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| Crescent moon |
From the earliest days
of bed time we’ve known about something. The once upon a time world was the
magic that carried us off to dreamland. Even as very young children we’ve been
aware of the importance of story.
Every day dozens of
stories slide into our lives. Some of them come to us in many layers. Stan
Roger’s epic ballad, Northwest Passage,
is a dormant earworm that awakens in a nanosecond every time I hear those words.
So when crews discovered one of Franklin`s ships lying under 10 metres of
freezing Arctic waters, the song began playing in my mind and all over the
airwaves for several days. Most of Canada now knows Franklin’s story but how
many of us appreciate the role story telling had in the discovery of the ship? If
the Inuit people had not valued their stories and passed them on to each
generation, then the precious information they had about the Franklin
expedition could not have been used today.
Modern times have
modern ways of storytelling. Today, people walk down the street reading their
phones to get the latest news. YouTube has become a popular medium to learn just
about anything. And screens hold listeners’ attention for most of the day.
Story telling has morphed indeed, but the old reliable methods will never fail
to please. Nature can tell a magnificent tale without uttering a word. Last
week the jumping antics of 2 am northern lights lit up the sky. The searchlight
beams spoke of life in the dark void. On September 22, the vernal equinox sun
again set in the exact same spot, proving that balance does exist amidst our earth’s
confusion. And the smaller tracks I saw with no telltale tang told me that a
cow, not a bull, moose had meandered down the road.
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| Driftwood on Agawa Beach at Agawa Bay |
Of course people are the
steady storytellers. We were at the Agawa Bay Visitor`s Centre in Lake Superior
Provincial Park for the arrival of the busload of folks on the CAPT trains
Group of Seven and Glenn Gould weekend. The congenial chatter amongst everyone
was contagious. One group member remarked that he could not believe how much
culture he experienced in just two days. I treasured the stories of how A.Y. Jackson`s
urge to paint had him climbing up steep hills and bushwhacking over rough
trails, even though he was almost 80 years old!
The very young can be
some of the most compelling story tellers. Their view of the world is keen and
refreshing. I listened to a nine year old brimming over with enthusiasm about
the possibility of walking himself to and from school and maybe stopping to get
an ice cream on the way home. And a six year old repeated the story her teacher
had read to her that day, word for word, sound bite by sound bite. Ahhhh. The
wonderful memory of the young.
Ancient things also
have a lot to share. Lake Superior has enough stories in its depths to fill Mishepechu’s
library. Lighthouse keepers stranded for the winter out on Caribou Island.
Shipwrecked folks from the Goldspie walking in the late fall from Old Woman Bay
to Michipicoten Harbour and freezing their feet. Nine days of pure flat calm
that bedazzled boaters.
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| Crescent Lake |
Little lakes tell
amazing tales too. This week we hiked into lake Superior Park’s Crescent Lake.
The colours were splendid, the kind that fill you with peace and good thoughts.
A red maple made flames on the water. The oranges looked good enough to eat.
Yellows were cousins of the sun. And the reflections were almost uncanny. The
water was a wall of colour, inviting you in with the promise of hearing the
story of the seasons. Sleep and renewal, emergence, playfulness and return to
sleep. It was difficult walking away from all that beauty.
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| Ducks in reflection on Crescent Lake |
Just before we left,
Ward and I visited an chiseled granite chimney - all that remains of a log
cabin from the 1920’s, near Kenney Lake. The monolithic old fireplace smokes
with mystery. An old shoe, tin cans and thick broken bits of an old, green
glass bottle lay on its mantle. Oh to be a witness to the fishing and scotch soaked
stories in that old cabin.
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| Chimney close to Kenney Lake |
But there is one scene
I witness in real time, one I experience with awe. That is the sight of
hundreds of geese heading south. Each year they catch some high swift air and
make their pilgrimage to the warm place. As I watch them fly high overhead, if
it’s quiet enough down here on the ground, I can hear the geese calling to each
other. They might be telling tales of encouragement. Or the lead goose could be
chattering about what they will find at their winter home. At the same time
they are passing hope all along the line.
Not a bad way to go.
Stories to give strength and peace. That’s a great book to snuggle down with at
night.
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| September sunset on Lake Superior |