I always take the same old road through Guelph, past the big church on the hill and the old stone tavern, then out on the old Elora Road past the cemetery. I knew that the old bridge across the Grand River was closed, but the newspaper with the new directions hadn’t arrived second class mail yet. Fortunately, there was a marker at the restaurant/gas station which pointed me in the right direction.
Seedrioru for me as a young person was synonymous with spring and summer and happy times. The first long weekend was usually the start of practice as extras for whatever outdoor play was being put on that year at the amphitheatre built into the hillside. The play “Werewolf” was a particularly memorable one, because we got to romp around out in the field in the dark showing glowing eyes to the stage. The whole hillside was full of people, with enough left over for some to carry on a raucous party in the upper field.
For several years in a row there was a folk dancing competition which our group from Hamilton won every year, until we got to keep the trophy permanently. This was brought about through a lot of practice once a week through the winter months.
Things have changed. The hillside above the open air theatre is starting to be taken over by brush and small trees. The wood seats have been removed leaving just the cement stumps sticking up like broken teeth. The small electrical shed from which Mr. Rebane controlled the stage lighting is leaning a bit to one side and looking the worse for age.
Down at the song festival clearing there was a large tent protecting the singers from the sun. A few people sat in front of the choir but most, including me, had grabbed chairs and headed over under the trees for shade. The vast expanse that used to be full was now almost empty. The mixed choir almost outnumbered the audience which was made up mainly of the first generation. Even the choir music had changed. It seemed much lighter and happier than what I remembered. I think even my wife might have enjoyed it had she been there. I certainly chose to sit through it all and I’ve never been shy about leaving if I wanted to.
As I wandered around, my mind kept going over how few of my generation, that is those whose parents left Estonia as adults, were there. Not the Toronto people, who have started showing up in recent years to bolster attendance, but the others from Hamilton, St. Catharines, Kitchener and London, who spent summers there in the camp. There was a whole crew of us, at least forty or fifty people in my age group; several had family lots and cottages. I think I recognized only about half a dozen, and I actually had to ask one, if he was so and so.
I shouldn’t feel bad, some didn’t recognize me either, especially one of the Toronto people who I remembered from the Kotkajärve scout camp. Most of us do look different after forty years. He thought I was staring at him because he had cut into line in front of me at the kitchen. I never did tell him why. I suppose I could have, but what would have been the point?
So what happened to all those people? Those of the first generation, who were still active, notwithstanding a few canes and walkers here and there, had to a surprisingly large degree come to take part in the festivities. Strangely, they hadn’t changed much and I recognized many right away. But where was my old crowd? I knew that a couple had died, a couple had moved here to Ottawa and sometimes showed up, but the rest had just disappeared without trace. I asked our old folk dancing instructor if anyone had ever considered holding a reunion. I was told that yes, they had tried to arrange this a few years back but almost nobody that they could locate had even bothered to reply.
So there I was. A member of the “lost generation” that came of age in the 1960’s, doing a trip down memory lane by myself. I remember how as kids we used to go out of our way to be brats and annoy the older generation - by either bringing out the chewing gum (they really, really hated that) - or switching to English as soon as they came within earshot. Well, I made a point of talking to all of the older generation that knew me in Estonian, but I probably spoke more English out of politeness or necessity. I’m informed that much the same goes on down at Estonian House in Toronto.