Fog: Nature's Stain Remover?

Living in Nova Scotia these past few months has given me my first real experience with fog. I have to admit, I find it fascinating. On the south shore this weekend, I heard the fog before I saw it. The fog horn started to send out the alert as the clouds (do you call them clouds?) began to roll in. Soon enough, the blue skies were gone, replaced by grey mist.

People here complain about the fog, but I think it's incredible. When the weather is hot, it's the perfect air conditioner. And standing outside as fog envelopes you is sort of like being in a spa.

Our friend Carolyn tells us that fog gets stains out too. Wash your clothes on a regular cycle, she says, then hang them outside for a day or two in the fog and the stains will be gone. I have yet to test this theory myself but I'm intrigued, and so far Carolyn has not led us wrong.

'I likes where I'm to'

Lottie Drake lives by the sea. One would imagine from looking at her that she's always lived by the sea, though judging by her Newfoundland accent, not always by this sea.

Her husband Tom was once a fisherman but now, somewhere in his 80s, has knees so bad he has trouble making it across the living room.

"He fished his whole life," she said, even though he gave up the life about 30 years ago.

Still, considering that he started out on a boat in Newfoundland in his early adolescence and fished till back surgery laid him up in the 1980s, that's probably a good 40 years of hard work aboard a ship.

Lottie's house is white with blue window trim and overlooks Ritcey Cove, in Lunenburg County. She doesn't have much land, but that's all right by her. Once her son, the youngest of six children, offered to put them in a bigger house.

No thanks, she said. "I likes where I'm to. I like my spot."

And a good spot it is, Lottie.

Father's Day

For the past week or so I have been suffering from a nasty cough. It comes from deep in my chest and when it starts it's hard to suppress. Each cough seems to take over my whole body, and each cough makes me think of my father. He had a similar chronic cough for months -- or was it longer? -- before he died.

For ages after, the sound of anyone coughing made me wince.

These days, everything makes me think of my father. Not only was it Father's Day yesterday, but today marks three years to the day that we lost him. The hurt of that loss is not as raw as it was then, but we don't miss him any less three years later.

My mind goes first to the way he was right before he died -- to his withered body and that relentless cough and to his eyes, always wet with emotion near the end. But I quickly run back to happier, healthier memories -- and we're lucky to have many of those to choose from.

I remember him walking out behind the house in Barbados in the evenings after washing the dishes. He would take the dog with him and the two of them would not go far, just across the road really. He would look out across the sugar cane fields, no doubt thinking about work. The dog, a yellow lab with curly hair along her back, would sit patiently next to him until he was ready to come back in. He deserved those solitary moments, and the after-dinner cigarette he would sneak in without us knowing.

When we were kids I don't think there were very many times when we really left him alone. We were so happy to have him home that we'd take every minute we could with him. When I was a teenager, he would dutifully wake up at 1am on Saturday nights when I would call and ask to be picked up at the nightclub.

I feel his presence with us now as we make this move to a new place that he knew we loved. He told me before he went that he would watch over us if he could. He was careful not to make a promise he wasn't sure if he could keep but I knew he would if he could. And now he is showing us that he's there, and he's watching. I miss his physical presence more than I can say, but I am so grateful for his spiritual guidance.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. Remember, every day is Father's Day.

Old man Wilsey, Myra and Henry

Last night we got together with our friends Brian and Carolyn, who are masters of the art of Maritime storytelling.

We talked well into the night. Well, we listened while they regaled us with fantastic stories of their South Shore families.

One story had to do with Brian's grandfather Wilsey and his aunt Myra. I will share this one vignette, which was told with such perfect delivery I still can't stop laughing.

Basically, the old man had told Myra that when he passed on she would get his farm and would be responsible for taking care of her brother Henry.

"Henry was retarded," Brian said. "Back then you could call it retarded."

As it turned out, Henry died before old Wilsey did.

"He was hit by a car," said Brian, deadpanning.

"That didn't kill him, but it certainly didn't help."