As much as flying reduces the time needed to get somewhere, driving has so many advantages. You get to appreciate the scenery, and you can stop and explore little nooks and crannies.
For example, this summer was the second time I drove through Saskatchewan. Anyone who’s not from the prairies always describes them as flat with nothing to see (except maybe your dog running away for three days…old joke). Except, of course, for those living there, Canadians in general do not have an appreciation for the prairies. I was one of them. This last drive has opened my eyes to the beauty of this part of our country.
It was very early in the morning when we drove through, and a layer of mist hung over the fields of bright yellow canola. Some fields had cattle lazily grazing with tails flicking. With the sun’s morning rays being filtered by the mist, the view was heavenly. At regular intervals along the road, ponds and marshes were nestled inside tall stands of trees.
Why didn’t I stop to take a photo? I don’t know. Maybe I was wrapped up in the beauty of it all. It was so peaceful.
When visiting family in Ontario, I don’t usually get to uncles, aunts, and cousins because they’re spread out. Driving through, this year, afforded me the opportunity to stop in and say hello.
One such stop was in Astorville (near North Bay) at my grandmother’s old farmhouse. She’s passed away now, but my uncle purchased the property and has been living there for some time.
Gauthier Farm
Renovations on the old house have drastically changed the look of it, but some old parts on the inside are still recognizable: the large wooden beams in the original living room are now painted white; the upstairs, where my sister and I used to sleep during our traditional Easter visit, is left almost untouched; and the postage stamp-sized kitchenette-cum-bathroom is still there. Again, why didn’t I take pictures of the inside?
The Renovated House
Memories came flooding back when I took a tour around the property. Dave and I had to make our own path through tall grasses to get to the old tree house from my childhood. The path is long gone, and I worried about poison ivy (or was it poison oak) that grew in and around the area when I was a kid. Here’s Dave, who stands 6′6″, in the grasses. They were as tall as I am.
Dave in the tall grasses
I couldn’t miss the tree. There it stood like an old faithful friend, waiting for the return of little hands and feet searching for crevices to grab onto, waiting for the whispered secrets and squeaky laughs of children hiding up on the rugged platform, and ready and able to take in the pounding of nails into its hard frame to support the memories that would be built in and around it.
Old Faithful: A couple of wooden boards are still visible
My sister, my uncle (who, incidentally, was my sister’s age), and I worked on that tree house a little bit each year. My uncle did the bulk of the work since it was in his backyard, while we were there only a few days each year. But how we loved to climb those crooked wooden rungs and sit up high overlooking surrounding fields. It was our own little nook.
While looking up at my childhood friend, my mind wandered back to a tumble I once had, and my right hand instantly reached for a small ridge on my left hand between the thumb and index finger. There’s still a scar there thirty-three years later. The details are fading, but kids being kids, my sister and I had had a spat, and I was now barred from the tree house. Ignoring her warnings not to come up, I stubbornly kept climbing the rungs until she gave me a hard push. Down I went with the wrong end of a rusty nail finding its way into my hand. All is long-forgiven now, and when my sister and I get together, we laugh ’til we cry telling stories from the old farm house.
A rotting platform remains
