Irreplaceable Memories

With the blue sky and clouds rapidly moving as its backdrop, we were always mesmerized how the building looked like it was about to fall over. Marble walls that echoed our anticipation and floors that reflected every step we took led us to the elevator, where we would argue who would get to press button number 12, taking us to see our Grandfather. All three of us would bend our knees when we arrived at the twelfth floor, feeling that sensation when the elevator stopped and it would feel like we were flying.

He was always there, waiting to welcome us with open arms. That familiar and inviting smell acted like a tight and comforting embrace; warm and expectant.  The memorable sound of the antique radio on his counter attentively followed us around as we searched for the treats that never failed to be found. Large glass containers organized by size lined his table that held Jujubes, Werthers Originals, packs of gum, Ruffles chips and peanuts. The table had a white tablecloth, finalized with a plastic cover making it ready for our usual ultra-dose of sugar. He also had a constant supply of canned ham and white bread; Mom and Candace always used to make everyone sandwiches for lunch. We didn’t get white bread or junk food at home. I think it gave him a level of satisfaction, knowing he could feed us sugar, get us bouncing off the walls, and then my parents were the ones who would have to deal with it! Before we left, he would always get my mom to add new junk food to the grocery list on his fridge to ensure the cupboards were stocked for our next visit.

Every time we sat down in his identical pink armchairs in the den, he would hobble in and turn on the TV for us because he didn’t think we knew how; even though we told him otherwise every visit. He would point out what each remote was for, and show us where the volume was. We laughed about how cute he was when he left the room.

Although the environment didn’t change between visits, there was always something new to admire. On the island in the kitchen, there was a bowl that held a better selection of eye glasses then Vogue Optical, with extra pairs in every room. We would try each pair on and pretend that they improved our vision, even though they were so strong we got instant headaches. We were always captivated by the mini 3-D telephone magnet on his fridge; whenever it was pushed it rang like a phone from the 60’s. An abundance of photographs covered every surface and the walls were lined with old pictures of my mom and her brothers and sisters. When I was really little, I used to study the black and white pictures  and wonder if everything in those day was actually black and white and how weird of a world that would have been.  

But the item of constant admiration was one lone photograph, framed in an elaborate but simple gold design. It sat permanently on a table beside the living room couch. The picture was of my grandmother, and there was never a time when there wasn’t a fresh red rose beside it. The long-stemmed rose swam in a glass vase that was decorated with a little pink porcelain rose. It’s the very same vase I have on the table beside my couch in my living room.

When it came time for us to leave, we all said goodbye in unison, got in a line, and took turns giving him a hug while sneaking an extra handful of candy for the ride home. I miss him every day, but I’m glad I do. Because that means the memories I have are irreplaceable.

On Top of Cape Smokey

On Top of Cape Somkey
(Sung to the tune of “On Top of Spaghetti”)

On top of Cape Smokey, all covered with trees,
My poor little blue van let out a great wheeze.

Rolled around the corners, rolled right down the hill,
My poor little blue van, she wanted a thrill.

She flew down the mountain, and over the rocks,
My poor little blue van almost hit a fox.

Rolled into the water, but she didn’t swim like an otter,
My poor little blue van, she needed a hand.

My poor little blue van, I’m sorry to say,
My poor little blue van, is not here today.


Ok, so I’m sure all of us are familiar with the kids’ song “On Top of Spaghetti”. The version above is called “On Top of Cape Smokey”, by Carley and Candace Sampson. Let me better explain myself.

Before you all actually gasp in shock and horror thinking that my family rolled down a massive mountain and are still here today to tell the tale, let me just inform you that only the first two lines of that homemade song are true.

When my sisters and I were little, my parents loved to take us camping every summer. We owned one of those hard-top pop-up camper trailers that you hooked to the back of your vehicle, it had two beds and a mini kitchen; the table even turned into a bed. Convenient? I think so. That’s where we usually stuck Chloee (until she was too tall to fit, and I got stuck with the table bed). We adored that old thing; we couldn’t wait until summer rolled around so we could go camping. It would double as a play house in every other season.

I was six years old on this particular camping trip, and we were headed to a camp ground near the Cabot Trail in Cape Breton. To get there, we took the ultra scenic route, which meant tackling Cape Smokey. If you’ve never been, Cape Smokey is the extra-high peak that you drive all the way up and over to get to Ingonish by means of the Cabot Trail. On one side, there are sheer rocky cliffs leading to the sea below, and the drive up is so steep it feels like you are about to rocket into the ocean.

We had our old blue van jam packed with treats, games, camping supplies and my family of five; our camper trailer was being hauled behind us. Our family drives always consisted of my sisters and I belting out lyrics to annoying songs, loudly and obnoxiously counting yellow cars that passed, and playing I-Spy. This trip was no different. But in the midst of our aggravating facades, our old blue van started making noises that it definitely wasn’t supposed to be making. By this point we were almost peaking Cape Smokey.

So we stopped mid-haul and with the whole mountain being probably as steep as the Headwall at Wentworth, my dad had no choice but to stop on the jagged edge that was Cape Smokey.

My dad’s face fell as he got out of the van, trying not to anticipate what could possibly happen to his family, the old crappy van, and our beloved camper. While he was outside trying to fix the unfixable, my mom, terrified and perplexed, was glued to her seat. You could tell she was scared to get out of the van, but scared to stay in it. Chloee, who was three at the time, sat contently in the middle seat, probably taking a nap. Candace and I sat in the back seats; bouncing up and down singing our newly invented song. Mom’s eyes followed our every bounce, as if each one was pushing us closer to the edge of the cliff. We thought it was a big adventure; little did we know how serious the situation actually was.

But not to worry! Ron Sampson pulled through like always. After coming up with a temporary fix to a permanent problem, we were on our way, all fingers crossed and all children bouncing. Needless to say, that blue van never accompanied us on another world-wide adventure. We got a red van afterwards, but that’s a story for another time.

Our treacherous lesson learned, and a phrase still used within the Sampson family today: Once a Lemon, always a Lemon. (See below for definition of a Lemon)


lem·on, or [lem-uh n] if you will.

Your car may be a Lemon if:
It has a defect that "substantially" impairs its use, value or safety. Major things like not being able to go faster than 20 mph, your car not starting when it is hot (or cold) outside, brakes that don't work, not going into gear, trunks that won't stay shut, wobbly steering wheel, drivers seats that won't stay in place, or all above treachery may qualify your car as a Lemon.

Remember the Time?

Time is free, but it’s priceless. You can’t
own it, but you can use it. You can’t keep
it, but you can spend it. Once you’ve lost it
you can never get it back.

Time waits for no one. So why not make the most of it?

Have you ever played the game “remember the time?” Well whenever my sisters and I get together, we are able to play this game for hours. “Remember the time we tried to construct a ladder out of household items and keep it under our bed in case there was a fire and we needed a quick escape?” “Remember the time we drove to Ontario and each had a yellow car count of over 600?” “Remember that time we played walk around the house, I severely cut my leg and mom was too grossed out to pour peroxide over it?” “Or when we had a daily set up of what we called Barbie Land and no one was allowed to clean it up?”

We have way too many memories to talk about in one sitting.

As I’m sitting here thinking about all of these memories, I realize that every childhood memory I have consists of my sisters and our ridiculous, but fabulous times.

Now one thing you have to realize about the Sampson girls is that we’re so much alike, but at the same time, completely different. We are all three years apart and our mother dressed us alike wherever we went. We were often called the Von-Sampson Family Sisters (a mixture of us and the Von-Trap Family Singers from the sound of music). When we were younger, my older sister Candace was considered the perfect one, I was considered the tasmanian devil and my little sister Chloee was just completely content (most of the time). Candace got up in the morning without a hair on her head out of place, bangs perfectly groomed and not a spot on her nightgown. She came prancing down the hall, gracefully and efficiently. I, on the other hand got out of bed looking like I just got hit by a train. My hair was everywhere. I went to bed every night with a clean outfit, and woke up with stains all over it. To this day, I don’t know how that happened. I guess I am ridiculously clumsy. You could hear me coming from a mile away. Like a tornado, I barreled down the hallway, tripping over my nightgown, knocking down everything in my path. And once again, Chloee was just content.

Keeping this in mind, my earliest memory is when I was three, Candace was six, and Chloee was just a baby. Candace woke up and sauntered down the hall. Chloee was up, making an attempt to crawl down the hall. I woke up, bolted down the hall, and knocked Chloee over mid-crawl. I was wearing a light yellow summer nightgown, Candace was wearing the same one, but in blue. We both had little black ballet slippers on. Candace’s hair was smooth and groomed; mine was in a massive high ponytail that tilted to the side with pieces falling every which way.

Both of my parents are from Cape Breton, so naturally, I was brought up listening to The Rankins. As soon as we got to the living room, “Tell My Ma” was playing. Candace and I started dancing and singing. Candace, of course, sang perfectly. I had a massive lisp and couldn’t pronounce anything right. It was a sight for sore eyes.

Candace’s dancing consisted of a six-year-old version of step dancing. So, pretty much fake step dancing. My dancing style consisted of swinging my long ponytail around in circles, side swiping everyone who got too close. As we preformed, Chloee stood holding the side of the coffee table, bobbing up and down drooling profusely. (She had a massive drooling problem).

This is a memory that stands out amongst all others. To this day, we still talk about it at the supper table. This ends in us blaring out all the lyrics to “Tell My Ma” and annoying the hell out of my parents. Oh well, my parents should know by now that we can’t have a quiet family dinner. It’s expected!

Sweet Summertime

I love the outdoors, don’t get me wrong. I probably spent half of my life outside so far. So it’s not that I didn’t have any experiences with nature, it’s that I had so many that it was hard to narrow down my favorite. Then a scene popped into my head and I couldn’t believe I forgot about in the first place. My problem was that I was trying to think of places I visited, places that struck me as beautiful and pure. My memory happened to take me a little closer to home. When I say closer to home, I pretty much mean my backyard.

The best part about being a child is your imagination, and the lengths it goes to for you to experience what you set out to experience. When I was little, the field behind my house was my playground, my restaurant, my home, and the list goes on. I spent hours there, with my sisters, my friends, or alone; letting the tall grass consume me for hours.

The field was a never ending blanket of yellow and green blades of grass, emerging from every direction, but when the sun hit the grass, it looked multicolored. I jumped to see where it ended, but every time I jumped, it seemed to go as far as my eyes could see. The entrance to our field was at the very back of our yard, the trees and bushes framed it perfectly making it look like a door way.

Every summer, my sisters and I used to go into the middle of the field and make a house. But our houses didn’t consist of actual materials; we entered the field empty handed. Who needs supplies when you have an endless imagination? We patted down the grass to make a living room, a dining room, a kitchen, and three bedrooms; one for each of us. If we were feeling like a wealthy family that day, we would even pat down a pool or a massive deck. We would lay there for hours, staring at the translucent sky, discovering different shapes in the clouds and seeing who could make up the best story about them. In these days, our expectations and imaginations were limitless.

The tall, multicolored grass was soft, except for the very tip, which was pretty pointy. When we ran through the field, we could feel how thick the grass was around us. It provided me with the feeling of reliability; I knew it was there and it wasn’t going anywhere. It wouldn’t change if I left and came back the next day; it was familiar.

When the sun was hot, it emphasized the smell of grass. It smelled of the neighboring field’s horses. It smelled like memories, familiarity, and comfort; like everything else around you didn’t matter. If we decided to bring lunch, sandwiches and cookies mixed into all of these smells.

Besides our echoing voices, you could always hear crickets chatting back and forth. Despite these things, it seemed as though the field was soundless, like I was being consumed by a comforting silence. Not a creepy uncomfortable silence, but one that I was excited to hear again.

But as I grew older, I started to realize that I could see the end of the field; it was no longer everlasting. It was then that my visits came to an end. But whenever I experience one of those senses, it brings me racing back to the times when nothing mattered.

Small towns, big dreams

Location: Shubenacadie. Enough said. If you don’t know where this little town is (“town” is definitely exaggerating…more like a tiny settlement) then you really aren’t missing out on anything. If you feel like you ARE missing out, follow the Shubenacadie Wildlife Park signs that begin just past the airport.

I myself am from the pleasant village of Milford, East Hants. If you’ve ever been, you know that jobs in Milford consisted of a gas station, an ice cream store, a co-op, and a farm store. These are the jobs that kids flocked to. When I was in Junior High, a new clothing store plus more opened in Shubenacadie, five minutes away from my house. It was called…wait for it…The Clothing Line. If the name doesn’t leave you wanting more, than I don’t know what will!

My friend Sienade and I were instantly intrigued; a clothing store in East Hants?  It definitely had to be better than pumping gas or scooping ice cream. So I applied and got the job.

The Clothing Line consisted of a starting staff of just 5 people. My boss was 23. Needless to say, the store could have been run a lot more strategically. The store was small, but incredibly lengthily. The cash register was at the front, dressing rooms at the back. The middle of the store was a sea of clothing racks and shelves, all of which I had to tidy and size close to 25-30 times a shift. I was usually paired to work with Sienade, and I guess you could say that we made the most of it. My boss was only there during the days, so we often took advantage of the restaurant next door during our evening shifts, which supplied us with poutine and chicken strips as an evening snack.  I know, I know, how professional of me. But it was just so delicious!

The Clothing Line had its up’s and down’s. One bad part was that the building was about to fall down, so you had to be careful how much you hung on the walls. Another bad part was that kids constantly entered the dressing rooms, locked them from the inside, then squeezed back under them. When we were supposed to start closing the store, I always wondered why there were still people in the dressing rooms. I finally got the better of them by constructing a door un-locking apparatus made of hangers.

An upside to working at this run-down building was that you knew everyone who shopped there. Friends and family, but also the man who didn’t shower, and the lady next door who didn’t own a pair of shoes and instead had an intense slipper collection. I learned a valuable lesson that year: know your audience, and always carry hand sanitizer.

One of the most memorable times at The Clothing Line was when an older lady came in and asked if I got my hideous blue uniform shirt at our store. I was happy to give her the one of my back. She thought I was a saint. A win-win situation.

Now, I know you will all be extremely disappointed to hear this, but The Clothing Line is now closed, and has been for 4 years now. I guess they just couldn’t handle business without me! Or the building got extremely contaminated. Despite the bizarre customers and constant mishaps, working here was an absolute blast.

I am who I am

“So Carley, tell me a little bit about yourself”.

This statement seems as though it would be relatively easy to answer, but where do you start? We usually resort to the elevator speech, which is what PR taught us to use when a perspective employer sparks this question in an interview. So here goes. My name is Carley Sampson, from the tiny town of Milford, East Hants. I have two sisters, one older, one younger (one could say I’m the rose between two thorns (-:  ), and I’m a public relations student and…oh look at that, the elevator has stopped at my floor, seeya later! But who am I really, beyond the elevator small talk?

Now, let me base my mumbo-jumbo on one of my favorite quotes: “I’m selfish, impatient, and a little insecure. I make mistakes. I’m out of control and sometimes hard to handle. But if you can’t handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don’t deserve me at my best.” This of course is by Marilyn Munroe; smart lady!

To put it quite frankly, I’m lots of things; something different to everyone. I’m a daughter, a sister, a friend, a student, an employee. I’m awkward, enthusiastic, caring, and extremely impatient. I’m clumsy, unpredictable, understanding, and a little intense. I have strengths, I have weaknesses. I have successes, and I have failures. I’m confident, but insecure. I have goals for the future, but I’m nervous for what is to come. Despite this varied list of qualities, I was loved unconditionally as a child, and I wouldn’t change it for the world.

My parents taught me up from down, and right from wrong, because let’s face it: I could be living on a ceiling on the wrong side of the world if it weren’t for them! They had a few favorite values to instill in us three girls. The famous “treat others the way you want to be treated”, be yourself, and follow your heart, but in an orderly and organized fashion of course (my mom loves organizing things, give her a messy kitchen and she’s in her glory).

When I think about certain situations that I’ve encountered in my life, circumstances that I’ve run into, and relationships that I have formed; I realize that who I am today is a direct reflection of my upbringing. From the time when I was little and lied about eating all of the cookie dough, to deciding on what program I wanted to take in school, my parents have been there to teach me the confusing, yet fascinating ropes of life. I should probably thank them for putting up with me, because let’s face it… I can be prettttty difficult to deal with!

So when I think about what matters most to me, it would most definitely be the values and lessons I’ve accumulated over the years being the rose between two thorns…*cough*…I mean the sister of two wonderful gal’s. (Sorry Candace and Chloee!) And being the daughter of two amazing (yet insane for putting up with me) parents.

My parents are the two most inspiring, motivating, and caring people I know, so I’d like to say that I’m learning from the best. Some say if you want to see how you’ll turn out in the future, look at your parents. Let’s hope that isn’t the case. HA joking! If I turn out anything like mine, I’ll consider myself a pretty lucky gal.

With all of this being said, I guess you could say that I’m still getting to know myself, and I’m completely ok with that. But I know what matters the most to me, and for now, that’s all that matters.