The Ides of March, Plus Two
On this day, seventy five years ago, an English-Welsh Canadian war bride called her husband in from chores in the barn. “I think the baby’s coming, Les!”
As is consistent with most everything I do, I chose to be born in the middle of the worst howling winter blizzard of the season. Total whiteout conditions, the rural roads all completely snowed in. My Dad called the township reeve who quickly understood the situation. “Leslie, the snow plow will be at the end of your laneway in about fifteen minutes. Make sure you’re there!” A precursor of the good fortune I’ve had all my life.
And so my Dad shovelled frantically and got the old car to the end of the long country lane to meet the snowplow, and then they followed the plow down the township road to the provincial highway, and thence in to the big city hospital. Just in the nick of time. Again, a marker of my life.
It’s been a ride, and given that my parents both lived past one hundred, I’m counting on a good stretch more. But for this March day I’m glad that the township had a snowplow and a kindly old reeve, and that my dad was pretty handy with a snow shovel, and that my dear little mum was tough and courageous.
Such are our legends, the true stories of our lives, the treasures that we cherish, and the stories that make us who we are. Yours are equally precious — remember them, hold them dear, take their lessons!