How lovely was the summer sunshine that touched that glass! Blue, green, red, yellow and purple; a cadence of color that speckled cupboards and lit up an entire kitchen. Snaking across the countertops, reflecting against the mirror-like surfaces of tea kettles and pots, becoming every bit a part of that old kitchen as the paint on the walls. There were sun catchers in all shapes and colors, nestled within every pane of those old, grid-like windows. There were boats, birds, flowers and even miniature likenesses of my beloved Cape Breton. In every window, in that very bungalow, there were sun catchers. It was a beautiful haven, with a brook alongside and the large pots of dirt which, year after year, gave birth to many a bloom. Not unlike the flowers, many a child had been nursed and strengthened by that eastern sunshine.
A grassy hill led down into such bliss, traipsed by so many times by clumsy footprints -- young and old alike -- who were trying to carry down the components of those wonderful times. The usual and unusual: inner tubes, bags of groceries such as hot dogs, hamburgers and popsicles. Top it off with outdated ball caps, sunscreen and bandages... and you had a day in Ben Eion. The hill was flanked with lilac trees, bursting into clouds of white and mauve; such a sight only enhanced by the prominent scent of those little flowers.
The old bungalow, with its nooks and crannies, was built in the sixties but, upon being passed onto a new -- and special -- owner, it grew into something marvelous. Like the growing family that inhabited it throughout the summer, the bungalow grew as well. The new rooms, repairs, furniture; everything to accommodate many a soul... from the seasoned cribbage players to the inquisitive grandchildren. Even it's share of pets, from gentle dogs to neurotic cats, one of which was found one evening hanging upside down with its claws, upon the screen door.
One could smell the salty air throughout the entire place... I'm pretty sure that it permeated into the very husk of the bungalow itself. Every room was rife with this lovely scent... where one would think of it as being musty, it was all part of the charm. Smells... not just from the water, but the furniture itself... and the clothing... every detail is very much memorable, years later, if only by scent alone. There were old books, old photos on the wall... old /everything/, but it was all that we had known and perhaps, would have no other way.
Out into the paddle boat we all went, upon the peaceful Bras D'or lake. There, you would hear nothing but your own thoughts, the water, and perhaps the company that you kept. Dodging horseflies, waving jellyfish away with a shoe... oh, what adventures a grandchild could have. Alas, such adventures were had under the watchful eyes of parents. However, there was always that one certain individual whose presence was never missing from the sandy shore. Him. That gentle giant who sat in the same red chair in his striped shirt and blue ballcap, and a citronella candle always at his side. Or he would be with us, taking us out in his rowboat upon the water. There was nothing to fear when he was at our side, doing what he knew best and what I'm certain he did for a fair chunk of his long life.
We flicked the black snails off of the slippery sea rocks, yelped in shock at the brush of seaweed against bare ankles, and sought out the shiniest rock amidst a pile that look almost exactly alike. We would run up and down the shore; some chasing others with live crabs found along the shore, others lost within the mirth that childhood brought in such plentitude. Hours would be spent in that water, until we became so pruned that it would hurt and we had to be beckoned back to shore. Many times I sat, sopping wet in the sunshine, trying to come up with excuses as to why seaweed was so frightening.
The evening brought forth bonfires that were stoked high, burning brightly upon the shoreline, just out of the water's reach. Marshmallows were toasted, hot dogs were lost in the kindling and the sparks danced upwards into the night sky, losing themselves to the lake's surface. Big millers hassled themselves with the porch lights, occasionally perching upon the door so that we were able to see the patterns on their wings. Despite being full of bonfire fare and pulsing with an impending sugar rush, sleep would come easily to us. Nestled deeply into the creaky old beds, allowing the scent of the blankets to waft around and encompass us. The sound of the lapping waves were always relaxing but what sealed the deal were the voices of our grandparents in the next room, talking gently and snoring, not too long after.
But the mornings are what I remember best, after a single night in the bungalow that my grandparents owned. Waking up to the same sunshine, walking out into the kitchen to grab a bowl of some hapless cereal that would never be finished anyway. Mainly because he would be there doing his crosswords; that aforementioned gentle giant who was always happy to see each and every one of us, any day we were there. Who would ask for a follow up on why, in fact, that sea weed was so scary and flop ballcaps over my head. That kind, dutiful man who wrestled with the boys of the family to tire them out when they grew too squirrelly; who would poke fun at the grandkids of the female variety but treat them like princesses apiece. Who worked in the steel plants, sailed his boat and took such care of my grandmother. Who accepted this huge family as if it were his own, biological duty... who fit in so smoothly, enriched us so wholly and kept us safe.
Years after the magic of Ben Eion ended, after he left us, the memories are still strong. As I write this, in this very month of February, eight years have come and gone since my grandfather passed away. Alzheimer's disease tried to add insult to the wonderful years we all had with him, but after the sadness, we strive -- then and now -- to remember nothing but the best. Everything that he was, and everything that he continues to be, even if he's not here physically. The mark has been made.
In memory of Wilfred MacKinnon, my grandfather.
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