It is the early morning of the 3rd of September, and Vi and I are sitting outside on the balcony; it is warm and sunny. It is our wedding anniversary - always a special day for us - but never more important than in one of those years when a chapter is closed and a new one has begun. Small gifts were exchanged, and we sipped coffee.
We began talking about the newsletter. What is its purpose? When writing about people and events, where is that thin blue line that divides exuberance and happy observations of people at work and at play from those comments that are personal? We decided everyone might see it from a different perspective and understandably so. We looked at each other and agreed, so long as you are writing about people and events, the odds being what they are, once in a while you are going to get it wrong.
In truth, I am always writing; always from the heart; but never more personally nor as sincerely than to my wife on our anniversary. Anything else, including the Newsletter, I write from the heart and do so discreetly, as seems correct to me.
For a long while we just sat there looking out over the marsh. Close around us but unseen in the early morning were our new friends and neighbours. The truth is we care about each and all of them. We hope to live here for a long time.
A cool wind had started to blow and a few dark clouds drifted in. I found myself thinking back to a cold winter day in early January, 09 with a Nor’easter starting to blow. At the worst possible moment, Vi was struck down with a stroke. There followed a month for me of lonely days and nights. It was then I wrote things like this:
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“She walked in the forest all alone with her thoughts,
There rang out with small echos a series of shots,
And she fell. Like a spirited doe, she rose, and moved deep
Through snow laden branches, seeking cover and sleep,.
My beautiful lady, her smile still sublime,
Grazed by a bullet, the hunter was time.”
I looked at Vi and said, “That isn't personal, is it?”
“No,” she said, beaming, “but this sure is,” holding up a card with a short letter I had written (as I always do on anniversaries and important days of personal celebration).
I reached over and squeezed her hand.
Born with a smile on her face and a song in her heart, it is so entirely special to see Vi join Leonie's exercise class, and take her turn on the Wednesday mornings' Coffee Hour, (even if she over supplies). Her love of people is alive again, her happiness and mine in no small part the result of you and the welcome we have felt since arriving in The Village.
It is October now. It is Thanksgiving. October is a month of enjoying the last of summer, a time of huddling with nights that are cold, and dressing for days that are unpredictable. The geese will depart and some of us in the Village will as well. Southern havens for some will come with the early snows. For now we are all together.
What a perfectly splendid Thanksgiving dinner we enjoyed last evening. It could not have been better. We can only point to those who cook and organize to say “Thank you!” Skilled hands transformed the room and tables in short hours. This cluster of ladies with a little help here and there is truly remarkable to watch. The turkey was perfect and all that surrounded it as well. As we all sat, sipping wine and coffee, Patty pulled the names of dinner draw winners. Not only did Marcel win the 50-50 draw (possibly millions), but Mary won third prize at our Thanksgiving dinner draw. Leonie cleaned out Bingo on Tuesday, then won second prize at the dinner draw. The grand and final prize went to Gwen, although in truth on this day and evening we were all winners.
Gordon Bain 102
