My Season of Nostalgia
Sometimes, I wish I had a river I could skate away on
BY Patricia Dawn Robertson
It was December 2009 and my partner, Grant, and I, along with our border collie, Laddie, were making - the eight-hour drive to my parents' home. We'd be spending the Christmas holidays in the little town where they moved to when they had retired a few years earlier. After a career as a sports journalist, my dad was keen to enjoy his twilight years with my mother in this rustic town just north of the Canadian city of Winnipeg.
It had been a horrendous drive. As Grant navigated the icy rural roads in our Volvo station wagon, I whiteknuckled it in the passenger seat and averted my eyes from the cars in the ditch. But we weren't about to turn back. That's the pull of Christmas.
We made it safely, and Mum greeted us at the front door like we were long-lost members of the Shackleton expedition. From his blue recliner, Dad turned his head and smiled. Relief flooded through me. He still recognized me. It wasn't too late.
Mum was clearly beyond exhausted. She refused to take even one day off from taking care of him. "If I go away, I'm afraid I'll return and your dad won't know me." Who could argue with her logic? Besides, it wasn't up to me.
A FEW DAYS LATER I found myself doing some retail therapy at Tergesen's in nearby Gimli, a fishing community with a strong Icelandic heritage. The store, a binge-shopping favourite of my whole family, is stacked with books, Icelandic sweaters, cozy mittens, luxe scarves and jaunty winter hats.
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