Thanksgiving in Madran

I took a bus to Bathurst, arriving at the terminal on the afternoon of Thanksgiving Sunday. With no baggage (remember it had failed to make it aboard ship) I really felt like I was embodying the spirit of a traveling nomad: free-spirited and in search of adventure. Auntie Rita picked me up from the terminal, and then we cruised back to her place in Madran. Madran is only a half hour from Bathurst but it's sort of, hmmm, out in the country. Imagine old wooden fences, houses set back behind tall maples, chip seal roads, horses and dogs-that's Madran.

The following Monday we celebrated Thanksgiving. Last autumn my sister and I were cycling the Pacific Coast; we spent Thanksgiving in a windstorm, camped in the backyard of a woman who ran a thriftstore in Ilwaco, WA. For dinner, we splurged on a brick of the finest chedder and cooked it over a pot of swirly pasta with fresh chopped veggies. Even without fine accouterments, I still found I had a lot to be thankful for: good health, good company, good food. This year, however, I felt I was blessed with much more on the holiday.

Rita's place served as the gathering place for the feast. Monday morning was spent in preparation; and I admit I wasn't that much help, instead opting to ride the horse out back with my cousins Ashley and Sabrina. That evening 16 or 17 of us served up our plates smorgasbord style off the kitchen table before spreading out around the house to eat. Every possible sitting surface was taken; from the corner of the counter to the deck chairs on the back porch. It was a merry occasion and a happy reunion. Before desert, I was presented with a card and a cake, congratulating me on the achievement of biking from coast to coast. Thanks guys!

I spent one week in Madran. Cruising around town with my cousins Darcy and Wendy, making bracelets with Chloe and Sabrina, drinking coffee at Timmy's ("one milk, one cream, one sugar pleeeeeeese!") , and imagining up creative ways to eat leftover Thanksgiving turkey. Most days Rita and I would walk down to the little brook around sunset, just to enjoy the fall colours and the peaceful gurgling of the flowing waters.

On Friday we headed north on a beer run. Wendy behind the steering wheel, Darcy navigating us towards Quebec, Stacy and I gazing out the back windows and singing along to the music. We took the old road driving along the coast, up through Cambellton, and over the bridge to Point-a-la-Croix. This little excursion reminded me of why I loved Quebec: old buildings and cheap booze. We each bought a case of beer before heading back to Bathurst to celebrate Kathy's birthday.

Ridiculous wigs, wild dancing, and exaggerated storytelling filled the night. A bowl of stew mysteriously appeared in front of me late in the evening, and I can recall through the murkiness of my alcohol infused memories how deliciously salty the hot hot veggies were. God bless women who know how to cook-Thank you Tracy!

I woke the next morning wearing Wendy's silk leopard print PJ's, crashed on the sofa with Chopper the dog pawing at my forearms. Simply said, I was not at my best. My mood improved slightly when Sabrina cooked me up a cheesy omlette for breakfast. We worked on various arts and crafts projects throughout the morning, then headed over to my cousin Mike's place for a Saturday night shindig. Folks in the Maritimes definitely seem to enjoy their weekends. Guitars were pulled out and songs were sung. Somewhere abouts midnight Mike decided it was time to get to work making donairs for everybody-the kitchen morphing into a high efficiency restaurant assembly line and before 1:00am we had all been served up hot pitas filled with spicy donair meat and sweet, creamy sauce.

Throughout the course of the week, I began to realize more and more how much I was going to miss these dear folks on the east coast when I headed back west. This thought really hit home when I departed from the train station for Montreal. To my delight and surprise, thirteen, yes thirteen, people had gathered there to see me off. I've never had a sendoff of more than two people back home, so this all felt pretty special to me. I liked being part of a merry crowd. I guess I felt accepted and loved, and I think that's all one can really ask for in life. After we said our farewells and shared our hugs, I passed my ticket to the attendant and climbed up the stairs of the train. As the train pulled out of the station and chugged off toward Montreal, I looked back to see a crowd of relatives and friends under the dim streetlight; a mass of smiling faces all waving and snapping pictures from the platform. Good bye Bathurst! I'll be back, someday.