Wedding in a Lost Land

I spent my childhood summers in a magical place called, somewhat unromantically, Baldwin’s Mills, which is a small town in the Eastern Townships of Quebec. It is beautiful, as it surrounds a lake and is overlooked by a mountain. It’s the perfect setting for a Canadian fairy tale, if such a thing existed.

Back in the 1980s, my parents, aunts, and uncles managed to synchronize their reproduction and, as a result, by the 1990s there was a gaggle of almost 20 kids, each related to one another in some way. We were set loose in the giant playground that is Baldwin’s Mills: always together, having endless adventures, and surrounded by beauty. We took it for granted back then, but now I am so grateful for those days. They instilled in me a sense of wonder and optimism that the subsequent years have been unable to eradicate.

Even so, going back can be hard. Everything is still beautiful, the water is still clean, and the air still rejuvenates. But one thing has changed: we children have gotten old! Now, instead of playing “kick the can” we make small talk, discussing the weather, our careers, or our latest workout regimen (at least until someone breaks out the beer horn). When I’m there, I feel the sadness inherent in the passage of time. It’s like an undercurrent of emotion that flows through the landscape, and you can taste it in the raspberries and blackberries that grow beside the mountain trails.

This past weekend I attended my cousin Oliver’s wedding in Baldwin’s Mills. My father Nelson, brother Jonathan, stepmother Madonna, and stepsister Meagan were all present. Meagan and I spent the morning before the ceremony hiking the mountain, and then we stripped down to our underwear to swim in the lake. Afterwards, we returned to Dad and Madonna’s cabin to share an avocado.

Then it was time for the wedding. I wore a purple dress; one of my aunts told me that I looked like a hollyhock (a compliment, I believe). The readings at the ceremony were from a Neil Gaiman book and the Velveteen Rabbit, neither of which I could hear from my spot at the back of the crowd near the gurgling creek. The hall was incredibly hot and crowded, so people gathered in small pockets outside, smoking cigarettes and watching the distant flashes of lightning. Near the end of the evening the groom was almost too drunk to stand up, but his new wife steadied him on the dance floor, and they gently swayed to their own rhythm. It seemed a good metaphor for a successful marriage.

At one point Meagan and I went for a walk to escape the crowded hall.

“Seeing people you know so well but haven’t seen in a decade is stressful,” she said.

“I didn’t even recognize Jim,” I replied. “When he came up to me and asked whether I was ‘attached,’ I was a bit flabbergasted.”

Meagan laughed. “Jim is hilarious. Always on the lookout for a wife for his youngest son.”

We continued walking amicably along the main road, and we came across an ancient barn with an equally ancient silo. The silo was only about 10 feet high, which seemed unusually short. Meagan was impressed. “This silo is fantastic,” she said. “It made this walk. There’s no need to go any farther.”

 

Back at the wedding, one of my cousins was rescuing half-full wine bottles, and had stashed them on a bench near where we were sitting on the deck. Her father, David, my uncle, wandered out, inspected the bottles, and started emptying them over the deck railing. My cousin was furious. She yelped, “Dad, what the hell are you doing with our wine?!”  He gave us a sheepish look. “Oh, just cleaning up,” he replied, and wandered off guiltily.

Later he came back with a beer. Meagan looked at him, grinned, and said, “Hey David. Would you like me to dump your beer on the ground?” That got a big laugh, and in retaliation David gave Meagan a big kiss on the cheek.

At 9:30pm it felt like midnight. The sky opened, and we drove back to the cottage in a torrential downpour. I felt a little strange … partly nostalgic, a little sad, but also happy.  Two memories from the wedding were floating around my mind. In one, my cousin Jori threw her arm over my shoulder and told me that she was buying a house in Baldwin’s Mills, and that I could visit anytime. In the second, one of my uncles asked me, “When are you coming home?” At the time I responded, “I’m not even sure where home is anymore.”

But the best moment of this trip happened just as I was about to leave. Meagan gave me a hug and said, “Goodbye, sis.” At that moment, in the lost land of Baldwin’s Mills, I felt like I belonged.