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Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
The time between childhood and adulthood is an all too small window. Watching our children grow up and away from us is a difficult thing to do. To cope, we look for those small scraps of moments that were, hiding in moments that are.
Alison, my eldest daughter, returned this spring from university for a brief touch-down before heading off to work four hours away for the Ontario Geological Survey – this will be her first summer spent entirely away from home. In her two weeks at home, she was busy reconnecting with friends and old haunts. Sometimes I felt as though I was being ignored, but I understood that a 20-year-old may not find the company of her mother all that thrilling.
Instead of sitting back and stewing, however, I decided to make her an offer that I knew she couldn’t resist. I set the bait with an invitation to her favourite childhood place: “It’s a gorgeous day. Why don’t we go for a quick walk to Picnic Rock?”
Contrary to what I expected she said, “I don’t know, mom. I was supposed to hang out with Chelsey this afternoon.”
“Come on, just an hour or so, and then you can go,” I bargained.
A quick pause and: “All right.”
I took it.
May in Northwestern Ontario is a month of sharp contrasts. Patches of filthy snow still cling to the shade, then the temperature jumps into the high 20s C and the forest fire hazard reaches an extreme level. You never know what to expect from day to day – snow may be right around the corner until well into June.
But the day is warm, so we dressed for the terrain: sneakers, T-shirts and long pants as we knew there would be plenty of prickly burrs to attach to our socks on the hike. The walk across the farm field is not long – maybe 15 minutes tops.
Picnic Rock is just what it sounds like – a destination to take a break and enjoy the surroundings. This rock is an erratic deposited by the last ice age. It is about three feet in height and perched on an outcropping of granite north of our home. The out-of-place mammoth sits silently, appearing to want to tumble over if given the slightest provocation. Its rounded surface is rough, pocked and covered with small patches of lichen in the shapes of unnamed continents. There is something both ominous and inviting about this giant that we just can’t resist.
Alison and I wound our way through the farm buildings and set out across the field. At this time of year, the pasture grass was just starting to grow after the long winter and new shoots painted the land with a resplendent green that evoked feelings of freshness and rebirth in us.
Our pace was quick and we did not talk a lot. Instead, we focused on the nature that surrounded us, filled with the sounds of spring birds returning home after their time spent south. The bullfrogs ribbetted loudly – I was taken aback by their chorus as it was the first time I’d heard them this year and it seemed a little early. Perhaps a sign that spring was here to stay.
We reached the rock and the first thing Allie did was jump up and pose on top of the boulder. We both laughed and I saw before me the 10-year-old who did the same thing. We lingered a while and told a few tales about her sisters and the funny things they did here, then moved on to the best part of this place.
Hidden just over the crest of the granite outcropping is a secret spot that few would notice upon passing. We climbed down a couple of feet, checking our footing on the loose rocks and using rough-barked pine trees for balance. And, there it was – our waterfall.
Just below the level of the field, time has created several rocky tiers over which a trickle of water, collected from the pasture, flows. The output of water is usually greater but this was a dry year. Undeterred, we smiled knowingly at each other and hurriedly removed our shoes and socks for a quick dip.
The rocks were cool and surprisingly slippery with army green algae that had already formed so soon after snowmelt. In silence, we listened to the murmur of water collecting in a small pool which then made its final drop into a copse of birch on the edge of an impenetrable marsh.
Allie lost her balance and I reached out to steady her, but instead landed on my butt in a puddle. We laughed uncontrollably as she pulled me to my feet, then decided to head back to find some dry clothes.
After donning our shoes, we scrambled back up to picnic rock and looked south along the path home. I started out ahead of Alison and then felt her warm hand slip inside of mine. I was surprised and a little teary by this unexpected gesture that was once so commonplace between us. This moment will need to last me all summer until I am able to see her again.
“Come on, Mom. You’re such a slowpoke.”
I smiled and walked a little slower.
Kelly Griffiths lives in Oxdrift, Ont.