LANDMARKS

Last weekend, in an effort to amuse the grandsons, Grandpa was convinced (by a six year old who shows great promise as a car salesman) to take them on a treasure hunt up in the attic. 

Now, just to clarify, the word "attic" means different things to different people.  To little people it is a place of endless discovery (if they are brave enough to climb that ladder).  To Grandpa it is a fun experience to show these kids all kinds of stuff (and get them off his case to go outside at minus 25 degrees).  For Grandma it is a place where you put stuff that you don't want to deal with.  You know, the stuff that is too good to throw away (you think at the time), so you hoist it up out of sight and promptly forget it even exists.  Except for the Christmas decorations, anything that goes up there STAYS up there. 

Therefore, when Grandpa and the little boys got all dressed up (it was still 15 degrees below zero up there) and prepared for their climbing expedition, Grandma was super unimpressed.  Her rule of "what goes up to the attic stays up in the attic!" was surely about to be broken.

And it was.  Boy #1 retrieved his uncle's favourite shirt (circa 1992) and a pair of mint condition runners (2 sizes too big) and boy #2 claimed a bunch of hot wheels cars, and Grandpa found a full face Halloween mask which the dog disapproved of even more than Grandma did.  The adventurers didn't leave Grandma out though - they also presented me with a little wooden box full of letters.

I can offer no rational explanation why anyone would keep such things but the box is from my childhood and the letters are so old that they are addressed to my maiden name.  You know how, if you move a lot there are some boxes you just keep moving because they are your stuff, not because you actually remember what's in them anymore?  Well, that's where this treasure has been hiding for almost 50 years.

My first reaction was disbelief.  How could they still exist?  Next I shuffled through the pile - who were they from?  My cousin in Calgary: check.  A girl from Regina I had met through her cousin: I had forgotten we ever corresponded.  But the ones that really blew me away were the stack from my BFF ... man, have times changed!

We were fifteen year old girls:  self absorbed, juvenile and (apparently) talked incessantly of boys and parties and boys and dates and boys and flirting and yet more about boys.  Oh yeah, we weren't fans of younger siblings either, and wondered how our mothers always seemed to be on to our devious plans.  But it's not what's in the letters that stands out to me in 2018, it's that they were ever written in the first place.  You see, we went to the same school and we only lived 22 miles apart.  When summer holidays came along, though, 22 miles was too far.  It was long distance.  Our parents ruled out letting us talk on the phone - there were charges.  A postage stamp only cost 6 cents and that was our only option to stay in touch through July and August.  Today's fifteen year olds with their personal smart phones and unlimited data will have a hard time computing this.

Maybe it's just how my brain works, but that little time capsule has shone a light on other things to think about.

The route we take to go to town has been altered this winter.  The road is the same, but the scenery is different - an old yard site and the trees around it have been cleared away.  All that's left are bush piles, a bare hill, and a SaskTel pedestal to show that the lane ever led to anything but a field.  This is progress, of course: an acre or two more to farm, less turning for the farm equipment, and nice straight lines to make the GPS happy.  Maybe it's only me who sees that something has been lost.

It's not a physical trail marker I need to show the way to town, but more a historical kind of talisman that used to remind me of where we've come from.  In today's world of electronics and machinery and every convenience under the sun, the hard work and trail blazing of previous generations fades from memory.  The little house with outdoor plumbing.  Carrying water from the well.  Milking cows, gathering eggs, preserving garden vegetables, chopping firewood, sewing your own cloths, fixing your own tractor, stacking square bales by hand.  It's not that I think that progress should stop, it's more that I wonder how will we appreciate what we have now if there's nothing to compare it to? 

Maybe it's not important, I don't know.  When I think of how so much has changed in my lifetime alone - the snail mail to e-mail thing is such a perfect example - I suspect that there are a lot of folks who will say I'm just being nostalgic, but I don't feel like nostalgia is the right word.

Barren.  Open.  Vacant.  Bare.  This newly cleared field on my way to town pushes me to find the right word. 

Eventually I will get used to the new view.  I hope I will always miss the landmark.