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Above the hamlet

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For some reason it’s hard to get out of bed today. Our little room at the end of the house is cool, and at night we leave the window open.

Because it doesn’t get dark the children have no natural inclination to head indoors and the sounds of their squealing and laughter are as bright and happy at 10 in the evening as they are at two in the afternoon. And the occasional yip yip of a dog or the skid of ATV tires on gravel are not governed by any particular schedule.

And the brightness does manage to seep in under the eyeshades early in the morning, so small wonder that Hannah’s schedule is one of rising very early, working in the kitchen, then napping for a few hours before rising again.

After breakfast (eggs and toast) we take the sandwiches Hannah has prepared (Arctic char, ham and cheese) and head up the mountain behind her house.

If you think of Heidi in her grandfather’s house, surrounded entirely by mountains, then cut the circle in half and drive a fjord up the middle, you’d have Pangnirtung. The hamlet hugs the shore of the fjord, and is completely ringed by mountains. No roads leading in or out. Northeast of here is the Akshayuk Pass, a 100-mile trail that will take you over the Arctic Circle and out to Davis Strait. But otherwise if you’re here you stay here.

Historically Pangnirtung was one of many coastal sites the Inuit visited, following the flow of food – seal, walrus, beluga, narwhale and char. As such small now-permanent communities dot the edges of Cumberland Sound, showing the traditional hunting and gathering sites.

Heading up the mountain behind Hannah’s house shows the fjord in all its spectacular springtime beauty. Pink, purple and white flowers find purchase on the sand and gravel. The Duval River pours into the fjord while underground springs spill water from cracks deep in the mountains. The moss and blueberry bushes make a spongy layer that’s like walking on an innerspring mattress. And the fjord’s immensity suddenly makes sense as the waterway that gives and takes.

Liliana discovers a dead creature

Liliana discovers a dead creature

Right now the mouth of the fjord is jammed with ice and the people here can’t leave for their traditional summer camping sites. Usually they’d be on their way out, in their fishing boats, several generations of the same family, living on the land for a couple of weeks or a couple of months, hunting and gathering their ‘country food’ of blueberries, Eider duck and eggs, fish, seal and if lucky, a beluga or narwhale.

But the ice jam has prevented all of that this year and there’s a general air of “what can we do.” An anticipated tourist ship has rerouted, outfitters can’t take visitors hunting or whale watching, the Inuit can’t get to their summer campsites, and the sea lift, carrying provisions plus perhaps a car, a new snowmobile or ATV, furniture, a new stove, plywood, drywall, lumber, diesel fuel…. already a month overdue and while promised dates are frequently posted, the reality is the ice is not moving.

But up high on the mountain the scenery is stunning and on this sunny warm day there isn’t anywhere we’d rather be.

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We eat our char sandwiches, throwing a few crusts to the sweet puppy that has wandered along for the hike, and then drop down the mountain until we are back at the water’s edge. We collect sunbleached shells and tiny seal finger bones and then come upon a giant set of vertebrae. Judging from the fur and claws nearby it was a substantial furry mammal but any guess and I’d be bluffing.

We wander back to Hannah’s and it’s suppertime.

Nearly four decades have passed since I regularly consumed meat and I remind myself to buck up. It’s only for a week. I remark how good the meat is. What is it? Pork, she says, wondering what kind of southern person doesn’t recognize pork.

Two bones rest at the side of Liliana’s plate.

“You want more?”

“No thank you,” says the girl who has just eaten pork ribs for the first time in her life. She’s been game, she’s been stoic. She knows there’s only one answer.

“You vegetarian?”

She smiles. She is brave. This is our joke.

“Oh, no, Hannah. Not vegetarian.”

 

 

The hamlet of Pangnirtung

The hamlet of Pangnirtung

Friday

The sun shone all night. Oh, there may have been the occasional shaded hour between midnight and two in the morning, but overall the sky was bright and clear. In an uncharacteristic moment of foresight I’d brought along eye shades, collected along the last few years of train and airline trips. Thank goodness.

Eggs for breakfast, brown toast, peanut butter, jam and coffee.

“You like eggs?” asked Hannah.

“Yes please.”

“Okay. You make.”

Got it.

As we munched our toast and looked outside into the sun, Hannah asked what we’d like for lunch and for dinner.

Anything is fine.

Anything? You eat everything?

Oh, yes.

You no vegetarian? Because I hate vegetarian.

Definitely not vegetarian.

Hawaiian pizza for lunch and for dinner, arctic char, a great orange slab on our plates, along with rice and salad.

Liliana ate it all, bless her heart.

 


 

Following our breakfast we set out to explore the hamlet. Pangnirtung sits on the shore, almost literally, of the Pangnirtung fjord, a deep crack in the granite that makes up Baffin Island. To the west is Cumberland Sound, currently jammed with ice and thus stalling any passage of ships – tourist and supplies, more on that later – and to the east is Davis Strait, the body of water between Baffin Island and Greenland.

Every glance up and down the fjord fills one with a sense of wonder. At first the hamlet does not seem particularly attractive. Wooden houses, set on stilts, dotted along a maze of pitted and dusty gravel roads, snowmobiles set aside until the snow returns, four-wheeled ATVs, parked trucks, the occasional sleeping dog, secured by a long rope.

But after walking and a few hours of familiarity, the layout of the hamlet and its relationship to the water all begin to make sense.

The roads connecting the homes span out concentrically, as though a stone were thrown in the water and the rings reached back out to the land. That ease of formation gives everyone quicker access to the main roads that run near the water, connecting the government offices, the clinic, the library and the stores.

And so we set off, out Hannah’s kitchen door, down toward the water, turning at the cemetery, in search of the grocery stores, of which there are two: The Arctic Inuit Co-Op and The Northern Store.

The Co-Op is familiar to anyone who’s visited these stores in the Canada’s countryside – Beausejour, Langley, Halifax. The Northern Store is a similarly general-type store, and there’s probably a difference between the two, one not yet discerned by me.

Both stores carry groceries, fresh meat, milk, tires, paddles, soft drinks, chocolate bars, fabric, bullets and dog food.

The prices are exorbitant — $6 for a soft drink, $9 for a jug of milk, $17 for a box of cereal, $52 for a Costco-sized bundle of toilet paper.

Food arrives in one of two ways – the sea lift, which means containers (such as those carried on a train) stuffed with goods in Winnipeg, shipped to Montreal, loaded on to a ship, and a month in transit to the north, or by air – Montreal to Iqaluit to Pangnirtung. The sea lift is cheaper (one container of 24,000 kgs is $4000 to transport; the equivalent weight would cost $200,000 to transport by air) but the air lift is fresher. So generally groceries come in by air, as even crackers would be close to stale-dated by the time they arrived. More cost to the consumer, less waste by the stores.

No surprise, the cost of food comprises the bulk of living expenses in Pang.

One former Haligonian said that when Amazon offered free shipping, the plane would unload 150 boxes of goods every day. Ah the glory days.

Home for a supper of arctic char, salad, rice and boiled vegetables. The char is like a drier salmon, pretty and orange, and salty/savoury. Liliana puts it away like a trooper, but I see concern in her eyes.

Hannah has offered to make sandwiches from the leftover char for our hike tomorrow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Arrival to the far north

Pangnirtung fjord

Pangnirtung fjord

My sweet travelling companion and I caught last Thursday’s late night redeye from Vancouver to Ottawa, via Toronto, through Iqaluit to Pangnirtung, only a bit painful because we were on our way Somewhere Wonderful. A brief stop in each airport, just long enough to find our way to the appropriate check-in.

We didn’t know yet but several of the people on the flight from Ottawa to Iqaluit would become our flightmates all the way through to Pangnirtung, some would become our dining companions and one poor soul would voluntarily evacuate his room so that we’d have a place to stay.

On arrival to the flight strip in Pang, everyone and no one had arrived to meet us. Looking back, we could have asked any number of people for a lift to our lodging as I recognized one man by his voice, another from his picture. While not there specifically for us, both kindly offered to take us where we needed to go – Hannah’s Homestay. The story was that 78-year-old great grandmother Hannah Tautuajuk ran a warm and friendly boarding house from her home and when I’d called her a month earlier she assured me she had no boarders in July and that all I needed to do was show up.

Liliana and I piled our bags into the back of a dusty 4×4 and were driven by Jason, an east coaster who arrived in Pang a year ago and now works at the hamlet office, across the labyrinthine paths that make up the roads of Pang. No street names but every house has a number.

We arrived at Hannah’s, number 765, and knocked on the door. No answer. Knocked harder. “Maybe she’s sleeping,” said Jason. Knocked again. It was pretty clear to all that no one was home.

We piled ourselves and our bags back into the truck and drove around a bit. Perhaps her daughter Julia was at the clinic where she sometimes worked. She wasn’t. What about the GN office where she also occasionally worked? (GN? Government of Nunavut, informed Jason.) Not there either.

We returned to Jason’s room at the hamlet office. I could imagine he deeply regretted having offered us a ride. Where would this mother-daughter-duo stay? He offered, perhaps reluctantly, “You can always stay at our place,” referring to the home he shared with others.

There’s also a modest hotel in Pangnirtung, known as The Lodge, where the business and government folk stay, run by the colourful Quebecois Louis Robilliard. Jason called over to the Lodge and said he was bringing us over. Louis too was not terribly overjoyed to see the two of us as his establishment was already full. He too telephoned Hannah, Julia, their home, their cell phones. Nothing. He disappeared out his back door for a few minutes, then returned.

Come with me. We did. There was one of the guys from the plane, hastily packing up and moving in with his buddy in the adjoining room. They’d be sharing a room, it turned out, so that Liliana and I had somewhere to sleep.

The guys were pretty cool about it and as we had dinner in the upstairs dining hall a little while later they regaled us with stories about travelling in the north at the whim of the weather. Turns out as well that Louis the innkeeper was also Louis the cook, Louis the server and Louis the busboy. After our raisin pie we returned to our room, but were intercepted by Louis the innkeeper. He was obviously concerned that we might be his guests for more than one night and he clearly didn’t have room.

He began calling Hannah’s numbers again. Her daughter Julia answered and Louis passed the phone to me:

You came in?

Yes we did.

You’re here with your daughter?

Yes.

We had lots of cancellations this week.

Oh. I’m sorry.

I didn’t pick you up from the airport because I thought you were like all the rest.

Oh.

You want me to come and get you? Or do you want to stay at the hotel? It’s up to you.

I’ll still stay with you if that’s all right.

I don’t care. It’s your choice.

(Louis, overhearing both ends of the conversation, gestured that I should go go go to Hannah’s.)

We’ll stay with you.

Okay.

I returned the phone to Louis, paid for our dinner and we were out the door with Julia, on our way to Hannah’s.

We met Hannah – dark haired, crinkly eyed, all smiles and expressive face. She showed us our room, the shared bathroom, the coffee pot. “You need anything? You ask me.”

And we went for a walk in the bright-as-day evening sun. The wind was coming from the west, blowing over the ice-packed Cumberland Strait and I suddenly considered there was no way I’d brought enough clothes. Great ice floes rested on the beach, hung up there as the tide receded. Puppies and children ran about the dusty roads, little boys on bikes skidding on the gravel, the occasional adult making easy eye contact with the obvious visitors, each one calling out “Hi!” with a smile.

We returned to Hannah’s, ready for bed. It had been a long two days, broken up by the occasional nap.

Hannah met us at the door. “What time you eat breakfast? What you like eat for breakfast?”

I was prepared for this and had forewarned Liliana that we were going to respect local hospitality and eat what was in front of us. We would be guests after all.

You like bacon and eggs? I like bacon and eggs. You eat bacon and eggs tomorrow?

We’ll eat anything, said the vegetarians.

Into the white

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Sunday was snowday here on our little outcrop. Cars were ditched — figuratively by us and literally by others — in favour of snowboots and we enjoyed a day of slippery slidey fun.

Junior forgot that coastal snow is wetter than the prairie variety and complained about wet feet from his sodden runners. Our friendly neighbourhood United Church minister gave him a pair of socks collected from the Christmas ‘mitten tree.’

And then, in pursuance of procrastinated holiday homework, he trotted off to the mid-island meadow, sister in tow, to take some photos.

Pretty, isn’t it? Both of them were freezing but in testament to the lunacy of youth, they followed through with it. Hot baths and hot chocolate followed.

Nicholas is preparing a series of photographs for a year-long school project and Liliana has centred in each one. The photos are not portraits per se but her presence provides a continuity throughout.

This is not the first time the model has had to endure pain for beauty. There’s another of her standing in the ocean…

Time for her to get a manager and discuss some recompense. Perhaps he can clean her room.

Back in the workshop

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Back in the elfin workshop some sweet and crunchy and extremely healthy treats have been assembled.

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Marvellous, tasty and oh so nutty and nutritious bags of granola were mixed and toasted on trays in the oven,  creating a fresh baked aroma to rival the milk and cookies of Mrs. Claus. Organic oats (25 pounds of them as Mother Elf was bound to burn at least one batch), almonds, pumpkin seeds, maple syrup, honey, apricots and candied ginger — thank you Martha Stewart’s recipe file!

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The two young elves measured, packaged and taped and readied everything for delivery. Some snacking was suspected expected.

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Tomorrow the packages will be labelled and wrapped, ready for delivery.

The workable hours between now and the end of the week are rapidly dwindling. Happy to have this task all wrapped up!

Winter gold

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The elves have been busy on our little island.

The much respected Elf Elder, passing through from the Canadian steppes, lugged in some of this golden goodness from his hardworking honeybees. He knows that no honey will ever be more loved and appreciated than that of his clover-collecting hive, now safely tucked away from the prairie storms.

Tall Elf, and one who may now be vying for role of Tallest Elf, put together these purty little labels. Mother Elf is finally and clearly convinced that last year’s gap year was of value. The kids knows his way around Photoshop.

This is part one of this year’s teacher gifts.

Tomorrow I’ll show you part two.

Subterranean beauty

I didn’t really pay too much attention to learning Cyrillic the first few days in Russia, although we ought to have known better after the first day in St. Petersburg, when we came home with a bag of frozen meatballs thinking they were cheese perogies.

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But upon arriving at the Moscow subway, a certain degree of fluency was suddenly deemed important.

In fact, reading the language turned out to be fairly straightforward.

P = R, C = S, B = V, b = B … that sort of thing. A basic substitution cypher to make the cryptographers happy, and a lot of phonetic similarities for us uniglots.

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Down, down, down deep into the underground of the Moscow Metro. Reminded us of descending into a coal mine in Australia a couple of years ago.

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Crisp and clean!

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I’d heard earlier about the astonishing and dramatic works of art in the subway system and it was true.

When Stalin ordered the artists and architects to design a structure that embodied a brilliant and radiant future, it was his intent to remind the riders that he and his party had delivered something substantial to the people in return for their sacrifices.

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Stalin tried to create an environment that would encourage people to look *up,* admiring the station’s art (and perhaps thinking of him in god-like terms?).  At the time, the chandeliers were the most technically advanced elements of the metro.

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And the metro truly is beautiful. It’s clean, no litter or graffitti, despite transporting more than nine million passengers per day!

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Interestingly, voice announcements refer to the lines by name, with a male voice announcing the next station as one travels toward the centre of the city, and a female voice when going away from it.

Of course, you must remember which is which…

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Sushi, anyone?

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And after braving the rabbit warren below, it was time for a break in the daylight.

Okay, so here’s the query: What well known company is represented here?

(with a clue or two at the start of the post)

Thanks to Ivan the Terrible

Wandering around the Red Square just 13 days ago, we paid a third and final visit to that most iconic of Russian landmarks to bid a fond до свидания (do svidaniya — goodbye) to Saint Basil’s Cathedral or, as it’s more properly known in the world of Russian Orthodoxy, The Cathedral of the Protection of Most Holy Theotokos on the Moat.

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The cathedral, which is actually eight small churches arranged around a ninth, was built on orders from Ivan the Terrible to commemorate a successful capture of the city of Kazan from the Mongols in 1552.

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The church was completed eight years later in 1560 and legend has it that Ivan ordered the the builders blinded with hot irons so that they could not recreate anything else as beautiful.





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For a time in the Soviet Union there was talk of demolishing the building largely because it was in the way of Stalin’s plans for massive parades in Red Square. One architect, Pyotr Baranovsky, when ordered to prepare the building for demolition wrote a letter where he bluntly refused to do so. While Baranovsky earned five years in jail for his opinion, the cathedral remained standing.

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The walls of the interior (too dark for photos) are covered in frescoes and in one tiny room three burly Muscovites serenaded us with traditional Russian hymns which resonated gorgeously in the acoustics of the vaulted stone walls. With stacks of CDs for sale at a side table it was nice to see the Russian entrepreneurial spirit alive and well.

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As part a result of state atheism the church was confiscated from the Russian Orthodox community and has operated as a part of the state historical museum since 1928.

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I have to say, this building was a real treat to the eyes. As one approaches Red Square the cathedral peeks out with its splendid onion domes. Other cathedrals are topped with golden domes, but these painted beauties are unique.

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It was a bit of a hike from our hotel to the Kremlin and the Arbatskaya, the area we wandered through to get there, offered much in terms of food, drink and trinkets.

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And on this particular day, something for everyone.

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На здоровье!

Na Zdoroviya!

 

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Without a long time to spend in St. Petersburg we had to ensure we’d pack in as much as possible into a handful of very brief days. Fortunately, just a few steps from our apartment we found this simple structure inviting our gaze and adoration.

And gaze we did! This Church of Our Saviour on Spilled Blood (one must imagine it doesn’t translate well) was the perfect antidote to grouchy airport personnel (oh, that cello! The girl should take up harmonica!) and a stifling apartment.

Inside are hundreds of gold-leafed icons of saints and other important men (!), a marble mosaic floor, and frescoes on the domed ceiling. Stunning.

 

 

 

 

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The next morning the city welcomed us with a noisy blast of horn and drum, right outside our window.

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Such rigidity and solemnity. So formal and professional.

 

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Or maybe not.

These blue-striped specimens of manliness, many toting cans of beer, formed a long mass of humanity that went on and on in the parade.

 

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Mothers, children, wives and girlfriends walked along with the men who sang and shouted out to the crowds lining the streets.

(See the little girl’s feet?)

 

 

 

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We gathered from the flags and then later from a newspaper that there was some kind of recognition of the country’s paratroopers.

So we couldn’t determine if these fellows had themselves served in the army or if they were commemorating others who did.

 

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Watching out for rabble rousers at the rear, I guess.

 

 

 

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And for a complete change of pace, we attended Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro later that night at the magnificent Mariinsky Theatre, built in 1860.

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Outside in the mezzanine and in the hallways were photos of Rudolf Nureyev and Anna Pavlova, whose careers were launched here.

 

 

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And a peaceful walk home, with a stop for ice cream, as we contemplate the many facets of our good fortune.

As for the name of this place, I have no idea. But to be fair, there’s a gold topped dome every couple of kilometres.

Some serious navigation is about to start.

Our home and native land

Well, one of our native lands, anyway.

Just a few hours after leaving Milan at the end of our music program in beautiful sunny perfect rural Italia, we touched down for a few days in Poland.

First time anyone of my grandfather’s direct line of the family has gone to the land of his parents, since his own visit there in the early 1970s.

A rather powerful feeling to set foot in this land, and even more so when, at the airport, I recognized the smiling face of my cousin, not seen in person since his 1977 trip to Canada. (Ah, the wonders of Facebook!)

As we’d left our little B&B at 5 a.m. (preceded by a  delightful four-hour nap), arriving in Warsaw at 7 p.m. with a three-hour drive to our cousin’s home in Lublin, we were, frankly, famished!

Dear Jerzy (pronounced Yurek) took us to a tiny in size but magnificent in flavour traditional Polish restaurant.

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Oh my.

Kapusta — cabbage. Grzybami — mushrooms.

Miesem — with lentils.

Ruskie-style —  Sweetened cottage cheese, served with slightly sweetened whipped cream.

So amazing to eat this food, so long a part of our family’s culinary traditions, at a little eatery in the middle of our long-ago homeland.

The magic was not lost on my travelling companions.

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The next morning: The magic we’d all been waiting for.

This little piece of property, tho’ not the house nor anything on it, is the ancestral land of my grandfather’s parents, my mother’s grandparents.

According to Jerzy, in the late 1800s the land in this area and the people farming it, were the poorest of Poland’s poor. Leaving behind the little they had and arriving in Canada with nothing could not be any worse than the life they already were living.

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My grandfather was born after his parents arrived in Canada but four siblings were born in Poland, with one dying on the boat coming over.

The fellow in the picture talking to Jerzy didn’t seem as awed by the history as we were. Jerzy, however, was so so proud of having found this property and being able to take us there.

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There, but for the bravery of Andrew and Katerina Ilczyna, stand two little punks whose lives would have been extraordinarily different from all they know today.

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Just down the road and walking distance from the house was this old wooden church, sitting where it was built 277 years ago.

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What a moment to think that this would most likely have been where they married, baptised their children and gone to church every Sunday.

All so very amazing!

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These following pics are of no particular significance other than that they show some  family names via marriage.




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I love cemeteries and while the lettering is long since eroded on the family stones, such that even Jerzy couldn’t find them (although they’ve been found in the past) to think, again, that our history was right there beneath our feet, gave a sense of reverence for the actions of our ancestors.

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Interestingly, when Jerzy came to Canada in 1977 he told us if his father wanted to own a car he would have to save his salary for ten years. Now Jerzy and his wife each have one. They take none of this for granted, despite living a style so desperately different from that of their parents.

And as we drove off again in Jerzy’s car and  looked out at the countryside, we could see how easily coming to Canada would have felt like coming home.

Just as we felt at home by completing the circle for them.