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 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 a...

Circa 1990... So George Clooney calls me. He's coming to town (as in Montreal) and he's heard about this fantastic mystical place called The Cavendish Mall. He asks if I can pick him up at the airport and take him there. So I step out into the fine season of winter that embraces Montreal in all its wrath and builds character in our tribe, and I get into my car wondering what I am going to say to George when he walks through those sliding doors at the airport.  Then I think about all the times I walked through those doors returning home from various travels and always having someone waiting for me on the other side - often with a kiss, a hug and sometimes even flowers.  And then I thought of all the times I stood waiting for a loved one to arrive and of all the sad faces on the people who came through those doors having no one waiting for them on the other side. Yeah so I get into my truck and it stalls and then it stalls again and George is on his way in. I can't b...