Memory of Nirvana

One of the greatest gifts our Creator bequeathed upon mankind is the capacity to remember. Without such an endearing ability, memories could never be fashioned from special moments in time. It would be just a moment and nothing else. We all possess childhood memories. There is always something immeasurably profound about childhood innocence. It is an innocence that carries no boundaries, no suspicions nor worry of tomorrow. It is freedom in its purest form – grace unhindered.

I carry with me many childhood memories that are as clear and detailed as the day I created them. One memory, in particular, I evoke often. It is the most auspicious in my personal collection.

My summer vacations with my grandparents in the mid 60’s were carefree summer days filled with sun, sandy beaches, bronze colored tans and evening retreats around the campfire. I couldn’t wait for the morning to arrive when my grandparents would pick me up in their classy brown Pontiac Parisienne, for the two hour trip from Toronto to their cottage in Woodland Beach.

I would be ready for hours, often times before the sun came up. Once that Parisienne pulled up outside my parents’ home, I knew that it was the start of something big. My enthusiasm was not to be controlled, oftentimes to my grandparents’ dismay.

I can hear still Jennie and Adam’s voices. My grandmother was Irish, Antrim county born, my grandfather, Polish, from a small village on the border with Czechoslovakia. They had emigrated to Canada years before, but still had their own distinctive accents. I loved to listen to them talk. My grandfather could elaborate upon his stories for hours on end. My grandmother was a listener; always thinking it seemed.

As I sat in the back seat in freshly vacuumed upholstery, I’d watch for my private guideposts along the way. I’d watch for Holland marsh with its black loamed fields that seemed to stretch into infinity. And for the huge red barn on the right, past the Nobleton exit, with its tired red doors swung open as if listening to voices of the passing world. I’d roll down the back window, close my eyes, reveling in the caress of a warm gentle summer breeze as it whispered past my cheek.

I’d listen to the sound of passing cars, and ponder where perhaps they were going, or where they had been. The smell of freshly mown grass filled my personal space in that backseat and I recall thinking, even as a young child, that I would never forget these most ebullient moments – ever.

Through time, we travelled along a narrow sandy road, lined with massive willow trees whose branches stretched to the earth below, dancing a graceful dance to the tune of a summer breeze. We’d stop at the end of that long road, enter a rustic yellow farmhouse and purchase two dozen fresh eggs. From this point I knew that it was only a short time later that we’d be in the quaint town of Elmvale to have lunch and pick up groceries. After that, Woodland Beach was only a half hour away, yet that half hour was the longest part of the trip for me.

The greatest exhilaration was in making that left hand turn by the ancient, surprisingly staunch, oak tree. That tree unnerved me at first, standing there defiantly against the ravages of time, branches twisting haphazardly towards the sky. Eventually I came to appreciate that tree. It was my last guidepost before reaching my personal play ground.

As we proceeded along a gravel country road, we reached a hilltop, beyond which was the expanse of my Nirvana. Ahead, as if beckoning to me alone, glistened the bluish green waters of Georgian Bay, with the crest of its waters sparkling like millions of scattered diamonds, as if in jubilation of a perfect world. The sandy shores of the beach stretched for miles and I couldn’t wait to get out of that Parisienne to eventually feel the warmth of those warm grains between my toes, to enter the beckoning water and swim to ‘my’ diving rock.

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Author - anne wentzell