What Septembers are Supposed to Be.
Something was wrong with September. The month just didn’t feel right but I
couldn’t put my finger on it.
Yes mom and dad came for a visit, but that’s not a
problem. In fact that was quite nice and
beneficial. They’ve helped more than
anyone could ask.
It took Facebook to figure out the issue. In specific, it took my uncle’s photos. Browsing through the pictures made me realize
what I usually have done in September that hasn’t occurred this year. For the first time in probably four or five
years… no September trip to Fogo Island.
September is a pretty amazing time to visit the island. Tourism is down. The weather remains generally sunny and
warm. And the trip from St. John’s out
to central Newfoundland is accompanied by the beginnings of Fall colours.
I’ve grown accustomed to the Fall Fogo trip. The entire five or six days is a whirlwind of
hominess. It shrugs off the busy hassle
of Ottawa life… telling you to take a breath and let the land heal the soul.
A quiet flight begins the trip. Being just after the holiday season, the
plane is usually not full and you have time for reflection as you drift through
the skies. A hint of Fall colours dot
the land below… more so where landscape and tree type come together perfectly
for an orange, yellow and red explosion through the hills of the north east
United States, southern Quebec, New Brunswick, and Nova Scotia.
A touchdown in Halifax is enough to tell you you’re almost
home. It has become my gateway to the
east. Landing in Halifax tells me I’m near
the sea. And despite the hustle on the
runway… the fuelling of planes, driving about of luggage, and noise of jet
engines… things feel more easy going and relaxed.
Soon after taking off again, the land vanishes. Cape Breton waves goodbye and you know that
the next time you see land beneath you, it’ll be home.
Craggy cliffs are miniature in scale with the white foam of
breaking waves framing them for a better look.
And then you begin to recognize the roads and communities. Flying over the town your uncle used to have
a summer trailer. Tracing roads back
from the coast towards the highway… remembering high school days when a weekend
cabin run occurred there below.
And depending on the winds, the route into the city
varies. Sometimes we fly over Bell
Island… through Portugal Cove… and straight in to the airport. When going this way, we fly over my old
girlfriend’s family house. And I think
of all the times I drove there. Parking
over the Christmas season for a family gathering. And those times when they’d hear my car pull
up on summer days, and someone would peak out from the back of the house,
waving me along to the backyard… where the barbeque is about to light up.
Other times we’d take a longer version of this route. Flying past Portugal Cove and over Mount
Pearl and the Goulds. Turning out by
Cape Spear and coming in over Signal Hill.
This route would give me a taste of home like no other. Depending on the side of the plane I’m seated
on, maybe I’d look down at the Fisheries building… and think of spinning fish
eggs for money. Standing in lab coat and
smelling of alcohol.
Sometimes I’d see my last St. John’s neighbourhood. Looking down at Bannerman Park and
recognizing the streets and lanes I walked many a time. Even being able to pick out the one roof I
slept under for almost three years.
We’d fly over Emerson’s Pond… spotting the Crosbie complex
jutting out on a peninsula. And, on
final decent, just after the pond, look down upon Wedgewood Park. Seeing the softball field I spent so much
time on. Seeing the streets I’d ride
bikes on or wander with my half dozen gang members… for as much as nine and ten
year olds can be gang members.
And we’d fly over the house.
Seeing the backyard I played in… and even being so low as to see a car
missing in the driveway… and knowing where it was… and that I’d see the
occupants within minutes.
Once picked up and back in the house, mom would offer food
while dad would quietly jot in his journal.
And, depending on the time of day of my arrival, sometimes we’d just
spend some time together like this before bed calls the parents and the
basement TV calls me.
Other times, arriving during the day, we’d go back to the
car and take a drive out to Cape Spear.
Plenty of times I’ve stood on the cliffs here within an hour of having
flown over them.
And on those occasions, we’d go for soup and fries with
dressing and gravy for a late lunch.
On these September trips home, the next day would be for the
road. Up to the Ring Road and out over
the highway. You leave behind the city
quickly… looking out over marshes and low lying forests within twenty minutes
of departure.
Ponds dot the land and cars are pulled off near many of
these ponds where people have decided to go for a walk… or perhaps a final flick
of the fishing rod… or a look for the last of the blueberries.
By Clarenville, we’re an hour and a half in to the drive and
it’s time for lunch. Soup and hamburgers
are had and, from the parking lot, you look out at the valley below. Hills surrounding water… turning leaves… a
quiet town. Our old dog, Schokee, was
always happy when let out on her leash here.
Sniffing the air… curiously pawing at the top of the hill… wanting to
venture down the slopes.
From there we drive through Terra Nova Park. The Fall makes this place a wonder. Winding roads through the hills, looking down
into the sea.
By Gander, we pull in to the community and drive out towards
the coast. Over islands joined by
causeways. And stopping at my uncle’s
for a bite to eat.
Sometimes we stay here for the night. Perhaps to have a fire on the beach or just
to play some cards after supper.
If we don’t stay, we drive on to the ferry terminal. And if we do stay, we make this drive early
the next morning.
The last time I made this trip… last September… we did the
evening crossing. The skies began to
change colour midway through the ferry ride.
With the sun getting low, pinks and oranges begin to creep up. The island of Fogo was encased by shadows by
the time we drove off the ferry. But the
town of Fogo, on the western end of the island, clung to a last look of the
light. A picture of the setting sun in
the sea beyond the town is one of the best I have been lucky enough to take.
The evening on Fogo Island is quiet. Lapping waters are about all that can be
heard.
While on the island… probably for two or three days… we do
much the same as in previous years.
Drive from Fogo… to the intersection in the centre of the island… and on
over to Joe Batt’s Arm. Along the way,
we’ll stop at the bakery outside of Barr’d Islands. Pick up some bread and sweets for lunch…. And
head on towards Joe Batt’s.
A quick stop at the cemetery occurs. We walk through the grasses… looking down at
the white marble slabs as we go… my eyes always drawn to the old ones… tilted
in the earth… overgrown with grass and blueberry bushes… some smaller, with
carved lambs along the top… showing the final resting place for an infant who
briefly lived some eighty years ago.
At the back of the cemetery is the stones of my
grandparents. The grandfather I have no
memory of and the grandmother who made me laugh at times… calling me bizarre
names like “my little Dicky Tom”… and calling me these names with such
enthusiasm and speed that you weren’t quite sure what just occurred.
Other times, she frustrated me. When she wanted to watch Dallas on a Friday
night… while I wanted the family programing like Silver Spoons or Punky
Brewster. If I went for a drink or a
trip to the bathroom, I’d often return to the channel having been turned. Her trips to the bathroom resulted in much
the same thing. It came to be a battle
of bladder wills. Move it… and lose it…
from a TV program point of view.
After the cemetery, we’d go Back Western Shore. Or Back Wester’ Shore (as I think dad calls
it). Lunch here overlooks the sea from
great slabs of rock. Usually eating our
sandwiches and date squares while overlooking dad’s wading pools… or swimming pools. Big Dummy and Little Dummy are two tidal
pools in the rock… only five to ten feet from the open ocean… close enough that
bigger waves may slip over the smoothed rock and cascade down into the pool as
a foamy, fizzy river… only flowing for a few seconds… until the next big wave
comes in.
Sandy Cove calls as well.
A great sandy beach beyond Joe Batt’s Arm. With a warm river running along one end of
the beach… allowing swimmers to splash about in comfort rather than out in the
freezing sea. But at this time of year,
there are no swimmers. In fact, there
are rarely people at all. We walk the
beach alone. Inspect the river alone
(last time seeing that the river has become a pool with it’s connection to the
sea blocked by a wall of sand). And then
check out the sheep, fenced in to a beachfront meadow… alone. In the rest of the world, sandy beaches are
covered with tanners and swimmers… while beachfront property is owned by the
rich. Here, we’re alone with the sheep.
Supper is at Nicole’s restaurant. A fine dining place in the heart of Joe
Batt’s Arm. And, after we eat, we drive
back to the town of Fogo. Driving
through the darkness. Looking out at the
blackness of the barrens… the black sea beyond that… and the blacker still rock
of land on the other side of Shoal Bay.
Back in our efficiency unit, some cards… some tea… perhaps
another date square, or maybe a peanut butter chocolate ball. Before deep sleep calls. The kind of sleep brought on by lapping coves
outside your window… and the sea air of the day upon your tongue.
This is what Septembers are supposed to be.
MONDAY…
--- Work… it’s alright.
--- Do my writing a day late and post to the blog.
--- Some baseball on TV.
TUESDAY…
--- Iffy day at work.
Lunch with Shannon is nice but the rest is trying.
--- Physio is good.
Up the work on the shoulder and it does well for it.
WEDNESDAY…
--- Busy night at work.
At it steady until 1:00.
--- House is officially for sale. Sign on the lawn and awaiting the viewings.
THURSDAY…
--- Sleep until 11:00.
Some of the PVR’d Wednesday night TV today. Really liking that Michael: Tuesdays &
Thursdays show.
FRIDAY…
--- Lunch with Karl.
A nice time with good weather.
Take it pretty easy around the house after that. Baseball on TV and Wilco on the computer.
SATURDAY…
--- Physio while the house is being showed. Do the most weight yet on my shoulder and
it’s hard but no pain… so good.
--- Another showing in the evening so I walk to the bank to
deposit a cheque then over to the grocery store for a few things. Walk back to the lake and sit for a bit
waiting for the hour to clear for the house.
The Blackberry goes nutty during this period. Looking forward to soon ditching that phone
as battery suddenly goes from about 80% to 15 % and the phone sort of shuts
down for a bit.
SUNDAY…
--- Quiet day. Sleep
in a bit… catch up on some TV. Biutiful
is somewhat depressing to watch but sucks you in wanting to see what will
happen next. And Javier Bardem is great.
--- Two laps of the pond… and finish things off with the
season premiere of Boardwalk Empire.
Good times.
