I type these humble words at the public library not far from my mother's home. I was unable to find an open network to hop on, not even when I went for a walk in the neighbourhood and tried to find one. I found other ones, but they were closed, too.
So, instead, I drove the short distance to this library. I would normally have signed in to the open connection they offer here, but instead I found another open connection that's stronger. It must be next door or something. It is upwards of 85% strength, which is more than I get at home when I'm in an upstairs bedroom and pick up the home network broadcasting 2 floors below.
I came up here suddenly and unexpectedly on Thursday evening, on the cusp of a long weekend in Canada. We would both love to be at the cottage this weekend, but reality has dictated otherwise. At least I can get somethings done for my mother, which I know she appreciates.
I have had my fill of fiddleheads in 2010. Have you not had them? Go out and get some already. They're a green plant in the fern family whose ends look for all the world like the heads of a fiddle, hence the name. Today, at lunch, I steamed some for about 10 minutes and then fried them with some margarine and put a little bit of salt on them. Delicious, but I've had all I want for this year.
In 1976, my father got a book on the history of Port Williams for Christmas. I know the year because it says "Merry Christmas, Cecil. Love, Warren, 1976" on the first page. This is not another example of my weird memory!!
Anyway, I opened up that book again for the first time in a couple of years, last evening. I had always been fascinated by a story in there of a time around 1835 when some strange men came to Church Street and were looking for... something. The land owners had no idea who they were, or what they were seeking. They were speaking a language unknown to the current landowners.
Many years later, when the owners of that piece of land were hoping to erect a barn,they found what turned out to be an Acadian communal set, buried. The old woman who lived there remembered those strange men and put 2 and 2 together, deducing that they had been looking for that set. Apparently those sets are only buried in the case of an emergency, like the Acadian Expulsion of 1755 would have been, and then only in the Eastern section of the foundation of a church. The thing is, no evidence of a church in that location has ever been discovered, and there is much evidence of many other churches in the area that are long-gone now. It's a mystery, this alleged Acadian church, and who those fellows were. Were they the grandchildren of expelled Acadians trying to find old church heirlooms? Were they treasure hunters? Who knows? It's a mystery, and one not that many know about.
I moved away to the big bad city quite a few years ago now. It has its merits. But in recent months I have spent more and more time back in my home area, and it feels good to spend so much time here. Getting re-acquainted with the local lore and legends is one way to feel at home again. As I grow older, being home feels better and better to me.