I Dream of Red Brick Houses

I moved away from Ontario in '93. . . but it is still home - no matter how many years pass. The harbour, the ships, the big silver grain elevator, the noise of gulls, the roar of the falls, the red-brick houses (the ones the smart piggy built), the whitecaps on the water. Georgian Bay as moody as ever. Sometimes mercury and imposing. Frightening really, and cold. Other times, blue like the Caribbean making a person speechless with gratitude.


Home is always home, no matter how long I'm gone.

No words written during this visit - but images stowed away on my camera for future inspiration. I did gather courage to speak to the owner of a small press about a children's fantasy/folktale set in the area. Her advice was, "move back, and I can publish you as a local author." Twice she said this. Twice.

So, I'm not local anymore? Even if my heart wanders back with fondness? Even if I build red brick houses in my dreams?

My grandmother once said, "going somewhere, is always leaving somewhere too." I suppose it is the curse of an adventuress spirit. Every time I move, I leave something behind.