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 also

If you are middle aged, chances are you have already experienced saying goodbye to the house you grew up in. Often as in the case of my family, one parent passes away and the other (after 50 years) decides to downsize, move to an apartment and leave the ghosts behind. But you never really leave those ghosts behind because the house you grew up in will always be the house you grew up in. The walls have memories. The shadows that have been casted upon them remain although they change shape over time. Ask anyone which rooms hold the most memories and they will probably say “my bedroom and the kitchen.” Your bedroom kept your secrets, the dreams of your first crush, first kiss, the private telephone conversations that lasted for hours, the homework left stale because you decided watching TV or staring out the window in oblivion, was a better use of your time, the sleepovers, the first boyfriend/girlfriend who shared your bed, skin to skin, a feeling like no other. Your