A very, very long time ago, in a place far, far away I bought a cabin. It was built of huge logs harvested on the property. The road a faint path grown over with years of neglect. It stood alone quietly facing a small lake in Northern Saskatchewan. The windows obscured with the dust of many years. Velvety moss covered the stone doorstep. Over the door a sign ALWAYS WELCOME STRANGERS THEY MAY BE ANGELS. I bought my cabin never stepping inside.
Later when I picked up the key I learned the history of my cabin. It had been built in the early Twenties. When World War Two was declared in September l939 the son of the owners enlisted. He never came home. His parents never returned to their cabin. Twenty-Two years later I walked into a time capsule. It was as if they had simple closed the door and gone for a stroll. I kept the iron beds. The “crazy ” patchwork quilts. The kettle for heating water. The Union Jack to hang on the flag pole. The tiny child’s wooden boat. I kept the sign over the door.
Thus began my fascination with angels. I was fascinated with the concept of entertaining angels unaware. Their wings. What do angels do with their wings? Tuck them under their coats? Hang them at the door? The Christmas issues of my French magazines always featured angel wings in their decor. Hanging over mirrors. On the backs of chairs. Now I was obsessed with finding angel wings. Not flimsy cartoon versions of wings, but big, white wings with feathers.
It was in July of the past summer when I walked into our Ladner Thrift Shop and discovered my angel wings. They were hanging with children’s costumes. Teary eyed I stroked the feathers. They were perfect . They were my long sought after angel wings.
They hang surrounded by all things French . The setting is perfect. My angel wings catch the early morning sun and in the evening tiny fairy lights light up the night. I remember the sign from long ago. I live in hope remembering the cabin sign. Welcome strangers for some have entertained angels unawares.