The hot, hot never wavered during our whole stay. Deplaning the first afternoon, walking down the stairs to the tarmac the heat just bowled us over and scattered our senses. Sun is absolute, a monarch, a force unto itself. Three weeks is insufficient time to acclimatize to its intensity.

There are opportunities for relief though. Just after a rain there is a little bit of fresh in the air. As night rises and the bats begin their aerial pirouettes a modest discernible cooling begins that lasts until shortly after sunrise. Of course, there’s always the tried and true sea bath the only place you can exercise in this climate and not work up a sweat.

Then there’s AC - the sub-tropics dream machine. It’s a luxury in houses, one that we didn’t have. Nor did it purr chillingly in our rental car. We went cheap so had to make do with rolling down the windows. But the big stores and restaurants have it. I remember the first time we went into the Warrens Super Centre. It was like walking from an equatorial humidity factory onto an iceberg flotilla in the Strait of Belle Isle in just one, two steps. The super chill down didn’t last for much more than 30 seconds. After that it was a comfortably cooler treat.

In between beaching, kids napping and all the regular running a household, domestic bliss activities, I had some of that fine reconciliation, reflection time - giving thanks for then and now. Driving up the gap where I used to hang with guys from my adopted neighbourhood I see the younger incarnations of Iffrey, Hendy, Inee, Ibee, Sylvester aka Abdul.

Iffrey was the entrepreneur of the bunch hawking goods from a stand that is now long gone. He ran a lean machine with very little in stock, a just in time operation. He sold bananas, mangoes, limes, oranges, single Embassy and 3-5s cigarettes. Like me he didn’t live in the immediate neighbourhood. Years ago I heard that he had been apprehended for herb and incarcerated in Glendairy. I hope he is well.

With the exception of Iffrey and Abdul, the rest of us didn’t have regular type gainful employment. We were a bunch of young men bon vivants as bon as one can be without any dependable income. Most of us still lived in the family home. Iffreys’s stand at the top of the gap with access to a private little yard tucked behind 7 foot high palings was a great place to congregate, itate and discuss local, national and global goings on.

I remember the group of us would occasionally downhill it to Batt’s Rock for a swim and smoke. It was a 90 minutes return walk. Batt’s Rock was more of a locals beach accessed by a dirt road track or paths that led through the burnt out shell of a long forgotten night club. We’d return via Black Rock and the University of the West Indies. This route was a less severe uphill gradient but a slog all the same. By the time we got back we needed another dip.

Road tennis tourneys contested outside Iffrey’s stall frittered away many an afternoon. The game was played with a lot of seriousness amidst huge helpings of laughter from watchers and players. A small 8 inches high wooden net bisected the court which was chalked onto the road surface. Each player had a large plywood paddle used to volley, slam, spin, cajole a naked tennis ball into the opponent’s side of the court. It’s a cross between tennis and table tennis. I wasn’t overly adept at it - well no I was outright bad, but enjoyed playing just for the fun.

I stopped the car one afternoon outside of the mechanics shop that used to be Abdul’s workplace and asked a man if he knew the whereabouts of any of the guys. He’d only lived in the neighbourhood about 10 years but had heard of the people. None were there any more. One went to England, another to America, others had moved to different parts of the island. All gone. Thanks men for the time and friendships we shared.

I wanted to see Miss D too and thank her for the many kindnesses she showered on Makyla and I while we were under her caring eyes. I went down to her home on Deacon’s Rd. one afternoon with little miss social girl Nellie-Rose. Miss D had just turned 76 the previous day. It was so good to give her a hug and feel her arms full of love around me after all those years.

For more than 2 decades she had been the full time domestic for my former in-laws. When we arrived on the scene in 1982 she just adored Makyla and gave me a lot of help as a clueless first time househusband father. My unspoken part of the bargain was to bring a smile to her face through my actions and antics that frequently didn’t align with the niceties of the Bajan middle class ethos. Simply put, I was a bit of an embarrassment in some quarters - a long hair, rastafari lovin’, barefoot walkin’, herb smokin’, smartass little Canadian shit. My minor key exploits afforded her some good time laughter and amusement.

Miss D now owns the house that she shares with her daughter and granddaughter. The latest addition to the family is great grandson Jovani who’s about 2 months old now. We could hear him cooing away in the back room during our visit. Nellie started out on the floor that day but I soon had to pick her up as she was into everything within reach including a fan. It wasn’t long before Nellie was out of my arms and straight into Miss D’s gurgling, laughing, pulling at her glasses. Miss D’s refrain throughout the visit was, “look at her, she laughing” and “she just like her sister Makyla”.

Miss D has not had an easy life. She shared some of her heartaches and injustices that have befallen her over the years. Strong and steadfast she has an unwavering faith in the Lord. She is resolute that anyone who has wronged her will one day have to answer for their own actions not in any sense of retributive payback but more from the perspective of personal responsibility. Miss D still has a lot of friends from her youth that she sees regularly in town and at church. Her congregation worships immediately across from her house in a blue and white tent that is a permanent fixture on Deacon’s Road and the beacon that helped us to find her. We laughed a lot, hugged, told our stories and the years melted away. Miss D I hope we meet up again. Your authentic joy in life is a bright, bright light.

Farrell and I got together several times during our last week. We laughed, reminisced, swapped a few tales and commiserated with each other about the vagaries of work life as public servants. The public service is providing us both with a venue to ply our skills and the wherewithal to butter our bread. In countries with strong democratic traditions it’s all pretty much of a muchness when it comes to the public service - great opportunities surpassed only by the myriad, often internally created obstacles littering the path leading from objective to result.

Farrell is a performer, a writer of plays and poems and a great proponent of the strength of popular culture in effecting change. He spent last year in the UK studying for a Master’s degree in popular theatre. He’s recently written a play on mental health, When Hope Smiles, for the Pan-American Health Organization. Over the years he’s had an opportunity to travel extensively to writers’ festivals to give readings of poems the likes of Caribbean Man. One of his favourite venues was Medellin, Colombia. The physical beauty was stunning and there were massive crowds gathered to meet and hear the writers. People were interested and the writers were truly celebrated and valued as important cultural creators.

Farrell encouraged me to come out and see one of the National Independence Festival of Creative Arts (NIFCA) competitions. This is an annual contest that he’s been involved with for years as a voluntary judge. I thought about going to the Speightstown sessions on Saturday but the drive was a bit too far. So on our last Sunday, Noah and I made our way to Combermere School. The auditorium was crowded with about 200 in attendance. We were a little late so had to wait in the foyer until there was a break in the performances and we could slip in.

I am so happy we went. The evening was phenomenal. We saw 2 dramatic pieces, as well as 2 musical and 2 dance performances. Rickardo Reid an 8-year-old with the poise and delivery of a theatre pro delivered a 10 minute monologue that had everyone in the house rolling, reeling and laughing. His timing, comedic sensibilities and the text brought everything together in one package that shouted out absolutely fabulous. Noah was on my knees for the show. When this young boy came on and started his piece, “I gettin’ ready for the next World Cup” Noah’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. He was flabbergast incredulous that there was a boy up there owning the stage, storytelling to a large rapt crowd. As our Noah is no stranger to performing and loves a ladies and gentlemen crowd to talk to, I’m sure he wondered how he might attract this kind of attention and audience himself.

During the entr’acte we had a little snack and got some air outside. A man standing next to me struck up a conversation with Noah and I in French. Turns out he had spent his career in Canada working for the then Federal Business Development Bank. His French was excellent and it was fun to spend some time chatting. He returned home to Barbados on retirement. Many who leave the avocado isle look for a way to reach back home. Looked like things had turned out well for this gentleman.

Before leaving we got to check in with Farrell and meet a couple of his older children who had been in the under 5 set when I left Barbados. His youngest daughter was also there as she had performed that evening. Unfortunately we had missed her. It was good to see Farrell in dad mode. As the auditorium emptied Farrell and I said our goodbyes wondering if we’d get a chance to connect again. Driving home under the star punched sky Noah-David in an unsolicited moment of sweetness said to me, “thanks a lot for taking me papa, it was a lot fun”. We’ve only just begun and I’m looking forward to many more performances with Noah at my side.

As it turns out, young Rickardo did very well. Here’s what The Nation’s reporter wrote following the November 16 Gala at the Gary Sobers Complex: “But the gala spotlight was undoubtedly stolen by the youngest performer in this year’s NIFCA, Rickardo Reid. In the penultimate performance of the night, the pint-sized, giant-voiced, eight-year-old brought the house down. As they walked out of the Gymnasium, patrons were overheard repeating the refrain from Reid’s hilarious recitation; I Getting Ready Fuh De World Cup….Den.”

No time for beaching on our last day. I did get down to the University of the West Indies’ Cave Hill campus bookshop. For a lover of Caribbean and African literature that was a real treat. When I left in ‘84 I gave away the 30 or so Caribbean novels and collections of short stories to the Learning Centre where I had been teaching. Nova Scotia isn’t the best place to find a selection of Caribbean titles. That day, I snatched up The Prime Minister by Austin Clarke, a wry, raw and wistful book about homecomings and political power. I’m still looking for a copy of Growing Up Stupid Under the Union Jack a laughter infused memoir of the author’s Bajan school years. Other treasures that day included Earl Lovelace’s Salt, Roger Mais’ Brother Man and Steve Biko’s I Write What I Like. This is a book that moved and outraged me when I read it in 1980. My copy disappeared and I always felt it as a loss. The words, words that he lived, were so powerful and triumphant over the apartheid forces that could never silence him. I wanted to read his words again and pass them on to my children.

Then it was time to go, on the plane and back to autumn in Nova Scotia. The young women customs officers who had greeted us 3 weeks earlier had been very pleasant and thought that my continued connection with the former in-laws and their helping with getting us settled in was quite humorous though not something that they would ever dream of doing. Leaving was another matter with forms to be completed in triplicate and a churlish, unhappy young woman officer manning the processing booth that we lucked into. We got through and relaxed in the waiting area before boarding. We picked up some Mount Gay rum for ourselves, friends and family but it never got further than the Toronto airport - sad but true.

We no longer hear Noah chirping out, “hello Mr. Lizard” as he walks about the house, or singing a quick snatch of happy birthday to les maringouins - mosquitoes in French - a word which he injects with 2 or 3 extra syllables. I can’t slake my thirst with the velvety cool coconut water whose roadside drive-through vendors rival Nova Scotia’s Tim Hortons in numbers. I can no longer see the bob and weave of Last Dip as she rides the rolling wave crests at Worthing Beach. And the magnificent billowing crescendo clouds migrating in scattered towering flocks are no longer in view. I miss seeing the rain as it sweeps across the sky whispering wet. No more Bond Girl shots of Mélanie in sun dipping silhouette coming out of the turquoise ocean, sensual rivulets of water streaming down her natural curves. When I close my eyes I do see smiles of sand and sun, small feet splashing, hands digging and arms hugging shoulders tight in upsy down waves. I see the pounding bass minibus do a donut at the Shell station, the currant slices in their thick, sticky sweetness lined up on display ready for purchase, salt bread sliced in half waiting for flying fish, or slices of New Zealand cheese, the flashflooding water running through the canefields and into the road after heavy, heavy rain. I see Joseph the itinerant potter from the East Coast and then the one sign seen almost everywhere you turn in Barbados - ‘This way to Earthworks Pottery‘.

My heart was broken 25 years ago and I left part of it behind. My Makyla was at Sir Grantley Adams Airport to see me off her 2 little hands pushed against a clear glass window in the visitors’ section. I sobbed and cried on the way to the plane.

My heart is whole now filled to overflowing these last few months. Kyla just turned 26 and we’ll hopefully see each other over the Christmas holidays. Alexa is now out on her own - a brand new thing, 18 just back from the UK and living with friends in the city. I miss her but at least we’re only separated by a harbour. And everyday I am with my love Mélanie and our 2 small ones, Noah-David and Nellie-Rose - our compact little band of adventurers. Barbados was the last sustained time of extraordinary during our 180 days of magic. Noah wants to return and still talks about Barbados frequently - the verandah, the beaches and the sea. Thanks Barbados it was a fine place for us all to rest and be.

The magic is not over, just not able to be indulged in as frequently. Presto voilà there it was tonight. Just before going to bed, Noah-David gave a multiple reprise demonstration of walking quietly. Perspectives on quiet vary according to the listener. Though his new kind of tiptoe locomotion skill with arms akimbo is quieter than his standard gallumping it doesn’t really qualify as quiet to me. In fact because the steps he takes are smaller, the frequency of sound waves emanating out in noisiness is much greater particularly when he breaks into the quiet run. Oh and did I mention the giggling that accompanied the pitter-pattering feet?

Saturday was number one day for Nellie-Rose. She’s marking 365 days of survival with her family - extended and immediate. For this alone she deserves a medal. Then there’s the cross continent, time and climate zone gallivanting with 12 and 14 hour travel days and 20° temperature variations. Finally there is all the nonsense, discord and chaos sweeping past and through us every day. Thankfully there’s dreaming too inspired by hope that little fingers will be able to touch magic and sculpt tomorrows cradled in sound and sense.

It’s been a big week for our girl. There’s a surprise every which way we look because la petite cocotte is an inquisitive, hands on, everything in the mouth, how can I take it apart kind of gal. Add 3 portions of imp, 2 dashes of darling and a touch of tomboy and it’s not hard to imagine the merry chase that she leads us on some days.

A few days ago our lady of laughter scampered up two flights of stairs. The length of a hallway separated us from the action as the sounds of the one man cheering section made it to our ears. Noah’s chant, “go Nellie go” was a surprisingly effective motivator. La cocotte made it all the way to the top - 14 steps in all. The first volley was carpeted providing a little traction, the second leg she had to contend with some pseudo-wood that could have a small one unsure on her climbing knees just slip sliding away. So far there has been no reattempt at this Everest type escapade.

Now there is some debate about the Nellie’s first word. I’m talking here about something that goes beyond the classic ‘mama’, ‘papa’ and ‘hiya, hiya’. On the same day as the staircase adventure, Mélanie reported the utterance of ‘caca’. It seems to be in the one time occurrence category at this point. I know that I repeat it every time we do the diaper thing. It’s a bit of a game with us. I repeat “caca, pipi” numerous times with the poor child stretched out on her back captive on her changing table looking up at me. She smiles throughout so apparently it’s some kind of funny. In a moving moment of bravado I rip back the diaper tabs and pull down the diaper to reveal the gift and talk it out loud. It’s the game that’s important because regardless of the answer I give her smile pushes wide and large.

It’s been a tough week too with maman sick - let’s just call it indisposed - and not up to her usual shenanigans with the children. Nellie had some recurring problems of her own that finally required medical attention. Talk about butt rash, the poor little girl was in pain from a red, sore and blistered bum that was being kept as bad as it was or perhaps even made worse by frequent excremental activity.

The night before the doctor’s I went down to our pharmacy in search of a special compound created by the local children’s hospital. The existence of such formula had been passed on to Mélanie by a close friend. I was a little dubious but promised to ask the pharmacist. She recognized it at once and agreed to provide a small phial of buttocks paste as it’s called as long as I was seeking medical attention the next day. It was at this point that my alter ego eedjit boy - “the not too bright” - was let loose on an unsuspecting public blurting out, “so what, they have a factory in the basement of the hospital pumping out this stuff?” As it turns out, eedjit boy learned that the hospital provided all the pharmacies with the magic recipe. I’m thinking of introducing eedjjit boy’s further adventures in an upcoming blog, stay tuned…

So here is our Nell alive and well and joying up our lives for a whole year. She’s the wee babe of love at home and out in the wide world. Wherever she looks a smile grows. She is developing her own tastes and takes on the world. Shoes are a favourite. Anyone’s will do. She is not really discerning re style, size or material. As soon as she grabs one it’s right into the mouth much as it is with any miniscule mote that is within reach of her quick little fingers.

In these last 6 months we’ve truly got to know each other. The first 4 months of her life she was a card carrying member of colics anonymous and it was so hard to get through the veil of pain. Now she’s been in my arms soft and silent, eyes heavy with dream. I’ve held her tight as she wriggled and rolled seeking freedom from my grasp. The sweet sounds of her nascent singing voice playing with pitch, tone and cadence has tickled my ears as she’s shared a dance with me. Her raucous shouts have filled the house making me jump, wince, or snap out of a reverie. She is constantly on the move - a crawl, a roll, a push, a rock, a jump and now steps like those 5 unaided ones she took last week. Asleep she drifts about her bed cycling the 2 soothers that are always with her in her crib from hand to mouth, mouth to hand in an unbroken circle of comfort and security.

On the changing table she arches her back, twists and turns, pretzels herself confounding our best efforts to get some clothes back on her. When we finally are able to contain her energy and have her flat on her back, the rapid drumroll of her feet on my abdomen is the new best game that provides her with miles of smiles. In the bath she slips, slides, giggles and splashes able to withstand the cooling temperature until her fingers and toes are pruned and wrinkled. On all fours races we’ve sprinted down hallways with peals of laughter all the way to the finish line. It’s the perfect vantage point to understand why all the CDs and DVDs are strewn about the floor. They’re there, they’re accessible, let’s do it.

Now there is her new found love affair with books. She’s got lots of titles to choose from - upside down, or downside up doesn’t seem to make much difference. It’s the turning of pages, the narrating out loud and the dramatic exclamations that seem to be the thing. Her talking is constantly developing though I am hard pressed to replicate any of her multi-syllabic, tongue twisters. It is a language unto herself and her fluency is uncontested.

More and more with each day Noah is our Nell’s hero. She watches his every move - good and bad - and develops her own little riffs on his imaginative play. She is now bringing us bowls of food, racing cars and trucks across the floor with her hands and occasionally plays with dolls or buddies. Just as she looks up to Noah, she now recognizes the smaller set. She saw a little baby on the weekend and went bonkers talking and laughing up a storm trying to communicate with this new one. I’m sure she had a few tips to pass along.

It’s been a big year - a lot of oops food on the floor jettisoned over the side of the high chair in a ‘done with that’ kind of sentiment, an extended raspberry blowing fixation and an incalculable number of smiles each one a sun ray on its way to a rainbow.

Thanks Nellie-Rose.

As our Barbados days were about to set for good we came to appreciate the warmth of spontaneous kindness. It seemed to be all around us like the sun sparkle on sea - bright and shiny, quick to move about. Countless times our lives were made easier on the spot by a stranger giving of themselves.

At the Saint Patrick’s Cathedral corner in Bridgetown a driver in the next lane who saw my hesitation when the green said go asked our destination. He motioned for us to follow him and in short order he delivered us to our destination signalling good-bye with a big wave as he drove off on his own business. Bridgetown is full of one way streets and narrow alleys. There’s no predicting how long it might have take us to hit or miss our spot without this gentleman”s assistance. It was as if his offer, his gesture of kindness was second nature, a natural response to lend a hand.

Then there was Coral who left her house at 6h30 on a Sunday morning to cross the street and see who was noseying around the Grace Hill Moravian Church on Spooners Hill. Who was the man with his car parked in the church yard peering in the windows and walking about looking into the viewfinder of a digital camera before pop, pop, popping images from all angles?

She opened up the church for the congregation’s arrival later that morning and let me in to look around. Coral told me how over the last few years a very popular pre-school had been started and how money was being raised to repair a leaky roof. She remembered when the Learning Centre was a tenant years ago. This was a privately run school for children with learning disabilities. Prior to returning to Canada 25 years earlier, I taught there for 2 months.

The kids in my class of about 14 ranged in age from 9 to 12. They will all be in their 30s now. They were great kids back then eager to learn and full of fun. I was way out of my depth as a teacher. I wasn’t equipped, didn’t have the requisite education and skills and was suffering a personal crisis of confidence. I gave what I had at the time and was buoyed by the purpose and personalities of the students. For years I remembered their names but now only one or two come to my lips and a few of their faces that I see distinctly. They were sweethearts who treated their Canadian teacher much better than he deserved.

Each morning all the school’s kids gathered for commencement. They stretched in a single line from the alley that separated the principal’s office from my classroom right across the courtyard to the end limits of the property. There were the usual announcements followed by the song - Zion Train - a classic tune of hope and redemption. All down the line the children would begin to move, sway, heads help up, foot stepping, a little shiver of dance here, a smile to the sky there. That beat was imprinted on each of us as was the pride of recognizing a Caribbean hero of international stature. As day started, we were all irie.

Nellie was memory laning with me that morning but had fallen asleep in her car seat. As she started stirring, I took her out of the car to meet Coral and look with daddy inside the church. Nellie-Rose was a charmer as usual - looking, smiling with a little giggle talking thrown in for good measure. Coral thought she was “too sweet” and who was I to argue. Coral was preparing to visit another congregation that morning- a kind of inter-faith, or ecumenical exchange. Before heading back across the street to her house, she told me that for holidays later in the year she was considering a cruise in the islands. She’d been to Canada recently but wasn’t yet ready to go back and visit friends and family. Lots of Canada connections - personal and business - in many families.

That last Sunday in Barbados Nellie and I flipped over to the National Stadium before heading back for some breakfast. It was a premier site for major sporting events but is now poor cousin to Kensington Oval, with its new ultra modern, sleek spectator stands. But the old boy has kept the jewel, the August crowning of the Crop Over Monarch on Kadooment Day (check this song by Alison Hinds the first woman to win the title). Across the street there is a large pasture that was home to a few ruminating bovines that morning. I wanted to get a cow photo that could be a companion to the shot Mélanie took in the Outer Hebrides a couple of years back. Try as I might, I wasn’t able to get anything that even approached the arresting simplicity and compositional beauty of that photo.

Back at the car, a little tummy was growling and I started to feed the girl some banana standing up next to her at the open back door. More traffic was starting to move though still very light as it was a Sunday morning. Then a driver did a u-turn and drove up next to us to ask if everything was ok. I guess it was a strange place to be parked so early in the day with nothing obvious around to be attracting our attention. I thanked him and assured him we were fine, that my little baby just needed a feeding before we got back on the road.

I want to keep these gratuitous acts of kindness mindfully fresh by attempting a little spontaneous generosity myself. It means incorporating more of the sentiment and sensitivity of giving into my own life. Not sure how I’ll make out but I’ll give it a whirl….

There were a lot of uplifted people across the islands and around the globe on Tuesday night. Obama had legions of Bajan and Caribbean admirers beating the drum for his race to the presidency. There was the father I met in the water out at Worthing Beach who right off the top asked me how the economy was in Canada. He gave a good overview of the challenges for Barbados where such a significant proportion of foreign exchange comes from tourism. Economy wasn’t his only concern though, it centered on decency in the world. Americans voted for a new day dawning, a reconciliation and a moving forward. The most poignant commentary I heard on the day after went something like this - Rosa Parks sat so Martin Luther King could walk. Martin walked so Obama could run and Obama ran so our children can fly…. Obama can move the hope and help it take flight. We have the chance now for the world to become in the words of American immortal Louis Armstrong, a better, better place.

Let the flight and the better take off together.

Considering we were on vacation, our dosage of politics was quite high. There were the US Presidential debates, the leadership debates for Canada’s federal election and the daily media reports on matters political in Barbados and the region.

I watched the second Obama - McCain face-off out of the corner of my eyes from my former mother-in-law’s dining room table. Twenty-five years after her daughter and I parted ways I still call her Mommy though on this visit I sprinkled in a few Sheilas too. It was our third and, as it turned out, final match up at Scrabble. It was a celebratory night as Mommy had just received a clean bill of health earlier that day following treatment for a serious illness. Her family and friends were happy and relieved. Sheila was already planning her next trip to Canada to see her daughter on stage and catch up with some of her grandchildren studying at the University of Toronto.

I didn’t even put up as good a showing against Mommy as McCain did against Obama. Even saddled with more than her fair share of vowels there was little doubt of the outcome. I went down to my third consecutive defeat by an ass-whupping 392 to 292. Mommy’s an avid player well schooled in the exotica of tiny words and gifted at getting all 7 letters out on the board and collecting the 50 bonus points associated with this feat. I took some solace in the fact that I wasn’t alone in the losing end. Mommy was on a winning streak taking all comers. If we have the opportunity to play again, I’ll need to be on a strict training regimen to limber up my scrabble decoder.

Sheila’s sister Nella, on a prolonged visit from England, was hugged in close to the TV gesticulating, commenting, present in the moment encouraging her choice to lead the American people. Tonight millions are ready to revel in America and around the world but the festivities may be sweetest of all in the communities and countries of the black diaspora. The reverberations of an Obama victory will reach into the most unlikely places, tickle imaginations, fuel dreams and sadly bring out the nutbars who will rail against black man in white house. It’s a great day for democracy as witnessed by massive voter turnouts in some parts of the US.

We made a trip down to Mommy’s at least once a week during our stay - lunch, scrabble, dropping off Noah and Nellie for our 1 day of kidless wanderlust. Noah-David was fascinated by the Rhodesian Ridgebacks being raised as guard dogs. Nella got a scare trying to pull 2 of the fighting dogs apart one night and received some pretty serious abrasions to her back for her troubles.

One Friday at ten in the morning we dropped the sproglets at Mommy’s to be cared for by Colleen her part-time domestic. She’d already been up at our place the previous week helping us with some cooking - spicing up a dozen flying fish and doing a nice chicken curry. Noah liked her right off - not surprising as she had a son who is just a little older. Colleen immigrated from Guyana with her mother. Now all her siblings have made their way to Barbados and the family is reunited.

No matter how much I hummed Bob’s Sun is Shining into myself we had to settle for rain a falling and weather is shite. Our big day was literally a bit of a pisser. We spent the time in Bridgetown poking our heads about here and there all along Broad Street and Swan Street, across the bridge to Bay Street past Independence Square and cross back by another bridge to Queen Elizabeth Park. We got a break from the heat in the Cave Shepherd department store and spent a few pennies on gifts.

Before we started to head for the children, we walked over to the west side of the city by Temple Yard - a kind of open air Rastafari mini-mall with food, crafts and art. Herb was hanging in the air but there wasn’t much movement, or activity. The weather was keeping most of the vendors away. We did get a stick of sugar cane though and some delicious guavas. We pushed on past the Cheapside bus depot and took the roundabout way to Pelican Village home of artists and artisans. Here we found out about a culinary event taking place there the next evening - The Best Big Bajan Barbecue.

Noah-David had been having a good boo-hoo during our absence and had been inconsolable for part of his stay with Colleen, Sheila and Nella. We bundled the 2 little ones up and trundled off to Bagatelle for supper.

We made it to the BBQ the next evening and did some controlled gorging on fish cakes, somozas (small bite size versions) currant slices, pone and BICO ice cream. The food was great and there was a cook off with students from around the Eastern Caribbean. We were standing beside them before their competition got underway and the young women fell in love with Nellie-Rose. She was passed back and forth and all around smiling and cooing all the while. As they prepared for their competition we followed the sound of tunes to a Bumbatuk band that was warming up. Noah needed no encouragement - this was his signal to dance, dance, dance - a little bit of wind the waist. He had the beat nailed and a couple of the girls in the band were having a fine time watching him groove. Stilt men finished off the excitement for our little lad craning his neck back, back to see how far up these tall, tall men stretch.

Always a lot to do, see and experience but never enough time. That evening we left as the crowds started to pack the Princess Alice Highway. There was a stage for live music, plenty more food available for tasting and the makings of a fine night but our little ones were at the limit, or maybe just beyond. They needed their bed after an eventful social outing.

In our last week, Dover Beach took the prize as the runaway favourite swimming and sunning spot. Beachside parking available for early arrivals, good mix of locals and tourists, shade, shade, shade, sandy bottom, easy rolling waves with occasional crashers, water depth increasing gradually over 200 - 300 metres and a small convenience store just a short barefoot walk away.

Last Sunday was my fourth visit in as many days. Flip off the highway at the Errol Barrow roundabout, down to the next circle of madness, take the second exit and follow the road until you see the beach public access point on the right. The umbrella and beach chair concession is right there at the entry though a towel and shade from the mature trees just in front of the condo construction site suited us well.

Noah has had a blast at Dover each visit. He’s got the merriment and amusement trinity at his fingertips. There’s the contractor, big, big job work that’s a sure thing. Dump truck, digger, big stainless steel spoon, an empty plastic ice cream container filled with the magic ingredient water are all that’s required for unlimited barrels of fun and major public works projects.

Bobbing in the wet salt salt in maman’s, or papa’s arms almost oblivious now to accidental splashes by rogue waves, Noah is sprouting mile wide seaside smiles framed by soaked curling ringlets. BB (Before Barbados) this cavorting, this comfort in the deep blue sea approaching insouciance would have been incredulous. Now our young dude is getting prepped for swimming classes - learning respect for and survival in the water. It’s a whole new game in waterworld.

Rounding out the trio is ‘kicky ball’ more and more often being called by it’s North American name - soccer, sounding like saw-ker as per Noah’s personal inflection. Dover is wide and long enough that we can kick the ball about running back and forth without bothering other subtropic worshippers or worrying that the ball will end up in the big coral drink. We race, pass, deke, feint, sweat and laugh. Every match we’re in the league of champions.

Those last few days, we were arriving beachside in the 8h00 to 9h30 window. Nellie girl usually fell asleep on the way and continued to nap on a towel after we’d planted ourselves. Not surprising as she was getting up while the nocturnal animals still had a couple of hours left to put in on their shifts. Her every morning early o’clock between 04h00 and 05h00 was the big hand that swept us to bed usually not much later than 21h00 though we stretched it out on a couple of rare nights to 23h00. I guess we were just drop dead wild and crazy in the Caribbean….

Nellie-Rose was a natural in the water floating with the best of them. She likes the wave action, enjoys getting pulled around or supported under her tummy, or being held tightly next to our chests. The water does not dampen her conversational ability and she’s always game to play games with others. Nellie and Silma developed a friendship over talk and a waterlogged leaf that Silma gave the young Nell to play with. There was a lot of smiling, cooing and giggling over 15 to 20 minutes and all the while Nellie held onto that leaf. Silma has a daughter and 3 grans in Vancouver and loves to see them when they visit but has no real interest in travelling to Canada as her comfort, friends and home are firmly in Barbados.

Nellie plopped sitting in the sand unencumbered by adult fussing, or with a popsicle in her mouth, is Nellie in heaven. Following each beach outing she was in need of a serious rinse when we arrived home to wash away all the fine grains from every skin fold and crevice where they could possibly hide. After three weeks, she had not learned the etiquette around peeing at the beach. Then again, maybe we had not been successful in relaying it to her. I just remember that 2 days running, shortly after having brought her out of the water I felt the telltale trickle that grew into a warm and steady flow running down my torso as I held our saucy little pup in my arms. A quick dip and rinse in the sea and we were both pretty much pee free.

We met another couple from England with a toddler on one of our Dover excursions. They were also staying in a family home far from the coastlines (in Barbados that means measuring the kilometres in single digits). Danny is a trumpeter who plays in the West End production of Wicked. His wife Louise had a few suggestions of kid friendly places to eat out. Our culinary adventures were taken care of by Chefette, Curry King across from Palm Plaza in Wildey, St. Michael, cheese cutters from rum shops and a ginormous feed of battered and spiced Bajan flying fish - a delectable treat tucked into a salt bread bun. Louise has recorded a number of songs and is working on a release strategy. Her sister is also a singer and is down in Barbados this week performing. Her brother is a guest conductor with orchestras around the world.

Both Mélanie and I enjoyed their company as brief as it was. I was hoping we would meet them and their daughter Alicia before we left but it wasn’t to be. Danny and I compared notes a little and we were all suffering from the sandflies and the it’s so hot it’s silly heat. We agreed though that there was no substitute to living in an actual home with everything that implies - room for the kids to play, privacy, access to food and cooking at all hours, a place to invite people to, a space that is more of a home than a hotel type venue.

My last visit on Sunday was solo. I quaffed a Banks beer after plunge 1 and walked from the piazza skirting the washed red umbrella hamlet interspersed with the deep red of new to the sun parasols all with fringes dancing in the wind. The young boy, 7 or 8, was there with his boogie board looking for a wave to hop and ride. I didn’t see his father so I kept him in view out of the corner of my eye. On my back and weightless I saw a whorl of clouds parading across the late morning sky, highstacked, soft sculpted towers and formless swirls of misty white. The peaceful float was sweet but I missed the sproglets and Mélanie. I didn’t know it at the time but it was the last trip to the beach. The talked about Monday sortie didn’t happen and really it would have been miraculous to take a last plunge and make AC flight 967.

It would have been nice to loll and laze on Dover’s white sands a couple of weeks earlier. The beach had been on our radar screen from day one. We bumped into a few English blokes over at Folkestone on our first day who told us there were a few turtle nests cordoned off at Dover. We headed that way later in the week but got lost at the roundabout after the ABC Highway Errol Barrow roundabout and ended up at Worthing Beach. Worthing was worthwhile but we should have persevered in our quest for Dover.

In winter’s cold dark I’ll think back to days of lazing laughter with Noah and Nellie locked in my and Mé’s arms as we rolled and swayed warm and carefree in Dover’s caressing waters. Then I’ll hit play to see if I can swing back to beauty, heat and Bajan beat.

With the exception of the underwater world, and it’s facing its own challenges, wild Barbados is just about gone. A centuries long monoculture, small land mass, growing population and a very high intake of tourists all place a signficant strain on the island’s ecosystems.

Barbados’ fringing reefs are bubbling with life. Glass bottom boats are a sure way to get a close up look at some of the common fishes and the various types of coral. We boarded at Folkestone Park just north of Holetown on the west coast. We skirted the shore motoring south and passed over an intentionally sunken wreck en route. Our guide cut the engine at Payne’s Bay no more than 200 metres from the beach. Three catamarans had already dropped anchor.

The ‘cruise directors’ from all 4 vessels were throwing small fish into the greening blue to attract sea turtles. Within a couple of minutes they were rising in the water column to take the free food. According to our guide they got fed 20 to 30 times a day. It was a thrill to see them swim below and beside me - almost close enough to touch on a couple of occasions. It would have been even more breath taking if I had a prescription mask or goggles. I was in the water for about 15 minutes and could easily have enjoyed another 20 but without a prescription mask, my underwater vision was somewhat impaired. Even more important, Mélanie was in the boat with the 2 sproglets and although they were very well behaved, Mé rightly requested me to haul my butt out of the water and over the side to get on with some of my parenting duties. Further adventures with Jacques Cousteau would have to wait.

A conservation program is in full swing for the Hawksbill Turtle in Barbados. Both Hawksbill and Green turtles continue to nest on the south and west coasts of the island. I do wonder though what impact an almost continuous presence of human interlopers has on their behaviour as we insert ourselves into their environment. To the untrained eye those turtles we saw flying through the water with the greatest of ease off of Payne’s Bay looked like they were holding their own. I hope the conservation work is successful.

We stopped at the wreck on our way back and got out for another swim. Down below were beautiful brain, mushroom and fingers corals and lots of fish. Throwing food over the side made a rolling shimmer of shiny bubble to the surface wherever the pieces of bread hit the water. The sergeant majors and jakes racing to reach the food were a spectacular sight.

But all is not rosy in the world of Bajan reefs as reported last week in The Nation, one of the island’s two dailies. On a positive note, the intrinsic value of the reefs are generally well recognized, a critical advantage in the conservation efforts that are underway to ensure their health as a natural and economic legacy for future generations.

On the land side there’s a relatively new project that is preserving the last mangrove habitat in Barbados, the Graeme Hall Nature Sanctuary (video). This 35 acre reserve located opposite Worthing Beach on the island’s south coast is a great family trip. In a postage stamp pocket of nature there are a variety of bird species, both wild and in aviaries, green monkeys, mongoose, tarpons and let’s not forget the insects.

When we told Noah-David there would be flamingos he started to do his one-legged balancing act - an impersonation in honour of his pinkified buddies whom he had last seen at the San Diego Zoo. The sanctuary is well laid out for the little ones. The red brick path is very wide and easy for children to follow. Noah did much racing back and forth on the path interspersed with looking in the waterways, appreciating the ibises, the parrots and spoonbills and straining his eyes in search of green monkeys (we weren’t fortunate enough to see any). This is an excellent natural attraction that provides residents and visitors with an opportunity to learn about a fragile and threatened ecosystem. If we lived here this place would be on our recurring visit schedule. Just prior to leaving, we fed the tarpons - giant silver fish in rest mode under a bridge until the food pellets hit the water. Then they sauntered out their 3 to 5 foot long bodies moving effortlessly with the swish of a tail. We watched as they skimmed just below the surface until every last pellet of food was gone.

Tip - if you visit, the Sanctuary is a great place to park your car under the shade and proceed to Worthing Beach which is just across the street.

Outside there is nature, people, commerce, rocketing roads, the sea, sand and hot, hot sun. Inside there is heat, lizards, itinerant birds, sticky sleep with trickling sweat, skeeters, sandflies and TV. TV is our distraction when the sun dips down and when dawn cracks its redding light. Where we’re staying there is a satellite system installed that pulls in the Caribbean and South American affiliates of American networks and specialty channels such as Discovery Kids.

There are some familiar Canadian programs such as The BackYardigans, Daniel Cook, Emily Yeung and Lunar Jim. There are others that I’ve never seen before that I wish we could get at home - Lazy Town, Jakers - The Adventures of Piggy Winkles, Mister Maker and Pinky Dinky Doo.

The station has a cute little mascot Doki, a mostly white animated puppy with a black ring around one eye. He serves as the bridge between programming and advertising. His 2 favourite utterances are ya regressa and continuamos. The first, “right back” is one of Noah’s favourite English expressions although with him it’s linked to his movements and whereabouts and not television programming. Commercials for programming on the station are in Spanish as are the station IDs and all advertising. The programs themselves run in English. We haven’t been able to sort out the rhyme and reason for this language approach but it’s been an amusing opportunity to test my retention of university Spanish nearly 30 years later. On the note of advertising, I’m very pleased that Treehouse TV back home is a commercial-free zone.

A sad last note on TV tribulations. We’ve been Barney bopped. In Nova Scotia, Barney and Friends is interdit. In Barbados it has slipped by because it first appears on air at 6h00. It’s really the only quiet thing we can engage them in at this time of day to manage their exuberance so that it falls within the no peels or squeals of laughter zone, or wailing of tears, or gnashing of teeth. We don’t want to wake the neighbours

Barbados treating us sweet. More later when I find time to write.

The morning chorale of cock crows caroms from yard to yard - an avian call and answer as neighbourhood roosters puff up and let loose. They’re at it from 3h00 with brief sign offs filled by crickets, operatic frogs and yabbering, yapping guard dogs owned by just about every household. The cocks of the walk pick up momentum until just before dawn. As the red sun readies to creep over the horizon, it’s easy to distinguish 5 or 6 different voices cranked up in a flurry of self expression. It’s a sound we don’t hear in urban Canada.

There is much different to sound and sense here - the deep reds of bouganvillea, the star white blossoms of the breadfruit tree, the myriad shades of green to luxuriate in, the buoyant salt sea with steady dreaming breakers, the heavy elixir smell of humidity. Every day there is the bite of a nearly equatorial sun, the cooing of mourning doves, the bass beat boom throbbing from mini-buses and lizards skittering across walls in all directions.

Lots of marvel eyed wonder from Noah-David. He is particularly enamoured of the lizards. “Mr. Lizard what are you doing?”, he calls out to the green mini-dragons. He enjoys seeing the yellow throat sacks inflate as they pause to take in their surroundings. The water has been a real hit with him too. He shows no reservation, no reluctance to get in and get wet and will bob and float with us for 15 to 20 minutes at a time. The water skittishness seems to have been skittled by the greening blue shallows of the Caribbean Sea, the warm air and the hot, hot sun.

Nellie is the Queen of the Warrens SuperCentre. We’ve been shopping here 4 or 5 times and without exception Nellie-Rose makes friends with fellow shoppers and staff alike. It’s her whole face is a smile, hiya look that gets strangers pulled right in and engaged with our little imp. She talks up a storm in her own dialect amidst giggles and oh so cute facial expressions. She likes the water, isn’t ga-ga about it but usually will give an abbreviated squeal of delight before she heads back to the sand where there is potential for unsupervised mischief to get into.

This first week we’ve been on the beach-a-day plan and have floated, soaked and submerged on the west, south and east coasts. Getting there is a fair sized production. With prepping the sproglets (a basic marinade in the highest SPF sunscreen available and a serious dousing with insect repellent), travel back and forth to the deep blue sea (which invariably includes a “we’re lost” component) and the actual baptism, immersion into the mystically cleansing and refreshing waters, we’ve been out and about for 2 to 3 hours.

Each beach has its own distinguishing characteristics. I’d return to all of the ones we’ve visited to date: Folkestone, Batt’s Rock, St. Lawrence Bay, Bathsheba and Mullins. Some are sandier than others, or have a gentler gradient leading to deeper water. Some have crashing breakers while others have a barely noticeable swell. Some have plenty of shade, at others a big beach umbrella is de rigueur. All have a breath of breeze en route from South America, Central America or Africa. Some have winds that blow and froth and chop and undercurrents that can quickly drag a person to an unhappy end. Those waters are for extreme enthusiasts or fools. I crave the security of safety for our 2 little ones - simple pleasures in soft, calm waters sporting the occasional splashy breaker.

“Attache-toi papa“, buckle up is Noah’s mantra as soon as we get into H1096. It’s an unloaded compact - automatic transmission, manual everything else. Haven’t checked the make as yet but it’s running fine having proven itself climbing the summits of the east coast hills and providing us a safe return to St. Thomas. All tourist rental cars bear the mark of the “H”. This is a designation that’s as readily recognized by good samaritans as those whose interest in the tourist driver might run more toward prey. Our experience to date with strangers has wavered between positive and neutral. No nasties and that’s how we hope it will remain.

Back to driving and the buckle up admonition. It took me 4 days before I would drive at night and then only along a familiar route. The non-highway roads are narrow, twisty-turny, watch out what’s coming at you type thoroughfares. In addition to the buses, motorcycles, minivans and regular old cars bearing down there are also the pedestrians and ditches at the side of the road to preoccupy a driver’s mind. Driving on the left fully consumed my grey cells for the first few days. It was characterized not by near misses but by constantly ripping the wiper rubber across the dry window because it was on the left hand side of the steering column where I usually find my direction indicators. Driving is an adventure that requires constant vigilance and if you’re not careful can send you around the bend especially if you’re not paying strict attention to the approaches to and traffic flow on the roundabouts.

Over 70% of the roads are not named on maps. They look to be accurately represented in relation to their position and scale but sadly the all important identifier is in most cases not there. This does not augur well when lost because it is very difficult to precisely pinpoint where you’re located with the general result that the lost lasts a little longer. Although not as abysmal as the map situation, road signage is not always brillant. For example on the way back to Bridgetown from Bathsheba, the main road comes to a “T” junction with no indication of what lies in either direction. On that particular one we made the wrong choice and had to backtrack. With all its vagaries driving can be a quixotic pursuit where the road not taken could in fact be the one you are desperately looking for to arrive at your destination.

By end of day, or earlier, we like to be back at Bagatelle. As the sky falls, the sinking sun pinks and roses migrating clouds, light scrapers reflecting the day for just a few moments longer. As the dark fills the dying day a helter-skelter squadron of bats displays its aerial magic. Each individual flight path undulates to a constantly shifting take out counter with only one item on the menu - insects. Three cheers for the bats and any other natural enemies that take a bite out of the 6-legged population.

The bugs have proven to be quite formidable - skeeters, sand flies and gnats would fare better in hell than they would leaving their fate in our hands. Mélanie gets an allergic reaction to the bites - a more significant swelling than what most individuals would experience. With all our chemical repellents, there is still a need for stalking and I’m proud to say that Mé has become The Terminator - tracking down biting bugs for the final kill. The kids are not bothered by the bugs at all, a fortunate turn of events for them and us.

Plenty of discoveries and rememberings still to come from the outlier island, a coral beacon at 13° 10′ North and 59° 32′ West.

The Smith Cordeau family has packed up and headed south. We were feeling just a touch jilted by the summer that never was. We’re not really complaining though because we played in some Pacific coast sun in May and are now feeling the heat under Caribbean skies.

This illustration pretty accurately captures our mood, excitement and joie de vivre. The family portrait in water-based marker was rendered by 6-year-old artist Passy Vinet earlier this summer while visiting her family in Ville Mercier. Passy’s dad Jean and I met 30 years ago as participants on a Canada World Youth exchange with Sénégal. On the afternoon of the portrait, Passy canvassed each of us about our favourite colours. She didn’t tell us what she was cooking up. An hour or so later with a flourish and a smile, she presented us with this beautiful piece of art. It’s a gift that we’ll treasure forever. We don’t have Passy’s wonderful fashion flair but if we did these are the colours we’d be wearing.

Monday morning we dragged our butts out of bed at 3h00 for a 3h45 departure to Robert L. Stanfield Airport. Noah-David had been counting the sleeps for a week so he was pretty psyched to roll out of the sack and get bundled and buckled into his car seat. Nellie-Rose on the other hand had no idea what was about to unfold. She’d already done the long distance deal to San Diego in May so we were pretty sure she would be up to it. There is only a 1 hour time difference between Nova Scotia and Barbados which makes body and sleep adjustments much easier.

After circling the periphery of the airport parking area twice thanks to construction, bad signage and a broken ticket dispensing machine, I made my way to the only other available parking that requires a shuttle ride to get back to the terminal. It’s now about 4h30 and Mélanie is waiting for me with the kids and 9 or so assorted pieces of luggage. She’s looking forward to my quick reappearance and I’m out dipsy-doodling trying to find a spot to park our chariot for the next 3 weeks. I asked the driver of the shuttle how long it would be before he pushed off. He thought it might be 5 to 10 minutes before he filled it up. I told him my situation - wife with 2 kids under 3 waiting with luggage a go-go. He radioed in his dispatcher and let him know that he was leaving right away. Nice gentleman - thanks again.

Overjoyed might be a bit of an exaggeration but Mélanie was glad to see me approaching. At this time there were very few people checking in which was fortunate because it resulted in us getting some personalized and very helpful assistance. As the boarding card dispenser couldn’t read my chip card (a yet to be perfected technology these chips) one of the agents took us directly to her station allowing us to get past that glitch. This individual was absolutely superb - empathetic, sympathetic, a customer service dream. She took us under her wing and dispatched us with the minimum of fuss all the while engaging in small talk with Nellie and Noah and larger talk with us. Her and I are the same age which she picked up from my passport and she too had started a family later in life. Her parting words to me were, “you look after yourself for those babies.” Her bagging, tagging, lifting, checking and printing took about 20 minutes and was all with a smile, all in a day’s work. With 2 little ones hanging off us and a serious insufficiency of sleep this agent was manna from heaven. Thanks…

We spent 7 hours on planes that day and the 2 sproglets were better than best. They got the sleep that they needed and managed to live within the space confines of economy seats. With Nellie-Rose always on one of our laps it was tight by times. She was Miss Social Butterfly giggling, cooing and making eyes with everyone around her. Her funful gregariousness was like a repeat command performance that Noah had made a couple of years earlier on a flight to Scotland en route to an adventure to the Outer Hebrides. When we landed at Sir Grantley Adams International Airport, Noah-David broke out into a spontaneous Barbados song that had everyone on board smiling.

The moment that we stepped out the rear door of the plane and started down the stairs to the tarmac, we knew without a doubt that summer had made it this far. There was a humid wall of heat that we shimmered through as we made our way to the zig-zag processing line. We still had to get through Customs, get the car hire and make our way to my former mother-in-law’s house.

More on that in our next post.

For now, we’re safe, hot and happy in Barbados. Sunrise at 6h00 and sundown at 6h30 providing plenty of opportunity for all of us to discover new places and for me to reacquaint myself with old haunts.

Well we didn’t do 2 consecutive days with dad and kidlets home alone. I think we were very wise to slip in a buffer Wednesday. This gave the Noah and Nellie a chance to enjoy maman’s softer, nurturing side. As an added bonus the kids were able to recover from our solo day before being exposed to another one.

We’ve got some synchronized sleeping of the nap variety just underway. This is beginner’s luck of olympian proportions. I don’t know what I did to deserve this 30 - 45 minute kid-free break. It’s most unexpected particularly after the inaugural experience 2 days ago where it seemed they were both on some kind of sleep deprivation kick, perhaps just a bit wary of closing their eyes in maman’s absence.

Immediately preceding the synchro napping, the judges scored Nellie very highly in the you can’t make me eat event. Her double back arching twist refusal fakeout, only to devour the entire spoonful a millisecond later, was de toute beauté as one of the Québecois judges remarked.

Just before getting back to the house for some lunch, Noah was inspired to perform what I like to call his bilingual freestyle nugget croquette song and dance. Surely another hopeful for official event status in years to come. Other events the IOC could consider for subsequent olympics - mixed doubles diaper changing using environmentally friendly cloth diapers, 300 metre trike endurance race and the sexiest one of them all, the 10 metre crawl to crown the planet’s fastest baby bolt.

I’ve been doing more disciplining in the last couple of days. This has been exclusively in relation to Noah-David and has centred primarily around meal times and how he tends at least a few times a day to get in Nellie-Rose’s face. Disciplining is not a foreign concept for me but I’ve certainly got to brush up on it. Our standard approach now is to put Noah in his bed for any transgressions of behaviour and let him know why we’re doing it. It’s hard though on days when he is sequestered on multiple occasions as I did to him 2 days back. My patience isn’t what it used to be when my 2 older girls were toddlers. I’ll be looking to increase the patience factor as well discover innovative solutions to those difficulties that are like rites of passage for children growing up.

Today’s “home alone” has been a much better experience for everyone. As day was breaking, Noah and I had a run through his electronic, adobe flash ABCs. This is an excellent resource from Starfall. we’ve run through it hundreds of times over the last 2 years and Noah continues to learn and get enjoyment from it.

We also checked out a couple of playgrounds and a huge deep sea oil derrick after dropping maman at the new house. The Caldwell Road playground wasn’t very exciting. Back on the Halifax side of the harbour we flipped over to the Northwest Arm and hit the playground at The Dingle. Great spot, right on the water, lots of shade, picnic tables and good equipment for the kids. I took some photos to add to the Playground Chronicles - a project - that will document and map playgrounds in Halifax-Dartmouth. I hope to be able to launch the map, a blog and website within the next few weeks.

Well, the synchro sleep isn’t going to last forever. It’s now clocking in at 46 minutes. There is a possibility that we will see personal bests getting smashed here today. It may turn out to be a nap that goes down in history. I’ve got to run and grab a shower while I can.

We’ll have at least 1 adventure this afternoon - going to pick up maman and flashing up the ozone generator in the new house. We’ll try for another adventure of some sort before we hit the road for Eastern Passage.

Postscript - sleepus interruptus at 49 minutes, no personal bests today. Shower on hold as little Nellie was nestled in my arms. That’s certainly no hardship there. Hopefully I won’t get the boot from bed for smelling too manly………..

We are just short, a smidge shy of madness - long days, abbreviated nights, legalese, realtese. For days on end we’ve been stuffing years of accumulated possessions in boxes for transmigration, or in plastic bags for friendly curbside pick up with final destination incineration, or the landfill. We’re cleaning out this old house and nothing will be left behind.

To spruce up the new place and make it home, we’re affixing our personal stamp. We’ve splashed fresh inviting colours throughout and there will be new flooring in 85% of the house. It’s all taking time, coordination and some uphill slogging on the learning curve. This is one of these situations where the the getting there, the journey itself, is exhausting and probably best contemplated from the comfort of the new home weeks after the contractors have beautified the premises. It’s this final destination that I’m pining for, the big pay off. But let’s be realistic there’s miles to go before we sleep those easy dreams of contentment characterized by clear dawns of new beginnings and blurry memories of the actual move.

Noah has noticed the difference in activity. As he has been out to the new house on several occasions now, he can probably attribute the change in atmosphere and decrease in parent focus time to our preparations for the home-in-waiting. Each visit we make he is very excited to spend time in all the rooms yelling out to us to join him in his, his maman’s or Nellie’s bedroom. His preferred escapades on these occasions are exuberant jumping lifting him a full 2 1/2 inches off the floor and supersonic circular running to the accompaniment of merrily riotous laughter.

Just beyond riotous laughter on the excitable spectrum are incandescent tears and Noah has let loose some real torrents in the last couple of days. Monday was particularly rough. The first home alone day - all day - with Dad certainly had growth potential in the free and easy fun department. The morning was great but come lunch time we were on a runaway bobsled hurtling downhill. It was a cryfest bedroom sojourn for not eating lunch before nap, a full blown waterworks for nap time, back to the bedroom for refusing to eat lunch after nap and then a final for good measure bedroom exile for not sharing toys with his little sister. This was way too high a quotient of tears, sad faces and anger inflected voices for me to take. We were both relieved when maman came through the door from her hard work, home alone and isolated day at the new place.

There will be more home alone days in the coming week and I hope to be better prepared. I’ll be maman’s chauffeur so I can keep the car and get around on adventures. For Noah-David, adventures are divisible in the following categories - parks, playgrounds, the museum, the Discovery Centre, a ferry crossing, the waterfront. All are accessible by public transit, or by foot, but a vehicle just makes getting there so much quicker and increases the on site ‘adventure’ time.

The sproglets were brilliant today. Noah burned off some of his boundless energy on a mid-morning adventure at The Discovery Centre. He played endlessly in his two favourite areas - a BRIO Thomas the Tank table and an indoor sandbox with bulldozers, dump trucks and such. He also had time to continue his climbing exploits - up, over and through windows on the big wooden truck. And as we left, our little rascal was wiggling his butt in the funhouse mirrors.

In the afternoon Nellie and paparoo were the dynamic duo out on a crosstown string of errands. Nellie-Rose was an absolute angel - 5 different stops in 1 1/2 hours, in and out of car seats and shopping buggies and waiting patiently until papa was helped at each of the locations. Not only was Nellie well behaved, she brought smiles to, and played the coquette with, everyone who crossed her path. They say the Gaels proffer 100,000 welcomes and you my Nellie love who have yet to orbit the sun have already sown 100,000 smiles and more and each one you flash my way makes a heartbeat moment that lives forever.

The relatively newly minted high school graduate received her UK WWOOF catalogue today along with the most recent issue of WWOOF UK NEWS running a front page story entitled “Poo Power” reproduced here for your reading pleasure. This new information will assist Alexa in mapping out her 4-month trip and choosing the organic farms where she wants to work. With departure day in early September it’s all very immediate and very happening. I’m happy for Alexa for this first long solo adventure but like all parents of the just leaving home set I’m a little apprehensive.

Big changes and new developments for all of us - we’ve got our tickets to ride, ride, ride and it’s all fine.