Look for Beauty Everywhere You Go

I am a weak Canadian.

I am a complete wuss when it comes to the cold. Less like a polar bear, and more like a sun-loving orchid. Some people feel like they’ve been born into the wrong body… I was born into the wrong climate.

I think my disdain for the cold stems from the fact that my childhood home seemed to be located at the Hell’s Gate of winter.

The wind. It was insane. It could appear to be a blizzard at our house when just over the road all was calm and well.

The snow. It was relentless.

Waiting for the bus was like being in a torture chamber for me. First of all, I hate wearing layers. Second of all, I hate the cold. This combination was awful for me.

Enter summer! When summer arrives, it’s like I get a case of winter amnesia. Washed away are my hateful thoughts about salt-stained shoes, frozen cheeks, shovelling snow, falling on ice and delayed flights. Gone are my considerations of moving to a tropical island. Magically, Nova Scotia is transformed into the most wonderful place to be.

Seeing as we celebrated Father’s Day recently, I will weave my enigma of a dad into this piece. Dad is a guy who usually takes the road less travelled – figuratively and literally. He has explored most every back road (both paved and dirt) in Nova Scotia (at an astonishingly slow speed).

As kids, when other families were hitting Disney World or the CN Tower, we were driving around the Maritimes, scoping out the not-so-common sights.

With egg salad sandwiches and cookies in the cooler, we would head off to parts unknown. Our car would be packed so tight, you barely had to wear a seatbelt.

The sounds in the car also were not what a kid might be dying to hear. There were no audio tapes or video screens. Dad would blare Sean Dunphy, Anne Murray or Elvis Presley from the tape deck.

We counted licenses plates and big trucks for entertainment. You’d surely get a heavy elbow if your sleepy head fell upon your sibling. ‘Are we there yet’ was the most frequently asked question.

My dad is from Cape Breton, and it was often a destination for us. The Margarees. Doyle’s Bridge for a dip, Whale Cove Beach, Margaree Harbour Beach, Egypt Falls and campfires with cousins.

The Cabot Trail. Fortress of Louisburg, The Skyline Trail, Usiage Ban Falls, Alexander Graham Bell Museum, Ingonish, The Lone Shieling, and Fishing Cove Hike.

We also went did the South Shore, the French Shore and the Annapolis Valley. Shubenacadie River Rafting along the way from Antigonish. The Ovens, Keji Park, Balancing Rock, Brier Island for whale watching, Ross Farm, farming exhibitions in Windsor, Bay of Fundy tides, Upper Clements Park, The Land of Evangeline, Annapolis Royal and Blomidon Park.

We did Prince Edward Island many times. That 75-minute ride on the ferry brought you to what felt like a dream world as a kid. Cavendish, Anne of Green Gables, Greenwich Park, Rainbow Valley, windmills in North Cape, Charlottetown and Cows Ice Cream.

New Brunswick was also covered from entrance to exit. Magic Mountain, The Rocks Park, Fundy National Park, Kouchibouguac Park, Reversing Falls, Campbellton for alpine slides and lots of covered bridges.

One time, we expanded the boundaries and hit The Gaspe Bay in Quebec. We stopped in Maine on the way back to get a piece for Dad’s canoe. Three weeks in a minivan. Until not that many years ago, I thought the border agents could hear into our car when approaching the border.

Seeing as I have more time on my hands, I’ve gone back to my childhood and took a few road trips over the past few weeks with Ma and Pa. Closed restauants had us bringing along the cooler equipped with egg salad sandwiches and cookies.

We did parts of Cape Breton and the South Shore. We hit Creignish Mountain, explored the bowels of Mabou, strolled Inverness Beach in search of seaglass, saw Gaspereaux fishing in Margaree, Point Michaud Beach (where we found oodles of sand dollars), Bachman’s Beach, crossed the La Have River on the ferry, Crescent Beach, Risser’s Beach, and Lunenburg.

With COVID-19 causing us to stay put and not be jetting off to foreign locations, it seems we should all be taking a page from good old Leonel’s book. Explore all of the beauty that’s right at your fingertips.

A favourite author of mine said, “The difference between an ordinary life and an extraordinary one is only a matter of perspective. Pull the blinds back. Look around you. It is a weird and wonderful world and you do not require a 10-digit bank account to immerse yourself in it.”

I’m a firm believer in the notion that life isn’t about what happens to you – it is how you respond to what happens to you. If you’re bored during COVID – you’re boring.

With the sun shining, I’m going to focus on what my dad taught me to be – curious about the world around me.

For the Love of Dog – That’s God backwards

I’ve always been an animal lover but have a particularly strong affliction for dogs.

I can remember, as a kid, looking at the pet section in the classifieds of The Chronicle Herald. At the time, people would advertise puppies or dogs they had for sale and the ad would include their phone number. When my parents weren’t around and free long-distance call time was on, I would ring some of the numbers.

When I was somewhere around 11, I called and had a big old chat with a Nova Scotia duck toller breeder in Yarmouth. There was a Jack Russell terrier breeder in Truro – I actually convinced my Dad to drive me there to see their puppies. I also convinced my Dad to take me to Halifax to see The Super Dogs when their show came to town. The border collies amazed me.

For most of my childhood, we had a yellow lab named Becky. She was exactly what you think of when think of a lab – always smiling, always sleeping by my bed and always in the background of every photo. I remember when things were coming to the end with her. She made it to 13, but her hind legs were giving out, she had bad cataracts and her breathing was shallow. I remember begging Dad not to bring her to the vet to have her put down. One more week, please! One day I came home from school and she wasn’t there. Oh Becky.

We had other dogs – one was an absolutely insane German short haired pointer named Coco. He pulled the laundry off the line, killed kittens, dug up flower beds, chased the manure spreader (and came home coated in liquid cow poo). He also had a talent for finding anything dead near our house. He would drag it to our lawn and stink up our yard. My mother does not remember him fondly.

I didn’t own my own dog until I was 30. After years of volunteering for the SPCA, admiring dogs at the park and offering to dog-sit for anyone who might need the favour – the timing was right for me.

I decided on a West Highland terrier, Millie. Funnily enough, I’ve been asked many times if I named my dog after myself. Emilie – Millie. That never even entered my mind.

She is particularly cute, very smart, athletic, feisty, territorial (I call her a terrorist sometimes) and she is completely obsessed with me. Quite literally, every beat of her heart is dedicated to me.

She follows me everywhere I go. Upstairs. Downstairs. Inside. Outside. To the bathroom. Out of the bathroom. As I am typing she is asleep under the chair I’m sitting in – she just farted and it is nearly making me gag.

When I need to travel, she will usually go to my parent’s house (aka Squirrel Haven) where she is content, but when I’ve left her with anyone else, she usually goes on a hunger strike. Completely depressed without me.

For nearly 10 years us gals have spent most hours of most days together – since she was a puppy Millie has been coming to work (and most everywhere) with me. Four years ago, my brother and his family got the most beautiful golden retriever named Preston. Rather than Mr. Handsome being alone during the day, Millie and I walk to their house to scoop Preston on our way to the office. He joins us for the day and we drop him off on our way way home.

Based on my step counter, Millie and I on average walk about 15,000 steps a day. That’s roughly 11 km. Over the course of a year that adds up to 4,200 km. It is roughly 4,500 km from Nova Scotia to British Columbia, so every year Millie and I walk straight across Canada.

Millie loves to watch television. Recently on a Sunday it was raining, I was doing some cleaning and Millie was completely bored (she needs to be stimulated a lot). Dirty Dancing came on – she sat in front of the TV and watched Johnny and Baby develop their relationship. From being to end.

The TV watching habit sounds funny, but the one problem with her habit is that she barks at dogs and horses on the screen. The other problem is that I chose the dog with the loudest bark in Canada. I’ve developed ninja like channel changing skills.

A few evenings ago, my niece said, “Millie, you’re smart enough to know how to put the window down in the car, but you’re not smart enough to know that dog is not in your house.”

One of my favourite things is coming home to Millie (sometimes after only being away from her for a half hour). She literally loses her mind when she sees me! Or when she runs far away from me at the park. She runs back so fast that it looks like her feet aren’t even touching the ground.

Through my daily outings with my canine shadow, I’ve made friends, I’ve gotten to know my neighbours, I’ve seen my city and my province on our on foot adventures, and I’ve burned a lot of calories.

A few months ago, I was out walking with the dogs when a man stopped us to chat.

He said, “What beautiful dogs you have. Can I pet them?”

To which I replied, “Of course, you can.”

He then said, “I just had to put my dog down a few weeks ago.”

He got choked up and said, “Oh gosh, I’m going to cry, I’m sorry.”

I said, “Don’t be silly, cry, it’s so sad when your pet dies.”

He said, “The thing about it is that I never even wanted a dog. My wife and kids convinced me to get it. So, we got the dog and the problem is that he chose me as his person. I fell totally in love with him. I’ve never felt as sad as I’ve felt over these past weeks.”

The dogs could sense his sadness, the two of them leaned into him and gave him kisses. We both had a cry on the street together before we went on our way.

They get into your home and then surely into your heart.

The only really negative thing about dogs is that we inevitably outlive them. 

Enjoy Your Luck – While You Have it

I remember clearly the night my grandfather died.  It was May 25^th, 1988, and I had just turned 8.

One of my brothers was on the phone when the operator broke in to say there was an emergency, and to give the phone to our Mom.  I remember my Mom screaming for my Dad.  They jumped into the car and left.

My 8-year-old mind thought that perhaps my Grandpa’s horse was giving birth as I knew he was expecting a foal.  Our older cousin John Hugh came to hang out with us, until his sister Donna was able to come and babysit.  I could sense something bigger was up.

Dad called from the hospital and told my oldest brother that Grandpa had died.   Chris, who would have been around 13, started saying ‘the baddest word in the book’ repetitively.   I remember asking him what was wrong.  He said – Grandpa is dead.

The rest of it, I didn’t really understand.  I remember giving Mom Kleenex at the funeral home because I knew she was sad, and I remember the Cathedral being packed for his funeral.

I had walked down the aisle as a flower girl just a few months before at my uncle’s wedding.  I had the most beautiful dress and a fur muff.  I felt so special.  This had a very different feel to it.

I remember him clearly.  He was a huge man with big hands, and he was always exceptionally nice to me.  Stopped for treats at the store, gave me horse rides on his knee and took me for drives in his big trucks.   To a kid – all the good stuff.

He started having cardiac issues in his 40’s, and in the end, it was a massive heart attack that took his life.  Grandpa was only 63.

Though he died a long time ago, he still gets brought up on a regular basis.  He impacted a lot of people.  Stories of him, and what a gentleman he was.  He was kind and generous, hardworking and he loved to eat!  Stories about him eating an entire pie in one sitting when my Grandma wasn’t around.  32 years later, I notice my Mom still gets emotional most times he is brought up.

My Grandma died just 6 months ago from cancer – a few weeks after her 94^th birthday.  Her two sisters died very young from cancer, but for some reason she evaded disease and had a long and very healthy life.  I never saw my grandmother exercise; she ate white bread and margarine.  Why did she live so long? She didn’t remarry (or even consider dating for that matter) after my Grandpa died.  I’ve heard that single women live the longest.

When I’m not moonlighting as a writer, I am the Director of a women’s health charity.  I work with women who have ovarian cancer.  Though I am only 40, I’ve dealt with the subject of death and loss more than most people my age.

I think often about the mystery of it all.   Why do some people die young?  Why do some people who do everything right, still get cancer?  Why do some people who don’t do everything right, live long?  Why do some people respond to treatments?  Why do some people not respond to treatments? Why do some people grow really old?

A few months back, I initiated a Covid Cooking Challenge for my Dad’s side of the family.  We have a very active Facebook family group page where we keep in touch – there’s about 120 members.

Some of the cooking challenges were:  pick a recipe from our family cookbooks and tell a story to go along with it, and make a favorite childhood meal with story.  The cooking challenge has been a wonderful instigator for communication and connection.  Stories of our deceased relatives, memories from days gone by and generally getting to know younger members better from across the miles.

Like my Mothers parents – my Grandpere died at 63, but Grandmere lived into her 80’s.  She was modest, kind, faithful, generous and even tempered.  There have been so many stories shared on our page of how she impacted the lives of her siblings, nieces and nephews, my aunts and uncles, my cousins, and her grandchildren.  She wasn’t wealthy nor worldly, but she was wonderful, and she impacted profoundly those she loved and who loved her.

I often think about what my purpose is.  What am I here to do?  What is my impact?  If I died tomorrow what would people say about me?   I do not have children, so the topic of purpose is a tough one.  I find it through creating connection with others.

A great mystery of life is that we don’t know how much time we have.

I’ve read that when faced with death, it is common for people to show regrets.  To wish they had worked less and spent more time with family and friends.  They wish they expressed their feelings more and did more things they wanted to do.  They wish that they believed in themselves more and that they cared less about what others thought.

I don’t know what the ‘what’s next’ is after you die.  I only know for sure what I know now from this side of the equation.  I know that after people are gone, what we have are memories, stories and the recollection of how that person made you feel.  The impact they made on you.

Like the Rankin’s sang

That as sure as the sunrise
As sure as the sea
As sure as the wind in the trees
We rise again in the faces
Of our children
We rise again in the voices of our song
We rise again in the waves out on the ocean
And then we rise again

Every morning when I rise again, I give Millie (my trusty canine sidekick) a massage and say – Hey you, we have another day together!

I’m working on my impact, so I will have less on the regret end of things.

I’m enjoying my luck, while I have it.

Tell Me a Story…

“Can you tell me a story?”

I can’t begin to count how many times my nieces have asked me that.

When I jump into my theatrical storytelling ways, they absorb every word I speak with rapture. They stare at me like I am a Wonder of The World.

I remember taking some of my (now older) nieces to the library when they were little. We would select books and I would read aloud to them in a corner. Inevitably, other children would come along and listen. I was like the Sirens in the story of Ulysses, drawing kids in with my voice. By the end of it, I was like Fran on Romper Room, with a big group of kids sitting in front of me. When the story finished, I would surely hear, “Another one, please!”

Storytelling is one of the oldest forms of entertainment. Before we had television, cable, internet, cellphones or iPads, people got together and told stories for entertainment and education.

I’ve always had an insatiable interest in people and witnessing the world around me. Some people love running or music – I love hearing or telling a great story.

There was the time when Grand-Uncle Blais, as a boy, got a cow’s horn through his neck and nearly died.

The time my Grandmere spent an entire year in a sanatorium when she had tuberculosis. This left Grandpere home with nine children. He apparently wrote Grandmere a letter every day she was not at home. Can you imagine how it would feel to be gone from your children for an entire year?

The time Grand-Uncle Jerome (who loves playing pranks) gave his niece a hen in a box for her birthday. At her birthday party, when she opened the box, the hen flew all around the living room. Screams and laughter erupted.

The time my Grand-Aunt gave away unwanted kittens for Halloween. The story goes that she gave away five and only three were returned. Her tactic worked!

Grand-Aunt Rita, who swore her house was haunted, told creepy stories about seeing ghosts.

The time my brother Steve went through a barbed wire fence on a sled and ripped his face to shreds. When my grandfather (who weighed somewhere around 300 pounds) brought him to my mom (a nurse), he nearly fainted and she had to triage them both.

The time two of my elementary school classmates (in Grade 5 and 6), stole our school bus and did wheelies on the soccer field with it.

The time my best friend and I (at 15) stole her parents’ car to go to a party.

The time when I (and five girlfriends) convinced two police officers in Toronto to drive us to the bar in a cop car and took an undergarment as payment.

The time Mom and I were on our way to Australia and had a long stopover in L.A. We decided to take a bus tour of downtown, thinking we had loads of time. Inauspiciously, Michael Jackson had died the night before. We got stuck on Hollywood Boulevard in a traffic jam. We had to exit the bus and pay a taxi $100 American to get us back to the airport in time for our flight. My dear mother (who lives in the country) felt like she was in the Thriller video.

Or when my brother Chris was able to get a dirt-cheap place to live in university because the apartment came with the landlord’s brother as a roommate – who, let’s just say, had a lot of issues.

The time we went away for part of March Break, leaving my brother home to look after the house, a very pregnant cow and other animals. We received a frantic call letting us know the cow (and calf) had died. The story goes that coyotes spooked the cow and she got out. Randomly, the police found her nearly a mile away, trotting along the road. They reached my Grand-Uncle (a farmer), assuming it was his cow. My brother went to pick her up the next day. On the way down the driveway, she bawled and dropped dead, likely from exhaustion. Mom and Dad only learned the real story of what happened when my brother got married. Coyotes were not involved, but my brother going to a party and not coming home was.

The time when I was in Vancouver and met a group of older men at my hotel bar. An uproarious conversation turned into a plane ticket to Vancouver Island being booked for me by one of the men. The next morning, he met me at the airport and took me on an epic day tour of Vancouver Island. To be clear, he had hearing aids and grandchildren. This encounter was purely a human-to-human connection. Well, on my end it was.

Or about my parent’s house in winter and utter torture of the winds and whiteouts there. There were times, when people who went off the road in front of our house, would tramp up our driveway. They would stay for supper while they waited for a tow-truck.

How we had so much snow in the winter that we used to jump off the roof of our house into the drifts. One year, David’s boots were not dug out until spring.

How a cousin kept her gallbladder stones in a jar in the cupboard.

I could, quite literally, go on and on and on.

A few months back, I came across a situation at a crosswalk. There was a ‘rough around the edges’ man lying on the ground, obviously in a lot of pain – a bus driver was with him. There was a crowd of people looking, but not helping, and taking photos with their phones. I asked the driver if she had called 911; she had. I heard sirens and decided I couldn’t be of any help, so I kept walking.

I kept wondering what happened to him. Did he get hit by the bus? Have a heart attack?

A few days later, I saw the guy on the street! I said, ‘Excuse me, you don’t know me, but I saw you on the ground earlier this week and have been thinking of you ever since.’  He said, ‘Oh, I fell on the ice and popped my shoulder out of place.’ I said, ‘Glad to see you are OK.’  He stopped for a second, paused, looked right at me and said, ‘Hey, nobody seems to care about each other anymore. Thanks so much for caring about me.’

My nieces often say, “Aunt Emilie, you will talk to anyone!” True, and I am not going to stop.

It’s in conversation, interaction with others, being curious about (and being present with) the world around us, asking questions, listening to others and in paying attention where connections, stories and lifelong memories are created.

In the end, after all, we are the sum of the stories we have to tell.