So a couple of weeks ago I was having a bit of a bad day (okay, that's an understatement, but let's not relive the details), but luckily the meeting that really sealed my mood occurred just before I was to meet my friend Genevieve, who was visiting having time off from her job in Antarctica (no joke, this is one cool lady, in more ways than one). "Let's go out," I said, and so we first ventured to what was once the landmark restaurant known as La Cave in downtown Halifax, world famous for the best cheesecake in the universe. Over creme brulee and gingerbread with not-so-furtive glances exchanged at our fine waiter from time to time, Genevieve helped ease my mind over my mundane troubles. And I was further inspired to embark on another adventure. But let me first set the scene...
Back in my youth, more than 20 years ago, some older friends of mine initiated me into the tradition of scaling the fence of the Public Gardens and entering the night-time world of the park after dark, for the gates are locked at dusk. A lovely manicured Victorian park by day, by night the gardens become a whole other world. A place for lovers, a way to escape the bar culture, peace and quiet, and a place to get into a different kind of trouble. In the mid to late 1980s I would carry this large bag I had made, big enough to carry a bottle of wine and a ouija board in, always at the ready for a midnight adventure. I still have an old ouija board somewhere with a broken corner - the bag got snagged on the fence during one nocturnal raid.
Across the street from the Public Gardens is a large graveyard, which used to be open all the time, until someone was murdered in there in the 1990s. Both Genevieve and I had lived in houses near the graveyard, and we had both used it as a shortcut home on numerous occasions, before the locking of the gates began. As it seemed a more attainable goal (less traffic, more trees to hide behind), we eased ourselves under the gates of the graveyard, and dashed inside. It was a very foggy night, making the cemetary beautifully eery. We found ourselves under a huge concealing tree, which Genevieve eyed with a view to climb, but we just weren't wearing the right shoes, reminiscing about the old days of Halifax, and other tales from our travels over the years. The jaunt into the cemetary was sufficiently emboldening for us to reassess our true goal: the Public Gardens. So we rolled back out under the graveyard gate, no one having noticed our traipsing and trespassing, crossed the street, and proceeded to case the joint. We searched for a good place to go under rather than over behind the cover of two parked tour buses, but no auspicious opening was to be seen. It was while Genevieve was admonishing the ducks for discarding an empty beer bottle she picked up on the grass that the cop car pulled over. And the crazy redhead calls out to assure the cop we hadn't been drinking (which we hadn't), but luckily he had taken no notice of us anyhow. Still, it wasn't exactly the right moment to hop over the fence while the policeman was inspecting the grounds across the street with a flashlight, so we did a loop around the park. On our second pass, the police car had gone. It was do or die. Genevieve had staked her spot, while I looked on not at all convinced we would fit underneath the wrought iron grate at all. But in a flash, she was through - there was nothing for it, so under I went, and there we were, like spies in the night, ducking behind the nearest tree in fits of giggles, and streaking across the open grass to a denser copse of trees further away from the street. And it was as awesome as ever, perhaps more so after a 20 year absence. Sure I've been in there by day, taken Naomi to hear bandstand concerts on Sunday afternoons, fed the ducks in the pond. But this was different. Although the place has changed, having lost many trees to Hurricane Juan in 2003, when we found ourselves on the other side of the fence, I felt like we had gone back in time. Never have I felt so much like I was fourteen years old again! All the worldly cares that had brought me down earlier that evening disappeared.
Genevieve and I imagined the news copy: "...officials were puzzled when breathalyzer and drug tests taken from the two middle aged women caught trespassing in the Public Gardens last Thursday were negative for any illicit substances..."
Now there is another tradition that goes hand in hand with trespassing in the gardens after dark. There is a fountain where passers by throw coins for wishes.
I have often let Naomi rummage through my pockets looking for spare change for this very purpose. But back in the day, it was something of a tradition to strip down to our skivvies, hop into the fountain, and scoop up the coins. Then we would roll our damp silver and pennies, and spend our ill-gotten gains on treats (well, cigarettes, but I have since quit). In the stillness of the park I realized this was most likely the last time I would find myself in the gardens after dark, so there was just one thing left to do: take off my pants and hop into the fountain. Genevieve was close behind. Now we only scooped out a couple of ceremonious, token handfuls, hardly depleting the waters of the wishes they concealed beneath the surface. Genevieve has a better eye for spotting shiny things than I, like 1 and 2 dollar coins (and even a fifty-cent piece!), while I went more for quantity, using a more Hoover-like technique. There is still a dish full of coins on my kitchen table, it contains about $12, which I intend to use to open an RESP for Naomi.
Genevieve is gone now, making her way indirectly back to the South Pole for the winter (well summer, there). Today I could already detect an autumn scent on the August breeze, and soon enough September will be here again. As I return to university Naomi will get on the yellow schoolbus and begin grade primary, and soon enough this one summer adventure will be just one more Midsummer Night's Dream. But for a few moments I laughed again like I was fourteen years old, just like it was 1985, only it was even better.
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