Fiddleheads awaken memories of the farm by the Nashwaak

My mother was born and raised on a farm in Durham Bridge, New Brunswick. The farmland ran right down to the shore of the beautiful Nashwaak River, a fast-flowing, usually quite shallow stream that flows into the St. John River at Fredericton.

When we were kids, the farmland was still in the family; our auntie — Mum's oldest sister — and uncle lived at the top of the farm, near the road. By that time, our uncle had retired and the farm was worked and hayed by a neighbouring farmer but we were still allowed to roam the land.

We never visited our auntie and uncle without taking the walk down to the "old house." Just below our auntie's house, we climbed a fence and crossed the railway track. (At certain times of day — we listened for the whistle — we sat on that fence and watched the train go by. The engineer, the conductor, the porters — all the trainmen — waved to us and it was always a highlight.)

After crossing the tracks, we walked or slid down a small hill and crossed the brook that flowed through the property. There were stepping stones in the brook and you could see tiny fish swimming by as you crossed.

On the other side of the brook, it was just a few steps until we were in an open field. From there, we could see the old house, the barn and the big trees that stood between them. There was a hay-wagon track that we walked on, through the edge of the field and the purple vetch, clover, daisies, buttercups, dandelions.

This looks something like the barn from my childhood although it isn't it.

We used to go into the barn and up into the hay-loft but I think there came a time when we were warned the barn was no longer safe. I did love all that beautiful hay.

The old house was not the original house where my mother had grown up. That house had burned down after she'd left home but they rebuilt and this was the replacement. Mum didn't have a sentimental attachment to this old house and she was was always quick to point out that the original house was much grander. Although no one had lived there in many years, this house still had things inside — furniture, dishes, kitchen utensils — most notably, a pump organ in the living room that could still be played.

I can still smell the musty atmosphere in that house and we never stayed inside too long.

Right near the house, between the house and the barn, were two big trees with a hammock strung between them — not so much a hammock as a metal swing that would easily seat three people. It would need to be cushioned but we were little and happily sat on it and never noticed discomfort.

Off to the side, at the edge of the field was what Mum and her sisters and brothers called "the old line fence." I presume that was the boundary of their family's farm. There were trees and shrubs along the fence and we used to crawl under them to get some flowers: trillium, lady slippers and bloodroot grew under there. It was shady and cool and usually damp.

trillium

lady slipper

bloodroot

I wouldn't know the bloodroot by its flower but we did sometimes pull them up to see how they got their name.

bloodroot root

I was talking with some friends recently about memory. One of my friends remarked on some of the things I'd written about our nursing days — about psychiatry and the operating room — and said I had a remarkable memory. I think I do have a pretty good memory but I also think it's all in there, if only it's awakened. For example, today I began to think about picking fiddleheads in the spring along the banks of the Nashwaak River.

Photo by Nathan Wilbur

My mind was wandering as I cleaned a bowl of fiddleheads for dinner. I remembered exactly how it felt to look for the little ferns that were still tightly coiled and how they sounded when you snapped the stem. We always had rubber boots on because the fiddleheads grew where the river had overflowed its banks and then receded and it was always a soggy outing. We always filled several big paper grocery bags. Looking back, I presume when we got home, Mum would clean them (they're kind of a pain to get really clean), blanch them and put them in little bags for the freezer.

It was thinking about the fiddleheads that led me along all the other paths that I've described and once I started, the memories became as clear and sharp as if I'd walked that hay-wagon track just last week.

The brain is an amazing place.

And here are my fiddleheads, as I was cleaning them and just before I popped them into the pot to steam for dinner. To be served with a bit (or a lot) of butter and a generous squeeze of lemon juice.