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.