Time is childhood’s laden wings;
it is age’s rushing, soundless river.
Walter John de la Mare
It is freezing rain out this early Saturday morning. My Hero is outside feeding the cows. It is his day off, so that makes it my day off. Well, that only means as far as the farm chores go. Today those household chores I have put off are on my list. First off, there is always laundry to do.
An old fall rain jacket hangs on the coat rack and I figured I may as well wash it because spring is coming in a few months. It will be needed sooner than I think. As usual the checking of pockets comes into play. Kleenex, gum wrappers, receipts from a store in the city of Hamilton where I had spent over a month, waiting for our granddaughter to arrive. Everything was pulled out and stacked on the table beside. A crumpled piece of paper with blue ink stains, and a bus ticket stub grabs my attention.
November, 21 2015
It is Saturday morning, and I am once again standing at the bus stop. It is cold and raining and the thought of running back to get more layers on runs through my mind. My thoughts are only about getting back to the hospital and seeing my daughter and her beautiful little girl again. It was so nice sleeping in a real bed and not that hospital chair. Shivers run down my spine. The song “Rain drops keep falling on my head” is no doubt going to be stuck in my head all day now. The ink on this paper is running but my need to continue to write does not care. It has been such a stressful, scary week and writing helps keep me calm.
I turn to see another brave soul standing in the rain, staring at me. That word “eccentric” or maybe even “crazy writer” could be what she is thinking. “Where is that bus?” I ask the teenager beside me “Why is it not coming?” She says “It is on the weekend schedule”. I have no idea what that means. She continues “It will run every half hour instead of every fifteen minutes.” “OK thank you” I reply. Off in the distance and through the rain and the fog the silhouette of the city bus finally appears. It slows down.
This is when I remembered that I had shoved that paper into my pocket. There was a gap in the writing then it continued.
I rushed through that open door, and dropped in $2.75. “Hello” I smiled at the driver, she was smiling too. It was obvious she was in the later stages of pregnancy. This was a good sign, I thought. I grabbed a seat at the front, so that I could see where I had to get off. The teenager headed to the back of the bus. Writing this story on wet paper is not easy.
An announcement bellowed over the speaker “Due to the Santa Claus parade this bus will be rerouted to the GO Station”. That was three blocks from where I needed to do some errands and I knew I could catch my connecting bus. This was going to be a long day. I asked the person beside me where I could catch the #5 bus to the hospital.
That was it.
I have a tendency to write where ever I am, and write on whatever I have at the time. No editing or grammar corrections. This was one of those times. I do know that there are more stories written down, somewhere. Most likely they are still stuffed in my back pack. I can tell you that I did eventually make it to the hospital to hold my beautiful granddaughter and hug my lovely daughter.
There are many stories about my time in the city, and about the week of her birth. I distinctly remember one story about my ending up in Ancaster, while coming home late one night on the bus.
I really have to check my pockets and bags to find those stories. They may be of some interest to some of you. If nothing else, I should really get them organized for my granddaughter. Those stories that came, with my riding four buses a day for that week and the stories about all the people I met along the way made a huge impact on my life during a very stressful week.
She should also know about what a wonderful place full of caring people that she will be sharing her world with, her city with.
Someday she may want to read about how she has changed my life forever too.