Coming home

People ask me where is home – where I’m from – and I call myself a Yarmouth transplant. I moved here in middle school, and left after I marrying a local. My dad was a member of Royal Canadian Mounted Police and both of my grandfathers were in the Air Force. Our family is a bunch of gypsies, moving frequently and dispersed all over the continent and world. And now I have returned to give my children the roots that I can’t give them myself. Here, they are: <‘ti Ches’ girls> <Gros Ches’ ‘tites filles> and nieces and cousins to so many… I want my children to know their cousins in a way that I never knew mine.

Today I was asked if I like living here, my reply: I love it!

It’s a nice town. I have my own sort of roots here; a sense of belonging; something to contribute to the community…”

While thinking about what I have to be thankful for today it occurred to me that I am so grateful for the opportunity to reclaim my roots, as deep roots as I’ve ever actually known. This town has infused me somehow. And I am thankful to be able to introduce my children to what they (will) hopefully think of as home as well.

Cape Forchu light

Former teachers who remember me in their classrooms; friends who I can swap stories and #throwback photos with; and caring people willing to help with things big and small…

More importantly though, I know people who I want to remain connected with. People who I want to be there for when they need support. And many people who aren’t known to me personally feel as if they are because we have so many common connections.

I find myself doing what every local does… first questions asked about someone unfamiliar – to whom do they belong? Who is their mom? Dad? Sibling? Spouse? Where do they live?

Often times I give my girls the go ahead to attend activities with friends based on their parent being someone I knew 17 years ago. “Oh yeah, I went to school with her mom’s sister – they’re good people….” I went to school with my next door neighbours on one side, and the sister of the neighbour on the other. My mortgage broker, plumber and mason are all former classmates of mine.

That isn’t to say that living in a small rural town doesn’t have its challenges, but there is little sacrificed for which there isn’t a huge gain. I can leave my house and go for a walk downtown at 1am without hesitating. Chances are if I run into anyone while I am walking it will include the police officers that I know by name.

People know me here. People remember me. Heck the odd person even thinks of me as being “from” here. I’ve always been a “come-from-away” everywhere I’ve lived. It’s nice to feel like this is *my* place. My home.


Drop me a note in the comments below, or connect with me on Twitter @ceilidhontherun or email me at trish at trishblogs dot com!

I invite you to subscribe to my blog using one of the options available on my page (email, rss, Google Connect, like my page on Facebook, etc.)

If you enjoyed this post, please do like/share it. You can do so using the easy share button below!

About Trish

family legacy curator, social justice advocate, blogger, amateur photographer, reader, cyclist, runner & swimmer, mom of two