by Steve Vernon
Dulsie has decided that when she finishes high school, she’ll go to art college. She writes me letters at least once a week, with sketches and cartoons on every page. I really think that she ought to become a cartoonist, but she has it in her mind that one day she’ll own and run her own tattoo shop—and maybe she will.
Three months after Granddad Angus’s Viking funeral, David Suzuki finally showed up with a film crew to shoot a Nature of Things episode on cryptids and urban and rural mythology. Dad let him spend the night in my jail cell and Warren chucked an honorary caber, which flattened the camera van and nearly murdered David Suzuki.
David Suzuki wasn’t bothered by the attempted caber-assassination, though. He was more excited about the new species of tree he discovered growing in Molly’s backyard. A long and gangly Nova Scotia Jack pine, with a scent that haunted in your nostrils like a mixture of pine cones and freshly baked pumpkin pie.
I don’t know if any coyotes howl under it every night but they ought to.
Some nights, I take the big old saw down and make it into that funny-looking s-curve and play it a little. It doesn’t sound nearly as pretty as it did when Granddad Angus played it, but I’m working on it.
Sometimes I cry a little when I’m playing. Not big boo-hoo kind of sobbing, just slow tears sneaking down my cheek. I think about my Granddad Angus—the most important person in my whole short life. When the tear reaches the crease of my lip, I catch the teardrop with my tongue, and think of sea water.
Some nights I just lie here in my bed and breathe in and breathe out—long, slow, deep breaths—and I imagine that my breath is touching the very same air that my Dad is breathing a thousand miles away and in the breathing I can hear the sound of the waves washing in on Deeper Harbour.
I breathe deep.
My eyes are clear.
A brand new morning is moments away.
It is no mechanic’s file through a jailhouse window, but for right here and right now it is all the alarm clock I need.
Acknowledgments
When I was seventeen years old I came from Northern Ontario to visit Nova Scotia and to meet my mother—whom I barely knew. It was to be nothing more than a very short visit. This short visit has lasted over thirty-five years. So I’d like to thank the province of Nova Scotia and all the wonderful people I have met here for taking me into their hearts and making me feel completely at home.
I would also like to acknowledge my Aunt Marjorie—a lovely lady who passed away in early September 2010. I’m sorry I didn’t get there soon enough to say goodbye.
A big tip of my hat must also go to the great folks at Nimbus and all the help they gave me getting this book into print. Thanks to Penelope, Patrick, Terrilee, and all the rest of you hardworking people.
Thanks to Mom for believing in my writing.
Thanks to my lovely wife, Belinda, for believing in me—as always you remain my one true love. You have taught me that life and love have a deeper meaning.
Other books by Steve Vernon:
Haunted Harbours
Wicked Woods
Halifax Haunts
Children’s picture books
Maritime Monsters
