Valley people

"Got it?" the woman in the parking lot of the grocery store in Carleton Place asked.  My cart had taken a notion to slide away from me as I struggled with an umbrella.  She rushed over to help.  Do I really look that old and infirm?

No, it's just the way Valley People are.  Entering, a man held the door.  Once inside, I asked a clerk where the bird seed was.  "I'm not sure, I think it's aisle....(whatever)."  Not there, so I continued on.  A few minutes later she came back to find me.  She had actually forgone her break, searched for it and gone out of her way to lead me to it.  Who does that?  Valley People.  Next it was..."I'll take you over here," as she opened her cash just for me.  "Oh my G-d, is that an emerald?" she gushed taking my hand in hers.  "It's absolutely gorgeous."  Chit-chat, chit-chat and in a matter of minutes I knew all about her and she me.

Next stop the liquor store*, where another man held the door and the clerk at the cash told me where to shop and how to get out of the badly-designed parking lot.  Valley People.

I remember them well.  Used to live in Carleton Place when I was married to my first husband a 100 years ago.  Man has it changed, but Valley People?  Not so much.  Their patterns of speech are unique to say the least.  "It be's a nice day," was one I remember, a charming misuse of the verb "to be".  "Gidday" was another greeting you don't hear outside the Valley.  Don't get me wrong, it's not all beer-and-skittles in The Valley, lots of poverty, alcoholism and crime.  But at its heart The Ottawa Valley is "good people".

A brilliant designer, my ex-husband renovated an historic tannery on the Mississippi River just off Bridge Street.  We lived there and it was magnificent.  Drove by this morning and it is now a restaurant called 'The Leather Works'.  Felt very weird parked looking at it, as so many happy and sad memories flooded back.  Thought about going in, but just couldn't.  Drove by the home of good friends and almost cried, remembering that the wife had dropped dead far too young. 

Ah, memory lane. 
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*Speaking of liquor stores, I remember when one had to have a personal licence to buy the stuff.  Used to go with my Mother to the George Street outlet, where she filled out the slip, handed it to the counter clerk and showed her licence.  He then went to the back of the shop to get the booze.  I think that was a hundred years ago.