By Rose McCormick Brandon, Caledonia, ON
If it matters at all, it's because we know who we are. I'd never leave Canada. This is my home and I got to be everything I am right here.
~Sarah McLachlan
One fall morning, surrounded by empty cottages and bronze maples, I perched on a picnic table at Lake Mindemoya's vacant beach. Quiet waves nudged my thoughts back to childhood memories -- swimming for hours with my sisters, sunning ourselves crispy, then years later taking our babies for their first beach experiences. Dad's freshly caught lake trout dinners, Chinese checkers and visits to relatives' homes on rainy days. Memories of these warmed my heart while my body shivered in cool October breezes. It was time to let go of the cottage and that wouldn't be easy.
Nine years a widow, cottage-owner responsibilities had become a burden for Mom. My husband and I had come to the cottage on one last vacation. On arrival, we hammered a For Sale sign into the ground. It'll go fast, passersby said. Three bedrooms, attached garage, indoor plumbing, a short sprint to the beach, someone will snatch up your four decades of memories in a hurry.
If not for a small island blocking my view from the picnic table, I would see a hilltop log cabin across the lake. Built by my great-great-grandparents, John and Sarah Galbraith, when they were newly married Scottish immigrants, the stone foundations of the cabin are a monument to their determination to carve out a homestead in a new country. They and other pioneer couples seeded central Manitoulin Island with their offspring.
My parents, both children of pioneers with farming in their veins, moved to a nearby booming paper town because it promised a better and more regular paycheque than life on the farm. I was four, my sister three when we left what citizens call The Island.
Once a month, on Dad's long weekends, we made the seventy-mile trip back to Manitoulin to visit grandparents, aunts and cousins. When our family's number reached seven, fitting us into a relative's already full household wasn't easy. So, my parents built the cottage, our Manitoulin home.
When the cottage sells, my identity here disappears. People here know where I come from -- "That's Bill and Millie's oldest girl," the folks used to say when I visited the general store near my grandmother's house.
Another would nod, "Yea, she's a McCormick alright."
Whenever our toes touched the Island, the local paper added the event to its social column. Even now, mysterious forces report our visits. The following appeared recently -- "Doug and Rose Brandon and family visited Evelyn Pattison [my aunt] and had lunch with Ted and Georgeanne Legge [my cousins]."
Friends who also visit but don't have roots on the Island wonder why our names, and not theirs, appear in print. "You're not connected," I say. My husband's not connected either but he caught onto the importance of connections on his early visits. Other fishermen, recognizing him as a non-local, would ask how he knew where to fish. That was another way of asking, "Who are you and where do you come from?" Curiosity is an Island pastime.
His answer was always, "I'm married to Bill McCormick's daughter."
"Is that a fact? That means you're related to the Galbraiths too." He was in, connected, almost as good as homegrown. Son-in-law status became his calling card. Few people know his actual name.
These connections made me reluctant to sell the cottage to strangers. As I gazed at the water, I wondered if I should heed sentimental memories and buy the cottage. Were my memories getting in the way of a common sense decision -- letting go?
In the end, I decided that my memories are more than sentiment, that it really matters to me, my children, and their children, that we maintain our connection to Manitoulin Island. We are people who care about treading in the footsteps of our forefathers. I've shown my children John and Sarah's original home. We can envision their tired, scorched bodies dunking in the waters of our lake after a hard day of gathering stones.
That day at the picnic table I decided to buy the cottage. My two grandchildren have become the sixth generation to connect with our Island. I know my Scottish and Irish pioneer ancestors would be pleased that I've decided to keep my Manitoulin identity.
If it matters at all, it's because we know who we are. I'd never leave Canada. This is my home and I got to be everything I am right here.
~Sarah McLachlan
One fall morning, surrounded by empty cottages and bronze maples, I perched on a picnic table at Lake Mindemoya's vacant beach. Quiet waves nudged my thoughts back to childhood memories -- swimming for hours with my sisters, sunning ourselves crispy, then years later taking our babies for their first beach experiences. Dad's freshly caught lake trout dinners, Chinese checkers and visits to relatives' homes on rainy days. Memories of these warmed my heart while my body shivered in cool October breezes. It was time to let go of the cottage and that wouldn't be easy.
Nine years a widow, cottage-owner responsibilities had become a burden for Mom. My husband and I had come to the cottage on one last vacation. On arrival, we hammered a For Sale sign into the ground. It'll go fast, passersby said. Three bedrooms, attached garage, indoor plumbing, a short sprint to the beach, someone will snatch up your four decades of memories in a hurry.
If not for a small island blocking my view from the picnic table, I would see a hilltop log cabin across the lake. Built by my great-great-grandparents, John and Sarah Galbraith, when they were newly married Scottish immigrants, the stone foundations of the cabin are a monument to their determination to carve out a homestead in a new country. They and other pioneer couples seeded central Manitoulin Island with their offspring.
My parents, both children of pioneers with farming in their veins, moved to a nearby booming paper town because it promised a better and more regular paycheque than life on the farm. I was four, my sister three when we left what citizens call The Island.
Once a month, on Dad's long weekends, we made the seventy-mile trip back to Manitoulin to visit grandparents, aunts and cousins. When our family's number reached seven, fitting us into a relative's already full household wasn't easy. So, my parents built the cottage, our Manitoulin home.
When the cottage sells, my identity here disappears. People here know where I come from -- "That's Bill and Millie's oldest girl," the folks used to say when I visited the general store near my grandmother's house.
Another would nod, "Yea, she's a McCormick alright."
Whenever our toes touched the Island, the local paper added the event to its social column. Even now, mysterious forces report our visits. The following appeared recently -- "Doug and Rose Brandon and family visited Evelyn Pattison [my aunt] and had lunch with Ted and Georgeanne Legge [my cousins]."
Friends who also visit but don't have roots on the Island wonder why our names, and not theirs, appear in print. "You're not connected," I say. My husband's not connected either but he caught onto the importance of connections on his early visits. Other fishermen, recognizing him as a non-local, would ask how he knew where to fish. That was another way of asking, "Who are you and where do you come from?" Curiosity is an Island pastime.
His answer was always, "I'm married to Bill McCormick's daughter."
"Is that a fact? That means you're related to the Galbraiths too." He was in, connected, almost as good as homegrown. Son-in-law status became his calling card. Few people know his actual name.
These connections made me reluctant to sell the cottage to strangers. As I gazed at the water, I wondered if I should heed sentimental memories and buy the cottage. Were my memories getting in the way of a common sense decision -- letting go?
In the end, I decided that my memories are more than sentiment, that it really matters to me, my children, and their children, that we maintain our connection to Manitoulin Island. We are people who care about treading in the footsteps of our forefathers. I've shown my children John and Sarah's original home. We can envision their tired, scorched bodies dunking in the waters of our lake after a hard day of gathering stones.
That day at the picnic table I decided to buy the cottage. My two grandchildren have become the sixth generation to connect with our Island. I know my Scottish and Irish pioneer ancestors would be pleased that I've decided to keep my Manitoulin identity.
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