Village Squire, 1980-10, Page 29ONE DAY AT A TIME
Jim Hagarty is a 29 year old staff reporter
with The Beacon Herald in Stratford. He is
the former editor of The Mitchell Advocate
and wrote a weekly column in that
newspaper for the past three years.
Responses to his column are welcomed and
can be forwarded to The Village Squire or to
Mr. Hagarty, Box 456, Mitchell.
Recovering the simple things
BY JIM HAGARTY
When childhood passes out of a
person's life forever, it takes with it most
of those early thrills of expectation and
surprise.
In their place are substituted the
deadening chains of routine and
responsibility, which many of us then
spend a hefty portion of our adult lives
trying to break.
But always resting somewhere deep in
some neglected cavern of our beings lies
the ability to recall, in perfect, rapturous
detail, the simple euphoria of lying on an
autumn lawn while a friend covered us up
with fallen maple leaves or the
unequalled joy of watching our first toy
train go whizzing noisily around its
network of tiny tracks on that Christmas
morning long ago.
And slumbering in that lonesome
cavern too - a spiritual closet we too often
lock with the keys of pride and anger - is
that only forgotten but never - abandoned
talent we all possess for once again being
"tick led pink" by some simple pleasure.
So it was, on one of those rare days
when nothing much mattered and when
every untended chore could wait till
tomorrow, that the sheer fun of goofing
off for an entire afternoon came back to
me.
We took the back roads to Grand Bend.
to a little stretch of beach I knew was
hardly ever crowded.
On the way to the lake, the warm wind
blowing through the open windows of my
little car, we talked lighty about life and
exchanged serious and humorous
observations about all the many activities
we witnessed taking place on the farms
that lay on both sides of our route.
Through some mysterious unspoken
pact, problems were left undiscus'ed and
work went thankfully unmentioned.
There was a strong undertow in the
waters of the lake that day, forceful
enough to carry us unknowingly
hundreds of feet from the spot on the
sand where we'd left our towels. The
awareness came that it would take some
effort to make it back to shore and we
broke into laughter each time another
concerted dash to safety ended in failure.
As we changed in the bathhouse, the
sense of relaxation and freedom from
care was overwhelming and I doubt very
much whether disturbing news of any
nature could have broken the shroud of
serenity that surrounded us.
We drove to Bayfield and like
everything else that day, the town looked
different, more beautiful and more placid
than it had ever appeared to either one of
us before.
We stopped at a restaurant for coffee --
a stylish cafe with tables and chairs out
front where we sat beneath the trees,
sipped our drinks, smoked cigarettes and
laughed.
Before the. afternoon ended, an
afternoon that included a leisurely trip
through an antique shop, I announced my
plans to buy a home in Bayfield and to
move lock, stock and barrel to this little
lakeside haven miles away from the noise
and confusion. And, of course, 1 was
quite serious.
On the way home, we stopped at a yard
sale and bartered with a country gentle-
man over some of the items he had on
display. 1 bought a lawn chair for a dollar.
Those few hours were unplanned,
unexpected and from then until now,
unrepeated.
Off and on, quite naturally, we've
talked about returning some day soon but
my friend has been so busy with various
duties and as for me - well, the car needs
a good cleaning, and the storm windows
will have to go on soon and my basement
still looks like Hiroshima after the bomb
and (promised to help a relative build his
garage. . . .
dazzling stained glass, framed
photographs and intaglio prints,
weaving, soft toys, lathe -turned
wood and stoneware pottery
eie
VILLAGE SQUIRE/OCTOBER 1980 PG. 27