Doorknobs and Dory Boats

I travelled to Nova Scotia to put colour and depth to my childhood memories.

It had been more than 3 decades since I had set foot in this east coast province and I was very excited to make this journey.

My childhood house has been renovated, almost beyond recognition. I stood blankly, scanning corners and walls for anything that looked familiar. I could feel a wave of disappointment coming over me. No one's fault. Times change. How could I even trust the vague "memories" of my 3 and 4 year old self anyway. What was I really looking for? Magic?

Three minutes later, I was half way out the door, when the gracious homeowner asked if I wanted to see upstairs. I did. I had travelled too far to not be thorough. This was a once-in-a lifetime opportunity.

There it was, at the top of the stairs. Instant emotion. I recognized the beaten and brown wood floor in the hall. The only floor that hadn't been replaced. I reached down to touch it and tears welled up in my eyes.

I stood up and steadied myself. The next thing I saw was an old wooden dresser, like a little night stand in the hall. Again, I reached out to touch the wood. "I have this at home." I said. My fingers followed the bowed front of the drawer to the antique handle. I spoke up again, "My mom bought it at an antique sale or auction here in Nova Scotia. $10 or so, I think. I have it. She painted it. Mine is white now. It's in my basement at home."  And suddenly my $10 dresser felt priceless.

I asked about ghosts next. Have you seen ghosts here at all? "No," she said. "No, I haven't." And after a brief pause, she started again. "Well, I haven't. But my daughter has seen the ghost of an old woman in a rocking chair by the window. Just sitting there. And neighbours have seen her too. They swear they've seen a woman in that window when they drove by."

My ghost story isn't of an old woman in a rocking chair though. It's of a horse and rider coming out of the boarded up barn and riding off into the ocean.  But she didn't know that one.

Next, the homeowner shared a story of footsteps and a man rattling a doorknob in a room by the kitchen. Others had seen and talked of him too. Previous renters of the home had mentioned it. And sometimes they heard a wailing that they passed off as a wind whistling through the house.

On the long drive back to the hotel, I thought a lot about what I saw of the house, and what I had hoped for. I feel like I have finished my quest. Closed a chapter. It doesn't feel like a victory, but it does feel like an accomplishment.

Incidentally, I chatted with my mother tonight. Rather than talk about the house, I asked her about the ghosts. Careful not to prompt her, I simply asked. "Do you remember anything about the ghosts in the house?"

"Just one," mom replied. "The ghost of a man who had been locked in the room off the kitchen as punishment when he was a child. It was so sad. You could hear rattling and wailing. So I would just leave that door open and a comforter on the floor and it was all fine."

My mom's description lines up  enough to give me chills. But no woman in a rocking chair. It's good that way, I think. Each generation should have their own story.

You can't go back in time and rewrite history. (Back to the Future movies taught us that!) But this has certainly been a privilege and a special chance to revisit the path that led me to today.