Commentary

29th of June reflections 

July 3, 2025   ·   0 Comments

By Constance Scrafield

Today is my birthday. To anyone asking about the number, comes my reply that I’ve been here “since the beginning.” People tell me I am an old soul. Happy and sad, sugar and spice, and ever appalled at how history seems only to repeat itself, proof that we do not learn from history, or we consistently ignore history in favour of making the same mistakes.

As also a writer of fiction, there was a definitive discovery that I don’t want to write about pain. Recently, a difficult situation involved a number of people and their very great unhappiness. When telling all this to a friend of mine, he said, “this is what you should write about – all this pain – people will really relate to that.” 

Even though my stories are usually written to entertain, amuse and perhaps inform, I bounced back to my friend, “no – I don’t want to write about pain.”

The force of rejection was a revelation.

A manuscript, some 120,000 words long, tells a story about a year in Africa – my own true adventure of travel. It has been faulted for its lack of pain.

“You ate every day!” was one. 

“It’s charming and well- written,” was another, the implication being, I guess, that there are not enough dangers or sadness or, well, pain. I did blow a tire in my only moment of driving, in the Congo – that was tense…

Pain is all around us. Many well-written and powerful books tell of the horrors and hate people inflict on each other. They are important; they expose those lives and condemn the perpetrators; art sends light into darkness. They are relatable.

Yet, for all its light humour and relatively safe passage, the African tale will see its place on the shelves of book stores too – I am determined about that.

It is my birthday, a good time to share a couple of reminisces.

It was Easter in Italy, mid-1980s. Patricia (my daughter), John (her father) and I had been invited by our dear Roman friends, the Palumbo family. On Good Friday, we flew from London, UK, to Rome, Italy, from where we caught a quick flight to Brindisi. Flavio Palumbo was there ready to drive us to our hosts’ home. 

The Rizzi family welcome was wholehearted. They lived in the fishing village of Porto Cesareo on the Eastern Coast and were a fishing family.

Such good humour invited us to “sit, please – be comfortable,” on that Easter Sunday, one could only feel joy. John, not particularly a big man, loved to eat, and he loved being in Italy.

The ladies of the family were cooking to the side of this room, and others were cooking in a summer kitchen just outside. In Italy, there are many courses, even with basic meals. Easter is special.

We began with octopus in a clear sauce, followed by three courses of various seafood. Pasta in a light tomato sauce was next, and baskets of bread were all along the table.

John dug in, and if either Patricia (age four) or I failed to finish our plates, he cleared them – with lots of that wonderful Italian bread. Pasta in Italy is a plate like soup – a starter. 

Finally came the main dish of lamb with beautiful vegetables. At the end of such a repast, a small green salad is normal. With each course, our plates were removed, but we were asked every time to “keep our forks.”

Even John knew he had met his match with this generosity. He sat back like a satisfied cat, but full, so full. When his last plate was cleared and he was asked again, “Keep your fork,” he issued a plaintiff, “Why?”

There was still dessert to come…

At another time: January New Year’s Eve, 1990/91: Patricia and I were newly returned to Canada, to Hockley Valley. We were living on the Mono/Adjala Townline right at the 15th Sideroad. John had come to Canada to spend Christmas and New Year with us. We had already made friends with a number of our neighbours. Ralph and Claire, just down the 15th, were a great fit with two children, a little boy, Henk and a daughter, Lisa, who was Patrica’s age.

We three found ourselves at their home for the New Year, and there was plenty to eat and drink, lots of laughs among the adults and a predictable but fun ruckus among the kids. Ralph went down their hill to build a bonfire. He called to us, but he couldn’t get it going. No worries – he fetched a can of gas and dumped it on the failing fire, and – whoosh! Up to the sky, and the fire was going. Down we all went until it was too cold, and back up to where John settled on a couch and had a little nap. He awoke just before the bells rang, Claire holding his hand. New Year’s was acclaimed, and it was time to go home, an easy walking distance on a straight road.

Like a gift, the Blue Moon for that Dec. 31 hung precisely over our house and lit our path directly. It was stunning. Everything was shadowed or lit like an artist’s drawing in charcoal.

It began to snow hard – big flakes, and they sparkled so that the whole world was wrapped in magic.

None of us could ever forget, and every New Year’s since has offered a toast to that wonder walk.

Today is my birthday: I am ambitious and in love with my lust for life.

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