This is my mom's 36th year on Abaco. Being with someone as sharp as she and blessed with the knowledge and wisdom gained in 90 years of living is a treat. Feeling somewhat fanciful the other day Mom announced she knew Abaco had its own Brigadoon and asked me to set Friday aside to search for it.
All of this island is a somewhat magical place to her anyway. What Mom wanted to find, she explained, was the actual village from which all gentle caring was generated. Mom yearned to see very heart and soul of the island that had been her home and family for these many years. The very village from which the love she had felt deeply routed in Abaconians was sourced.
Bright and early Friday morning mom was ready to go. With my trusty yellow Rabbit diesel packed only with a day's water supply, we were on our way to explore the back roads of Abaco. Our search for the village that only existed in her dreams had begun.
Now, for those that don't know, Abaco has a lot of back roads. Most were carved from the forests back in the 50's when much of Abaco was logged and remain barely passable today. We challenged the toughness of Volkswagen's engineering crashing through paths most would consider only to be travelling by foot when suddenly, as if or perhaps by magic, the village we were seeking appeared.
Mom was not at all surprised by its existence. She knew it was there all the time needing only to be found. Her first comment was that this was Abaco's Brigadoon and we the two wanderers who stumbled upon it. A magical village, here perhaps for this day only and then to disappear until some future time, was more beautiful than one could have imagined.
The wooden shuttered houses, snuggled next to each other on small but perfectly sized lots, were close enough to feel connected yet far enough apart to afford privacy. They all appeared freshly painted and color coordinated as if on an artists canvas. During our entire visit not a single item of trash was in evidence.
We walked past the school where joyful young students were having a recess. A ten or so year old child was climbing on one of the buildings roofs. The total lack of concern by the teachers let us know this was a practice that had been going on for many years. One also sensed that the children were being closely watched yet allowed to be children at the same time.
The first person to formally great us with other than friendly waves was an elderly man pushing a wheelbarrow of brush along the sidewalk. He introduced himself as Sandy Gernsey. Mom and Mr Gernsey connected immediately talking, as if old friends, about all manner of things. Both agreed firmly that everything possible should be done to keep his village a secret from the outside world. This Brigadoon had escaped the fate of other island villages and had retained its sense of innocence. That value, they both agreed, was well worth protecting for future generations.
He then directed us to a house around the corner where Diane lived saying we would enjoy meeting her. She greeted us warmly as we approached. Again, Mother and another supposed stranger talked as if they had lived next door to each other for years. When we were about to leave they exchanged gifts. A freshly baked warm loaf of bread for mom and a copy of mother's book, Innocent Island, for Diane. They hugged deeply before we departed.
Retracing our steps out of the village we passed the neighbourhood dogs, most of whom were resting in the shade. When we first passed they had barked, tails wagging in a friendly fashion, to give notice that strangers had happened into the community. As we left, without exception, they simply wagged their tails to let us know we had been accepted.
When arriving home the only physical evidence that this Abaconian Brigadoon existed for mom and me was a partially eaten loaf of bread. Besides Diane's gift, some of which having been well digested along with treasured memories, this magical village has disappeared back into the realm of our dreams.
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