shrine in Darjeeling to contracting malaria in Zaire — and I’d intended to keep travelling after Yeats was born.
Ben was not a traveller. When the kids were small we took two family holidays to Florida. Ben came with us twice to visit Laurie and Andy in London, but he didn’t come when Yeats and I went to see them in Greenwich. He didn’t join us when Laurie and Andy took us on a holiday to Italy and he did not want to go to BC. He said, “I might like it there too much and want to stay.”
He was only half joking. He said he didn’t need to go anywhere new; that he was comfortable at the cottage and wouldn’t get to read much anywhere else. Secretly, I thought it was his feet. He was afraid that if we went somewhere like Italy, he’d have to do a lot of walking and his feet would give out.
At first I wondered if I could bear to be married to someone who didn’t care to travel, but I found ways around that. I took Yeats to places where I had friends to visit or we travelled with Laurie or Mom or sometimes both. I hoped that one day Ben would come with us.
As the train moved northward, we saw so many bald eagles that Yeats stopped bothering to count them after a while. We stopped in the rocky Canadian Shield at a tiny spot called Capreol and we had the porter, Charlie, take our photo there, with the train as backdrop. Not long after, the train stopped in the middle of nowhere and a family disembarked. Charlie helped a man, a woman, and two very small children off the train. The adults heaved huge packs and the four of them disappeared down a forest path that I swear opened up only as they walked down it. Charlie said these people had a cabin on the lake; they’d be waiting for the train on the southbound side in exactly one month’s time, he told us.
In the week before our departure, there’d been an accident on the rails east of Toronto, and the freight trains all the way west were still backed up as a result. Our train stopped often, standing still for up to half an hour on the sidings, letting these freight trains roll by. We counted the cars as they passed. One train had more than 140 cars and by the time it had gone by, we were thoroughly and pleasantly transfixed.
Because of these delays, our train stopped for only half an hour in Winnipeg instead of a couple of hours. It was midnight and we stood on the street outside the station, looking one way and then the other. My father grew up in Winnipeg and maybe one night he’d stood in that very spot, looking up and down the street. Maybe when he, too, was fifteen.
We woke before sunrise and I crawled down from my windowless berth and joined Yeats in the one below. We watched the sun come up over the prairies, enthralled again by the sweep of colour, the endlessness of the Canadian landscape.
We stopped briefly in Saskatoon. I was already seated for breakfast but hadn’t yet poured my coffee. I saw Yeats out on the platform and then suddenly he was at the table, saying, “Mom, you have to come outside. You have to smell this place.” The two other people at my table laughed, but they came out, too.
We walked up and down the station platform, dizzy with the smells of the prairie, the grasses, the freshness. This was air.
My grandmother, Mary (who we called Mort), grew up on a farm near Arcola, Saskatchewan, and I thought of her and how strong she always seemed, how centred. I wondered how much Mort missed her old home once she moved to the city. I remembered her telling us about riding a horse to school and about her brother, Tom, who was killed as a young man when the tractor he was trying to repair rolled onto his neck.
There was a photo of Mary and Tom taken when they were in their twenties. It was a close-up in black and white, and the first time I saw it I was stunned by my grandmother’s beauty. I knew her only as an older woman, but here she was in her youth: high cheekbones, wavy, short blonde hair, clear and steady eyes. She was leaning on
Ben was not a traveller. When the kids were small we took two family holidays to Florida. Ben came with us twice to visit Laurie and Andy in London, but he didn’t come when Yeats and I went to see them in Greenwich. He didn’t join us when Laurie and Andy took us on a holiday to Italy and he did not want to go to BC. He said, “I might like it there too much and want to stay.”
He was only half joking. He said he didn’t need to go anywhere new; that he was comfortable at the cottage and wouldn’t get to read much anywhere else. Secretly, I thought it was his feet. He was afraid that if we went somewhere like Italy, he’d have to do a lot of walking and his feet would give out.
At first I wondered if I could bear to be married to someone who didn’t care to travel, but I found ways around that. I took Yeats to places where I had friends to visit or we travelled with Laurie or Mom or sometimes both. I hoped that one day Ben would come with us.
As the train moved northward, we saw so many bald eagles that Yeats stopped bothering to count them after a while. We stopped in the rocky Canadian Shield at a tiny spot called Capreol and we had the porter, Charlie, take our photo there, with the train as backdrop. Not long after, the train stopped in the middle of nowhere and a family disembarked. Charlie helped a man, a woman, and two very small children off the train. The adults heaved huge packs and the four of them disappeared down a forest path that I swear opened up only as they walked down it. Charlie said these people had a cabin on the lake; they’d be waiting for the train on the southbound side in exactly one month’s time, he told us.
In the week before our departure, there’d been an accident on the rails east of Toronto, and the freight trains all the way west were still backed up as a result. Our train stopped often, standing still for up to half an hour on the sidings, letting these freight trains roll by. We counted the cars as they passed. One train had more than 140 cars and by the time it had gone by, we were thoroughly and pleasantly transfixed.
Because of these delays, our train stopped for only half an hour in Winnipeg instead of a couple of hours. It was midnight and we stood on the street outside the station, looking one way and then the other. My father grew up in Winnipeg and maybe one night he’d stood in that very spot, looking up and down the street. Maybe when he, too, was fifteen.
We woke before sunrise and I crawled down from my windowless berth and joined Yeats in the one below. We watched the sun come up over the prairies, enthralled again by the sweep of colour, the endlessness of the Canadian landscape.
We stopped briefly in Saskatoon. I was already seated for breakfast but hadn’t yet poured my coffee. I saw Yeats out on the platform and then suddenly he was at the table, saying, “Mom, you have to come outside. You have to smell this place.” The two other people at my table laughed, but they came out, too.
We walked up and down the station platform, dizzy with the smells of the prairie, the grasses, the freshness. This was air.
My grandmother, Mary (who we called Mort), grew up on a farm near Arcola, Saskatchewan, and I thought of her and how strong she always seemed, how centred. I wondered how much Mort missed her old home once she moved to the city. I remembered her telling us about riding a horse to school and about her brother, Tom, who was killed as a young man when the tractor he was trying to repair rolled onto his neck.
There was a photo of Mary and Tom taken when they were in their twenties. It was a close-up in black and white, and the first time I saw it I was stunned by my grandmother’s beauty. I knew her only as an older woman, but here she was in her youth: high cheekbones, wavy, short blonde hair, clear and steady eyes. She was leaning on
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