A Thousand Words, A Million Memories

If a picture is worth a thousand words, it is surely worth a million memories. Memories of places near and far, memories of events simple and profound; memories of items forever treasured, of those tossed aside with the passage of time, and memories of the people who shared the moments that tell the stories that make up a lifetime.

Stories of events. Stories of people. Stories of millions of moments.

Moments of joy, moments of sadness; moments of anger and of love, of new beginnings and premature endings, of births and deaths and everything in between. Moments treasured in my heart far more than any collected trinkets from faraway places I’ve never been. For these are the moments that make up the memories of the people and the place that I call home.

The last time I set my feet on the rocky shores of Newfoundland and Labrador was 2008 – sixteen years ago. Before that visit, it had been fourteen years, and I swore that I would never stay away so long again. Clearly, I was mistaken.

I won’t get into the reasons I haven’t visited since, as it certainly wasn’t intentional. Let’s just say that life has a way of interrupting or derailing even the best laid plans. Sometimes we just don’t get what we want, no matter how much we wish it could be so.

I have taken vacations since, but they have been to the other coast, to visit my brother and his family in BC. That’s the thing about travel for me, it’s always been more about who I spend my time with than what I see along the way. Having most of my extended family still living down home and my brother 3000 km from me in the other direction, the choice was always one or the other.

It also doesn’t hurt that both coasts have their own rich history and spectacular scenery to explore. I realized the incredible beauty of British Columbia immediately upon my first visit. For Newfoundland, I had to leave and go back.

As strange as that may sound, it’s true. I guess when you see something every day for the first 28 years of your life, you don’t really “see” it; as is evident in the picture below, taken from my grandparents’ street.

I'll never forget the look on my mom’s face when I mumbled something along the lines of “Oh, you can see Signal Hill from here.” It was priceless. She didn’t say anything, missing a prime opportunity to roast me, since obviously, that view was always there. I just never really noticed it in the thousands of times I’d walked down that avenue.

I will sheepishly admit that I wouldn’t have been so kind… " Oh yeah, they put that hill up there five years ago, and then plopped the Cabot tower right on top.”

As a born and raised Newfoundlander, I took my home province for granted all the years I lived there, not really noticing the raw natural beauty of the place. On that vacation in 2008, I told my aunt (who I stayed with) that I wanted to do touristy things.

Hence, that trip up to Signal Hill, then lunch on George Street, a place I spent many a long and glorious night in my youth. George is the centre of the downtown St. John’s entertainment district, and home to the annual George Street festival. It’s also a great place to get Screeched-In and become an honorary Newfoundlander. You just have to kiss a cod fish on the lips, down a shot of Screech (dark rum), and recite the pledge.

After a couple of days of reintroducing myself to my home town, and visiting family and old friends, a road trip was planned to witness some of the province’s aforementioned natural beauty. Two of my aunts, my mom, and I rented a cabin in the town of Trinity, a historic fishing and trade village that has become a major tourist destination.

After spending the day traversing the town and enjoying a lovely dinner of fresh-caught cod and lobster in a restaurant on the dock, we retreated to the cabin, had a couple of drinks and settled in for the night. When I awoke near dawn and saw the first glimmers of light shine through the cabin window, I rushed down to the shore to attempt to capture the sunrise over the bay.

We spent a few hours in Trinity that morning before heading back out on the road toward Bonavista. Another popular tourist destination, Bonavista is known for its lighthouse (sorry, no pic), for puffin island where the sea birds congregate, for whale and iceberg watching, and for it’s collapsed sea-cave known as “the dungeon.”

After leaving Bonavista, we drove back toward my aunt’s home in Conception Bay, enjoying the views along the way, views that reminded me that no matter how long I stay away, there will always be pieces of my soul left on that rocky shore.

There may be an ocean between that place where my heart lives and my current address, but just like those rocks battered by the ocean waves, underneath, the connection is still there.

After that road trip, we spent a few days visiting other attractions closer to home, and also took time to spend with the family members we hadn't yet seen. Then, on the day before leaving, my aunt invited everyone to a gathering at her place to enjoy a meal and have a chance to say goodbye.

Though not all are in the picture, these are the people I grew up with. These are the ones I played hopscotch with as a child and went bar-hopping with as a young adult. These are my people.

Since my last trip, a few of my cousins have visited me in Toronto, but for some, that day was the last time I saw them. I will see them again next month. After sixteen years, I am finally going home.

It will be a bittersweet journey. Sweet in that I will get to see my “people” again. Bitter in that not all of my people will be there. In the cover photo of this piece, only one of the sisters remains with us. All but my grandmother were alive the last time I was home. My mom’s youngest sister, along with their brother, are the only remaining links to my maternal family before my generation.

My journey will be sweet in that I will visit old friends from coming-of-age days. We’ve already got the gathering planned. It will be bitter, in that not all of our old friends will be there. I know we will make the best of it and raise a glass to those who can no longer raise their own.

The sweetest part of all will be that this trip will mark the first time in over thirty years that both my brothers and I will be home in Newfoundland at the same time. We are taking this journey together. The bitterest part will be that our mother won’t be there to greet us. She will, however, be with us.

In the last ten years or so of my mom’s life, she developed a fear of flying. I don’t know why. She never had that fear before, and although she wanted to go home, she couldn’t. She did, on numerous occasions, ask me to promise to take her home when her time came. That time is now. We will be carrying our mother with us on our journey next month.

I am now reminded of an old, old country song that my mom loved. It’s a song my dad sang as he played guitar, and later, a song that I sang along with my brothers as they played their guitars. And though I cannot promise that it will be in the shade of an old oak tree, I can promise my mother that her ashes will be laid to rest “neath the green, green grass of home,” just as she has requested it be.

When we are done with my mother’s inurnment, and back at my aunt’s home, I plan to take a short walk to the beach, sit on that rocky shore and just breathe. I’m sure my tears will be as salty as the waves crashing around me, but as I inhale the cool air, listen to sounds of the sea birds, and feel the ocean breeze on my skin, I will smile.

I will smile because I have fulfilled my mother’s wish, because I have kept my promise, and because I am sitting amongst the soothing memories of my home.