My cousin Sarah Mae Livingstone MacPherson proved to be one
the great rewards of my immersion in family history as it was altered by the events
of the Great War. Sarah Mae is gone now but Jan and I were lucky enough to meet
her a dozen years ago in the aftermath of
our first trip to the Western Front when I was ardent to find relics of
Livingstone men lost in the mud and mire of Flanders and France. We relished
her company for several years.
On her first visit to the cabin at Big Bras d`Or Sarah Mae
plunked herself down in one of the padded Adironacks on the front porch and
announced that if this were her place she`d be content to spend most of her
hours sitting in that chair watching the world go by. Slowly. Nowadays, well
past the three-score-and-ten milestone myself, I understand even better why
Sarah Mae felt that way.
The porch commands a fine view of the Great Bras d`Or and
Kelly`s Mountain: it is a place to watch eagles sail past, listen to territorial
warblers, enjoy the sight of gannets plunging headlong into the saltchuck,
intent on a meal of the freshest seafood. It is also a fine place for reading a
good book and enjoying a cup of King Cole tea.
We returned to `Bigador` the first day of summer, June 21,
and apart from some peeling paint here, a bit of rot there, we found the old
place – close to half a century at this point – pretty much as we left it last
October. Familiar sights and sounds remain reliable. The varying hares grow
accustomed to our return, rubythroats battle for position at the hummingbird feeders.
The legions of Clintonia lilies are past now, replaced now by equally populous battalions
of bold, bright orange hawkweed. We relish our daily 7-km walks to Dalem Lake,
busy ourselves with projects then enjoy the passing scene just as Sarah Mae
recommended we should.
Occasionally there is novelty too. Never before had we seen a
poplar adorned with fresh black-bear incisions. We keep eyes peeled for a
sighting of the bear itself. Unexpected serendipity occurs. On a sunny
afternoon an astoundingly beautiful bug – in all its cobalt blue and bright
orange iridescence – drops by for a visit and lingers long enough to permit a
photo shoot. At Dalem`s edge we find an adult spotted sandpiper and trailing
just behind, a youngster dipping its tail just as mama does.
Some old-reliables remain faithful whether we like it or
not. Mosquitoes, black flies and no-see-ems are as prolific as in any other
year. We try not to wish them away, for fear of the consequences their absence
would cost the cherished Blackburnians, Parulas and Magnolias.
There are other dependables. Cousins Lynn and Louise are
reliably congenial, good-natured and full
of fun. Alas, Lynn is also reliably murderous: instead of playing the slots at
the casino we gather at the cabin to play a version of Bananagrams all our own:
no two-letter words permitted, at least one eleven-letter word required of each
36-letter set. She typically gets the job done in seventy seconds. Her three
competitors have long since abandoned the hope of beating her in a match; now
we battle just to prevent her from outscoring the field. We ordinarily fail.
So far the weather has been sublime: the days mostly sunny,
the rains concentrated at night when a deluge is least inconvenient. The rain
barrels are full. Blueberries ripen up the way on MacKenzie Hill. If the Blue
Jays lose I am spared aggravation: here there is no television to watch
Bautista strike out with the bases loaded. I don`t get up at 4 a.m. to read The Guardian or the Washington Post and lament the state of the world: there is no
Internet here among the spruces and firs. Strangely, I feel none the worse for
the lack of it.
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