All about the feeling

I'm always so curious about people's first impressions of the island.  Probably because I don't have my own.  How lucky am I?  To never remember life before Pictou Island.  Ever since I was little, my family has always come here, hung out at the beach, and overnighted at the wharf.  I do have clear memories of going with my parents to chose between the two lots they were considering purchasing, spending our first test run week in a borrowed tent (pictured above), and helping to build the cottage in pieces over the winter in the shop in Caribou.  I'm glad I was a part of it from the ground up, it has truly been a family cottage in every sense of the word.  Not handed down through generations that we had lucked into, or bought with oodles of money.  Just my family working hard and penny pinching to make it happen, all four of us pitching in and being part of the process.  How very rewarding, and although unbeknowest to any of us at the time, that example certainly laid the foundation for what my life would ultimately become.

All those years ago, if you'd told my parents one of their kids would end up living here, they wouldn't have been surprised.  But they would have assumed it was my brother, the born fisherman, not the kid that was destined to become a lawyer.  Dad would have been so proud and mom loves watching the life Rob and I have built here, a continuation of what her and dad started.  But that means with each passing year, as we (hopefully) are welcoming to the new additions and unfortunately say goodbye to old friends, there are fewer people who have been around since my childhood and as a consequence, I become a little responsible for more of the island history and memories, a job for which I feel very ill-equipped.

To that end, one of my regrets is not retaining more from my childhood here.  I remember Spike and Catherine just barely, I remember the store at the Turples.  But I get asked lots of questions, especially by Rob who is a relative newcomer by comparison, and I feel silly for not knowing the answers. So much of it I took for granted because I'd always known it. I should have paid more attention. But what I do remember is the feeling, the excitement of getting to drive over here (it's a big day when you can reach the pedals and get to do more than steer!), how going into the church was always my favourite part of the island tour, how much I loved going to Edward and Mary's (especially for biscuits and jam), the fun of picking (and eating) blueberries in the field (we now own part of!), and the family time playing board games and crib as opposed to everyone being spread out doing their own thing on the mainland.

Many years ago, my colleagues were over here for the day.  As we were pulling out of the wharf, a couple of the guys on the wharf and I were carrying on.  The girls on the boat couldn't even understand what we were saying, but one of them turned to me in sudden realization and said these, these are your people, as if she'd just had an epiphany. What ever that conversation was, it didn't matter. She was observing the comfort, the community, the feeling.

Whenever I get to the island, it's like a weight lifts from my shoulders. Despite working from here, this has not changed.

It's hard work to live here.  Everything we do is more complicated.  We always say things are named by the time they get here because we touch them so many times.  So you have to love it to bother putting the effort in to it.  We do it for the love of the lifestyle, the love of the community here, but ultimately, we do it for the feeling.