Nostalgia

by Mary MacDougall

At this time of year, nostalgia has a way of settling in—drawing us back to familiar places, old traditions, and the people who shaped our sense of home. A perfect reflection of that feeling is a cherished poem shared by Debbie Weatherhead, written by Mary MacDougall, a long-time resident of West Gore. Though the exact date is unknown, Mary penned it while living in Boston—sometime before 1962—making it a heartfelt glimpse into the longing and love captured in her poem Nostalgia.

While the poem in its entirety is published online, it will be available in print in weekly installments, starting this Sunday, November 30.

This is a tale of the days when I was a youngster in pinafores,

Living away on a farm that was far from the much-travelled highways.

Those were the glorious days. now silently passed far behind us;

Only the memories linger to brighten the way we must travel.

They were our happiest years, when we were all children together,

Working and playing and loving and learning to live in full measure.

Up on the side of a hill overlooking the railway and river,

Stately, yet homelike and tall sat the home that my father had builded.

Spacious verandas in front, and around it a play yard for children,

Made it a cheerful abode where all could be welcome and happy.

Just to the right of the house was a beautiful old-fashioned garden;

Lilacs and roses and phlox with snowballs and pansies commingled

Sent up a perfume so sweet that the honey bees lived in their blossoms,-

Humming birds darted around that they might steal some of their sweetness

Cool and refreshing in heat was the summerhouse covered with woodbine,

Thither the children would run when at hide-and-go-seek they would play;

Or to the old homemade hammock suspended between trees of apples,

Or maybe climb up bare-footed, and hide in the cool swaying branches.

Near at the back of the house were a grove of spruce trees and an orchard,

Hayfields and cool mossy places where the mayflowers grew in profusion.

Out the plank walk to the spring, where was always abundance of water,

Gold dandelions and violets and buttercups dotted the pastures.

Placed at one side of the spring, where for-get-me-nots scattered their blueness,

Mossy and slippery and old, was a watering trough for the horses.

Down at the foot of the hill the brook laughed its way to the river,-.

Truly a wonderful comrade for bare-footed children in summer.

Out in the fields and the barnyard were turkeys and geese and the chickens;

Horses and cattle and sheep in the summertime roamed through the pastures.

Well I remember old Harry, the horse who was always so clever,

Lifting the hook of the door or the latch of the gate at his leisure!

Swinging on juniper trees was a sport that we never were weary of,

Climbing like nimble young squirrels away to the top of the trunk;

Then yelling, 'Out of the way', we would hang to the top with both hands,

Gracefully down we would come to green mossy carpet beneath us.

Over the large iron bridge that spans the Kennetcook river,

Paths that were woodsy and intricate led to the fields where the blueberries

Grew in abundance for all, and such fun as we had in betweentimes,

Playing in hollows and groves when our pails became full of ripe berries.

Right close beside was the river and if it became hot for picking,

Under the fence we would slip and wade where the water was shallow,

Plucking green rushes and searching for bright shiny stones on the bottom,

Till we were summoned once more to fill baskets we'd started that morning.

One day a traveller stopped and sat down on a log by that river

Sticking his long willow cane in the earth the while he was sitting;

When he got up he forgot it, and, strange as it seems in the telling,

Now it's a huge willow tree spreading wide oe'r the bridge and the river.

When in the spring the old turkey-hen started to roam every morning,

Then we would know she was seeking a quiet dim spot in the bushes

Where she could hatch out her brood far away from the eye of intruders;

It was our task to watch closely, but all unawares to the turkey!

Down at the barn at night when the menfolk were through with the milking,

'Round we would go with a cup to gather the rich creamy strippings.

Then the next morning each one would have smooth yellow cream for her breakfast

Which seemed far nicer to us than what grown folk took out of a pitcher.

One of the pleasantest days of all the long months of the year

Was the beginning of May when the days were quite warm and we'd wonder

Don't you suppose Mother'd let us - why don't you go ask her this morning?

Back comes the joyous reply,- 'Well, first wash your feet in cold water'.

Down we would rush to the brook and there strip off our shoes and our stockings,

Cautiously in the cool water crept one bare white toe, then another;

How very different they looked from the rough sun-browned legs of September

When they were once more confined to their leathery prison for winter!

After the haying was done and the mows were filled up to the rafters

With the new sweet-smelling hay perfumed with sweet-grass and clover,-

We would dig holes in the hay --each one was unknown to the other,.

Fill them with apples yet green and patiently wish they would ripen.

One of our favorite pastimes when weather was anyways stormy

Was to climb Grandmother's stair, where she would be sitting so busy

Weaving the wool she had spun, into blankets for cold winter weather,

As she had woven the flax into beautiful cloths for the table.

We could not play all the time, there were plenty of chores always waiting;

Pitching down hay for the cows, or giving the animals bedding,

Feeding the sheep grain and salt, or driving the calves down to water;

Gathering eggs from the henhouse, or washing the dishes for supper.

Sundays were red letter days, when we put on our best bib and tucker,

Climbed in the old double-seater and rode off to West Gore to Meeting.

Never the weather too stormy or five miles too far for the horses,

Winter and summer alike there would always be some of us present.

Winter was always delightful, with snow and the ice on the river;

We glided along on our skates with the glistening moonlight around us.

Never a sound could be heard in the silvery frost-laden silence

Save for the click of the steel and the jubilant song of the children.

Tunnels were dug and huge castles built in the deepest of snowdrifts,

Snowmen of awkward proportions grew where they'd be most in the way.

One day we slid down the hill on the crust that was solid and shiny,

Sitting as proud as you please in my Grandmother's favorite dishpan!

Santa Claus came every year and filled up our stockings with presents,

Fled up the chimney again, ere the first child to wake in the morning

Peeped o'er the bannister rail to see if perhaps she might catch him,-

But such a thing never happened as in her bare toes she shivered.

Always our cousins and aunts would join us to eat and be merry,

Tables of goodies were full and spread wide in Grammie's huge kitchen.

Turkey and pudding and pie, -how we all ate so much is a wonder

And still were ready for more when the candy and nuts were passed later.

Then after tables were cleared we would strip the big tree that was loaded;

Games were played by the young and the older ones sang with the organ.

After awhile all would leave and the bells on the sleigh as they jingled

Told us, all happy and tired, that one more merry christmas had ended .