The kitchen sink was always a central gathering point. After all, with six children and frequent visitors, there were plenty of freshly picked vegetables to wash and many dishes, pots, and pans to wash. The sink brought out the idiosyncrasies of my five siblings and gave a glimpse into their personalities. Who insisted on washing? Who rejected certain plates which they felt were not adequately clean, and who would simply use the dishcloth to fix the issue? Who wanted to air dry and who used the dishcloth? Who just retired to the living room to stay out of the fray? Little had changed for over a half century.
What was remarkable about the kitchen sink, other than the discussions, debates, and squabbles that occurred in front of it, was the window over it. There were lots of windows in our house, more than usual for a rural home that was over a hundred years old, but the kitchen window was always special. The windowsill was adorned with a few knickknacks, several orchids, and always binoculars. At night in the winter, my mother would move the orchids to the counter tops so they would not get too cold. We had watched so much out that window over the years. The window had no blinds or curtains, for who would want to obstruct the view over the manmade pond, forest, and fields with Shefford Mountain several kilometres distant. I stood looking out, having just come downstairs. My mother’s body lay upstairs in her bedroom where she had peacefully taken her last breaths as the sun rose, the birds twittered, and the horses grazed below. So often she had stood at the kitchen window, watching the birds at the feeder with delight and scolding the chipmunk who scampered in to steal food. She had gleefully watched several litters of foxes venture out from their den over the past few years. She had observed the horses and cattle in the fields below the window, astutely picking out those that needed some extra attention. The binoculars helped identify the first fowl landing on the pond in the spring, and the last to depart in the fall. When I was little, she had seen a young, injured Canada goose by the pond, left alone while its flock flew south. She gained his trust, nursed him to health in the barn over the winter and he was able to join a flock in the spring to fly north again. He returned regularly during his migration for the next several years and always stayed for at least a few days, following overhead and calling to her as she rode her horse along the laneways. Though we knew that time would come, we were all sad the year he didn’t return.
Soon friends and family will start arriving to say their goodbyes. Some will leave meals for us to eat. We will once again gather in the kitchen, and squabble over who washes and who dries. We will look out the kitchen window as my mother did for over nine decades and try to channel her amazing energy, powers of observation, and caring nature. So many memories are conjured up looking out the window over the kitchen sink. I lament that soon I will no longer have access to that view on the passing seasons. The family farm was a remarkable place to grow up, helping me build resilience, practicality, reflectiveness. It exposed me to life and death and allowed me to accept the fragility and beauty of both. So much will be missed.