Goldenrod has blanketed the front field, a sure sign that it is August. The trees along the fenceline have gotten so big that only the peaks of the hills on the other side of the river are visible from the paths winding their way past apple trees heavy with fruit. The ground is covered with apples.
As I made my way to the pond with visiting grandchildren, I noticed how tall the willow trees, planted some ten years previously, had become. The pond, which had been so full in May, is now rather low, and the frog population is not nearly as abundant as in the spring-fed small pond closer to the gardens my husband created to enjoy easy access to water. Both ponds provided a great source of entertainment and wonder to grandchildren eager to catch and release frogs.
The grandchildren have now gone, and today as I write, there is calm in the air. Not only are the skies overcast, but there is a stillness that I embrace following a flurry of family visits. I reflect on my good fortune to live fully in nature and to enjoy the wonders and healing effects of woods, lakes and river, and to be able to share these sacred entities with family and friends.
Like the river winding past Alcove and Wakefield, my thoughts begin to wander, and I am soon back at the magical lake just over the hill…
Communion
In mid-June, I enjoyed a wonderful solitary swim across the lake to the rocks on the other side of the lake. A lone loon floated near the water lilies across the bay. The water was fresh, and after basking on the warm rocks for a time, there was an initial shock when I dove into the lake to make my way back to the trusty and rusty old chair, where I left my backpack and clothes. I was glad to get dressed and glad to take time to sit looking at the lake, enjoying the late afternoon light and the stillness of my surroundings. As I sat somewhat meditatively, a head popped out of the water. A beaver swam in circles in front of me, periodically diving and then submerging again. I watched silently for quite a while before thinking I would like to take a picture. I opened my backpack and got my phone. I took a few pictures from the chair, and then I stood up to be closer to the water’s edge. My movement had alerted the beaver to my presence, and with a slap of his tail he was gone.
Discovery
Happily, there were many swims in the lake in July and further encounters with the local inhabitants. Anne, my neighbour, who divides her time between her home in Nova Scotia and her home in Lascelles, was here for two weeks at the end of July and we endeavoured to swim daily for the duration of her stay.
Sitting on the rocks one afternoon, looking out at the lake, we spotted the big snapping turtle in the nearby cove. We watched the turtle for a spell, when suddenly Anne turned to me and said, “What’s that?” The tone in her voice made me sit up and take notice. There was a big critter out in the lake. Did the lake have its own Nessie? There was a head out in front and a dragon-like tail popping out at the back. We were transfixed and puzzled to think what it could be. After a time, it disappeared below the water, and while somewhat less enthusiastic about getting back in the water, we ventured forth and swam across the lake without incident. A bit of research later seemed to indicate that we had seen a pair of river otters.
Distress
I am happy to join friends, affectionately dubbed “the rivermaids”, for swims in the river in Wakefield. A few of the rivermaids are serious swimmers and cold-water enthusiasts. A couple of them even begin swimming in May and close out the season in November!
We make our way from the beach behind the General Store down river to a dock at the bottom of Rockhurst Road. Generally, the swim takes half an hour. The views of the village from the water are enchanting, and whether the mist is rising off the river in the early morning or the sun shines bright under blue skies, every swim leaves us exulted.
At the end of July, Shelly, one of the rivermaids and a fellow Wandering Wakefield blogger, invited the rivermaids for a swim followed by a potluck lunch. On a perfect summer’s day, we completed the swim, walked up the hill to Shelly’s stunning home and gardens, changed and got ready to enjoy the lunch offerings we had dropped off earlier.
The gardens beckoned, and it was decided we would eat outside. With the dishes spread out on the kitchen island, I grabbed a bite of Michelle’s delicious homemade bread and went to my bag by the front door to get my sunglasses. As I bent to get my glasses, I must have inhaled the bread. I couldn’t breathe. I was choking. Jenn, standing nearby, noting my distress, asked if I was choking. I stood up, nodded and panicky, feeling lightheaded, I went into the kitchen where the others were chatting, and Jenn sounded the alarm. Incredibly and thankfully, Shelly sprang to action and performed the Heimlich maneuver, and the bread was dislodged. She truly saved my life!
Glad to be alive and having lived to tell the tale, July gave way to August and brought the arrival of children and grandchildren.
Molly
Early August was hot. Hot enough that my daughter Saskia and her family of five were glad to head to the coolness of the basement to sleep during their annual summer visit. For all but one night, the whole family, including the dog, encamped downstairs. On the one night when Saskia and her husband Scott went to Ottawa for a friend’s wedding, the sleeping arrangement shifted slightly, and to ensure a good night’s sleep for all, Grandpa went downstairs to sleep with the older two children, and I was joined upstairs by 3-year-old Molly.
I put on the wave machine next to my husband’s side of the bed, and within minutes Molly drifted off. Throughout the night, I felt either her leg or hand push against me, and several times she put her hand on my side. Such a welcome touch. Transcendental. My heart was heavy with love for this sweet girl, the youngest of my grandchildren.
In the wee hours of the morning when the light filtered through the shutters, I glanced at her beautiful face in sweet repose – safe and secure. I think how lucky I am to have this moment.
My thoughts drift to those children whose lives are ravaged by war, by hunger, by fear and loss, and parents, who, in the face of unspeakable horrors, struggle to provide, struggle to survive. Would it were not so! I say a silent prayer for children everywhere as I turn to see Molly’s blue eyes blinking up at me and she looks at me and says, “I love you, Gogo. Can I sleep with you again?”
Julian
Julian, the eldest son of my son Shaun and his wife Catherine, lives in Dawson Creek, British Columbia. Given the distance, we only see Julian and family sporadically. We were fortunate to have his family here for March break this year, and we soon discovered how especially fortunate we were to have Julian visit for 10 days on his own.
Julian had come to help his grandfather with various projects and to learn a bit about construction, the use of various tools, and, of course, to spend time with us. Like his father before him, Julian has a sunny personality. Happily, this was no sullen teenager! From the moment we picked him up from the airport, he was engaged.
Julian helped with the framing of a door and the construction of a rock bridge, which meant moving lots of gravel. No complaints! He also showed his mettle when, for the early part of his visit, his young cousins from Burlington were here. He led games and took them on frog hunts. No doubt having three younger brothers, camping out, and having attended French Camp at Gwillim Lake for many summers, he has become a natural-born leader.
Julian never hesitated when asked to join me on a walk. We walked, and we talked. He left his phone behind! He was truly in the moment. He talked about his family’s recent travels to the Northwest Territories and how surprisingly warm the lakes were in the summer given all the daylight. We talked about the climate crisis, wildfires, and his plans for the future. We touched on politics, and unsolicited from me, he talked about the evils of war and how a fraction of money spent on war could do wonders for people, for education and healthcare.
Coming back from a walk in the woods, I showed Julian two majestic Maple trees. The older gnarled one I call grandfather, and on the other side of the path stands the grandmother. I told Julian how the trees had provided me with a certain strength when I went through cancer treatment in 2022, and that I was truly a tree hugger. He went over to both trees and put his arms around them. My heart was full.
Julian was happy to enjoy my neighbours’ paddleboard when we went to the lake next door. I swam, and he paddled across and around the lake. We enjoyed the heat of the rocks on the other side of the lake. Julian sat briefly in the sun and then, ever curious, he quietly took off to explore the terrain and the creek nearby, with questions on his return. A true explorer.
Before Julian left, he wanted to bury the ashes of the family dog Blizzard in our pet cemetery. Blizzard had died in November 2025, and the family brought his ashes here in March, when they last visited. In the spring, Grandpa Steve had dug a hole and covered it with a board in preparation for Blizzard’s burial.
A wooden box Steve’s father had made for Shaun was used to put the ashes in, and one evening after dinner, Steve, Julian, and I went to the gravesite to put Blizzard in his final resting place. Julian covered the box with earth. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes.
The next day, Steve and Julian went off to find some rocks to mark the grave. When the rocks were placed, Julian lay down beside the cairn and put his arm around the stones; an intimate, spontaneous and touching farewell.
Love is the bedrock. Love is eternal.
Wandering Wakefield 