Metropolitan Homesick Blues

I go searching for something to blog about on this cold, grey November day. Thoughts always come to me when I’m out and about.

Ice fog is lifting off the Sauble Beach Parkway, hovering over the tops of the trees waiting to see if the sun can squeeze through the clouds to burn it away. The ceiling is too low though and it looks like rain.

The parking lot of my favourite breakfast spot is empty. Since we are well into the off-season I fear they might be closed. They’re not. But they are empty. Its a strange feeling given the crowds they cater to from May 24 to Thanksgiving. From my window seat I can see that ‘emptiness’ is all around me.

Main Street Sauble Beach is shuttered up tight for the winter. The plywood and such covering the windows and doors of the gift shops and restaurants add to the tackiness of the scene. This street screams ‘beach town’ at the best of times. You don’t notice it that much in summer because of the crowds. Summer people come here in droves and bring their big city ways with them filling in every ounce of space on both the street and beach.

I’ve always wondered why Southampton and Port Elgin don’t suffer this fate. They seem to rise above it. I’m not being critical here…just a personal observation.

But, it doesn’t matter now. The town is empty. The beach is empty. The stores are empty. I drive an empty shore road and a great calm descends on me. I realize why I love this time of year. It is still. No crowds madly rushing off in all directions at the same time. No craziness.

I drive on to the beach. I can park wherever I want and not pay the customary fee.  Walking in solitude I get lost in the emptiness.

The peace and quiet of the approaching winter is on the land.

Next to a great old stone church…in the tiny village of Keady, half of which lies within the Township of Chatsworth while the other half is within the boundaries of Georgian Bluffs…on the corner of Grey Road 3 and Grey Road 16…is the last place you would expect to find gelato fatto en casa…homemade gelato.

Keady is well known for its Livestock and Farmer’s Market.  But not for Gelato. At least, not yet. Not if Maria has any say in the matter.

Maria is a lovely lady, Italian of course, who boldly opened Maria’s Ice Cream Parlor, simply because that’s what she wanted to do. She comes from Hamilton with a background in Health Care and a level of enthusiasm that will charm you to pieces. When you meet her you’ll know. And be prepared…Maria loves to talk about anything and everything. She’s an honest, caring, hardworking philosopher/ entrepreneur who believes in what she’s doing. What possessed her to pick Keady as ‘gelato central’ is not really clear.

Nonetheless she and her authentic Italian gelato machines produce the wonderful gelati flavours we came to love when we traveled Italy by train for three weeks.

Gelato isn’t “Italian ice cream” as some people call it. Gelato is closer to ice milk. The Italians found that too much butterfat interferes with the transfer to the tongue of the fresh flavors Italian gelato is famous for. Typical Italian gelato is lower in butterfat. So, it is better for you.

If you live or vacation in Bruce or Grey County take a drive to Maria’s and enjoy.

Maria's is just around the corner.

Turn right at the old stone Church.

Maria is ready to let you sample all the flavours.

I just got back from a couple of days in the Big City…Toronto that is.

For years it was where I lived, the place where I was born, the city I was constantly leaving and inevitably coming back to. On return trips by train, plane or automobile, there were familiar landmarks that quickened my heart, telling me that I was almost home.

Driving up the small rise just before you exit the Queen E on to the Gardner the sight of Lake Ontario’s shoreline and Toronto’s Skyline never failed to make me smile. (So did the slight feeling of being airborne if you hit the rise at the right speed.)

Flying over the city at night was magical. I could spot landmarks from the air. I always knew which runway we were to land on from the direction of our approach. If we banked out over the lake then leveled off, I could see the street where I lived. That’s when the blood returned to my knuckles.

Entering Toronto by train brought me through the bottom of the city. Coming in from the West the lake and greenery of Sunnyside were certainly prettier than the industrial wasteland of the East end. Either way, pulling into the grandeur of Union Station always told me that I was in the city at the centre of the Canadian universe. At least, that’s what Torontonians believe.

But, all of this fails to impress me now. Now, I come to Toronto reluctantly and leave as quickly as I can. Whenever I’m there, I’m always planning my exit.

And this time, as I made my escape, it suddenly dawned on me; Toronto is no longer where I come from. Southampton is. And this reality, this transition happened effortlessly. I can’t remember suffering any withdrawal, homesickness or regret as a result of my leaving.

Racing everyone along the 401 speedway and up the 427, I realized that the pace of the city no longer excited me like it once did. Toronto was no longer my kind of town.

My blood pressure settled as we turned on to Highway 10. We were driving into quietude. There was no construction congestion, just the openness of farm fields freshly ploughed, that vivid just grown greenery breaking out everywhere, the soy bean fields now a brilliant buttercup yellow, all under a great big brilliantly blue sky.

And then, as soon as I saw the Saugeen River beside me on Highway 21, it happened. I knew I was home. Past the Range Light and across the bridge was the harbour with the sun glistening like fool’s gold on the water. That quickening of the heart I once experienced came over me. Only this time Southampton was the inspiration.

Yes, I come from away, as the locals describe us. Yes, I was once a ‘citidiot’ the name they sometimes use when they refer to newcomers. But I consider myself an adopted son now…a Southamptoner (Southamptonite?) I’ve happily traded the shores of Lake Ontario for the shores of Lake Huron, hazy smog for brilliant sunsets, hustle and bustle for peace and quiet, the fast lane for the slow lane, competition for contemplation.

There is a marvelous passage from The Place No One Knew by an unknown author, which sums it all up:

“You want a place where you can be serene, that will let you contemplate and connect two consecutive thoughts…that can stir you up as you were made to be stirred up, until you blend with the wind and water and earth you almost forgot your came from…There must be room enough for time – where the sun can calibrate the day, not the wristwatch, for days or weeks of unordered time, time enough to forget the feel of the pavement and to get the feel of the earth and of what is natural and right.”

I have found that place…right here, in Southampton.