Every now and then, it hits me with renewed force. Every time I get in my car and drive through Oakville, there are changes. Some of the changes are for the better, of course, though not all. And I am not against change per se; I am just of a sentimental bent. Take Speers Road, for example.

It seems like every day there is a new building, an open space filled in, or a sign announcing what will soon be built. Thing was, though, that those open spaces were the most apparent features of Speers Road, not the new factories and the trucks zooming along.

There was a spot, on either side of the bridge at the dip in the road just east of Third Line, that seemed like it would always be open field. There were trees there, so tall you could get lost in them and not see the road. My parents took us there to gather wild violets in the spring. The ground was littered with them. And trilliums, too. We carefully dug up some, not disturbing the roots or destroying the provincial flower, and planted them in the garden at the front of our house. They still come up in the spring, though no other flowers in that field do. They all have buildings on top of them.

An Adventure

It was an adventure then, to go to the field on Speers and look for wildflowers. I remember one time I went there with my brother and his friend. We walked around the field, and it seemed incredibly distant from the world of Oakville. We climbed down to the little creek and walked along it until we were under the railway bridge. We sat there a while, lazily throwing pebbles into the creek, and listened to the smothering rumble as a train passed overhead.

That afternoon we found a half-built, or half-collapsed, clubhouse. There were walls, but no roof, and the door was askew. I don’t remember it too clearly, but it was like coming upon a castle in the woods. The field was that magical, that apart. We set out at last for home, our hands filled with the delicate wild violets.

It has been a few years since I went to pick flowers in the spring, and most days as I drive over the little bridge there, I don’t event think of the field. But sometimes, even in the winter, when the sun is bright and the air is clear, I try to catch a glimpse of the field behind the buildings, and I wonder if any violets still grow there.

Judy Wedeles
1988, Oakville Today