I was walking at Britannia Beach, the first time since our frigid never-ending winter, appreciating every breeze, every pebble. I paused for a rest, boosting myself onto a large rock. Tucked under the rock I noticed a square protruding tin, like a cookie tin, revealed by the shifting sand. Yanking it out, I pried open the tin and inside found what looked like a diary, filled with tiny handwriting. A shock to me who was 21, and hadn’t written anything that wasn’t typed on my phone or laptop, like ever.
I hitched up my billowy cotton skirt, put the diary in my lap, and started to read…
He came back from the War, but his mind didn’t.
He doesn’t remember dancing. So I have to remember for both of us.
The Ottawa Journal of July 3rd, 1900 listed both permanent and summer residents of Britannia. We weren’t important enough to be included, and so we pretended we were. He became permanent resident John J. Graham. I took the name of Miss Jones, a summer resident. I called him Mister Graham, and he called me Miss Jones. We pretended a lot that the world was different, and a shop girl like me and a man like him could be together.
Our relationship began in the year 1900, the hot June day I spotted him as I sat on a blanket and watched the band playing on the stone pier, the sun setting broadly across the Ottawa River. He played the trumpet, and I watched without taking my eyes off him as he played “My Wild Irish Rose.”
Whenever he and the band played any of the hits of the day for everyone, I knew the songs were really for me… “My Blushin’ Rosie”, “When You Were Sweet Sixteen”, “A Bird in a Gilded Cage”, “Way Down Upon the Swanee River”, and our favourite, “I Can’t Tell Why I Love You But I Do.”
Lots of people got up and danced, and I imagined that we were dancing too, even though he was playing his trumpet and so couldn’t dance with me.
I felt that he noticed me sitting there, wearing my special mauve dress with the little roses all over it, and my white embroidered cardigan on top. My dark hair was back in a bun, but I had a nice maroon barrette on the side. I clapped as the band finished, and before I’d even stopped clapping, he was at my side.
I could tell by his manner he was a lot older than I was, but when he asked if I’d like to go for a walk along the pier, of course I said yes. It’s a magnificent 1,000-foot pier extending right out into Lake Deschenes.
I could see the perspiration on his white jacket, and on his cheeks, from working so hard on his music. “A stroll will help you cool off,” I said, taking his arm as we headed to the wide boulevard, giving a nod to the other strollers arm in arm like us.
