Life is Your Story

IT'S 1983 AND MY BROTHER CHUCK AND I ARE LATE FOR SCHOOL (AGAIN). FORTUNATELY FOR US AND UNFORTUNATELY FOR OUR MOTHER, WE HAVE THE KEYS TO HER CAR. OFF WE GO, ON A LONG ROAD TRIP (OF 5 MINUTES IN THE VAST LAND KNOWN AS COHEN -SAINT-LUC OR COTE-SAINT-LUC) TO WAGAR HIGH WHERE WE HAVE BEEN ATTENDING SCHOOL SINCE GRADE 8. CHUCK PULLS INTO THE LOT WITH A SIGN CLEARLY STATING "FOR TEACHERS ONLY" BECAUSE HE IS CHUCK. OUR FRIENDS (MOST OF WHOM WE HAVE IN COMMON) ARE STANDING AT THE SIDE ENTRANCE SMOKING CIGARETTES OR PRETENDING TO SMOKE CIGARETTES (MARLBORO RED PURCHASED ON A DAY TRIP TO PLATTSBURGH).  HOMEROOM IS GYM CLASS SO WE SNEAK IN WITH OUR SWEATPANTS OVER OUR JEANS AND START A SLOW JOG AMONGST OUR CLASSMATES WHO SHOWED UP ON TIME. MORNING DRAGS ON AND WE CAN'T WAIT FOR THE LUNCH BELL TO RING SO WE CAN SQUEEZE INTO ONE CAR AND HEAD TO LAFLEUR FOR A WELL BALANCED MEAL OF FRENCH FRIES (THAT WILL SWEAT PROFUSELY THROGH THE BROWN PAPER BAG). LATER IN THE AFTERNOON, AS LAST

 I’m 16, hopping fences, one backyard to the next. It’s Fall and the air is hinting that winter is on its way. It’s one of those nights when you can smell everyone’s dinner cooking. It’s dark out, earlier than the previous month and the kitchen lights are on. I can see entire families seated at the table, eating, talking, enjoying the end of another day together. I see single people alone, watching TV, eating slowly, stepping outside of themselves, wondering, when this became their nightly routine and how they ending up alone. I reach my house and enter the back door that we keep open because I am always losing or forgetting my keys. There are meals prepared for the week by my mother. My parents are both working, and my brothers are nowhere in sight. I warm up some chicken and rice and I am just about to chow down when the phone starts ringing, back in the day when everyone had a “land line” and if you were talking and someone else was trying to reach you, well they got a “busy” signal

  I remember the sound of the ball coming in contact with the bat. The wood bats had a hallow kind of smack, while the aluminum had a ping. I remember the lamplights turning on, slowly, hesitantly flickering before reaching their full strength, the moths dancing in the warm spotlight. I grew up in a small white house, along with my two brothers, on a one-way street called Wentworth. The park was our backyard. It’s where we learned how to play basketball, baseball, hockey and how to look out for one another. Our parents worked several jobs to make ends meet. We lived a simple yet fulfilled life. We were kids with 3 baseball diamonds, two basketball courts, a shack to play “wall ball” against, a jogging path behind Diamond 2, a playground beyond that, and our very first school, Wentworth School across the street, beside yet another landmark, Blossom Pool. We had a neighbour who talked to the bus drivers, whose rest stop was in front of our house. His name was John “Babe” Learie. He also

What I would give for one more moment... In the car with my parents and brothers listening to Genesis, Styx, Fleetwood Mac on a family vacation. My  father  at the wheel young and healthy, telling us jokes and my mother at ease by his side loving life, loving us and forever  moving  forward with her hand closed around mine. Friday night dinner with my grandparents, at the table looking around at all of our faces and listening to our stories, laughing, smiling  already  having learned  the  art of treasuring every moment as if it is your last.  The first time I fell in love without questioning that love, without feeling like I was falling but like I was floating, rising above everything to a place of wonderment and acceptance; a place that felt like no other.                       In the country walking, running with all of the dogs that have enriched my life, and shown me love in a way I would have otherwise never experienced. The precious time before their sudden exi