Those Summers

Turquoise paddleboat,

orange life-vest,

red canoe,

a different jack pine,

the way the smoke furled starward and the waves counted beats upon the rocks —

I think back upon them fondly.

Snapshots of days when bedtime always came too soon.

Memories of moments that make me ache for the lakeside.

Brown sugar on strawberries.

White sugar on rhubarb.

Racing to spot the Big Dipper.

My childhood was the ideal

as I look back upon it. Those summers especially.

Sunned, soaked, spoiled and shaped by the south of Ontario. Milkweed, zebra mussels, maples and miles. Sun-bleached mornings, calm and still. Stillness.  I wonder if it’s only there in my mind – I don’t remember the details well enough. Time and space take them away. But with time and space comes that stillness that I love.

And then my mind wanders to Roehtke.  And I’m waking slow. Walking paths through crisp foggy mornings. Dreams. Past lives. Or forgotten memories. Familiar yet distant. Comforting and something else. And I can’t put my finger on it. But it keeps me steady – I should know. Things to go back to. Or go forward with.

When we die, all we have to take with us are our memories. I don't know where I heard that. I don't know where we go when we die. And I don't know why those words have stuck with me, but like many things, they have. I tucked them away with other strings of letters, with images, sensations and moments that I keep and take with me wherever I go.

I often find myself visiting the things I've collected. Memories. Whatever form they take. They are the pieces that make up me, and, in turn, they inform the pieces I make. My current practice explores the people, places and things that I take with me. Layered with time, space, paint and glaze they have become something more than I suspect they ever were.