‘Not Marriage Material’ – Submission 3: Once I Had A Dream by Cathie Cummins

Not Marriage Material is an upcoming anthology of non fiction and poetry – submissions are currently open. More information can be found here.

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Once I Had a Dream by Cathie Cummins

As a newlywed woman, who had never desired nor aspired to marry until her 30th year, I was overwhelmed by the enormity of the love I felt, not only for my new husband, but also for the joys of the wedded state. When the banns were read in the church we attended, I was brought to tears by the thought that soon I would proceed down that aisle to stand beside my groom. As a bride coming to my new abode, I delighted in setting up my household, seeing to the care and feeding of the head of the family. 

One night I dreamt that we were both in heaven but separated into two groups. I was devastated not to be able to go to him. The Scripture, “in heaven there is no marrying or giving in marriage” ran like a thread through my dream, as I longed to be with him. I could not comprehend how the vow that I made to stay at his side till death could be reconciled with this intense grief I was feeling at being apart in the hereafter. 

We were blessed with three beautiful babies, but the pain and confusion of our wretched childhoods lent us no tools to cope with marriage and parenting, and shortly after our 10th anniversary, separation became the only safe option. Many an afternoon while the children napped or at night when they were tucked up in bed, I lay sobbing and begging to know why it had to be this way; why I was left spouseless and my children fatherless? What about the vow I made to go where thou goest? I felt shamed, blamed and abandoned by my friends and family. My grief was overwhelming and yet I had no choice but to move forward. The divorce was a protracted process that spanned the next 10 years; years that saw me become houseless, homeless and health-less. Only for the sake of the children, I moved forward with the tiniest baby steps, still hoping that we might be reconciled as a family once again.

I sit now in the dappled sunlight under a canopy of green trees, listening to the myriad bird songs that fill the forest, guarding our campsite till the family arrives. I am sorting through the Kodak moments of our past 10 days; “Camping with the Xes” as we call it, a collection of family all related by blood, marriage or divorce. It is with awe at how God can work all things to good that I realize this is the reality of the long-ago dream; literally my husband and I in two different campsites. Yet what I hadn’t seen in my dream was the children, yours, mine and ours, creating bridges between the camps. We have all risen above the pain of brokenness to create a loving inclusive circle of healing. Despite COVID, I always hug everyone at camp, and as I offer my ex the sign of peace, he says, “We didn’t do such a bad job raising our kids,” and I wholeheartedly agree.

Hot … so hot … 39ºC in the shade and 45ºC in the sun. Not a breath of a breeze, and the sun is merciless. Rounded white clouds drift across a bottle-blue sky and are reflected in the still surface of Pakashkan Lake. Like wild things around a watering hole, we gather on the concrete boat launch, sitting in camp chairs, feet swishing lazily in the water. Oldsters sit in a bit of shade on the beach but even they are barefoot and discussing the similarities and merits of their leather fisherman’s sandals. Threading through the chairs are children, and in the fishing boats two teenage girls preen for two brothers in another boat: an ancient coming of age ritual. I am driven into the water by flies and heat, and as I approach the step down from concrete to lake bottom, daughter Sarah, remembering last year’s screech and splash landing, says, “I feel like this might not go well for you!” Mary Poppins-ish, I carry my 68” UV resistant umbrella and perhaps that balances me enough to negotiate the step without falling. Ahhh … the exquisite relief as cool lake water closes around my overheated limbs. Natural buoyancy keeps my head and toes above the waterline, the umbrella creating a pool of shade in which to float. I am the only adult in the water and the children swim about me like flashing minnows. I invite them under my “tent,” which when lowered to the surface, allows us to see the lake bottom. They show me their barrel rolls and swimming skills. When chilled and tired we stretch out in a sunny spot on a towel, my grand-niece lays her tiny head on my knee, and I stroke her baby-fine hair with my fingers. After months of COVID separation, this is my first touch, and I soak the sensation in through my pores. So much love and laughter in this group of mismatched people, all somehow loosely related to one another by blood, marriage and divorce.

Like the gods have flipped a celestial season switch, we wake to late fall. Fast moving clouds, gusting winds and falling temperatures, by noon we are dodging cold rain showers. “Look up the road and tell us the weather!” We share tales of childhood banter under the awning as we hide from the rain. Blasts of wind that rattle the awning arms, flip up carpets and drive the downpour before them chase us, armed with umbrellas and camp blankets into the screen tent. The adults sip mojitos and concoct ever better versions of the cocktail while the children share their camp snacks, knobby brown pods they show us how to crack and then peel off the brittle shell to reveal bean-size morsels of tangy sweet fruit – my first taste of tamarind. Food, food and more food. Eggs Benedict, omelette and corned beef hash breakfasts, fresh-caught pickerel with home-cut fries for lunch, suppers of shish kebab and salads, teen burgers and fries, pasta with Italian meat patties. Then sadly, after a week of feasting like kings and queens, it is our last meal together. But what a meal; wings in sweet Thai chili or roasted garlic and Parmesan cheese and make-your-own tortilla pizzas baked on a pizza stone in the BBQ. Oh … my … good!

Hugs, so much missed this past four months, are shared, even the non-huggers holding on to those extra precious seconds. Promises of “next time at …” are made. I am glad we leave them all around the table and that is my last Kodak moment. There is always some desolation when breaking camp, but more so after the experience of living with COVID. Life and those we love are infinitely more valued when loss is possible, and life is threatened. Yet the pandemic has also taught me not to cling to yesterday but to ride the wave that is today bravely into tomorrow trusting that all will be well. 

Overnight, the birch have dressed themselves for fall. Serried ranks of golden yellow against a still-green backdrop. There is a scent of autumn in the air. Regiments of busby-headed rushes fill the wet hollows; the last magenta fireweed flowers have dropped and in their place spikes of mauve asters wave above the seed heads of sere grasses. Bracken ferns, touched by the cold overnights, shrivel up brown against mounds of silver green reindeer moss. Above, the Pleiades meteor shower lights the night sky, fading only as an August harvest moon rises. Dog day cicadas whine by day and crickets and frogs chirp by night. 

Anjigami Lake, usually like glass in August, is stirred by a warm wind from the south, and a falcon, soaring on the thermal updraft and pursued by screeching gulls, dives repeatedly over the lake to avoid their attacks as we swim below.

Waves stirred by the relentless breeze lap the shore creating a thread of white noise that muffles all but our own conversations. 

We gather round the blazing fire, our first time together as a family since this month in 2020. Our talk turns to murder hornets and the media sensation they caused pre-COVID. Now, in light of the pandemic, it is hard to even remember that foreign species invasion as news, never mind be concerned about it. Our priorities have shifted. We each carved out a week of time from everyday life to spend together. No cell service, no TV, no internet; it is all about laughter and games and stories and hugs, favourite family foods and playing with grandchildren and dogs. But it is SO hard to part company again. The 1000km separating us stretches our bonds so very taut. 

“Thanksgiving in Dryden is only weeks away and then Christmas in Thunder Bay,” we reassure each other, denying the lesson COVID drove home, that all we have is today so make every minute count, expend ourselves on people not things, communicate often and honestly, never say adieu without adding, “I love you.” 

Feldspar crystals sparkle on the road’s surface as we drive up into “the land of the silver birch, home of the beaver, where once the mighty moose wandered at will.” Camps signed with Finnish surnames ring black water lakes, and blueberry bushes cling to bedrock outcroppings. 

“This will be my last trip.”

A decades-old friendship born of a painful past, celebrated in the laughter of the present moment. Every generation from 7 years old to 96 years young, and five of us with the same genes, gather at sunset on a deck overlooking Cummins Lake, itself the legacy of a long-forgotten ancestor. 

The following day … 

Sunlight shimmers across Pakashkan Lake, glittering like diamond dust as the wind riffles the water’s surface. We drink our first coffee at the table while outside the window a chipmunk suns itself on a dead branch in a moment of quiet before twitching to life, off to a day of harvesting from plants beginning to yellow in the first show of late summer. We hear the accelerating thrum of a float plane setting down on the water at dusk, and then the quiet of night descends. 

“Fire’s burning, fire’s burning 
Draw nearer, draw nearer. 
In the gloaming, in the gloaming 
Come sing and be merry.” 

The rattle and pop of popcorn kernels in the pan, the snap and crackle of jack pine logs burning. Dogs snuggle on their humans, wrapped like sausages in camp blankets. The laughter of and at three old ladies trying to gain their feet from folding chairs. Fireflies wink on and off from the verges, and leaning back, we watch as stars populate the night sky, counting the meteors that streak past until August’s Sturgeon Moon ascends behind the trees, lightening the darkness and dimming the stars. A muezzin-like call gathers us to a hearty breakfast before breaking camp begins.

“Not so fast. You can’t escape a hug. Thank you for enjoying our children together.” I rise above the conflagration that burned the bridges of my family only to find it knit together again as if by Divine purpose. 

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About the Author

Cathie Cummins has been scribbling since she was five years old, jotting down the stories that show up in her head, pestering to be put down on paper. A decade ago, she published her first story and felt the affirmation of seeing her gift come alive in print.

She is at her best in the Canadian wilderness, living in her motor home with her feline and canine companions and occasionally her husband. She hopes you enjoy wandering in her world for a while.

Website: http://goneagainbooks.ca/