Childhood memories through Alan Woodland's words

Yesterday, I was doing the ever-routine task of laundry which for me as a renter means having to take the elevator down to the first floor and go into the communal laundry room. It's my least favourite task. I'm not sure if thats because it reminds me I have never owned my own washer and dryer and that definitely feels like a fail or if it's because the gathering, the sorting, the steps leading up to being ready to do laundry always feel a bit daunting for some inexplicable reason. Then afterwards, it feels the same as well, not a big deal and should have been done sooner afterall. 

As in a lot of older apartment buildings, there is a common room somewhere near the laundry room and the one in my building is large and dark, full of books that other tenants have left, an assortment of furniture, an old piano, which I hadn't even realized was there. On one of the bookshelfs someone has left two books standing up as if a librarian has curated these two books they most want to spotlight.

My eyes were immediately drawn to one of them, a poetry book, because of the author's name: Alan Woodland, In the Space Between. His signature was written on the first page. The bill, tucked inside, made it clear it was purchased from Black Bond Books in Maple Ridge at Valley Fair Mall. It looks like the book may have been a gift bought Dec. 11, 2021. The book was published in 2021.

It's a slim book with a white cover. There's a picture of a beach in black and white, and a person, gender undistinguishable, running at the shoreline. Alan Woodland's photo is, as customary, on the back cover.

The reason this book stood out, and the author's name, is because my eldest sister, Heather, who died from breast cancer in 1991 at 43 years of age had worked with him at the New Westminster Public Library where he had been its chief librarian for many years. 

In the late sixties, and into the early 70s, I would hear his name mentioned at our kitchen table and always with reverance. I conjured up what he might be like.  A man of letters. Sophisticated. Gentle. Funny. This is the image I created of him based on some of the stories I heard of him, without having ever met him. On at least one occasion my sister would bring a co-worker or two home from the library for lunch and as a young child, 13 years younger than her, her work there, and the pile of books on her bedside table, her light on in her bedroom into the wee hours of a night, seemed ever present.

Is finding the book a sign from my sister? It made me happy to think that way. Why not? Of all the books people leave, why was that one on top of the bookshelf awaiting the right reader, a poetry book so many people would have no interest in at all? I like to think it was not a coincidence. Someone had to bring that book on a ferry to get it here to Victoria. How long has it lived on the island? Was it purchased at the epic annual Times Colonist book sale?  Was the person who put the book in our common room still living in the building? Did they read the book before putting it down there? I don't have any answers, and probably never will but it's my treasure now.

Alan Woodland would be about 95 years old now. I do believe he is still alive. I'm sure it would please him to know someone who has never met him, has a very warm feeling about him as a result of a sister who once worked for him in her hopeful, youthful days long before cancer took hold. 

I think seeing his face on the back cover may be the first time I have ever been able to put a face to the memories I have of this man's connection to my sister all those years ago.

It would be wrong not to share some of his words from one of his poems here. I've chosen a short one that seems appropriate in this context:

Between the Lines

We poets

write out of the long history

of ancestors and family

our hands in their earth

our words warmed by their fires

voices of ancient pipes

echo in our vowels

We poets

watch antd wait

sensing

the turning of their seasons

sunrise

moonwane

their stars in our breath

their tides in our hearts

We poets

listen for footsteps

snatches of old songs

search for fleeting shadows

dancing between the lines

- Alan Woodland

Ruckle Farm Day Fun

I finally made it back to Ruckle Farm Days yesterday.

I think it has been about 15 years since I last went and that just freaks me out to see that number highlighting how much time has passed.

It was a stellar day on the top deck of the ferry from Swartz Bay on the 11 a.m. The wind was non existent which meant my hat could stay on with no effort as I soaked in a warm spring making it feel that summer vacation had arrived.

Every time I take the ferry to visit Salt Spring, which is not that often anymore, it takes me right back to that late September day when I first moved there in 2008 with Neil and Richard as my movers and the excitement of a fresh beginning floating as distinctly as the cumulus clouds. 

I'm sure there are other places in the world where this kind of local event happens but I'm also just as sure these types of local events steeped in the history of a place and innocence and community are harder to come by, at least the closer one's proximity to bigger cities.

I didn't see any laptops. There were no video games to keep kids entertained. Just goats, sheeps, lambs, Highland cattle and their calves. Plus the farm's two hard working sheep dogs. The farm managers, Mike and Marjorie Lane. The Lions Club volunteers sweating over the hot coals to cook hot dogs and hamburgers and lamb burgers. Blacksmiths tending to the fire and sharing their craft with those who were keen to try. Tables with ginger and chocolate chip cookies. And even the recreation of some Salt Spring history using dolls and implements tended lovingly by a woman who was passionate about the history of American Girl dolls.

I love these type of events where community members have time to chat, the picnic tables fill up and little groups of kids dot the grass in their own aimated conversations.

After more than 30 years of visiting Ruckle Farm and Park, yesterday was the first time I actually got to step inside the old farmhouse. I guess the artifact that most caught my attention was the crest on the wall with the Ruckle name under it. I'd never seen that before.

There's something so comforting about just enjoying a fresh field, fresh air and the comfortable company of an old friend.

And by the number of cars in the grass field doubling as the parking area, I'm not alone in finding the appeal of this type of event.

Mark your calendars for next year if you missed it.

Salt Spring Christmas time revisited

Salt Spring makes a great Christmas visit, especially if you have friends that live there. 

I won't be going there this year but I do have the memories of Christmases past to fondly think back on.  My first Christmas season there in 2008 was especially thrilling with all the markets and concerts, the overflowing camaraderie, and the natural beauty on the island in winter.

As a young child, I was blessed to have had very happy Christmases with family and extended family in the form of grandparents, aunts and uncles and a few cousins around to inhale the abundance of good food and Christmas goodies. 

The magic of that time, especially Christmas morning shared with my twin brother and three older sisters, is filled with pretty happy memories. I realize now what a blessing that was because as we all know, unfortunately, happiness at Christmas is an experience too many children and families can't relate to at all.  

That first Christmas on the island was the the first time I saw the whirlwind who is Pauline in action, and so I thought it might be fun to repost the link to my original experience of that. 

I hope you enjoy. You'll have to copy the URL below and paste it into your browser. Sorry. Old school!

https://spiritofsaltspring.blogspot.com/2008/12/paulines-christmas-kitchen.html