“Two visits to Sherwood Inn, 80 years apart, in 1943 and 2023” by Elizabeth Sime

Bag unpacked and I’m almost back to my normal routine, after a stimulating October weekend at a writing retreat with Brian Henry at Sherwood Inn. The last time I was at Sherwood was in August 1943 during the second World War when I was ten.

My father learnt about Sherwood Inn from Mr. Draper, a business associate from Bay Street in Toronto. Father was looking for a small Inn on Lake Joseph where he could take Mother and I for a week of day trips by canoe.  My parents’ main interests on this holiday were canoeing, good food, and staying in a friendly place with like-minded people. Mother was in agreement and I didn’t have a choice, but was looking forward to being in or on the water. 

Mr. Draper arranged for a red cedar strip canoe to be ready on the beach for our adventures. We brought our own paddles which were suitable for our height. Father always paddled stern and had a wider paddle. There were no life jackets in those days. I was dumped in deep water and taught to kick the canoe to shore. At ten, when I was learning to paddle, we stayed close to the shore. 

Young Betsy Draper's dog Jet in
the formal dining room at Sherwood Inn

Each morning when not raining rattlesnakes, we set out with a packed lunch for a day trip on the lake. There were lots of rocks and places to swim for our lunch time stops.  I was happy. 

Now the lake is ringed with palatial "cottages." [Supermodel Cindy Crawford and her gazillionaire husband Rande Gerber own a quaint mansion here.] But in 1943 only a few simple cottages suitable for living in the bush could be found on Lake Joseph. These cottages had no electricity other than provided for by a small generator for lights. There was an outhouse, a wood stove for cooking, and a box with a block of ice to keep food cool.  The cottages had large screened-in porches to deal with the summer bug problem.

Mothers spent July and August with their children at the cottage, enjoying nature away from city activities. In the 1940’s polio was on the rampage and it was safer for children to be out of the city.  The cooler breezes up north were better than spending the summer in the city without air conditioning. And, there was always a lake to jump into when it was hot. 

To get to Muskoka in 1943 was a journey. Some travelled by car and others by train. In those days, 50 miles an hour was the speed limit on highways and Number 11 was the only road to the north. It went through the busy centres of all the villages and towns between Toronto and Muskoka. Gas was rationed but my father saved up enough coupons for the summer holiday trip to the north. 

At the slow speed of travel, we had time to absorb the change in landscape. When the highway went through the blasted rock-cut at Severn,  I remember thinking , We are now in rock country.  The trees also changed, to pine, spruce and hemlock. This was not a gradual change; suddenly we were in a different world. I felt as if I was really going to the north, far away from city activities.

Thomas B. Costain, author of The Silver Chalice and 85 other novels on one of his many stays at Sherwood Inn

Other guests would go by train to Gravenhurst and proceed by boat to Sherwood. I remember the supply boat coming to the main dock. I think it was called the Constance. The boat was a floating store to provide supplies to the few cottagers on the lake.  

On a rainy day, when we weren’t out paddling, I heard a bell ring when the boat was about to dock.  I ran down with twenty-five cents to buy two Neilson’s Burnt Almond Chocolate bars with blue wrappers. I even got five cents in return. Chocolate was a real treat during the War, as sugar was rationed. I ate one of the bars before I got to my parents to share my purchase.

We arrived at Sherwood late in the afternoon in time for dinner, tired after the long curvy drive from Toronto in our blue Plymouth.  Not like today when it only takes a couple of hours to speed along the straight 400.  At dinner, it was expected males would wear jackets and ties and females a dress. Even at home, my father always wore a tie and jacket for dinner and my mother changed from her daytime attire. For my family, this was a normal routine.

Artist Lawren Harris was another frequent
guest at Sherwood. The tranquility of the setting
attracted writers and artists – and still does. 

Customs have changed at Sherwood. In 2023, I brought a dressy sweater to wear at dinner just in case the dress code still existed.  I don’t own a dress or skirt anymore. The sweater went home unused, which was okay with me. This weekend the majority of guests were with me on the writing retreat. It was not necessary to change clothes between activities. Wearing something comfy was more important.  

Activities blended into each other. Breakfast, lecture time from Brian, rapid writes, one-on-one project discussion with Brian, lunch, more writing tips from Brian, then time to write. Dinner was at six, followed by a session of listening to pieces written by group members. The day was full.

I did have time to absorb some nature. I watched the lake changing from whitecaps one day to being like a mirror the next.  To stand under the tall majestic pines, smell and see a log fire burning each night just outside the front door reminded me I was staying in a northern forest. It was stimulating for me to spend time with like-minded people who shared a common interest in writing. Canoe tripping in 1943 and writing in 2023, were both very enjoyable experiences at an Inn where the personal touch is still important, the staff are all delightful, and the company of fellow writers is the best of all.  

***

Elizabeth Sime is a retired Public Health Nurse who practiced in the Yukon and Ontario. In her retirement she enjoys painting and writing. She is currently working on a memoir about her time with Indian and Northern Health Service in the 1950's.

For details of Brian's upcoming writing retreat at Sherwood Inn, see here.

See all of Brian’s upcoming weekly writing classes, afternoon workshops, and wonderful retreats here. 

“Tyger, Tyger, Burning Bright” by Margaret Ruttan

I passed by the Strip Club on the corner many times, and although women taking off their clothes and dancing naked for a living had always intrigued me, I never felt compelled enough to go inside. That is, until I heard about the tiger.

The long white semi-trailer was parked on the side street next to the club for several weeks. The newspaper said the show was held over for just one more week and featured the lovely Jane Jones and her lovable co-star, Qadesh, a 465-pound Siberian tiger. The act also featured a large python, a boa constrictor and exotic birds.

The python, boa constrictor and birds didn’t particularly interest me, but the tiger. This I had to see.

Maybe it was the writer in me looking for new material for my next novel or short story, but I was determined I wasn’t going to miss my chance to see it before they left town.

My mom, who was in her eighties, was visiting from Toronto for the weekend. Of course, she wasn’t my first choice. I asked a couple of my friends to accompany me, but they weren’t interested, and the more I tried to convince them, the more I feared I sounded like a bit of a weirdo.

So, I thought, maybe I could convince my mom to come with me.

“Aren’t you at all curious?” I asked her.

“Not really.”

“Don’t you want to see the tiger?”

“Nope.”

“Oh, c’mon, Mom. I can’t go by myself.”

“Can’t you get one of your friends to go with you?”

“I would, but they’re busy this weekend.” Which wasn’t quite true.

“Please mom, I’d go alone, but I’d feel better if someone came with me and I don’t have anybody else.” 

Even my husband wasn’t interested in going, which frankly surprised me.

 “I’m too old for this,” my mom protested.

“No, you’re not. I’m sure people of all ages will be there.”

I was right. There was at least one other elderly person, a man sitting to the right of the stage who appeared to be there alone. He gave my mom a welcoming smile when we looked his way. She snubbed him, turning her head in the opposite direction.

There was an admission fee of $5.00.

The man at the door asked us to hold out the back of our hand so he could stamp it, just in case we left and tried to come back in on another night without paying. I watched as the black ink from the ink pad smudged over my mom’s thin, wrinkled skin.  What was I thinking, bringing my mom to a place like this?

The room was dark and I wondered if that was so people wouldn’t recognize one another or if they couldn’t afford good lighting. I read later it was deliberate to create a sense of privacy for the patrons and to lower inhibitions. For whom, I wondered, the performers or the people watching?

We found some seats not too far from the front of the stage. When I leaned my arm on the table, my skin felt sticky when I lifted it off again, perhaps another reason for the dim lighting – to hide the lack of attention to cleanliness.

I looked around me to see if I recognized anybody. I thought I saw a woman I knew and her boyfriend, but it was hard to tell, two familiar silhouettes.

We ordered a drink and waited for the show to begin.

A petite blonde woman who looked somewhere in her late twenties to early thirties walked by our table towards the stage. She was dressed in a buckskin thong and tight top. She stood about 5 feet tall and didn’t seem to have an ounce of fat on her small, toned body.

The noise in the room went quiet as she walked on stage, removed her clothes and began painting herself in multi-colours. She then turned on an overhead shower washing all the paint off as she ran her hands over every part of her body.

Once she was dried off sufficiently, she reached into a bag and pulled out a flute. I couldn’t imagine what she had in mind for that, until she raised it to her mouth and began to play.

I turned to mom and whispered, “She’s clearly multi-talented.”

The old man at the side of the stage was jumping up and down in excitement, clapping his hands.

“Look at him,” my mom said. “He’s making a spectacle of himself.”

We watched as the dancer twisted her naked, compact body around a rope hanging from the ceiling, climbing high in the air and slid back down again.

Then she walked to the back of the room and in less than a minute returned, dragging a heavy braided rope along the thin, stained carpeted floor.

At the end of that rope was a nine-foot-long female Siberian Tiger named Qadesh, pronounced Kadesh. I’d done my research and the name originated from an ancient Semitic root meaning holy or sacred.

The room fell silent as all eyes were now on the tiger.

As the beast sauntered right past our table, we heard the sound of its heavy breathing.  It was so close mom could have reached out and patted it.

The lovely Jane Jones, as it said in the newspaper, guided her oversized pet to an area on the stage and instructed it to lie down. Then she lay naked against the tiger, cuddling into it like a giant soft plush toy.           

Across the table, I looked at my mom, her mouth open and her eyes wide. 

We stared at that majestic beast, huge and golden and its naked mistress, the tiger’s solemn eyes staring back at us.

In that moment that tiger truly was holy.

Margaret Ruttan is an award-winning contemporary visual artist, performing artist and published author based in Belleville, Ontario. 

During the past several years, she turned her hand to writing one-act plays, several of which were performed in local community theatres and one even went international being performed in the United Kingdom earlier this summer. Presently, she is working on a novel with the feedback and support of online classes offered by Brian Henry.

See some of Margaret's artwork here. 

For more short stories, poetry, and essays by you fellow writers see here (and scroll down).

See Brian’s upcoming weekly writing classes, afternoon workshops, and wonderful writing retreats here.

“Memories of Arowhon Pines” by Lucia Saja

 

It was a hot June day in 1964 and I was crammed inside a crowded bus, full of screaming, singing, excited kids heading to camp.  I wasn’t one of the campers.  I was about to turn 17 and about to start my first fulltime summer job.  I thought I’d be working in the kitchen at Camp Arowhon, but when the bus got there, the kids got off and a small group of us were told to stay on.

The next stop was the sublime opposite of the camp.  Arowhon Pines was a luxury resort nestled among tall pines on a peaceful lake.  The rustic setting was spectacular and completely foreign to me.  I was 100% a city girl.  I’d never even gone camping, and, here I was in the middle of Algonquin Park.  Little did I know, I was about to start the adventure of a lifetime.

We were shown to our quarters in what is now called the “L”.  The girls were on the left side, the boys on the right.  The communal washrooms were in the junction of the two wings.  I was so self-conscious.  I’d never shared space with so many people before.

We got our rooms and assignments.  My first shift was in the laundry at 7am the next day.  The good news was, I would have afternoons off.  The bad news was, I had to earn them by working in the steamy laundry, washing bedding in huge machines, putting sheets through the mangle (a giant set of cloth covered rollers that pressed the sheets and pillowcases flat), and ironing campers’ shirts.  The work was hot and repetitious, but I loved my new-found freedom.

I remember that first morning at Arowhon.  It was 6 a.m.  The air was cool and fresh.  A pale gray mist covered the ground and swirled around my legs as I walked.  The only sound was that of leaves rustling and a lone chickadee somewhere in the woods.  

As the weeks passed friendships formed and the “L” became a community.  Like any community, it was rife with characters.  The matriarch and owner, Lillian Kates, was a small solid woman with tanned skin, snow-white hair and a commanding manner.  She visited on a regular basis, even though she’d passed on most of the responsibilities to her son Eugene.  When she was on the property, we all knew to look smart and look busy.  Her philosophy was that everything should be done correctly at all times.

Then there was Aunt Sarah.  She was as fiery as her bright auburn hair and fire engine red lipstick.  Aunt Sarah ran the snack shop.  She kept everyone supplied with junk food and entertained us with outrageous stories about her life.

My boss in the laundry was Mike, a large man in overhauls, who revelled in the noise and steam let off by the giant machines in his kingdom.

There was also a rotating crew of short-term workers.  They were unshaven, older men who sat behind the staff cabins drinking on Saturday nights.

Lucia and Melinda

My real education came from Melinda.  She was from Altoona, Pennsylvania, and she’d graduated from Penn State.  I thought she was the smartest, most exciting person I’d ever met.  She owned a motorcycle.  She read poetry for pleasure!  

She talked about world affairs and literature and religion.  No one I knew talked about that stuff.  She had joined the Peace Corps and worked in Afghanistan for two years.  In 1964, I didn’t even know where Afghanistan was.  

All I knew was that I wanted to be like her.  I wanted to go to university, read poetry and change the world.

I learned so much that summer.  I learned to be independent, to make beds properly, to mangle sheets, to work collaboratively, to open my mind to ideas and possibilities. I developed a lifelong appreciation for people in the service industry.  

I also learned that meals could be more than overcooked meat, boiled potatoes and limp veggies.  The generous chefs at Arowhon informed my palate,  offering me exotic, delicious foods that sent me into waves of rapture.  I learned to paddle a canoe on my own and discovered that not paddling and just floating on a silent lake could be transformative.

I returned two more summers and became one of the veterans.  I cleaned rooms as chambermaid and eventually worked as waitress.  I remember the giant fireplace that dominated the dining room even then and the linen covered tables filled with guests “dressed” for dinner: men in sports jackets and ties and ladies in cocktail dresses and heels.   

In September 2023, just shy of sixty years later I returned, as a guest, fulfilling a promise I’d made to myself decades earlier.  Wonder of wonders, little had changed.  It was perfect, just as I remembered.  And the food, it still set off waves of rapture.  Instead of getting treats from the chef out the back door of the kitchen, I had my choice of fresh exciting meals with sublime flavours.

The greatest impact was when I walked over to see the former staff quarters.  The building sits on a little hilltop surrounded by trees.  It is now used for storage.  As soon as I saw it, I felt a rush of emotion.  The years disappeared; the cabin doors flew open and the ghosts poured out.  I saw us bustling back and forth to the bathroom, getting ready for work.  In the evening, sitting at the edge of the walkway swinging our legs and joking.  The cabins were alive again, filled with laughter and talk.  We sure did talk and talk and talk.

The summer of ‘64 was a magical time, one that helped shape the adult I became.  I did keep learning and never stopped being curious and open to new ideas and experiences.  I didn’t change the world, but spent most of my life reporting on global events as a news writer.  A few years ago, I searched for and found Melinda.  She is in her eighties and living in Hawaii.  She said she still rides a motorcycle.      

***

Lucia visiting former staff quarters at Arowhon in 2023

Lucia Saja spent most of her professional life with with CTV New. She started in the News Library in 1979 and over the next 30 years she to learn every aspect of news production, including video production, story development, line-up, and script writing. 

She retired as Senior Script Writer for CTV News, which meant she edited scripts for accuracy and grammar before going to air. She also trained new writers and worked on all the news specials over the decades.  

In September 2023, Lucia returned to Arowhon Pines Resort for one of our writing retreats. See upcoming retreats at Arowhon and elsewhere here {and scroll down}.

See more pieces about our writing retreats, or inspired by them, here.

See Brian Henry’s upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here.

 

“Rolling Thunder” by Matt Sagan

 

Below the Chedoke Rehabilitation Centre lay a whole network of underground tunnels used to transport medical supplies and equipment throughout the facility. Their second purpose was to torture rehab patients. In particular, there was a ramp below the room I stayed in. It was a mere couple metres with a slight incline, though to a Quad (individual with damage or paralysis in all four limbs) it was equivalent to Mount Rushmore. While learning the mechanics of, how to push and maneuver my chair, trying to wheel up that ramp was an intimidating and frustrating experience (Paraplegics, you had it easy! 😁).

I remember one evening in mid-December, I wanted to show my progress to my dad while he was visiting me. Dinner was done, all residents were left to their own devices, and Pops and I were down in the tunnel (a.k.a The Dungeon). I was struggling to get momentum, as it had been a busy day of rehab. Plus, I was getting used to being in a wheelchair for a whole day and fighting exhaustion.

I had made it about a quarter of the way along rehab hill when we heard a noise coming from the tunnel depths behind us. A slowly growing thumping noise, followed by a couple squeaking horns, a flute testing sounds, throats clearing along with cheerful voices. I envisioned the pulsing cup in the mechanical jeep of Jurassic Park as the T-Rex was approaching. “Shit Pops, it’s the Salvation Army Choir. We better haul ass!” 

Instead of my dad helping, he merely smiled. “Better push faster then, shouldn’t you?” 

I will not repeat the words that came across my mind, but I then thought to myself, It’s go time!  

I bit my lip and pushed as bloody hard as I could humanly muster.

And soon … soon I feel like I’m flying through the tunnel at lightspeed – though maybe closer to a fast snails’ crawl. Sweat feels like it’s streaming down my body. But quads don’t sweat due to the nerve damage, so it wasn’t that bad. I’m giving it my all, the music is growing closer, and my dad is laughing his ass off. I can see the top of the hill just as my shoulders start screaming bloody murder. 

I can do it, I can do it. Push, Matt. Push! I’m chanting to myself as the thumping drums start pounding closer and my strength is quickly draining. Almost there, Matt. You can do it! 

I see the elevators as the band starts climbing the ramp towards me and the singers start the chorus.

“Push that button, Old Man!” I yell at my dad, but he’s bent over laughing. He finally stands up, pushes the button and I hear the heavenly ding of the elevator door opening. I see my salvation and push the last few feet in absolute agony while my dad keeps smiling like a grinning idiot. Then we’re in the elevator and doors close. I’ve escaped the terrifying dinosaur (Salvation Army Choir in reality).

“Thanks for your help, Pops,” I say

“Well, you made it didn’t you?” my dad says with a big smile and gives me a hug. “Great work, kid.” 

The elevator dings and lets us out onto the main floor.

And now all panic is past and we’re out of lightspeed. I rolled to the front door with my dad and thanked him for the visit. I watched him stroll to the parking lot before I turned and headed back to the ward where I was staying. I’d rolled into my room and was waving at the guys I was rooming with when I heard a thumping noise from down the hall.

A nurse stepped into our room. “The Salvation Army Choir is here to sing some Christmas carols for us,” she announced joyfully. “Why don’t you all come out to enjoy it?”

I looked up to the ceiling, dropped my head, and started laughing.

“Why not.”

Matt Sagan is a York graduate with a double major in Kinesiology and English despite breaking his neck at 15 and becoming a quadriplegic.    He also suffered an ABI at the age of 27 due to a severe car accident.  Even though he suffered two severe accidents, one taking the life of his mother, he still chooses to find the happier side of life and tends to see the lighter side of life’s foibles then focusing on the sad.

For more essays, short stories, and poetry by you fellow writers see here (and scroll down).

See Brian Henry's upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and four-day retreats here.

“My Boots Hit a Bump in the Road” by Jessica Weber

Fall 2024

My boots have always loved the feel of dirt beneath them. I sat down on the edge of the trail on a large and level rock, balancing myself precariously so I could get just the right angle to take a picture of my hiking boots, with my legs stretched out far in front of me, the brilliant turquoise waters and Rocky Mountains behind them.

My boots are tan suede with red laces like the ones Cheryl Strayed wore in Wild, only I had them before they were famous.

Just a few years prior, Tavi and I were married in an afternoon wedding in Elora, Ontario, overlooking waterfalls and cocooned amidst the trees. Opting for a first hike instead of a first dance, we went for a stroll through the woods after the guests departed. These same boots were laced up on my feet under my white wedding dress.

Oh, if boots could talk, they would boast about what they have seen. They climbed their way through the Lares Trek in Peru, summited coastal mountains in British Columbia, and scaled the red rocks of Arizona. 

Yet their biggest challenge came when they were stuck in the closet throughout my cancer treatment. I was diagnosed with a rare and aggressive sinus cancer and was plunged into a world of scans, surgery, chemotherapy and radiation treatments that left me rather broken.

During this time, I kept a list in my journal called Live Life All The Way. It was a collection of things that I would do if I made it to the other side. If, not when, was my mentality at the time. It ranged from simple things like go for long and luxurious brunch, to more ambitious pursuits like hike mountains again. Writing this list gave me something positive to look forward to and hope in all the darkness.

I made it! My boots were now laced up tight, covered in dirt, miles high in the Rocky Mountains. I was through treatment, alive at the top of a mountain, over seven kilometers away from the trailhead with 500 meters of elevation gain. It wasn’t lost on me for a second that six months prior, I could hardly make it up the stairs.

When we got the all-clear to go away, I picked the Canadian Rockies. I had travelled to Banff as a young girl and remembered the awe and amazement that I experienced then. I needed to lace up my boots in these memorable mountains again.

Sitting atop the Highline Trail viewpoint tucked high above Lake Louise, I was pleased we were climbing these steps, on this day, in these mountains. The skies were blue, with clouds occasionally sweeping their way through, providing a break from the intense sun. There was a crispness to the air that only autumn could bring. The weather was perfect for a climb.

As we hiked higher and higher, stopping to take deep breaths because of the altitude, Tavi remarked that it smelled like the pine scented candles we burned throughout the winter, but so much better, crisper.

“It’s not only the pine I smell,” Tavi said.

I looked around. We were surrounded by Mountain Thyme and Juniper Berries - an impressive bouquet.

“I can smell it all,” I said, and that simple fact made me giddy; the giant tumour in my nasal passages had blocked my olfactory senses. But now my nose was clear, and I could smell all the wonderful aromas of the landscape around me.

Near the top, we took a break to fuel ourselves with a protein bar and some water. We had now hiked along the Lake Louise shoreline to the very end of the turquoise waters and up the mountain along the moraine to the Plain of Six Glaciers Tea House.

We could see Lake Louise in the distance and she shone like an emerald gemstone. When the sun caught the yellow leaves of the Aspens dispersed between the lush hues of evergreens, they glowed like nuggets of gold.

Lake Louise shoreline bustled with tourists, all maneuvering to get the best angle for an iconic photograph. Most visitors never venture farther than the paved sidewalk. They miss so much by just seeing the lake from one perspective. How true this is of life.

When we are rushed and busy, and our quest is just to take that famous snapshot, we miss seeing all the other vantage points. We miss the well-earned pride from ascending difficult terrain and then miss being overcome with emotion at the top. We miss the joy in the journey.

Maybe I’d been like that before cancer. Maybe I was too consumed with all the shoulds to make time for the want to’s. I’m not happy I got cancer, but I’m happy with what I can now see because of it.

When I laced up my boots on our wedding day, little did we know that “in sickness and in health” was closer than we could have imagined. But love and partnership and joy were also at hand, and maybe that’s the point. The hills that we climb together, the battles we face, the sorrows we feel, all enable us to appreciate the abundance around us.

My boots have always appreciated the rugged terrain that leads to impeccable views and I thank them for getting me past this bump in the road.

Jessica Weber lives in Kitchener, Ontario with her husband Octavian and Bernedoodle Daisy. She explores the quiet beauty of personal non-fiction, capturing moments of growth, reflection, and the joy of the journey. Jessica can often be found with her hands in the dirt tending to her gardens, taking a stroll down the quiet streets of her neighbourhood, or joining a class to learn something new.

For more essays, short stories, and poetry by you fellow writers see here (and scroll down).

See Brian Henry's upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and four-day retreats here.

“The Prophecy Stones of Smoo” by Sheila Eastman

 

To My Children:

When I’d dead and gone you’ll find front and centre among my odd keepsakes two small rocks with holes right through the centre. Before you toss them out, I want you to know their story.

Here’s the Short version:

I found these two stones in a riverbed in Smoo Scotland, on the very north coast, in 2013. One is igneous I think and the other sedimentary. They are about 1.5 inches each.

As for the longer version:

I get yearnings. There are forces all around me leading me, pulling me pushing me in various directions. Invisible of course. Do I hear a Banshee wailing to me across the ocean that divides us? Is there a witch beckoning with wings of a black swan? Is there an ancestor’s lonely song calling from beneath rarely travelled sod?

I had to go to Northern Scotland. Where that pull came from, I don’t know but I’ll tell you what I do know. The moment the plane landed in Edinburgh I felt at home. More intense than feeling at home, what I felt was cellular. I belonged here. Though I’d traveled alone, I felt accompanied.

Edinburgh is wonderful. Centuries old, ornate, cobblestoned, hilly, snaked with dark alleys and spooked up with ghost tours. But the north called. I found a tour, which edged into and around the highlands, to Inverness (a good base for going elsewhere), then to the tip of the country, and then a ferry across the cold ocean to Orkney.

We toured the ruins of Pictish houses, Norse structures, and most important for me, the prehistoric standing stones that comprise the Ring of Brodgar. No one knows why they are there. No humans that is. They stand as giant shadows against the evening sun, and in the daytime stalwart sentinels. 

I leaned into the one that called me and placed my hand on it, wanting a response. It stood there stoically but I was convinced there was a little warmth of response under my hand. Really.

Back on the little tour bus, and loaded on the ferry, we left Orkney, heading for the mainland. The next day at a very Scottish breakfast I sat with the bus driver, who was focussed on the small stone in his hand. It had a remarkable hole straight though the middle.

He looked up. “It’s a prophecy stone,” he said.

My spidey sense perked up. “Do tell,” I said.

And he told me if the bearer peers through it she may see spirits or fairies or see through a witch's disguise. It will protect her from witches and ne'er-do-wells, those things that go bump in the night. Whether she sees fairies or not, no bother, the stone will bring good luck.

I wanted one. “Where did it come from?” I asked.

He was coy at first. “Oh, a wee cave not far from here.” He took a drink of coffee, teasing.

“Around here?” I was already mentally lacing up my boots to get going to wherever that was.

He nodded. “Smoo. The stones are in the river there just outside the cave. You may find one or two. Some do, some don’t. What I think is, if you’re blessed or need blessing, you find them.”

“Are we going?” I had to go but I was a prisoner of the bus route.

“Oh, that I canna tell,” he bit into a piece of black sausage. “Up to the tour guide.”

But of course, he knew. We did stop at the famous Smoo Cave (I know of its fame now). My anticipation could have combusted everyone within five feet of me. A prophecy stone!! My very own!!

The driver winked at me on my way out of the bus. We stumbled in a touristy line down a steep hill to a riverbed that opened on one side to the ocean, on the other to a wide-mouthed cave.

It was a nice enough cave. I wandered in there a bit, admired the waterfall within it, appreciated the Durness limestone, (my, isn’t that nice rock) came out again to examine the riverbed. I was looking for my stones. He said they’d be in the river.

It was a sunny day in Scotland. (True!) The river teased me. Stones of every colour glimmered in the sunlight beneath the shallow water. All I could see was a jumble of lovely stones with no holes.

My technique was primitive. I kicked stones over, getting my toes wet, plunged my hands into the freezing water. Finally, the stream revealed a small grey treasure with a perfect hole. Of course, I was thrilled and zipped it into my jacket pocket.

But the river wasn’t done with blessing me. I stole time for one more look. The bus was leaving and I had to catch up to the others stumbling up the slippery hill to the road. And there it was! A white triangular stone with a slightly skewed hole, yes! Right through the centre.

I scrambled up the hill, and boarded the bus with a smile at the driver.

It’s been some years now since I packed my little treasures in my homebound bags. So far the stones are silent. But perhaps quietly, invisibly they do bring me blessings and luck. But so far no fairies.

They do bring memories of a wonderful trip, and a call to the north coast of Scotland that I’m glad I answered. You may wonder why I felt so at home there when my ancestors are Irish. More to be revealed.

Geology:

Google Pics tells me both stones are also called hag stones, having a naturally occurring hole that runs completely through, caused by wave action or the burrowing of bivalve mollusks. That does sound dull. If they were Irish stones I’d picture leprechauns with tiny drills working away all night on the job.

The lighter stone is probably pumice, volcanic, porous, light coloured, ejected from a volcano. Dissolved gases escape as the rock cools, creating the foamy texture. I picture it flying through the atmosphere with the eruption wondering where to land.

The grey stone’s beginning is more elusive. I see various small rocks embedded within it. Perhaps it’s a conglomerate. Undoubtedly it had a quieter birth, settling in slowly as it gathered other smaller stones in one unit.

Do they relate to me? One stone is light in both weight and colour, but had a violent beginning. Perhaps the dichotomy applies. I have what you consider a goofy sense of humour, yet I’ve been through some deep and distressing times. The darker stone is a mystery, comprised of various smaller rocks and smoothed eons by time.

Both reflect the concept of impermanence. Everything changes no matter how slowly, reminding me to stay flexible and to try to accept the sometimes-unsettling fluidity of life.

And so my children, my grandchildren, this is the story of the two stones that spend hours of every day with me at my computer. So far they are withholding visions of fairies. But they continually remind me I am blessed. When I am gone, do toss out whatever you like, but at least you’ll know there is meaning and story behind the things that surround me.

Sheila Eastman is a musician living in Mississauga. She plays and teaches piano and performs in local concert bands in the percussion section – hitting things. Her writing reflects detailed observations of human behavior and her bizarre sense of humour. 

She is a past winner in the Mississauga Library writing contest, poetry division, and was runner up in the Alice Munro short story contest.

Publications include obscure articles on medieval music, an equally obscure monograph on a Canadian composer and totally relevant and exciting articles on wildflowers. Because of her short attention span she writes mainly short stories.

For more essays, short stories, and poetry by you fellow writers see here (and scroll down).

See Brian Henry's upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and four-day retreats here.