 pm local time, she will come up and tug my sleeve, because it is walk time. They are editorial staff and recreational staff.
​
They scan the sky and take note of all birds, drifting leaves, jets, and moving clouds, and at night, they study the moon. They are vigilant.

​Like Musko, they understand human nature. They have made many of their conclusions based on experience. If they and Musko joined forces to write an advice column, I am sure that it would include these, among others:

1. Do not engage in prolonged scrutiny of your human. Particularly at mealtime, this will foster feelings of anxiety. It will not enhance sharing of food. Instead, lie quietly at their feet, sighing softly so they remember you are there. Feelings of guilt will result, prompting a desire to share.
2. Do not press your face to the human’s face while they are fumbling with the alarm clock. They do not read this as support and love, but as an intrusion, triggering an aggressive verbal response.
3. Do not slurp your tongue on the palm of their hand. They will make mewling sounds of distress. A light lick to the wrist, or below the ear, engenders a more positive response.
4. Do not crowd your face between them and the phone. Again, this will engender an aggressive response. You can still hear most of the conversation if you lie quietly by their side.
5. Pace near the treat cabinet at designated times. This serves as a graceful reminder. Do not vocalize at this time, or feelings of hostility may be displayed, particularly if they are tapping on their cell phone or device like that.
6. Sniff the wonderful tracks you find while pacing slowly. Some humans cannot stand still for long, and they become restless. One of you may tug on the leash, but not both of you at once. The human might stumble, and verbalizations will be painful to your ears. Also, the older human might be injured, and will withdraw to their lair.
7. Learn to read the human’s needs. If you hear them crying in the night, lie near, and let your love pulse to them. Listen as they share their fears. Soft vocalizations at this time will comfort them.

Dogs have great patience and an infinite capacity for forgiveness and love. Celebrate that. Read them, as they read you. Grow and live together in joy.

​Once upon a time, I lived on a shallow, rocky lake, in a cabin accessed only by canoe. I saw beautiful sunrises, and decided to write a book about those. Sunrises do not typically fill a novel, but I did grow up in a rambling old farmhouse. I would write about a woman who lived in a haunted farmhouse! It turned out to be the story of two women, both haunted, both with a sentimental relationship with an old farm, both struggling to find their way in the world.  

We sat in a meeting that day, and you said that the word “God” hurt you, raising memories of the residential schools and all they did in the name of God.

You may not have attended the residential school, but you carry the burden. I may not have perpetrated the residential school system, but I carry the shame.

Your words have echoed in my mind, and these words have been growing inside me until this day, when they spill out onto my computer screen. Will this bring you healing? No. Nevertheless, these words must come out, for my sake.

Your pain disturbs me, and so it should. But it must also move me to action, or I have failed.
​
The bodies of the lost children are surfacing. We are indignant on your behalf. We don orange, attend Gatherings, and write inspiring posts on social media to prove our commitment.

Later, we will return to our cocoons, still righteous, still indignant, but a little weary of it all. We will click “like” and “caring” on your posts, but we will move on. We will seek the next social trauma and focus our energy on that for a while.

The word “God” beats against your senses. That is our shame. We read the Gospels – the euangellion, the good news. We are thrilled by the teachings of this itinerant preacher/carpenter, and we claim them as our own. We build rituals and institutions to administer the teachings. We build a little box and there we place the marvelous limitless author of the universe. We summon this being to do our bidding, invoking him with formula and chant. We demand that he bless our actions, and we claim his voice.

Poor god locked in a box.

But really, there is no god in that box. He does not rise up to our whim, blessing our desires and changing the world to suit us. No, the True One sweeps open our hearts, causing us to fall to our knees before the wonders of creation. This is the One who moves us to rejoice. I like to think of this One as author, for he weaves our stories together, our stories spinning out like dreams. He never forces the ending. He respects his own laws.

So, where was this One while your children were in agony? He was there beside them, and he felt every nail, every thorn piercing his own heart as yours is pierced this day still, and he remains in agony beside you until the end.

Jesus gathered the little children close and blessed them. Yes, I am sure he felt their innocence and trust, but remember in Jesus’ time, children were a marginalized people, and he reached out and embraced all marginalized people. Jesus had a knack for celebrating and embracing others and somehow we have lost that. He did not strive to change people – he usually just asked them to follow him. I have seen the children following the dancers, mimicking and learning as they go. Thus we should follow him. I think Jesus would have been delighted if he could have attended a Gathering. He would have smiled there.  

The hollow box saddens me. Why did we force you to accept it? Why would we want it in the first place?

The prophet Zephaniah seems to know your story.

 At that time I will deal
    with all who oppressed you.
I will rescue the lame;
    I will gather the exiles.
I will give them praise and honor
    in every land where they have suffered shame.

The lost children of the residential schools were exiled; they suffered shame. And now they are being borne home, given honour and praise. Is this the Kairos, the appointed time foretold? And those of us who knelt and grappled and twisted the life-affirming words of Jesus into a sterile box with splinters are not after all the ones who will be uplifted? For as we uplift, so shall we be uplifted.

Is this the Kairos and now you come forward from your exile, where you were driven to the margins of the land, of the streets, and of the heart? Is this your time?

Will the word “God” become glorious on your tongue? When the word is pronounced, will it call into the moment all the Great Titles, especially the ultimate title by which you call him, Creator?

When we hear the word “God”, will we recognize each other as children of the Earth? Will we embrace the welcome that you have offered again and again and it will be so?

Is this, the early days of Truth and Reconciliation, your ­Kairos, and shall we dance with joy for you?

We have been present at your crucifixion, but if the Author of the Universe weaves us into your story, perhaps we shall celebrate with you in your resurrection.

One of the joys of being a Euro-Canadian child in the 1950’s was inspecting the presents under the Christmas tree each December. We had many relatives, and therefore the presents extended over the floor. Mysterious objects were lifted, flexed, and shaken. We poked and prodded and predicted; this one might be an artist’s sketch pad, or a treasure map, or a beautiful painting of a wild horse galloping over the prairies – not the school notebooks that it probably contained.

As a species, we love to predict and plan. We love to dream a future in which our lives will be rich and whole. We are troubled by our mortality, and yearn to describe what lies beyond our death. Invariably, we will be happy and we will be in charge. Those who disagree with us will probably not fare so well. This is by no means a new attitude. In the upheavals of the Middle Ages, there were many movements pointing to a future in which the good (us) would be vindicated, and the evil (all those who disagreed with us) would come to ruin. Norman Cohn covers such movements in The Pursuit of the Millennium. In our own time of upheaval, we would do well to reflect.

Many of us look forward to a Resurrection of the Dead, but none of us knows what is inside that package. Is it at the end of time? Is it a change experienced in the heart right now? Is it both? Is it just a dream? What did it mean to the followers of Jesus: Was it a physical event that affirmed their faith or was it, as Rudolf Bultmann suggested, a spiritual realization of the meaning of his ministry and death? We flex that package and try to guess what it contains.

When my son went missing on the north Labrador coast a few years ago, a friend told me not to worry, that my mother was in heaven watching over him. My first thought was “You mean this doesn’t end? When I die, I will sit perched on the edge of heaven, viewing my descendants plunging into danger, forever and ever? And everyone will expect me to pull off a miracle?” If my mother had been watching over my son, then she first should have kept his Satellite phone dry, because he was fine but his phone was not.

I was relieved to read that, biblically anyway, one typically rests with one’s ancestors in death, like King David . One does not watch grandchildren battling the waves and then try to control the storm for them. One does not spend eternity in a grand family reunion – I have enough trouble handling an afternoon at such events. I would rather spend eternity nurturing the crops, tending the livestock, and canoeing the shorelines. Especially shorelines like Rachel’s Wasaya Cove. I fashion an eternity that is pleasing to me.

For the Indigenous peoples, the spirit vibrates in the universe, and all creation is connected. They knew these things before they were written down. They lived these things and knew them in their hearts.

I read Genesis, and I learn how the Ruach (the Breath, the Spirit) moved over the waters, how it called forth all creation, how it breathed life into the first beings. There is raw creative power in those moments, but moved as we are, we try to force them into a box. We set boundaries; we develop residential school systems.

I like to think that my body will return to the earth, and the breath (that is, spirit) that moved in me in this life will return to that same marvellous breath that moves through the universe, that breathes life into the universe. I cannot say how it will unfold, but the Author of the Universe is both infinite and intimate. Whatever unfolds, it will be right.

I fashion an eternity that is pleasing to me. When I rip open the package on Christmas morning, it might be school notebooks. However, I can solve math problems in those notebooks, or jot notes for a remarkable novel.

I will take whatever Resurrection I get.

*****
Next time, I want to focus on Zephaniah, who reminds us that the Author of the Universe will deal with the oppressors, and give praise and honour to those who have suffered shame. As we look forward to growing together in Truth and Reconciliation, dare we hope that the day of uplifting has begun, for those who have been crucified? 

We crave certainty. We long for affirmation. We want to know that we are heading in the right direction.

In Matthew’s story of the Transfiguration (Matthew 17: 1-9), three disciples find their beliefs affirmed, and it is a magnificent and terrifying moment. It begins as a simple journey; Peter, James, and John accompany Jesus into the mountains. Suddenly, though, it becomes much more: dazzling light surrounds Jesus, and Moses and Elijah step out of history and chat with him. Peter begins to ramble about pitching tents; this is simple hospitality, perhaps, but I think that mainly he is trying to cover his anxiety: Are we experiencing a vision, or are we going mad? How do we respond to this moment? Let us pretend we were expecting this. When a voice blasts out of the cloud, their response is quite natural: they drop to the ground in pure terror. No one is comfortable with a true theophany, or manifestation of the divine.

We would like that level of assurance in our day to day lives. We are sick of masks. We are terrified of vaccines. Our fragile rights hang in the balance and we cling to our resilience with both hands. Wars erupt, flames explode, hurricanes rip through our settlements with unprecedented violence, and now solar storms loom on the horizon.

We are angry. We should not have to face such troubled times. We deserve better. God has abandoned us, so we are justified in abandoning God. We are free to be ourselves.

 Recent experiences with emergency wards have taught me, however, that God is present in the darkness. God comes not with hymns or collars or books. The voice of God does not boom from the heavens. God comes in ways that evoke stables and straw.

For seven hours one night, I received a vision of the blessed mother, not in blue in a grotto with light and rosaries. She was a true Madonna, my Madonna of the shadowed corridors, my Madonna in capris and t-shirt, my Madonna of the twisted braids. She paced the corridor, rocking her toddler, eyes on the child’s face.

For seven hours, she was alone. In former times, the nurses could see her sooner, but in these times, there are so many they must see. The Madonna knows this. In former times, someone could walk over and stretch out their arms, giving her a moment’s break. In these times, which are CoVid times, my Madonna stood alone. But then, the Madonna always stands alone.

In the haze of that night, as my anxiety rose, she paced, swaying, face close to her child’s. And peace washed over me.

I walked the hallway that night. There were stretchers in the shadows. A hoarse voice whispered in thirst. A hand emerged, offering ice chips; the voice was gentle. So this is what the cold cup of water in his name means. Someone will be there in the shadows, when the thirst is overwhelming.

And in another emergency ward, hundreds of miles away, a surgeon winds his way through the corridors. His long shift is over, and he longs to be with his family, but first he seeks out a young man, bewildered and in severe pain, so many miles from his northern home. The surgeon is gentle and welcoming; he explains things well and the young man relaxes. And hundreds of miles away, I give thanks for this angel that visited my son, and brought him comfort and hope.

We are weary of masks. We are terrified and we lash out.

But there, in the shadowed corridors of the emergency wards, God is present. There, in the fragile moments of our existence, in the seconds between the moments, God comes to us. These are holy moments. They lack elemental power, but they are powerful, just the same.
​
These are the moments of balance that show us that light in darkness is possible after all.

This section of the Park is stark and lonely, a glimpse of post-apocalyptic Kejimkujik. The rain falls harder. Once, canoes pulled to the shore, as the People made their way from the interior down to the sea. They journeyed back and forth, back and forth, and there was meaning and reason in each movement, and the hemlocks, the dead and the living, were not lonely.

• A Canoer of Shorelines, Ch. 5

The earth is exhausted from the machinations of the human race. The surface is scabbed and scarred, and the hidden poisons run deep. The summer sky is shadowed by the smoke of distant fires; disease creeps onto unwitting hosts, and illness erupts in secluded places and busy places.

Committees are formed and protests are held; these are good things that raise awareness. Still the temperatures soar, fires rage, and there are earthquakes in divers places. Viruses outmaneuver vaccination efforts. Wars worsen and acts of terror horrify. The hollow eyes of starving children stare into the camera. Our world has become a scene from a fantasy novel or dystopian tale and, for some, a prophetic fulfilment.

Creation is set in motion according to natural laws. We study these laws and look for ways to improve them. We have done great things, but at great cost. The Creator does not reverse our failures; this would reduce the splendid laws of the universe to whim and fancy. We have done this to ourselves, and must take responsibility.

I walk the clear-cut, and I weep for Mother Earth. Yet there, amid the scrub, clusters of blackberries gleam. Here, in the clear-cut, in this torn and devastated land, I find these berries, shining and fresh with the morning. This is a precious gift to receive – the affirmation that nature can renew, even this little bit.
​
Look here, a voice whispers, for here is light in darkness, hope in despair. This is a miracle, and what is a miracle but a science that you do not know? Walk with reverence here, for I am making all things new. Remember that you belong to the earth, that the earth does not belong to you. Learn from the earth, but do not presume to teach it. The earth will renew itself, if you let it happen. 

Thank God her brother had some Thanksgiving spirit and common sense and said she was teaching out near “The Park.” And thank God for the friendly staff at the gas bar who gave him good directions to this godforsaken lump of a house. They said his dog would love the fields but not to let him chase deer. Apparently, they came out where a barn or something used to be.

• A Canoer of Shorelines, ch. 7

 
Doug Simmons in ​A Canoer of Shorelines is used to functional directions, the kind that he would get today on a search engine. Turns, exits, distances – all are rendered without emotion, without the background detail that makes them real for some of us.

When I was driving the back roads to Val d’or, Quebec, and the cheery computer voice announced “Turn left at the fork in the road”, I began to seek that fork. Suddenly the voice exclaimed, “Take the left fork now!” There was a compelling urgency in the voice, and I slowed down, my eyes sweeping the trackless forest to my left. I could see occasional gaps between the trees; perhaps there was once a logging road out there. The Voice was still trapped in that era, and insisted that I drive out into the trees. When I did not, there was an abrupt blip, and my screen went grey. The Voice does not manage rejection well.
Ten kilometres later, the voice had forgiven me, and announced, “Continue for twenty-seven kilometres.” Perhaps computer voices cannot convey sullenness, but this one came close.

I glanced back, and sure enough, there were gaps along the swamp. Once, there was a road.

I am a Maritimer, and we don’t manage functional directions well. We want the story!
​
I wanted that computer voice to tell me the entire story; perhaps it could say, “Now we always turned left about here; you can see traces of the road if you look. There was a well-kept logging road, and it was our favourite shortcut. Then times got hard, and the trucks stopped running. They weren’t going to maintain it – it was along the swamp after all – so we keep to the main road now. Too bad about that.” Or maybe, “When [Name] won the lottery, they built a beautiful lodge back there and people came from miles around. They got old though, and their kids didn’t want a lodge, and it’s all grown in now. Kind of a shame.”

Good directions are supposed to inform us. Good directions are rich in history.

Maritime directions are like that. Most of us, when we go to town, confuse Aberdeen and Dufferin unless we are on them. The Call Centre is on Dufferin (I think), but good directions would begin “You know where the old hospital used to be? Yes, handy the fair grounds. Just down the hill….”

I once witnessed a clerk in town providing functional directions to the central post office. “You go down Victoria Road, cross the bridge and up Aberdeen, then turn left on the number 10….” The listener’s eyes began to glaze. I leaned forward. “Just past Frenchy’s, on your left, if you’re heading for Walmart.” The person was a Maritimer; we have an inner tracking device that will guide us to the nearest Frenchy’s.

But rural directions give the best history. The more rural the place, the richer the history. If you stand at the grocery store and ask directions to the hardware store, you might learn that:

The hardware store was always where the pharmacy is, right on the corner. They kept their supplies where the new place is. Of course, in those days the pharmacy was where the restaurant is today. They have good specials. The pharmacist always closed from twelve to one, but the new place is open. They have good gifts in there. Yes, the hardware store. You hold to the left at the corner, right where the pharmacy is, and you go past Duke’s barbershop. Of course, the barbershop is long closed – used to have a bowling alley there, and after it became a pizza shop. It’s all boarded up but it says “Pizza” and she made good ones, I must say. Now on your left a ways down, you’ll see our new medical centre, where the liquor store used to be but not exactly. The hardware store is just below, on your right, behind where the train station was. Yes, and the Mersey barns and all…”

You learn local history, and get a taste of what makes a place special, what makes it home to so many. You will never get that from “Stay on Route 8 South for about one kilometre. It’s on the right, and it has a sign on the road.”

Learning directions as a Maritimer has prepared me for interactions with other cultures.

“Where does this parent live?” I asked a teaching colleague in one community, indicating a name on my list.

“Oh! That’s easy!” she exclaimed. (I was sure it was not.) “You know where my new house is?”

“Not really.”

“Well, they’ve got the frame up now, over there.” She waved across the parking lot toward the lake. “It’s the orange one, right beside it. The one that’s brown but not blue.”

Being a Maritimer, I knew all would be revealed at the right time. Sure enough, as I wandered along, I saw the frame of a house rising beside the road. Close beside it were two bungalows; one was orange with brown panelling, and the other was blue with brown panelling. It was easy to pick the orange house that was brown, not to be confused with the blue one that was brown. Good directions don’t always make sense at first, but they will if you trust them.

Some might think there is a hunt of mockery here. I assure you, there is not. These are my people, my language, and my history. This is my home.

This is how we are. Doug, once again you have missed out.
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I must go find an Internet connection and post this. You know that ledge where the snowplough turns? Okay! You go past that, past the old farm on the river. They haven’t hayed there in years. Once though, it was a farm and the foundations are still there. You can’t see the river because it’s down behind the hill. Well, pass that road and at the top of the hill on your right there is a ridge. Some days you get a signal there. 

Resentment, not gratitude, is rising in Julie, and for this she is sorry. However, she was mowing happily, the night far away from the sunny morning, and now it is over and Laila, not Julie, has saved the day and possibly the farm. Soon, every house will buzz with the knowledge that the new tenant has set the prized mower on fire. Heads will shake as hands reach for the phone. This one is surely worse than those bootleggers—remember them? Soon, Samuel will know that he has a very bad tenant, and will be studying the lease for clauses relating to termination of agreement.

• A Canoer of Shorelines, p. 51

Julie, in A Canoer of Shorelines, worries continually about what people are thinking of her. She wants to be independent, yet routinely squanders her independent moments wondering how people perceive her and her actions. She was not born in the nineteen fifties, but she had the mindset for it.

For many of us fifties children, worrying over the viewpoint of others is natural. We were raised on the fundamental question of life: What will the neighbours say? This was sometimes restated: What on earth must people be thinking?

How many times did we huddle at the scene of our latest crime, shoulders drooping, while a parent stared us down, a fist pressed to one hip, the other hand pointing to the horror we had been perpetrating, while demanding: What will the neighbours say?

Not: Do you seriously believe those paper bags and scotch tape would make an air balloon capable of flying your sister across the first field? From the top of the barn? The social perception, not the science, was challenged. Did they assume that we understood the science, but hadn’t stopped to consider the long-reaching social implications?

So you are five, and decide that sitting on the sheep pen fence with one leg dangling into the pen is a safe and happy practice. As you cling to the fence post screaming and the ram (this referring to the usually volatile male sheep of the herd, with the well-chosen name “Dynamite”) pounds your leg into the boards, a conversation develops.

Mother (from porch): What’s all the yelling?
Child (from fence): My leg! My leg! Dynamite’s got my leg!!!
Mother: Well, that will teach you to play on the sheep pen. Now get off.
Child: My leg! My leg! Dynamite’s got my leg!!!
Mother: Get off the fence then. Before you tear your clothes.
Child (descending from the fence, snivelling): My leg’s all black and blue.
Mother (checking a small bruising below the knee): What were you thinking? My god, what will the neighbours say?
Yet she hugs the child long and hard, rocking back and forth.

Somehow, we knew that behind the gruff exterior beat a heart that was terrified – a heart that cringed at every bruise, a heart that wanted to boot the ram across the sheep pen and did not dare betray its weakness. The neighbours were the personification of their own self-judgment.

So, like good children, we followed the rules and lived secret lives.

No, we did not to go swimming below the bridge because there was a soft bottom there. Instead, we built rafts using splintery old boards, made buoyant by empty sixties-issued bleach jugs, the ones that would deflect bullets. We climbed over sharp tin cans in the dump to find these. We bobbed, swayed, and tumbled, but we did not swim below the bridge.

When I was afraid of the dark, a plaster guardian angel was placed by my bed and I prayed dutifully to it for protection. Then I loaded my cap gun and slipped it under my pillow. When the night creatures surrounded me, I clutched the stock of my trusty six shooter and knew I was safe. I declared the prayer, but not the gun.

We raced along the beams in the hay loft, and sprang from bale to bale. We reported the truth; we were playing in the hay, and we saw the pigeons!

Somehow we survived a riotous game involving shoving one another off the hay wagon, without broken limbs or damage to the spine or brain. We were playing on the wagon!

I have no idea what the neighbours would have said, because we shielded our secret lives from parents, neighbours, and anyone else. That is why I raised my own child with particular care. I knew what he was capable of. Yet I have walked through a grove of trees to applaud the booby traps my son and his cousin had placed. I recall my amazement as a great log went whizzing past my head, released by a trip wire. It was a feat worthy of physicists. They were ten. And like ten year olds they were both proud of their achievement and horrified by the language with which I pointed out the inherent dangers of their cleverness. Oh! What would the neighbours have said if they could have heard me!

The trick, Julie, is not to let the neighbours rule you. Parents used the neighbours only allegorically. What will the neighbours say? translates I have failed to keep you safe, and you are the world to me. The neighbours are not lurking in the shadows, judging. You are judging them with your eyes, and judging yourself through their eyes. Embrace the love and the fear behind the question of the past, and get on with your adult life.
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That is all the time I have. I have to find an Internet signal, and get this jumbled reflection posted. What will the neighbours say if I am late?