Fiddler's Green

On the shores of Newfoundland, in the village of Raliegh, stands the pub Fiddler's Green. I first entered this establishment when I was in my twenties, on a trip to photograph the wonders of Newfoundland for my second book of photography. It was a hundred year old building with a Lincoln green coat of paint, faded by the weather and white accented shutters and lentils.

Back then I was a finer figure of a man than I am now. I had a trim waist, muscular forearms and good stamina from my daily running and pushups. I am afraid that time has caught up with my waistline. Back then I wore my auburn hair in a long ponytail, down my back. I tended to dress in jeans and button down shirts. My favorite sloped cap was on my head and my camera was on my chest, ready for whatever might present itself to be shot.

When I entered the pub, I found polished wooden floors, a smokey interior, wooden booths and tables and a long, low stage. A lone fiddler was playing a Breton tune on stage, with a woman clogged alone to his fiddling. She was a beauty who took my breath away. I knew then and there that I must photograph her. My camera rose unbidden to take in the picture of the ancient fiddler playing for the flaxen haired young woman, with her long flashing legs.

But I have forgotten to introduce myself. I am Peter MacDonald, photographer. I went to the University of Hilo in Hawaii and grew up not a stone's throw from that institution. It was a far distance from my island home to Newfoundland. I have no cause to regret that trip though, for it was there that I met my love. This is that tale.

It’s a wonderful story, really, I’ve always told Peter it could be made into a movie or a book. He laughs when I tell him he’s better than any hero in those romantic novels kid’s read these days, but I think it’s true all the same.

My name is Alice. Alice Taylor back then. The day we met was a happy one to begin with. It wasn’t long after I’d started earning my money through entertainment instead of waiting tables at the pub. My dear friend Brent was beautifully playing the fiddle beside me, making it look easy with the way he performed. It was a simple tune, but nobody in Raliegh was looking for anything too fancy anyway. I, for one, was satisfied with keeping things simple, and to be honest had hardly left the island. Oh sure, I’ve traveled to the mainland a few times and even the states once, but without a proper tour guide I felt a little out of place. Home is where I was comfortable, both in mind and financially. A few years back I had tried moving to College of the North Atlantic which wasn’t too far away, but after a semester I quit and moved right back to Raliegh for my job at Fiddler’s Green. It wasn’t that I couldn’t, or didn’t like new places…I just didn’t see anything I wanted to do there. Why not stick with what makes me happy, I say. I thought if I found something else that made me happy, I’d go for it. But until then, home was where my heart was.

At any rate, the pub was home for me, and one day after my shift had ended I jumped up on stage and started dancing to Brent’s tune. I think it surprised everyone by the looks on their faces, and from that day on I’d been asked to stop serving drinks and dance when the crowds were heaviest. Fine by me, and I’d been at it for a couple months when Peter came in. I have to admit I didn’t see him- I was too immersed in what I was doing. My golden waves of hair fell freely down my back to my shoulder blades, kept out of my blue eyes by a red ribbon tied up as a hairband. It matched the dress I distinctly remember wearing that day- a red sleeveless that followed my curves without clinging to them and had a high neck to my collarbone, the skirt of it only coming down a few inches above my knees. With my height it was always difficult finding any dress longer than that, and the comfortable feel of cotton skimming across my thighs as I twirled made me smile even more, if that was possible. No matter how bad a day was, moving to a beautifully played song could always cheer me up.

Near the end of the song I raised my hands above my head and started clapping to the beat as my feet continued to move like I was born clogging, the happy crowd raising their beers or clapping along to make more noise. Finally the music stopped, as did I, and the crowd cheered, asking for more. Fortunately for me, as it would become a special day, I had been at it for a while and was in need of a break. “We’ll be back up, I promise, but Brent here needs a break if he’s going to keep up with me,”I told them with a wink and that ever present smile, giving a playful bow before jumping down to the floor and walking to the bar, clearly out of breath as I sat on a stool. Brent teasingly rolled his eyes with a shrug, following me off and going to the back.

When I first saw her, she was dancing on stage. It was her flashing legs and infectious smile which caught my eye. There was a long, low stage in the bar and she was the principle entertainment that afternoon. To say she was attractive would be an understatement. She was simply gorgeous and still is. I did not know anything about her, of course, but I immediately wanted to.

The pub was already pretty full at the time, so I took a seat at the bar. There was a low haze of cigarette smoke, which was to be expected. It was unpleasant, but worth enduring to see her dancing her heart out. Most of the patrons were watching her as well. They seemed to be a mixture of locals and tourists. The later I could spot a mile away. I've traveled enough in my career to know what a tourist looks like. They are the clueless ones, that just don't fit in. I always like to think that I break that stereotype to some extent.

Anyway, back to the story. She, much to my disappointment, called for a break. I figured I would stick around to see the second half of her show. I even though about photographing it, if she would allow it. I was sure that a photo of her, with her red skirt twirly around her thighs and her infectious energy, would work well in my photo study of Newfoundland. Besides which, i had not yet had lunch and was starving. The barman was busy, so I waited patiently for a waitress. i could tell it might be a bit of a wait with the dense crowd in the pub.

it always amazes me how people can drink in the middle of the afternoon. i am not much of a drinker myself, since I do not like losing control of my faculties. I had an embarrassing incident in university, which I am not going to relate, and ever since I have limited my intake. Still, the crowds were drinking, though it appeared to be mostly mixed drinks and beer, not hard liquor.

I usually took my breaks in the back where there was less noise and frankly less people to bother me. It wasn’t that I didn’t like speaking with those that had known me since I was crawling and the visitors alike, I loved it in fact, but breaks were to reenergize. Doesn’t everyone need that quiet time to themselves when every other moment is spent trying to make others happy?

For some reason I decided to sit at the bar, however, and was only bothered a couple times. I smiled brightly to everyone, thanking them for the compliments. It was when I was finally left in peace that I noticed him. A man that was probably a little older than my twenty-two that I didn’t recognize, though he didn’t have a fanny pack or any brochures tucked into his back pocket like the others. His long hair told me he probably wasn’t here for business either, which didn’t surprise me; Raliegh wasn’t a place exactly hopping with open jobs. He did have a camera, though.

I didn’t say anything at first, but the poor guy had been waiting for service much too long. I slipped off my stool and sat back down right beside him, leaning in a little to get his attention. “You’ve been waiting longer than you should to get your food. Tell me what you want, I’ll order it with mine and it’ll be here in a second,” I offered, putting an elbow on the bar with my fingertips at my hair. “The chips here are the best, I promise it’ll make you never want to leave,,” I added, waving the nearest employee, Karen, over. The workers knew my break wouldn’t be long so they would always try and help me as quickly as possible.

The first time she talked to me, my heart skipped a beat. i certainly had not expected her to do so. Lord only knew that I was working up my courage to talk with her before she went back on stage, so that I could ask her about shooting her performance. i quickly nodded my head. "Sure, chips and a burger sound fine. I appreciate your help." I offered my hand. "I'm Peter MacDonald, photographer. Pleased to meet you miss." I was used to introducing myself by my profession, since so much of my work was photographing locals where ever I found myself. I did not just capture the lands, but the people that lived in them.

Karen was a short, round woman with soft brown hair and big brown eyes. She looked tired and stressed, but smiled at us readily enough. "Sure mister. Alice, you want your usual?"

I forget now how she replied, because I was, I am afraid, staring at her openly. Usually i am more polite than that, but not in this instance. "I caught the tail end of your last set. I am doing a book on Newfoundland. How would you feel about having me take pictures of your second set? You could have full approval over the photographs used, of course." I normally would have said photograph, but something told me that more than one of my photographs of her would end up in any book I put out.

I couldn’t believe what I just heard. I actually laughed, looking over at the crowd of people sitting at tables then back at him. “Well as far as pictures go tourists take them every day so of course I don’t mind, but for a book? You sound like a pretty big deal,” I teased, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t know why you’d want a photo of me but of course its fine, I’d love to hear more about it when I get off for good at six, if you’re still in the area.” The idea of someone documenting the beauty of my home was a romantic one, there were so many beautiful spots close to my apartment, much less the entire island. Then the full realization of what he was there for hit me and I gasped, recognizing I might be able to help.

“You said it’s a book of the whole Newfoundland, right? Oh, I’ve got the most gorgeous views in mind! You may have already found them, but we could give it a shot, yeah?” I was way more excited than any person in their right mind should be, and it was our food appearing at the bar that brought me back to being calm, my smile fading a bit. I figured he probably thought I was nuts, but it was a habit of mine to be a little more…enthusiastic than people were used to. Biting my bottom lip I grabbed my fork, ready to start in on my salad with pieces of salmon and dressing on the side, a sweet tea to drink.

“Sorry, guess I’m getting ahead of myself. There’s just so much to see here and I don’t think many people know it.” I enjoyed hiking on my days off, most of the time alone. Yes it was dangerous, yes I shouldn’t have done it, but it was worth the extra effort when I reached my destinations. “I’m Alice Taylor, by the way. I didn’t catch your name or where you’re from, Mr. Photographer.”

"I'm Peter MacDonald. I'm an island boy myself, though I'm from Hilo Hawaii, on the Big Island. You've probably never heard of it." At the time, I thought her enthusiasm was cute, but she cut herself off so fast. "I'm going to hold you to what you said. I could use a guide around the island, if your not to busy that is. When is your day off?" I was afraid myself, that I have overstepped my boundaries, asking a complete stranger when her day off was, but I could not help myself.

The food was as good as she had promised, and the chips were excellent. I made short work of my meal while we talked. It is meals like that which have lead me to my current predicament. She always tells me that I'm silly, and that a little weight does not matter, but I'm still self conscious of it, when she is so fit. It's probably all of that hiking which keeps her so trim.

Anyway, I am getting off topic again. i expected her to shot me down. I certainly did not expect that she would simply take up with a stranger, and show them her island. Somehow I thought that I would have to convince her, or pay her, or let her do a background check. To my surprise, it was a whole lot easier than that. As it turned out, her day off was tomorrow and she was more than willing to tell me so.

"It's a date then!" I joked with one last sip of my tea and a graceful slip off the stool. I was putting extra effort into not looking like the clumsy girl I could be on any given day. It wasn't actually a date in my eyes, of course. I wasn't that eager to date the men I knew, much less one I didn't even if he was attractive. I didn't know why it was so surprising to people that I was single and had been for a good portion of my life.

I'd spoken so much to the stranger that I'd barely eaten a bite, but I didn't mind. Reaching over the bar I grabbed a napkin and pen, quickly writing my address in messy cursive, tearing the paper a little in my hurry. "This is my address. It's right off Main Road. You'll see my dog in the yard, and old black mutt. He's all bark and no bite. Anyway, I live in the upstairs. Come bright and early, okay? But make sure you've eaten breakfast...it'll be a long day." With that I slid the napkin over, Brent coming over to see if I was ready. "Make sure you get my good side," I added with a smirk, turning and running back up the stage.

And that was that. The first time we met. At first I was a little subconscious knowing someone was watching me so closely, but it didn't take long for me to fall back into the rhythm of things. I was doing what I loved, nothing else to it. It was a good thing we'd planned on meeting in the morning since my shift ran over. I didn't leave until late that night, exhausted. But even then...I was for some reason excited for the next day. The idea of showing a new face around the island, sharing my private getaways was one that left me smiling the entire drive home.

I took over four rolls of film of her dancing that day, and saved every one of those pictures. I had set up a makeshift dark room in my hotel room, much to the staffs' dismay. For the amount I was paying for the suite though, they had to let me. It took some negotiations, and a bribe to the manager. I lay in bed that night, staring at a picture of her, sure I had never seen such a lovely girl.

The hotel was actually a set of rooms over a pub. They only had one suite; the honeymoon suite. It suited my taste though, since I need the extra room for my work. The staff were forbidden to open the doors to that room, when I put signs out. Late into the night, I could hear music coming up from the pub, but it was not that which had me awake. I was used to sleeping in all sorts of places and under many conditions. It was an anticipation of the photo shoot the next day, with my lovely guide. I decided that night that I would pay her for her trouble. Eventually, I fell asleep.

The next morning I ordered a solid breakfast of steak and eggs along coffee and orange juice. I did not know what the day would hold, and did not wish to be hungry later. I dressed in jeans, a button down plaid shirt and a vest which held pockets for most of my equipment. I wore a tripod in a sling on my back, and my camera on my chest when I left the hotel, along with a floppy hat with Hawaii printed on it.

The summer's morning sun broke beautifully over mountains, next to the little town. I took my rented car into town, using the on board GPS to find my way. Things sure have gotten easier since those days. Now you can just pull up the GPS on your phone. Back then, they were a rare and expensive beast.

I pulled up in front of a neat little house in the suburbs, with a black dog in the yard, who was excited to see me. I got out and went through the gate and then up the stairs to the second story apartment, with the dog at my heels. I paused to pet him, before knocking on the door.

Why did I tell him to meet me early? That's right, it was because of the morning light...but at the time it didn't seem worth it. I was never a morning person, always a night owl. I could stay out all night, but still not want to get up until 10 AM if I had my way.

Hearing a knock at the door I became more alert, however, excited to see the photographer. I had hoped he'd brought the pictures of me along, but to say so would sound a bit self-centered. Opening the door I smiled brightly at him, dressed in skinny jeans and a long blue and white plaid button up shirt that showed just a hint of cleavage. I will say I had a chest that could have been shown off anytime I wanted, it was one of the few features I liked about myself, but I wasn't the type to wear such clothing even then. I will never understand girls who show everything they have and then complain when men stare at them with their tongues hanging out, but that's another rant for another day.

"Morning," I greeted him, still no socks on and a steaming mug of coffee in my hands that had a picture of a sunset on it that lit up when something hot was in it. Those were popular back then, I remember. Anyway, I knew I still showed signs of being sleepy as my gaze went down to my dog still wagging his tail so hard it thumped against Peter's leg again and again. The poor thing was getting old, his fur was starting to show more grey than I liked to admit. "Oh Sammy, can't you at least pretend to be a good guard dog?" I laughed, nodding behind me. "Come on in. Just let me put this in something to-go and get some shoes on and I'll be ready."

I led the way inside, hoping he didn't judge anything he saw. If he did...well, whatever. The entire floor was shaped differently, one wall taking the shape of the roof on with a tilt. It made the nights colder in the winter, not having an attic above to take on the air, but I liked the quirkiness of the place. Everything was miss matched with a look of vintage to it, as if I were still in college. A worn out red couch, pictures of landscapes I'd clearly bought on sale hung up, a tiny television in the corner. It was homey, nobody could deny that, and clean besides the dog hair and a few books lying about.

My hair was down again that day, though a little wet from my shower. As quickly as I could I put on a pair of boots, grabbed the travel mug and keys, and grabbed a drawstring bag with a few snacks and other items. "You okay with taking my truck? No point in putting miles on your rental car. How long are you staying here, by the way?" In fact, I had a lot of questions. We didn't get many visitors anymore, and I wondered what brought him to Newfoundland. Much less Raliegh.

To say her apartment was a contrast to my own ocean front condo would be an understatement. I had high end art deco prints, modern minimalist furniture and the condo itself was designed in the eighties, with glass walls and steel beams. Still, her apartment, though different from my own, had a homey, lived in feel that I liked. It suited her. My condo may or may not have suited me. I used to travel so much that I rarely spent more than a night or two sleeping there to find out. A decorator's taste played more into its look than my own.

Her dog was, to put it kindly, an amiable mutt. He licked my hands and wacked me with his tail, before jumping up on the couch to take a nap. I was, at the time, more of a cat person. The fact that I had no cats again can be attributed to my lifestyle. I have settled down since then, and we have a cat named Merlin, along with the dogs.

To say she was lovely that morning, would be an understatement, with her damp hair and fresh face. I was not even sure she was wearing much make up, but she did not need much with her coloring. I forced myself not to ask her if I could take pictures of her again. certainly, it would probably have scared her off. As it was, i had copies of some of the pictures to show her, and I hoped that she would be pleased.

I was so busy taking in her apartment, and thinking of just the right lighting to highlight her features, that I barely registered that she had spoken. With a bit of a start, I managed to answer her back.

"Sure... Ah, let's take your truck. I'll be here as long as it takes, but I have a return flight, to the mainland scheduled for two weeks from now. It is a charter plane, so I can always change my plans if that isn't enough time." Somehow, if she was willing to guide me on my days off, I doubted that it would be enough time. It was not love at first sight mind you, or lust, but I was in love with her face and wanted another chance to photographer her.

"As long as it takes...you really know what you're going for, don't you?" I commented, surprised by his answer. "You know exactly what you want and you'll know exactly when you're finished. Not a day or picture sooner." Sammy trotted over to me, clearly assuming he was tagging along. "Aw, buddy..." I bent down, rubbing his head. The vet had clear advice that he was too old to go everywhere with me anymore, so a trip like this had to be skipped. "Next time, okay?"

With a small sigh I let Peter go first before closing the door behind us, the automatic lock clicking into place. Down the old, weather worn steps we went, my truck parked in the gravel lane. It was an old blue pick-up that I wasn't a big fan of. But I also wasn't a fan of spending money on something I didn't care about either, so there it was to stay. Having a nice sedan would have to come later in life. "I'm surprised you came in the summer," I commented, putting the keys in and letting the old engine rev before stepping on the gas. "I thought you'd want to get pictures of the snow on the ground, that sort of thing. I think people expect it to always be snowing here or something."

I know I shouldn't have been, but I was completely and totally comfortable with the man. Every since the crap my dad put us through I wasn't interested in any romantic dealings, and it was probably because of it that I didn't care what he did. If he only agreed to this to flirt then fine, let him. I figured if he was there to hurt me...well, then he could try and do that too. But I wasn't going to pass up an opportunity to show my home off. Besides, he was intriguing and had a friendly aura about him. I knew it would be fine and didn't think twice about driving off with a stranger in my truck. Perhaps growing up in a small town had left me too trusting, because I certainly wouldn't do that today.

Along the way I spoke of the history I knew, struggling to keep my eyes on the long, empty roads instead of him. How many people lived there and when tourists usually came for whale and iceberg sighting on boat trips. I didn't want to give away the places we were going- keeping it a surprise would be best. It didn't take long, though, for me to get bored of speaking. I wanted to listen to Peter. "I like your hat by the way," I teased, reaching out to playfully flick the floppy rim of his Hawaii hat. "Your home, I looked it up last night. It really is another world compared to this, isn't it? Beautiful. Course I bet you've been to a thousand different gorgeous places...I can't imagine, traveling like that seems so surreal. Where all have you been?"

I retrieved my hat and shoved it back on my head, making a show of getting it on firmly enough. "I came here during the summer, because I plan to be back for all four seasons. When I do a book, I generally cover all four seasons of a place. In some places, the seasonal changes are not as obvious, but in others they really stand out. In Hawaii, in the Winter, we get a lot of rain and it can get rather chilly, though not much by your standards I am sure." We turned out of the town, onto a highway, and I wondered just where she was taking me. I trusted her, for some reason, but I was not sure why. It was just something about her face.

"As to where I've been, well I've been all over. My latest book was on Thailand. I spent a week in a Buddhist monastery during that trip, living as the monks did. It was quite an interesting experience, and I wrote some about it on my blog. By the way, I have some of your pictures along, and wanted your permission to put one of them up with my latest blog entry." Blogs were a really new thing back then, when everyone had dial-up internet access. I found my self explaining what a blog was to her, because I assumed that she would not know.

"It's like an online journal with pictures. When I travel, America Online users can read about my travels and see pictures that I have taken recently. It helps build excitement for my upcoming books, or so my publisher tells me. One of my favorite places to visit was the redwood forests of California. It is awe inspiring standing in front of a tree with the diameter of a hut, which has been alive for centuries. Those redwoods made some of the most amazing pictures I have ever taken, and that forest was one of the most peaceful, and beautiful places I have ever been. All kinds of people visited them at the same time I did, and we all coexisted in quiet harmony. It is hard to put into words." I realized I was rambling. "So, have you ever been to the mainland?"

“Hm…I suppose I can see why that would be popular,” I said, speaking of his blog. I hadn’t heard of such a thing and wondered if it was because I didn’t get online much. “You’ll have to give me the web address so I can look it up.” By the sound of it, photography must pay more than I thought, or else he was just good enough that it paid him well. What a life…I let myself imagine taking time off to travel like that, live like I wanted on the road. It wasn’t anything I’d ever considered, and I assumed it would never happen. This man really was living a life others could only dream about…perhaps that’s what made his blog so attractive. They were living through his eyes.

“Oh yes, I’ve been to the mainland a couple times with my mom. I’ve even been to New York, went as a graduation present to myself after high school. I have to admit, though…I couldn’t do what you do. Going there was interesting but I wanted to go back home quickly. In fact, I left early. It was overwhelming without someone there, you know? Being alone in a crowd like that wasn’t for me. I suppose home is where I belong,” I said with a small shrug. Little did I know life had different plans for me and over the years I would see much more than the simple, same rocky edges of my island. “But that’s fine with me. As you’re about to see I have a pretty nice view from here.”

It was then that we made another turn, this one off the highway. Eventually it ended in a small parking lot with no lines. The wind was blowing that day, making her locks of hair that were turning into soft, natural waves now that her hair was drying dance about my shoulders. “This is one of the many trails in the area, but it’s not on many of the maps anymore so you wouldn’t find unless you knew.” There was evidence of it being forgotten by the cracks in the concrete parking lot and a sign being so faded it was unreadable. “I think there was a little too much wildlife for tourists or something. But as long as you’re not stupid about it it’ll be fine.”

The truck door creaked as I got out, dropping the keys into the bag on my back. I looked at Peter with a wide grin, stirring with excitement. Would he find the same beauty I did on this trail?

Even though I had a particular few spots in mind the whole way had things to be seen. There was always an animal here or there scurrying away in the tall, unmanaged grass. I had hoped we would see a Moose just so I could see how he reacted. Most were frightened, or at least surprised. “I’d really love seeing those pictures you took when we get back,” I commented. “I can’t imagine anything of me being good enough for a book- not that you aren’t talented, it’s just- well, you know what I mean,” I laughed, putting a hand to my face in embarrassment as we walked.

Thankfully we were nearly there. He couldn’t see it until we were almost up on it because of the hill we’d been walking on, but eventually we reached a graveyard. If one stood in the correct spot the markers and taller stone crosses would be overlooking the ocean, another land mass in the far distance. By now they were high above the ocean, a rocky ledge behind the graveyard. It was well kept, the grass cut and flowers growing to the sides. All the markers read from the 1800s, however, and there was an abandoned white, wooden church to the side that was missing a bell in the tiny tower. She wondered who bothered to keep up with the place anymore.

“I know this is kind of plain, but…I don’t know,” I muttered, feeling a bit silly now that we were there. Still I knelt down, the sleeve of my shirt too long since it covered part of my hand as I touched a child’s grave with my finger, tracing the date. It was sad to me, and I wondered what happened to the little one so long ago. “I like it, in a dismal kind of way. But there’s more to see, I swear,” I added, looking back at him. I desperately wanted Peter to get some good shots, make that day worth it.

I took a picture of her then and there, with her hand on the child's grave, before moving off into the rest of the graveyard. As I went, I snapped pictures; Doug McKenzie 1859-1897, Anna McKenzie 1861-1911, Alistair MacDonald 1851-1901. There were MacDonalds everywhere, so I doubted that he was my relative. Still, I paused to touch his grave, before moving on. Seth MacFarland was next, an infant grave. How sad. I imagined the grief of the parents. With all the graves I wondered what kind of life they had lead, and how they had died. Some of it would undoubtedly be in the parish records, but by the looks of the church, those records might be stored somewhere else. I would do my research and come up with a few paragraphs to go along with the gravestone markings. Possibly I could locate an old tin type of some of the occupants. It was part of what made my books so popular. I always wrote paragraphs to go with my photographs, chronicling my thoughts about the photos. I would probably only use one or two photos of the grave yard, though I took a couple of rolls, but those few photos would be powerful.

I asked Alice "Do you have relatives buried here?"

The morning sun was up now, shining on the old stained glass windows of the church. I photographed it next, first from a ways away, circling it on all sides, and then closer for details. In doing so, I quite forgot about Alice for a moment. The old building was so sad; a house of worship abandoned by its worshipers. I wondered if the community church simply died due to a lack of younger families, or if the community itself shrank over time, as people moved to larger cities for work. It was all more research to be done. Tomorrow would be spent at the local library.

I approached the front door of the church, to find it boarded up. I circled until I found another entrance, which was miraculously open. Pulling open the ancient door was like pulling open a piece of history. I remembered to turn to Alice. "Better stay here. I don't know how safe the building is." I was not to worried for myself. I'd been in war zones before.

The entire church, besides the sacristy, was the sanctuary. Morning light flooded through the stained glass windows, as startled birds flew as I entered the sanctuary. Without thinking I cross myself. I grew up Catholic, tough I am Lutheran now. The pews and floor were covered with a century or so of dust and plants grew out of some cracks. I moved around carefully, taking pictures of the stained glass windows. There was Jesus feeding the five thousand above the entry way. It was a beautiful old piece of art and would make a fine picture, though this door would have to be boarded up before I left the island. I did not want curious tourists disturbing the old church, both for the safety of the stained glass, and for their own safety. The floor creaked beneath my feet, reminding me how precarious older buildings could be. I moved lightly and carefully through the aisles, looking for the best vantage points.

I looked over when I heard the click of his camera, rolling my eyes at the sight of it pointed toward me. "Don't you have anything better to capture?" I grinned, careful to not touch the lens as I gently pushed it in another direction. I was flattered by slightly embarrassed, unsure how to handle the attention. My heart still flutters every time I'm the focus of his art like that.

At Peter's question I stared at him in surprise, getting up and putting my hands in my pockets. "I didn't think you'd care but yes, actually." Most wouldn't. "My great, great...too many greats to count grand parents before the rest of my family started being buried at the larger modern cemetery. I think there's another relative somewhere in here, but I can't keep up with it. Anyway it's the last name Sheppard over there, died in the early 1920s. My mother has pictures of them. We like to keep that kind of thing," I explained, knowing I must sound boring at this point. How many people honestly cared about the history?

And then...I lost him. It was humorous to watch, really, how engrossed Peter got in his work. It was as if he'd entered another world, making me want to take a picture of him taking a picture. The passion in those eyes as they searched for the right spot to stand, the correct angle to shoot at. He was quiet...that is until safety was mentioned.

I let him pretend he could keep me out for a moment, not wanting to disturb him. Eventually, however, the doors creaked as I stepped inside, shutting it behind me. "You're kidding if you think I'm letting you go anywhere without me," I said frankly, shaking my head with my hands at my hips. "I don't care if you walk right into the mouth of a bear's cave for your picture, I'm coming along. Got it?" I didn't like the idea of him making a discovery without me there, and waiting outside was no fun at all.

"Wow." My voice traveled through the dust filled air, bouncing off the paint chipped walls. "This is beautiful, isn't it?" I slowly walked over to stand next to Peter, wrapping my arms around myself. For some reason how empty and quiet the building was within made me feel lonely. I was silent for a bit, not wanting to bother this "mode" he seemed to slip into. "What are you thinking about?" I finally had to ask.

I was not totally surprised when she followed me into the church. I did not argue with her then, and I have learned not to bother arguing with her since then. Instead, I am more careful where I venture, for she is sure to follow me. We have never been in bear's cave, but we have been in a few rough spots over the years. Those are stories for another day though.

When she asked me what I was thinking, I was positioning myself for a shot of the empty sanctuary, birds and all. "Honestly, I am thinking about the beauty of this old building and of the stained glass windows and of how sad it all seems. Once this was part of a thriving community. Now it stands silent and alone. I'm also thinking that I am glad you offered to be my guide. I'm sure that this isn't part of the normal tour and I never would have discovered it without you."

I almost wanted to hug her, in that moment, but didn't. I wasn't sure how it she would receive such attentions. Instead, I finished up with photographing the interior of the church. What I would have given to seen it once in it's hay day, to hear the music floating down to the cemetery and to hear the stories of the people. Some of those stories were probably handed down in Miss Taylor's family. I would have to question her more closely, as part of my research, and see if she had any older living relatives I could meet. At that moment though, simply standing there with her was enough. For a moment, I was content.

Most of my family is gone, and was gone, at that point. My parents died when I was a little boy and my Uncle Seth raised my sister and I. He moved us out to Hilo, where he was a teacher at the University of Hawaii at Hilo, in the history department. My sister is still alive, but besides her, there isn't anyone closer than some second cousins. It was rather a lonely way to grow up, knowing that I was the sole heir to the MacDonald name, at least in my branch of the family tree. Of course, as my sister and I always joke, there is always Uncle Ronald.

“I’m happy to help. And I can promise you, you haven’t seen anything yet,” I smirked, putting a hand on his shoulder. Our first real physical contact now that I think about it, a moment that meant nothing at the time. “When you’re ready.” I went ahead and made my way out of the church, taking a deep breath of fresh air in as soon as me feet were on green grass again.

Our next stop was far off the normal trail, but I wanted to go back into town first. “We’ll get lunch at the little fishing town about forty-five minutes from here. Bad thing about this place is it’s a lot of traveling. But I bet you’ll get some shots there.”

During the drive I didn’t stop talking much, playing twenty questions with the poor man. I asked pretty normal questions to begin with: his favorite trip, about his family, if he ever got home sick. I couldn’t help but watch him as he spoke, loving the ‘young artist’ look about him. “Do you have a favorite novel?” I went on, telling him of my own. “I enoy reading fiction a lot. I’m reading The Eye of the World right now.” I mention a few movies, though I normally go to St. Anthony for movies, and it’s not worth the drive to me much.

“Well, I promise this will be worth the walk,” I eventually sighed. “And putting up with my rambling mouth.” It was about time I shut up, I thought. When we reached the little sandwich shop I shut the truck off, getting out and immediately stretching. There was a dock in the distance with a few fishing boats not being used, the houses in the area made with vinyl siding and clearly decades old. It was a quiet area, like much of Newfoundland. "This place is a hole in the way, but I enjoy it. You won't see any tourists here."

I remember that first touch very well. It did not mean anything to her, in particular, but I was very aware of it, thank you very much!

I answered her questions as we drove, but she barely gave me time to ask any questions of my own. I told her about my family and about my sister Renee, who now lives in California and is with a wonderful woman named Anna. I even managed to mention their potbellied pig Tofu, before asked her next question. My favorite novel, as it turns out, is Anne of Green Gables, and with her chattering, she reminded me a bit of that character.

When we stopped at the little village for lunch, and I snapped pictures as we drove through main street. I am afraid that sometimes I can only really see what is around me through the lenses of my cameras. It did not matter that the village was not much to look at. I still photographed it.

The sandwich shop was wonderful! They had the best corned beef I have had outside of New York City. I can't imagine where they order it from. I supposed I should have done as the locals, and had the fried fish sandwich, but I am addicted to Reubens, especially with lots of sauerkraut. I probably had french fries and a Coke too, but I can't remember. These days I drink Diet Coke, but I have and always will be a Coke man. What, that did not sound right. Strike it from the record.

The interior of the sandwich shop was little more than a white counter, four white walls and white tables. There were poorly photographed pictures of food on the walls, a list of lunch specials, and men with weight problems grilling up the orders. It was, in truth, like every other little sandwich shop I have ever seen, until I tasted the food.

As she ate, I managed to ask about her family, and almost invite myself to meet them, all in the name of research of course. I also could not help looking at her, when she was not looking. It seems there was a lot of that going on that second day.

It didn't take long to tell him about my family. My mother’s parents lived in the area near my place, and we simply didn’t speak to my father’s side anymore. I briefly told him of my father leaving when I was younger, of how he and his family lived a couple hours away in Main Brook. It was pretty normal for people to move away from Raliegh- afterall, there wasn’t much there to begin with.

“But that’s all right. I love my mother, we get along pretty well, and she has a brother here that watched over me quite a bit growing up. I have a few second cousins or something that still live in the area, but anymore we’re all kind of like family. If anything happens in my life I can guarantee everyone in town will know about it within a day,” I laughed, halfway finished with my food. “That’s the bad thing about small towns, there’s no privacy.” When Peter seemed interested in seeing my family I immediately brightened. “I’m sure you’re tired of eating out all the time, being away from home. Oh, and my mom would kill to see your work. Come over, have dinner. I’ll attempt to cook, you can show me your blog, and Mom will get out those pictures I talked about. Please?” I asked with a smile, motioning to the waitress that we needed our bills.

“I came here because it’s close to the main docks. We’ll stop by there…there will be people working, going about their business, but I think you’ll be good.” We took a short drive to the boats, and just as I’d said there were men working with their nets, older gentlemen relaxing by the water with a knife and piece of wood in hand. They could make beautiful art, it was sold in the shops, but I didn’t mention it. While Peter went about his work I sat atop a post on the edge of the water, careful to not let my dangling feet touch the sea creatures growing on the wood beneath me. I was content to grab a sandwich I’d packed and toss pieces of the bread out toward the sand for the birds to eat.

All in all, it was a long with a couple others stops within towns before dinner. Most the buildings were older, but still used. Lastly I wanted to show him my favorite spot, and unfortunately it was a drive away. We stopped for dinner but ate in the car, as I wanted to reach our destination by a certain time- sunset.

Peter was good for conversation. I told him about my attempt at college, of how I was honestly afraid to leave home because it was what I knew. How I’d taken plenty of dance classes that led to my talent on stage, and my distaste of being an only child. We listened to the radio, and I asked for stories of his travels. “Here we are,” I said tiredly, exhausted from driving. We were about two and a half hours away from my home, and getting back wasn’t exactly something I’d thought about yet. I was only focused on showing Peter my favorite spot in the world. Thankfully we were able to drive right up to it.

There were a thousand colors in the sky, the sun setting in the distance. The edge was a cliff, fog hanging over the water below. Though I didn’t go there today I usually sat right on the edge, my legs dangling over so the salty water sprayed on my legs when the waves crashed against the rocks below. To my left were fields of grass, a couple barns a couple hundred meters away. I could never tell if they were abandoned or not. “The birds, they must have nests down there because I see them all the time,” I said, pointing down below against the cliffs. The wind blew my hair and our clothes away from the water, toward my truck behind us. The colors and clouds could be seen on all sides, a dozen scenes around them with the fields, the ocean, and the uneven cliffs.

I took my shoe off, kicking them against the tire of my truck before sitting on the hood. “I’ll stay out of the way, back here. Do you like it?” I asked hopefully, leaning back on my elbows. “I usually sit right there, with Sammy beside me. And then I can just…be happy. Does that make sense? There’s no view like it, not to me.”