In memory of Matthew Gick
In a small town, getting a new puppy isn’t just an addition to one household—it’s the arrival of a new citizen. Four-legged residents are as celebrated as any human here, often more so. They’re part of the daily landscape: Herb McGee’s blue heeler, Diesel, is known for his athleticism and statuesque poise on his Water Street lawn. Janet Cranford’s White Highland Terrier, Neo, strolls the business district like a seasoned flâneur. And Marilyn McFarlane-Johnston’s miniature pinscher, Cuddles—undeniably the Kate Moss of canines—parades through the post office in bold seasonal outfits, defying her size with style.
When my husband Patrick and I brought Maud home, introducing her to the community felt less like a choice and more like a rite of passage—for all three of us. The Saint Andrews St. Patrick’s Day Parade, a charming, homegrown tradition, seemed like the perfect occasion. After all, it had special meaning to us already.
Unlike the town’s grander Canada Day celebrations, the St. Patrick’s Day Parade is quieter, stitched into the fabric of the off-season. The parade has an intimacy that has made it beloved by the locals, especially those of us who not only summer in Saint Andrews but winter here too. There are often more participants than spectators given its March date, and many of them—thanks to the event doubling as a fundraiser for the local animal shelter—have tails.
The parade was the brainchild of Matt Gick, whose infectious enthusiasm could make anyone feel Irish for a day. He gathered neighbours, costumed pets, and even Civil War Irish Brigade re-enactors to march together down Water Street. It was grassroots in the best way: low-budget, lovingly mismatched, and deeply meaningful.
When I came home to Saint Andrews in my mid-30s, I was unsure of how long I’d stay. Doing journalism in Montreal and Toronto had worn me down—physically and emotionally. An infection I got while covering a beauty story for a fashion magazine had made half my hair fall out. I returned to the Maritimes to heal, to let my hair grow back before heading again to Toronto. But even though I wasn’t planning on staying, I fell in love with the Saint Andrews of my childhood and discovered the shoulder-season treasures I had always missed while living away. Until then, I’d usually only made it home for Christmas.
Helping my dad prepare his yearly “float”—a wheelbarrow full of potatoes and a green sweater—anchored me in a way I didn’t expect. He was proud. I was proud. And I wore a green wig that day, more for myself than for the occasion. It felt like a small shield, letting me enjoy the moment without worrying who noticed the bald spots.
That was the year I met Patrick. I didn’t know it at the time, but I noticed the cameraman darting ahead of the parade, capturing every moment with a focus and reverence that made us all feel like we were part of something bigger. It may as well have been the Macy’s Day Parade in Manhattan. Matt spotted him too and asked if he’d interview the re-enactors.
“I’m solo,” Patrick replied. “No journalist with me today.”
“Vicki’s a journalist,” Matt said, almost too casually. “She can help you.”
The truth was, I hadn’t felt like one in a while. With my buzzed, uneven hair and a shrinking portfolio of freelance assignments, I felt like I was reporting from the outskirts of my former life. Still, I took the mic. I asked questions. I laughed. And something shifted. Later, Patrick invited me to visit the TV station in town. He didn’t ask about my headband or the patchiness beneath it. He just saw someone who had a passion for storytelling.
Over time, we fell in love, and, soon after, he brought Maud into our lives, thinking—correctly—that a puppy might help soothe the residual anxiety my hair loss had left behind. By the time Maud and I walked in the next St. Patrick’s Day Parade together, I only had to wear a green scarf to cover up the last remaining bald patches. My hair was growing back almost as fast as my community spirit.
There’s a photograph of us from that day—Maud’s paw lifted in a wave, the crowd waving back. I knew then that I wasn’t just living here. I belonged here. Saint Andrews had welcomed me not in spite of my brokenness, but because of it. And in turn, I’d found the space to become whole again.
Patrick still filmed the parade that year, but now with a journalist by his side. We had found our rhythm, both in work and in life. And Maud made us a family.
In towns like this, parades aren’t about spectacle. They’re about presence. People show up not to see floats, but to see each other. My father’s wheelbarrow of potatoes didn’t need bells and whistles to make the cover of the newspaper. He just had to show up and care. And in doing so, he became part of the story we all tell about ourselves.
I think of Matt often these days. We lost him unexpectedly this year. In a small town, grief isn’t private. We mourn communally, because when someone like Matt is gone, the town feels slightly less like itself. But when the pain begins to subside, we can start to see that he is still here with us—in the shape of the parade he built, in the lives he brought together, in the connections he sparked without ceremony. The moment that sparked the creation of my own family, after all, was all because of Matt.
This March, I’ll walk again in the St. Patrick’s Day Parade. I’ll walk with Maud, and with Patrick, and with the memory of Matt—whose belief in the everyday magic of community continues to guide us forward.
