The lilacs are blooming -
What a wonderful world
Early in the morning, on the 24th of May, I stopped on the way out of our house to smell the heavy blooms of lilacs hanging over the gravel lane. I looked forward all winter to the day when the melt water would soak down and nurture the roots of these many bushes that we rescued from a family cottage at Windermere, on Lake Rosseau. When we moved to our Gravenhurst home, after a lengthy stay in Windermere, I insisted we bring along as many lilacs as possible, to plant in what was a rather barren front yard. Each spring it is a real treat to see these beautiful trees bring forth such magnificent blooms. I never pass that I don't inhale as much as my lungs and senses can consume.
It was on this day that we received word, from a retirement home in Bracebridge, that my mother was unlikely to survive the morning, and we should come as quickly as possible. I knew they were wrong. When I stopped to admire the lilacs down by the car, I had the clear sense that she had already passed, and that she too had stopped in the abandon of this mortal coil, to take one last smell of heaven on earth. I had a very real feeling she was, for just a moment, standing by my side peacefully enjoying what had been a wonderful life. Merle Currie was in her 86th year. She enjoyed living here in Muskoka, although at first country living seemed to frighten her, particularly the early start and late melt of the winter season. She adored walking and spent hours strolling along the shore of the Muskoka River, and up and down Manitoba Street, so strikingly beautiful at this time of year when the maple leaves unfurl into the early summer sunshine.
I stood there admiring the massive blooms and the sweet aroma, and I know Merle would have agreed at this point, that it was a far better thing to dawdle and celebrate life. Hers was now the recognition and fulfillment of a well spent life, and just as these charming blooms will retire, the tiny individual petals falling to the ground from which it grew, we will always recognize fondly the short but vibrant season of lilacs. When we arrived at the retirement home, Merle had indeed taken her last breath, and when I asked my father when it had happened, it corresponded almost precisely the moment I stood in the shadow of the thriving lilac, feeling the presence of my mother's last earthly moment. Merle always was perceptive and amazingly intuitive. We subtly agreed that it had all been a good mother-son relationship for these 53 odd years, and that it was okay after all the mileage, to just calm everso gently by these flowering shrubs that remind us all of other days and homestead ways.
I knew that my mother was contented following her passing, and that her request was that we cease to grieve and go about our earthly days in good cheer. Death had released her from considerable mortal pain. She was free now. And it was a settling feeling that she had found immediate peace, enjoying these spring lilacs as she always had in life. When I attended to pay my final respects, and saw her tucked into her hospital bed, I thanked God she had been freed universal, to enjoy enternity with the wild abandon of a free spirit.
My mother had been a great source of inspiration to me as a fledgling writer. She had great faith in her son and sometimes I honestly feared she had too much confidence, expecting me to do handstands when I couldn't do a simple push-up. "Of course you can do it Teddy," as she used to call me, much to my chagin....because she often said it front of my burly hockey or football mates. Merle knew I couldn't abide any one who bestowed a half effort on an important project, and she knew how to motivate me when I seemed least inclined. My love of the outdoors probably originated from her pet project to keep me out of the house. Once I had breakfast as a kid, the rest of the day was spent outdoors except in case of monsoon. I may have thought she was cruel a few times, especially when it was raining or on the brink of a winter blizzard but I always found an appropriate shelter, friends that welcomed me into their homes, and offered a few morsels of lunch or dinner to a kid bent on adventure. She just didn't want me sitting around all day watching the television. It worked. My love for the outdoors is directly proportional to the fact I used to hole-up every day, for several hours, in a quaint neighborhood green-belt called, "Bamford's Woods." It was only a few acres of evergreens and a few hardwoods, lots of ferns and critters, and it was just so perfectly suited to the poet in residence. There were so many places to hide-out watching the world unfold. I didn't need friends. I just sat there on an outstretched bough, comtemplating the novel I was going to write one day with this place as a backdrop.
I stopped again this afternoon, to once again admire the huge and magnificent lilac blooms, hanging heavy on the trees that border our lane here at Birch Hollow. And I thought about my dear old mother, who loved the budding spring more than any other time of the year. I feel she's been here already, for that last glimpse of life and family. Hopefully she liked what she saw, what she smelled and experienced here, on the homestead path at Birch Hollow. Truly it is a beautiful life. And she was part of it!