Bitter-sweetness of nostalgia

Recently I made a trip to the farm in Northern Ontario where I did much of my growing up.

Visits there are always bittersweet.

I felt my self longing after something

or hardening for protection.

The place in my mind hasen't changed,

but the reality has.

This used to distress me, but now

in the moment

I can see it's decay, collapse and aging

as a kind of

 temporal art

catnapping

Let it be

I've been working on finishing some table tops for my local..Went this morning to install two more and found one of the previous ones deeply scratched.  I was furious!  How could anyone be so careless?  Doesn't anyone know what went into making them?  Doesn't anyone care? 
I paused and reconsidered. 
I know no one was careless.  I know what went into making them.  I care about how they look.  Then I realized that it was all about me!  It wasn't supposed to be.  Somewhere along the line I lost sight of the bigger picture.  To me the table tops had become art.  I can make art for me, or I can put my art out there and have it be touched, judged, and yes, even scratched.  My joy came in the moment of giving it life, and NOT from telling it how to live.

Bygone era...

Eddie

Edward Johnson lived on the property next to ours while I was growing up. He was a quirky odd guy. Not in the sense that he was scary, just different. Even as a kid I called him "Eddie" by his choice. He was born around 1900. I never could exactly find out. He became a prospector and had apparently staked claims all over nothern Ontario. Eventually he stopped prospecting because he was having a hard time getting around. I remember he had a rolling sort of walk like one leg didn't work that well. Whether he spent time in the war , I don't know. He never gave up much about himself to my parents or me. I do know that at one time he had been married and had had a son. By the time I got to meet him he seemed old. That's normal from a child's point of view.

He lived in a square cut log home across the field from my parents farm. It was a tiny two room place with a big cast iron cooking stove in one corner of the bigger front room.

His bed and living space were also in the front room. The back room was for storage, firewood or whatever. Eddie had no running water or electricity.

I would regularly see him going to his well with a bucket. I recall that his place always faintly smelled of the kerosene he used for lighting. He did have a telephone. Occasionally he would call my father and ask if he could get him some whiskey - his drink of choice. I think it was Wild Turkey or some such brand. At that age I didn't really pay attention to things like that. When my dad would deliver it to him they would sit and talk and have a shot or two. He seemed to really like my parents. I know that often they would walk over to his little place and sit and talk. My mother remembers that he would offer her a drink from grimy shot glasses. She figured that the whiskey would probably kill anything on the glass, so she accepted.

He had had a cat before I had ever met him called Useless. He also had a dog, a happy black and white mut named Nameless. Eddie had a curmudgionly sense of humour!

Eventually he moved into a tiny near by town and lived in the hotel. A hotel in that part of Ontario is also a euphamism for bar. He spent his time in his room and in the bar. He was always a fixture there while I was growing up. If I went by his place I would stop and talk. I found him interesting and I think he enjoyed that.