nest
by Bethany Lee
ill u st r ation shelagh a r m st r ong
h eadwaters
Hot Tip: June is Recreation Month! Just as the weather is heating up, towns across our region are officially celebrating Recreation Month. That means families have a chance to try out new programs in our community facilities, in our parks and on our trails. Local newspapers carry advertisements for these programs, some of which are free – a great way to keep active in June and beyond.
Sounds Fishy to Me A two-day catch-and-release fishing tournament, the Sixth Annual Friends of Island Lake Bass Fishing Tournament, is set to take place July 5 and 6. The weekend promises excitement, anticipation, surprises and, of course, patience waiting for a fish to take the bait. Plus, while you have fun with the kids, you’re contributing to a good cause – all proceeds from this fundraiser go toward trail development at Island Lake Conservation Area. Special registration rates for children ages 5 to 11. Boat rentals available. We’ve heard it’s wise to book early. www.cvcfoundation.ca/events
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IN THE HILLS Summer 2014
Scars of Honour
P
eople often assume the roughly circular scar on my forehead is from chicken pox. But they’re wrong. The scar came as a result of a fall off a bike when I was about seven years old. I was challenged to a race against my brother and two family
friends, Brent and Matt. They would be on foot, I would be on my sparkly bananaseated bike. Whoever made it from the barn down the gravel driveway to the house first could claim bragging rights for the rest of the visit. You can imagine my delight and fear as I pedalled harder and faster than ever before, gaining ground on the three boys. I’m sure I was grinning ear to ear as I took the lead… just before one of them reached out, grabbed the back of my banana seat to slow me down, and sent me into a terrific speed wobble that ended with me head first into the gravel driveway. My mother picked me up at the door – with stones stuck in my face and blood everywhere. I remember it dripping onto the wooden floor, the crimson polka dots trailing us as we headed to the bathroom to clean up. She gently picked out the stones, one by one, until they were gone, in cluding the large one that stuck in my forehead, leaving its mark behind. Thirty-plus years later, the scar has largely filled in and faded. My competitive nature, on the other hand, has not. I remind those involved that they robbed me of my banana-seated win,
that I was clearly coming in first when I was taken down! We laugh and remember the grand but creepy old farmhouse, the picnic lunch that car ried on that day despite our ruckus. My son recently asked for an inventory of my scars. How did you get that scar on your forehead, Mom? Do you have scars on your knees? Have you broken a bone before, Mom? I am lucky to say that most of the scars on my body are tiny. Each one tells a story, though. There’s the one from the time the family’s Russian wolfhound bit my face when I pulled her off the black leather couch, trying to help my mom keep the dog “Off the couch!” There is a little circular pock mark on my shin, left behind when a small lump was removed and tested. And there’s the lopsided smile of a caesarian scar on my lower ab domen. (Adrian doesn’t want to hear about that one now that he’s a preteen, as long and significant as it might be.)
