Happy Birthday...

So, Sunday June 1st is my birthday. Oh joy.

But instead of writing a long diatribe lamenting about turning 36-ish, I’ve decided I would reflect on what it means to be a girl born in the early 70’s. So to my other 30-ish friends and family, perhaps you can relate.

Girls, you were born in the early 70's if...

You remember your mother’s friend wearing the coolest platform sneakers with the Pepsi wave on the side (or at least I do).

You had a Garfield eraser and practiced drawing him on your scribblers.

You just realized you can still draw Garfield.

Ma-Ma-Ma-Max actually means something to you.

You owned something with Holly Hobby on it. (I actually had the life-size playhouse in my room. Coolest thing ever.)

You remember how disgusting fruit-flavoured chips were. Thank God that didn't last.

Thursday nights meant hanging out with the gang from Cheers and seeing what the Cosby kids were up to.

Sunday nights were about watching the Wonderful World of Disney, the Beachcombers and Fraggle Rock, in that order.

Adults didn't seem concerned with the fact that kids could buy candied cigarettes...you know, the ones that had the little puff of "smoke" when you first blew into them?

You wore pins that held solid perfume in a secret compartment.

Barbie was a “superstar”.

You played “pong” on your black and white tv and wondered “what will they think of next?” And then Atari came out and completely blew your mind.

You spent four hours every Saturday afternoon listening to Dick Clark’s top 40 so you could record your favourite songs onto your cassette tapes.

You still can’t see a St. Bernard without having flashbacks of Cujo jumping on the passenger window of the car.

Your status in junior high was determined by three things: how many Swatches you owned, how many friendship pins you had on your sneakers and whether or not you had a real K-Way and not an imitation one.

You fought with your friends over who would get Shaun Cassidy when you played “boyfriends.” (Poor Parker.)

You had cases of Pop Shoppe Pop in your basement. (My favourite was black cherry.)

You folded up your already tapered jeans to make them even more tapered.

You owned the entire collection of Little House on the Prairie books.

You had a rainbow sweatshirt with puffy sleeves.

You also owned a bubble-knit sweater with pom-poms.

You actually had discussions about how you “trained your hair” to feather back.

You carried the fold over “comb and brush” combo in your back pocket for regular “feather” maintenance.

Olivia Newton John’s black outfit at the end of Grease was the raciest thing you had seen to that point. That's also when you wanted your first pair of high heels...just like the wooden ones she was wearing.

You choreographed your own routines to the entire Saturday Night Fever album.

Wal-Mart was Woolco and you remember the day hundreds of people lined up outside the local Woolco for the first shipment of Cabbage Patch Kids.

For my friends who lived near the NB/Maine border...you stayed up until 1am on Saturday nights to watch Stacy's Jamboree out of Bangor.

And finally...you remember playing with the dead hornets in the back window of your car. Why? Because you weren't restricted by those pesky seatbelts. :)

Apple Blossoms in Wilmot Park

I have always been struck by how scent can instantly connect us to the past. The inside of my grandmother's cookie tin takes me back to being 6 years old sneaking a treat from the farmhouse pantry. A rare whiff of a certain type of  80's cologne will always remind my of a teenage love and perhaps one of the most universal of pleasant reminders, the smell of fresh cut grass.   

During a recent business stopover in Fredericton, NB I was once again reminded of this phenomenon.  Fredericton was my childhood home – the City of Stately Elms, home to the majestic Christ Church Cathedral and Salvador Dali’s Santiago El Grande, home to arguably one of this country’s most scenic riverfronts and home to the Boyce Farmer’s Market where eating a donair with a samosa-chaser before 8:30am is considered perfectly normal, if not a right of passage after a late night at Dolan’s Pub or the Lunar Rogue. 

It is a city deeply engrained with rich cultural tones and is world renowned as a nurturing mecca for the arts and for both budding and seasoned musicians. And among countless other cherished hallmarks, one would be remiss in not mentioning the fierce but beloved battle of the hill – the age-old and ageless rivalry between the UNB Reds and the St. Thomas Tommies.  It’s a city that walks confidently into the future while strolling thoughtfully through its past.  If you’ve ever run your fingers along the ornate gates of Officer’s Square, found a unique trinket at Mazzuca's Variety Store, admired the simple brick lines of the Marysville Cotton Mill or have ever noticed the original GE George’s sign perched above Queen Street, then you know precisely what I mean. 

This is indeed the place where I grew up.  It is were I went to university before leaping off into adulthood and it is the place that I left in my late twenties. Ten years have since past and even though time has begun to fade my once steadfast connection to this fair town, it is here where I know myself best and it is here that I covet each opportunity to return – as infrequent as that may now be. 

On this particularly glorious May morning, I paid my room bill at the Fredericton Delta and proceeded with my bags across the lobby. Stepping into the bright sunlight, a warm smile instantly embraced face. “Ah…it was good to be home,” I thought to myself. Greeting the moment with a slow, deliberate breath, I found myself unable to move. Much to the confusion of the young man holding the door, I could do nothing but stand perfectly still on the walkway; I was completely and utterly paralyzed. Perhaps but a few moments had passed before I was able to reconcile what was intoxicating my usual sober demeanour – it was, in fact, the unmistakable, sweet, fragrant aroma of the apple blossoms drifting effortlessly from Wilmot Park. 

Tears welled up in my eyes.  A kaleidoscope of memories flooded my senses all seemingly triggered by an unconscious awareness that is the veil of springtime in Fredericton. The rush was met with an overwhelming urge to turn back time and walk across the street to a small, cozy bungalow in Sunshine Gardens, the last place I lived before moving to Halifax. 

But after a few surreal moments, and much to the doorman’s relief, I pressed stop on the silent movie playing in my head and stepped forward into my day, albeit with a little sadness in my heart and a longing to return to a place I knew so well. 

Driving down the Woodstock road, I slowed at Wilmot Park to marvel at the beauty of the white and pink blossoms, branches so full that the flowers dripped heavily on to the pathway below. “How could I have never noticed this before but yet know it so well?” I asked out loud as if someone were listening. How had I never taken the time to stroll through the park for the mere pleasure of gazing upward into the chiffon buds? 

But it’s like that sometimes isn’t it? It’s not until we leave that we appreciate where we’ve been. 

Approaching the Vanier Hiway a persistent melancholy slid quietly on to the passenger seat beside me.  During the four hour drive to Halifax, we lingered over memories of growing up in “Freddy Beach” - memories I had long since tucked away, memories that made me smile, sometimes cry.  As much as I enjoyed Halifax and despite living there for the last decade, it had yet to feel like home. It was where I lived but it wasn’t where I was from and this morning’s experience reminded me just how much I loved the little city that sits snuggled up against the banks of the mighty Saint John. 

I couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps it was time to reconsider my fate. Maybe it was time to return to my roots. 

Just as the late afternoon sun danced across the Halifax Harbour, I finally made the right hand turn on to Shore Road in Eastern Passage – a small, quaint fishing village that still relies on, and respects deeply, the water’s bounty. 

I bought a house here a few years prior and had come to appreciate the beauty of living so close to the coast – a stark contrast to growing up in land-locked central New Brunswick. Feeling a bit road weary, I took a moment to pull over at Fisherman’s Cove. Meandering slowly along the boardwalk, I breathed deeply to clear my senses. With salty air filling my lungs I couldn’t help but wonder if someday I might be as awestruck by the scent of the ocean as I was by the apple blossoms from Wilmot Park. 

Maybe. Maybe someday. 

A short time later, I unpacked the car and made my way into my little house-by-the-sea where I was greeted by the warmness of a kitty curled up on her  green ottoman. Welcoming me home with a sleepy purr, I realized in that very sweet moment I would no doubt one day drive by this house and wish I could walk in and return to the comfort once found inside. Someday I would pass by and again wish I could turn back time - just as I had done earlier that morning. The thought provided some much-needed comfort but even more importantly, it offered a gentle reminder of how important it is to be, wherever it is, you are. 

Home truly can be anywhere because where you’re from, never changes. 

Ironically, just before leaving for my trip to NB, I had made the reluctant decision to dig up the small apple tree (aka "Fiona") in my backyard. She had been struggling to bloom ever since I transplanted her from the front yard when I moved in. Much to my chagrin, it had become apparent that perhaps she wasn’t going to be able to adjust to her new surroundings. But looking out at her now, the day’s experience had shifted my perspective and I felt a change of heart. Perhaps I needed to reconsider her fate; maybe all she needed was a little more time to take root. Turning away from the window, a warm smile embraced my face. It truly was good to be home.