Brent Mason: A long haul to the long hall

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They come from miles around. From way up high it looks like ants returning to the hill after a long day of searching and gathering. It doesn’t seem possible this many people live in the wide open spaces of the countryside around.

The hall sits empty for most of the year now, the doors being leaned into and creaked open maybe three or four times during the summer, for a family reunion or a special event. They use these opportunities to raise a little money to pay the insurance on the building. The committee of six women make a variety of sandwiches, cookies and drinks to be served as part of the rental agreement. Doris keeps track of who is making what, and collects the money at the end, after the cleanup. She’s got the only key for the hall, and always double pulls the padlock to make sure it’s locked when they’re done.

It used to be such an important part of the community. Dances in the days before TV took over; a fiddle, piano and harmonica would have the feet stompin’ and skirts swirling while outside, by the steps on the side of the hall, a bottle might be passed back and forth, a twinkle of light on the glass giving the surreptitious sips away to anyone who snuck a peak outside. People would line up to vote when the road was still dirt, everyone coming together to do their war-won duty, as the great John Prine once said, “to vote for Eisenhower ‘cause Lincoln won the war.” Not a lot of variety in what party got in; an unwritten consensus has existed since Confederation.

In the summer, it was where the week-long summer Bible camps were held. All the kids from the area were dropped off in the morning, no matter their parent’s professed denomination, and picked up at four for five whole days, giving the mothers a well-earned break from the summer break, and the kids a chance to be together in one place, which was rare in the country back then. There were popsicle sticks and white glue that were used to build little churches, mangers, crosses and the like. Contests built around scripture stories. Jesus’s words written in red in the books the kids were all given to read. Win one of the little contests and you’d get a star to put beside your name on the list on the old wood walls.

It was a lot of people that came for the celebration of life. Everyone in the area knew her and her family. Eighty years in one place will do that. Wyatt had driven all the way from the city, purposefully taking the long way over the mountain so he could spend more time on the back roads. The cars were lined up past the post office as far as you could see, both sides of the road, where the old, now grown over ball field and outdoor rink, with its warming shack and canteen, used to be. Oh, the crowds that used to come in summer for softball games played under the forever blue country sky.

They were lined up out the door, down the steps off to the right where the cheese factory used to be, waiting to pay their respects to the family. Little knots of people wearing Sunday best and camo vests, greeting each other, whispering when inquiring as to who this or that person was, it being hard to recognize people you may know, or used to know, with so much time having passed. Wyatt wasn’t sure who half the people were who came up to him to talk, but pretended he did, offering a big smile and “Wow! How are ya? It’s been ages!” and playing catch up without catching up on much at all.

The line snaked its way along the wall towards the family, the conversations swirling into a muted mass above, punctured by the clang of cups and cutlery from the kitchen behind the wall at the back. There was an ancient, slightly yellowed frame picture of a young Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip looking down on it all. Wyatt paid his respects with shiny-eye contact and firm handshakes and listened to true words about her being “better off now.” He was making his way towards the exit when he noticed an old sheet of paper hanging on the wall. A list of names with stars beside them. His name, with seven stars, blue and gold and red. He had no memory of it; could only recall the smell of the white glue he used to love. He squeezed past a couple of strangers, went down the steps and walked towards his car.

Brent Mason is an award-winning musician and writer living in Saint John (www.brentmason.ca). Mason’s Jar is a column featuring short, fictional musings largely, but not exclusively, set in New Brunswick.