Morning Musings on a Road Well Travelled

BY: EB Page

It’s early morning and the house is still as I open my eyes. The cool breeze nudges the curtain allowing a sliver of sunlight to breach the darkness. I slide out of bed slowly, so not to disturb my husband, and sneak out of our bedroom, workout gear in hand. I tiptoe through the house hoping the children don’t wake for at least five more minutes, giving me a chance to make my escape. I feel like a thief, sneaking out into the early morning air. For a moment, I will steal back a piece of myself that motherhood has stolen away: Solitude.

Our home is perched neatly at the top of a large hill, and as I start to run down it I feel the wind rush against my face. In my descent I gain speed and confidence as my burdens are swept away. I feel healthy. Strong. Alive.

I turn left, passing the small cluster of streets, that make up my neighborhood. Regina, Mascott, Mikado, Rupert. Each time I pass one of these rectangular green signs I become further enthused as my feet pound against the pavement. I am running towards the sun and I feel my spirits rise in its presence. The streets are bare. My lungs start to burn as I approach the local cemetery, and I slow to a walk as I enter. My pounding heart steadies as I greet this place of peace at the slower pace it demands.

I recognize many names as I pass a cluttered and eclectic collection of tombstones. There is no order, and the tombstones blend together in chaos under the trees. The trees arch up over the pavement creating a dome of shadows through which I now wander. It is cooler here, and the breeze chills my warm skin as I examine the tombstones before me. The black glossy finish of some, and the moss-covered behemoths of a century past. 

 Kenora is a small town. If I don’t know the people who reside here, I do know their children or grandchildren. I pass my great grandparents. I know I will live and die here, and I wonder if my children will as well.

Will they see the beauty that this small town offers?

Will they view it as a dead end they must escape at all costs? 

I wonder as I think back upon my own youthful ambitions. My dreams always shone romantically under big city lights. The irony of my choices in adulthood is not lost on me.

Will they feel it?

Will they see our small community as safe harbour once they’ve grown? 

These thoughts are invading my escape and I pick up my pace as I finish the first loop of the cemetery’s winding road. I choose another path that will bring me closer to the exit. Back on the sidewalk I start to run. I follow the road half way home and turn towards town instead. The harder I run the easier it is to push these thoughts from my mind and observe my surroundings. As I sprint down Main Street I try to focus on the details and leave thoughts of my family at home where they belong. 

Will my grandchildren live here?

Will they wait anxiously for three seasons to go to their cottage by the lake?

It is early in the Spring, but I can already picture what the summer ahead will bring. A house full of sand to be sure, a car full of shovels and buckets, spare towels and water guns. The toys will go from the beach to the car and back again, collecting more and more sand with each passing day that no one bothers to shovel out until a new school year begins. The children, my sun kissed children, are wild and free. They will never know a hot, humid city day. Their days are filled with rolled down windows, sticky popsicle fingers and wind in their faces as we drive to our next outdoor adventure. They will never long for a vacation by the beach. They can’t see it now, but their childhood is a dream come true.

My feet hit the planks of the boardwalk and my footfalls are preceded by the groan of the wood as I run along the lakefront. The entire town lays silent, awaiting the arrival of  May long weekend. 

How many people are this fortunate?

How many people can walk and find a beautiful beach and thousands of islands to explore in every direction?

The long panels of wood turn abruptly to pavement. I’m on the green belt, which stretches around the bay, alongside the harbor. The roads are bare for now, but I can already picture what they are going to look like once the weekend descends upon us. 

The tourists will arrive in droves as soon as the hot sun rises on Friday morning. It is a slow invasion, but this weekend historically marks the beginning. Manitoba plates will be bumper to bumper down the green belt slowly inching towards Main Street. Most are coming to open their cottages after a long Northwestern Ontario winter. They sit idly in their cars, oblivious to the phenomenon they have created. Locals are enraged by what, to our standards, qualifies as a traffic jam, while the newcomers sit happily in their cars dreaming of the beach, and watching the lake sparkle outside the comfort of their air-conditioned vehicles. The early cottage-goers have already put down their roots in our community, but the population will swell much further in the months to come. 

On Lake of the Woods we see vacationers from around the world. There is only one time of year you’ll see traffic come to a halt in Kenora.

Our streets take on a city-like appearance for a few brief months. They become clogged and congested. Most locals can be found fleeing to the lake on Friday afternoons. It is home to thousands and thousands of islands making it easy to become truly and completely lost while navigating the waters. We pack up our boats on Fridays and leave work early, retreating to the beckoning waters where there is more room to breathe.

As a young child I dreamed of being a tourist in my own town. I knew even then how magical summers here could be, but I always longed to see them from the other side. Instead I was subjected to the brutally cold winters and a dreary empty town for the majority of the year.

I find my thoughts drifting unintentionally back to my children once more.

Teaching them to fish? Is that enough?

Hunting? Snowmobiling? Hockey? 

I know the responsibility I have raising my children here. I need to embrace the winter so my children will as well. 

My lungs are burning now, begging for air. I collapse on the grass in front of the rocky lakefront, and sit for a time, staring across the lake at the boats rocking gently in the harbour. I let my thoughts wander, I remember.

I stared with awe at the girls walking down Main Street. They were the same age as I was, but much more worldly. All year long I dreamed of the day I would get to leave small town life for the big city. Those Winnipeg girls stared straight back.

A slow realization spreads through my mind as the damp grass beneath me cools and soothes. My temperature drops. As I daydreamed of a different life, they must have dreamed of mine. They had found themselves living in a cottage in a quaint summer town by the lake. It was a simpler place, and they were primping for summer romances abound. They saw the locals, with our sun kissed skin, and our carefree days by the water. Oh how those girls must have envied us! They would have known all the while that in a few short weeks they would return to the real world , leaving it all behind until next year. This gives me comfort as I rise and begin to walk home.

My legs are stiff from sitting and the wet grass sticks to me as I brush it off and begin the last two kilometers of my morning solitude. Half way home I find the strength to run again, and as the sun rises higher in to the sky I sprint the rest of the way. I don’t want my babies to wake up without me. I push through, and back up the hill, feeling the satisfyingly familiar stress on my body that comes only from a good run.

I close the door quietly behind me and tiptoe through the living room. I can hear the baby beginning to stir and run to his room before he can wake the others. I scoop him up in my arms and carry him out to the family room. He giggles and grabs my hair, pulling it while he wiggles in my arms trying to escape my embrace. I go to the kitchen and find my bleary-eyed half-asleep husband. He's making pancakes. His tousled dark hair makes for spectacular bed head, and although he can’t see it, he is fully immersed in the throes of young fatherhood, as are only those who were truly made for it can be. As the smell of breakfast wafts through the house the boys make their way to the kitchen and I watch my family take their places around the table.

I can see that, for now at least, everything is as it should be.