Shunpiking Memories

Our local daily, the London Free Press, began an annual event when i was in "single digit" ages.

We would get up Mother's Day morning, pile into the car -- picnic lunch, drinks and cash -- and drive to the newspaper's building.  Traffic would be backed up for blocks and we would line up.  Finally, we'd come up to a sign reading "Welcome Shunpikers!" and the volunteers who would simultaneously shout directions ("Go to the second light and turn right!") and pass into the car a mysterious envelope.

It was the annual Shunpiker Tour.

Mom would open the envelope as Dad drove.  (Sometimes we'd pull over somewhere to make sure everything was in the correct order:  It ALWAYS was.)

The directions would say quite clearly where to go, when to turn, to look for the bright, yellow cards with black arrows posted on telephone polls, reminding us of turns.

The route would begin.

"Hmm," we'd say, "We're heading east.  Haven't gone this way for years!"

The route would follow back roads, though usually paved ones.  We'd never have dreamed that we could get to some of the attractions through such arcane routes.

The first stop would be some place not too far from town but somewhere we may have heard of but hadn't been.  It could be a campground, a church, a dairy, a museum, a pump house, a historical site, a greenhouse -- almost anything.  The admission fees would be waved or sites not usually public would be opened with tours offered.  Once, a stop was a hamlet of antique stores and historical venues -- all easily accessible on foot.

Volunteers would be waiting.  We'd already have had a pamphlet from the business in our information package/envelope and know what we could expect:

"Refreshments available."  Or "Refreshment stand closed till spring but cafes close by (see map)".

"Washrooms available (accessible/non-accessible)/ask staff."  "Sales not usually conducted on Sundays but will be today." Or "No Sunday sales but samples will be given out."

"Special food deal for shunpikers!"

There was usually a "Free to the first 500 mothers".  Garden places often gave out a plant or flower.

We saw Alexander Graham Bell's Homestead, a settlement built by escaped slaves in the U.S. Civil War era, a train museum, a chocolate factory, a beautiful, Gothic church and one-room school built by Irish immigrants, ate warm, home made doughnuts, hot cider, cold lemonade and hand-scooped ice cream, stood under a waterfall and collected fossils, cut lilac branches and touched an iron lung while learning about what polio had been.

We saw stained glass and pottery being made, horses being shod, watched a real, wooden windmills sails soar into the sky then walked into the mill itself.  We looked at antiques, and bought some, but always learned things we had never known before about places in our own backyard.  Bargains abounded and free experiences wore us to a very pleasant exhaustion.

A few years ago, the paper decided to stop running the Shunpiker Mystery Tour.  The outcry was met with a sop:  The paper would not do its same, former, extended and well-researched version with the sealed mystery envelope handed out to cars.  The replacement would be a part of the Sunday newspaper and people who wished to go, would go from home.

Just before leaving the Free Press years ago (when my shift was discontinued), i had the rare privilege of proofreading the information going into those mysterious envelopes.

The amount of research and preparation done had to have been staggering:  Every detail was clearly explained and participants sworn to secrecy.  There were facts upon facts, directions upon directions (always clear!) and venues upon venues.  Just imagine planning for hundreds or thousands of guests without letting ANYONE know that you were participating.

It was a grand and glorious surprise and, probably, Mom's favourite Mother's Day gift -- after children, of course.

Settling Down

As i write this, i'm trying to get one very cute nephew to have a nap.

Writer Madeleine L'Engle once said that children are reluctant to sleep because it's a tiny bit like death. Certainly, children, for whom every experience is "present" cannot foresee even a tiny bit into the future, see the need for sleep or anything else beyond this, precise second in time.

My charge has fallen asleep because he was overwhelmed with "tired" and because the sound of the keypad became irresistibly and luxuriously lulling. His last few waking moments were spent humming a soprano, staccato human interpretation of the patter of the keys: It momentarily became more compelling than the sound of trucks and cars on his busy country road.

In North America, we lead faster and faster lives. It becomes more and more difficult for something gentle to lull us into the relaxation we need.

Instead, we seem to need jarring out of our rapid ruts: A neighbourhood house fire may catch our attention where a soft breeze cannot.

Yesterday, i received an upsetting phone call. It was needlessly jarring because the person who called, on business, was worked into a frenzy before i even spoke into my receiver: There was no chance for dialogue; it wouldn't fit into his "pattern".

i have no easy answers for how one may slow down without being tossed off the conveyor belt altogether. All i can do is dip one toe off the edge and see if, eventually, i can remain standing.