Anne Mary MacLeod 1943-2021
Red Dirt Souls
Theodora MacLeod
published in The Bolo Tie Collective Anthology vol. 6
Theodora MacLeod
published in The Bolo Tie Collective Anthology vol. 6
I was born for rainy days. Ruddy, freckled complexion and naturally red hair never faring well in the heat of summer’s sun. I can easily recall the sensation of heavy burns after days spent on beaches without enough protection, heat stinging my exposed shoulders while the surface of the sand makes the soles of my feet prick and ache until I can bury them where the land starts to cool. The raw earth can almost make me forget about the sun trying to rip through my skin, brief moments of relief enough to keep distract me until I’m reddened all over and the salty air has wiped me of all energy. My grandmother kept records of the weather in notebooks, but I keep them in my favourite memories.
My grandmother, Grammie, wasn’t one for empty platitudes or over the top affection. She didn’t do grand gestures or proclamations. All the genes of dramatics skipped her and bounced down our lineage to me. While I bathe myself in the richness of artistry and poetics, every moment in life requiring a romantic analysis, she found joy in the weather network and reliable diners—though, to be fair, those are things I too am drawn to. The only unreliable thing she did in my lifetime was leave without saying goodbye. The last words I have from her don’t fully make sense, but I could see a glimmer of what she was trying to put out through the haze of crossing over.
I’ve never lived in the same province as most of my family, and so I’ve spent my life daydreaming about a permanent address within driving distance of the wharf. Where I can tell the status of the tide by the smell of the air. The home where I can stop by without booking a plane ticket. Algae covered rocks and decomposing seaweed, the stench of the ocean’s casualties prickling my nose when the tide is out; the embrace of my grandmother’s arms tells me I’m home. The red sand is littered with shells and glass smoothed by the ruckus of the waves. Waves that crash against the sandy shores and bring comfort with their chaos. I’ve never lived in the place I call home, always forced to compartmentalize my life based on the final destination on my flight itinerary. My monotonous period of survival is planted in Alberta for now. My heart will forever be on Prince Edward Island.
Home has always meant red dirt and salt-tinged air, with breezes that remind me I’m alive. It’s potato fields stretching until the clay turns to sand and sea, and old stout buildings that house the memories of my ancestors. Weathered bricks make me nostalgic for a life in bygone eras, reminiscent of experiences not of my own lifetime. Overcast days balance the suffocating heat and humidity in deep July, and thunderstorms that shake the earth beneath my feet. In my mind home only exists in a perpetual state of summer. I spend the bitter months of winter in prairie lands, craving my home and my family. My cradle in the waves, sweet Abegweit, with endless possibilities and a quietude only found where the ocean buffers provincial neighbours on every side.
In the city, thunder and lightning can easily go unappreciated amid a lengthy to-do list. There’s always somewhere I should be, some indoor facility that dulls the sound of heavy drops plummeting from the sky and winds attempting to rip through the terrain. Sirens distract from the angry cries of nature and speeding cars disrupt a brewing power, never allowing the swell of weather to hit its mighty peak. The rain that falls on the potato fields of rural King’s County, PEI refuses to be ignored. Each clap of aggressive thunder demands respect and gusts of winds make the windows of our old farmhouse rattle anxiously.
I wish I could conjure images with more clarity. Instead I see flashes of the ones who made me who I am. Behind my eyes are pictures that contribute to the memorial album of my past. I see my great-grandmother, Grammy Bunny, who lived into her 90s and kept me fed with biscuits every visit. The only one willing to indulge my need for reminiscent family gossip, the scandals of yesteryears. She was the matriarch who held us in place until we were strong enough to stand on our own as a family. Finally saying goodbye a month into my 25th year. The day she left her body I lost a piece of my home and wanted nothing more than to sink into the iron rich dirt of Prince Edward Island with her.
The vastness of the country has kept me away for so long. The Canadian shield separating my family and blocking the path to my roots. Roots planted so deeply in the red soil and sand, unmoving because of the strength I take from my ancestors. I promised I would find my way home before it started to fade away. But sometimes that strength wavers.
In the city, thunder and lightning can easily go unappreciated amid a lengthy to-do list. There’s always somewhere I should be, some indoor facility that dulls the sound of heavy drops plummeting from the sky and winds attempting to rip through the terrain. Sirens distract from the angry cries of nature and speeding cars disrupt a brewing power, never allowing the swell of weather to hit its mighty peak. The rain that falls on the potato fields of rural King’s County, PEI refuses to be ignored. Each clap of aggressive thunder demands respect and gusts of winds make the windows of our old farmhouse rattle anxiously.
I wish I could conjure images with more clarity. Instead I see flashes of the ones who made me who I am. Behind my eyes are pictures that contribute to the memorial album of my past. I see my great-grandmother, Grammy Bunny, who lived into her 90s and kept me fed with biscuits every visit. The only one willing to indulge my need for reminiscent family gossip, the scandals of yesteryears. She was the matriarch who held us in place until we were strong enough to stand on our own as a family. Finally saying goodbye a month into my 25th year. The day she left her body I lost a piece of my home and wanted nothing more than to sink into the iron rich dirt of Prince Edward Island with her.
The vastness of the country has kept me away for so long. The Canadian shield separating my family and blocking the path to my roots. Roots planted so deeply in the red soil and sand, unmoving because of the strength I take from my ancestors. I promised I would find my way home before it started to fade away. But sometimes that strength wavers.
July of 2021, I felt the earth shift and break beneath me more than ever. This loss hitting harder than those before. A chasm formed with just a few words. I knew it was coming, warned a day prior that the cracks in the foundation were spreading, but the complete devastation was nothing I could prepare for.
"Hey, Ted?" My father's hoarse voice came through the phone, and I knew what it was before I could fully wake up from an afternoon nap I had taken in the silence of our Alberta house. He was 5,000 kilometres away, but I could almost taste his heartbreak. His voyage home six days prior, had been one of necessity more than pleasure.
I knew the next line before he was able to speak it into reality and I pulled the blanket over my head, hoping the cotton quilt could shield me from the words that were about to shatter my sense of belonging. "I just got the call that Grammie died." There was a strained anguish in his voice as he relayed the news of his mother's death. Hearing him was almost as painful as the message itself. Nothing in the world could prepare me for the cold rattle in my chest at the realization that I'd lost another piece of home. It had never made sense, the idea of home being a person. Until that moment I'd been fortunate to see my home breathing in human and geographic form.
I hugged the blanket around me.
I try.
I try.
I try to catch my breath.
I can’t catch my breath.
I have to live through the moment.
I didn’t realize it then, that those words would mark the end of an era.
The final nail in the coffin of my youth.
With her gone, I lost my sense of comfort.
My memories struggle under the weight of the loss. Swimming around frantically hoping to reach the light of the surface. Her voice is still so clear that every part of my soul aches to download the memory from my mind and press it into vinyl. I want to hear her with my ears just one more time, then keep the record safe on the highest shelf, reaching for it only on the occasions it will mean the most. My wedding, the birth of any children I might have, and during the inevitable losses that await me. The pops and cracks of the vinyl will feel like home the way her words did. The warmth of familiarity and nostalgia that has kept me going for as long as I have.
She didn’t need to tell me she loved me, though she would on occasion in the later years when I would adopt the statement as my sign off. It surprisingly never bothered me to be met with an awkward silence or a stiff “you too.” I knew her well enough to know the nakedness of saying those words could be too much, because it still is for me too. But I needed her to know that I loved her. After the confusion of my youth and my angry departure from the church she found strength in, it terrified me to think she didn’t know just how much I appreciated her.
I knew she loved me by the way she greeted me. Excitement and warmth, like she’d been waiting and the relief of seeing me was the ultimate satisfaction. Her voice went higher at times, using the same tone she had my whole life. The one she saved for kids and dogs, the goofy singsong that appeared when we made her laugh or teased her. Like the day we talked about her dying, and she argued with me about simple math and how old she was. I thought talking about her death would make the day it happened easier. But the day came far sooner than either of us thought, the one I was not at all equipped to handle. I’ve never felt like someone who brings joy with them, but she made me feel like I had improved her life by entering the room or picking up the phone. That kind of importance I have craved my entire life.
In the ground of Prince Edward Island lies my great- grandmother and grandmother who both helped to plant the seeds of who I would become. Their deaths have since left me questioning if home was ever really a place and if rainy days will ever feel good again. The pull to spend my life on the other side of the Confederation Bridge has shifted, desperation for a life near the ocean has since been replaced by trepidation and fear. It’s more important than ever, but I can’t imagine the day my feet hit the red dirt knowing she has become a part of the soil. Somehow though, I still long to be on the windy shores, knowing that throughout the Island my ancestors are buried, sowed in hope and the promise that though home exists within a person, there are traces of my DNA within the red dirt paths.