***
As stated in the Introduction to
My Uncivilized Life, my family makes their home in Carcajou, Alberta. What I
failed to discuss, however, was how Rosehill got its name.
If you were to visit the County
of Northern Lights head office, you would see a land ownership map with our
family name on little green squares. That map contains no mention of Rosehill
because Rosehill is the personal name we have given our land and, to us,
that’s the only name that matters.
We bought our land virtually
sight unseen in 2005 and came up with lists of names to fit the rugged beauty
we hoped to one day call “home.” In a way, naming the land became a road game
favorite that we would play to stay awake during Daddy’s insane driving
marathons. None of the names we invented fit, none of them felt right and,
ultimately, we gave up trying to find that perfect name.
It was not until 2007, close to
two years later, when Daddy and I were moving the family effects to our land in
Carcajou that the land provided its own name.
In the North, there is a magical
time of change that creeps over the forest. When winter has passed, the
hovering expectation of new life is gone, and spring is close to its end, she
draws one last breath and the landscape becomes overwhelmed with fragrant wild
roses (actually called prickly roses) in showy shades of delicate pinks that
pop forth from the greenery. To me, they are the showiest of the early
wildflowers and signal the transition from spring to summer.
I won’t deny that I find our
provincial flower beautiful, but more than anything, I find it comforting.
Though the fine thorns are a nuisance and quite painful, the beauty of the
aromatic roses make the pain worthwhile. There is something comforting in
knowing that the seedpods will form and remain visible during the winter,
something comforting about knowing that, if ever I were stuck in the wild, at
least there would be food to eat, and, that meager meal though the fruit would
be, the rosehips are abundant throughout the region. I hope that I would be
able to get to safety before the elements or starvation took my life.
Such are my thoughts today and,
as I walked up the winding path that is now our driveway, so they were back in
2007 as I was filled with awe at the beauty surrounding me on all sides as I
walked into another world. It had been a long drive from High River and we were
both exhausted. Soon we would be moving Momma to Carcajou after her contract
with the school division terminated. As we walked along in our silent reverie,
I remember trying to count all the shades of pink that were on every side.
Everywhere I looked, I saw roses.
“Rosehill,” I whispered it more
to myself than to Daddy. As I looked around wide-eyed, that feeling of being
involved with something bigger than I am was effervescent in the gold tinged
air. The land demanded respect from this lowly human.
“What?” He looked surprised at
the sound of my voice.
“I said -- we should call this
place Rosehill.”
“I was thinking the same thing.”
We smiled at each other as a soft golden nimbus covered every contour of our
new world.
Though part of why Rosehill
entered my mind was because of all the wild roses, I would be lying if I tried
to convince you that Alberta’s emblem was behind my streaming, albeit romantic,
logic. The overgrown atmosphere reminded me of a special graveyard in Missouri
that, now overgrown, is home to the bones of my ancestors. We found the chance
to give new life, new meaning, to an old yet special name close to our family’s
heart, and, in the words of Robert Frost, “that has made all the difference” (Mountain Interval 1916).
Had we come up with a name other
than Rosehill, I think our deep connection to the land would have developed
slowly. Because we gave it a name deep with meaning for my paternal family, I
firmly believe our love of the romantic past, our love of the Boreal Forest,
and our persevering attitude to make the land habitable is what gave the
Canadian Rosehill a home in our hearts. I can only hope that our family’s “new”
Rosehill may be a living testament to the strength and resolve my ancestors
possessed as settlers and that, as my parents and I live our lives, we may pass
on what the land has taught us to those who wish to know and to those who dare
to dream.
Many years have passed since that
tired walk on the snaking path that led through the brambly, fragrant blossoms.
To this day, in the last days of spring, the wild roses inspire me and fill me
with soft thoughts and deep joy. Due to all our family and the land have gone
through together -- the laughter, the sweat, and the tears -- each bloom is speaks
out in nature’s universal language a love letter of few words, “Here is
Rosehill, you are home.”
Love,
Jenny
P.S. ~ If those of you who read My Uncivilized Life has
questions that I have not answered, or something I have written has brought a
question to mind, please feel free to ask by leaving a comment and I will
answer it if I can.
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