There’s a guitarist who works the Market circuit at Granville Island, playing upbeat music to a reggae beat. Cameron adores him, and always wants to dance, and always wants to drop a coin or five into the guitar case. But his voice and music bring back memories of an outing in Cameron’s first spring.
I don’t remember exactly when it was. Maybe March? Still cold, very windy, but mild enough to be out in a jacket. Joanne persuaded me to go for a walk from Kits Beach to Granville Island. Two babies in strollers covered in crocheted blankets, two rookie mommies, and a heck of a lot of wind. I needed it badly. Some fresh air even delivered at breathtaking velocities was good for me. There’s nothing particularly remarkable about the day other than that. We walked, we talked, and the babies snoozed or cried. We got to Granville Island and ate, what I don’t remember, and listened to happy reggae music. I seem to recall that this was my first public breastfeeding experience, but I don’t see how that’s possible. Maybe. It must have been fairly early on, as I remember being completely incapable of folding Cameron’s stroller.
Beyond that, there’s one thing that stands out. There’s this thing about wind and sandy beaches. Sand gets driven everywhere. Cameron was fully clothed and well bundled, and yet he had sand not only in his hair and eyes, but in his clothes. I remember it was in his butt-crack, and I still cannot figure out how it got there. I was cleaning sand out of Cameron’s ears for a week.
I somehow doubt that the musician would appreciate being told his songs make me think of sand in my son’s butt-crack and ears. But they do. In a nice, warm, nostalgic kind of way.