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It's amazing how a certain some thing along the way, a curve in the road, the look of a particular stretch of highway can initiate a memory.
I was driving from work to the Eaton Centre today. And then back. And I took a certain route that took me straight through the neighborhood my dad used to work in, right past the K-8 inner-city public school where he spent the better part of my life working - 16 years. And I instantly remembered something I hadn't thought of in years. Maybe once or twice a year we would ask my dad, "Can I come to school with you," and he'd say yes. I don't remember him ever saying no. But we didn't go that much. So somehow, my brother and I asked little enough that it wasn't something that ever needed to be discussed much. Little enough that it was a special day for sure. My dad would pull us out of school, and we'd get to get up with him when it was still dark out. He would make us a piece of toast or two while he drank his coffee. Not like Mom who would make toast but also cereal or eggo's and oh my god, my mom let us eat pizza pops for breakfast. And then we'd take the GO train together into the city. Sometimes people knew him and I thought that was great. This was back in the day when teachers had to wear cufflinks and ties. He'd leave you alone in the woodshop while he went and grabbed whatever group of unruly 12 and 13 year olds he was expanding the polytechnical skills of. And I'd get nervous, because I would be the center of attention if only for a moment. But the kids were always super nice to me, and they liked my dad. And you got to have a special lunch together at the Berkley Bistro, just the two of you. And there it was, still in business.
The drive between Trafalgar Road in Oakville and the studio where I work, or vice versa. Specifically in rush hour traffic. Certain landmarks... I can't help but be reminded of a certain day or a certain moment during that year where I made the commute, my first year and my current job, my first career. Because that was where i was when I had a conversation on the phone, or had heard a serious piece of news on the radio, or been stuck in this stretch for a very long time that day the produce truck rolled heading eastbound. I think about how scared I was some days, or how angry. How late it was some nights, or how early. It was during that first year after mom had passed away, when I was still trying to figure out how to be independent and really just how to operate. It makes me think of the apartment I shared with Justin on Speers Road, big and bright and very high up. With the fireplace and bright yellow walls. It makes me remember that while we weren't right for eachother, Justin did an incredible job of creating a home for me. And that while there are some days and nights that year that I'd really rather not remember, we stayed as long as we did because we had great friends and a great view.
In a week or so, I'll get up at 6 (if I have not been too excited to sleep) and have a shower. And I'll have a slightly-bigger-than-normal purse all packed with my passport and my cell phone and a folder with laser printed maps and emails, with flight numbers and phone numbers. I'll make a big mug of tea and tidy up my place one last time before settling into the drivers seat and heading up Bathurst, west on Eglinton, up the Allen, and up and around the top of the city, and down down down all the way to the Buffalo Airport to pick up Eric. I'll listen to RadioLab and not the CBC because it's a weekday and much earlier than I normally listen to the CBC and thusly NOT The Current and something far less compelling.
Conversely, if I'm ever out super late at night and then drive home in Toronto, I catch CBC radio one Overnight, I smile to myself and get the feeling of driving down to the Buffalo airport between 1:00 and 5:00 a.m. having not slept a wink.
And I'll be nervous and excited and maybe, even literally, squeal. Because I'll get to be loved like crazy for a few days or a week or a few weeks or whatever, and have hugs, because while Eric and I have a lot going for us, hugs are not in our 'strengths' column. And because I have never had fun in my life the way that I do when I'm with him, and it's his birthday. But as I see all the familiar landmarks I'll inevitably be remembering other drives. The skyway bridge over Hamilton. The ugly shipwreck. That restaurant (greek or something) that I've always been thinking of trying, you know, the one right on the lake off the 420. And I'll be thinking about times when the bag I was bringing was much bigger, times when it's been very snowy, very risky, very late, or a 2:00 a.m. time with my gullet full of cauterized stitches and my purse full of percocet. But these drives, when I'm excited and nervous and have been counting the hours for days and just ready to burst - these are probably some of my most happy times. Sometimes I'm bringing someone home to share my world with, to contaminate my normal with extraordinary. Sometimes I'm off to visit somewhere I've never been, or somewhere that's become as familiar and comfortable to me as a cottage, where someone who cares for me immensely will take the greatest of care of me. Before we meet the possibilities are endless, and I enjoy the feeling of not worrying about how much time we have left.
But that drive home... while it is occasionally unpleasant (about 33% of the time) it reminds me of something else altogether. August has always been a really funny month for me. It's my favourite as far as weather goes (September a close second) and the month as a child during which I was always happiest. Simple: August = camp, cottage, cousins. But I always had a really, really hard time coming home from our place in New Hampshire. I didn't connect with that part of my family often and when we did, I always felt such a strong sense of protection and belonging. I still do. And we had so much fun. We still do! I often cried on our way down the mountain, or up the dirt road from the lake. Still do that too! And I feel like crap all the way home because if I'm seeing these things, Bennington VT, Schnectady and Troy, Bob's Big Boy, then summer is definitely over.
But then you'd kind of resign to it. The day would wear on and on and on and after 7 hours, no matter what, you'd be totally ready to be home. You'd remember the cat, and the television, and the food you were used to, and the bed you hadn't slept in in a month. And you'd remember that you were kind of okay with going back to school cause you were 9, and had friends, or were starting juniour high. And for me, this always used to happen around the time you'd cross the Lewiston Bridge back to Canada. It's always late, and hot, the border guard is always cranky and you always have something to do tomorrow. But the look of that bridge heading north, and the border guards, they always bring me back to those long drives with my family and getting excited to see my hometown after sometimes six weeks away. Lying on my back on top of my sleeping bag across the bench seat of the Dodge Caravan, watching the way the light from the street lamps made shadows that pivoted and stretched as we drove home.
I was driving from work to the Eaton Centre today. And then back. And I took a certain route that took me straight through the neighborhood my dad used to work in, right past the K-8 inner-city public school where he spent the better part of my life working - 16 years. And I instantly remembered something I hadn't thought of in years. Maybe once or twice a year we would ask my dad, "Can I come to school with you," and he'd say yes. I don't remember him ever saying no. But we didn't go that much. So somehow, my brother and I asked little enough that it wasn't something that ever needed to be discussed much. Little enough that it was a special day for sure. My dad would pull us out of school, and we'd get to get up with him when it was still dark out. He would make us a piece of toast or two while he drank his coffee. Not like Mom who would make toast but also cereal or eggo's and oh my god, my mom let us eat pizza pops for breakfast. And then we'd take the GO train together into the city. Sometimes people knew him and I thought that was great. This was back in the day when teachers had to wear cufflinks and ties. He'd leave you alone in the woodshop while he went and grabbed whatever group of unruly 12 and 13 year olds he was expanding the polytechnical skills of. And I'd get nervous, because I would be the center of attention if only for a moment. But the kids were always super nice to me, and they liked my dad. And you got to have a special lunch together at the Berkley Bistro, just the two of you. And there it was, still in business.
The drive between Trafalgar Road in Oakville and the studio where I work, or vice versa. Specifically in rush hour traffic. Certain landmarks... I can't help but be reminded of a certain day or a certain moment during that year where I made the commute, my first year and my current job, my first career. Because that was where i was when I had a conversation on the phone, or had heard a serious piece of news on the radio, or been stuck in this stretch for a very long time that day the produce truck rolled heading eastbound. I think about how scared I was some days, or how angry. How late it was some nights, or how early. It was during that first year after mom had passed away, when I was still trying to figure out how to be independent and really just how to operate. It makes me think of the apartment I shared with Justin on Speers Road, big and bright and very high up. With the fireplace and bright yellow walls. It makes me remember that while we weren't right for eachother, Justin did an incredible job of creating a home for me. And that while there are some days and nights that year that I'd really rather not remember, we stayed as long as we did because we had great friends and a great view.
In a week or so, I'll get up at 6 (if I have not been too excited to sleep) and have a shower. And I'll have a slightly-bigger-than-normal purse all packed with my passport and my cell phone and a folder with laser printed maps and emails, with flight numbers and phone numbers. I'll make a big mug of tea and tidy up my place one last time before settling into the drivers seat and heading up Bathurst, west on Eglinton, up the Allen, and up and around the top of the city, and down down down all the way to the Buffalo Airport to pick up Eric. I'll listen to RadioLab and not the CBC because it's a weekday and much earlier than I normally listen to the CBC and thusly NOT The Current and something far less compelling.
Conversely, if I'm ever out super late at night and then drive home in Toronto, I catch CBC radio one Overnight, I smile to myself and get the feeling of driving down to the Buffalo airport between 1:00 and 5:00 a.m. having not slept a wink.
And I'll be nervous and excited and maybe, even literally, squeal. Because I'll get to be loved like crazy for a few days or a week or a few weeks or whatever, and have hugs, because while Eric and I have a lot going for us, hugs are not in our 'strengths' column. And because I have never had fun in my life the way that I do when I'm with him, and it's his birthday. But as I see all the familiar landmarks I'll inevitably be remembering other drives. The skyway bridge over Hamilton. The ugly shipwreck. That restaurant (greek or something) that I've always been thinking of trying, you know, the one right on the lake off the 420. And I'll be thinking about times when the bag I was bringing was much bigger, times when it's been very snowy, very risky, very late, or a 2:00 a.m. time with my gullet full of cauterized stitches and my purse full of percocet. But these drives, when I'm excited and nervous and have been counting the hours for days and just ready to burst - these are probably some of my most happy times. Sometimes I'm bringing someone home to share my world with, to contaminate my normal with extraordinary. Sometimes I'm off to visit somewhere I've never been, or somewhere that's become as familiar and comfortable to me as a cottage, where someone who cares for me immensely will take the greatest of care of me. Before we meet the possibilities are endless, and I enjoy the feeling of not worrying about how much time we have left.
But that drive home... while it is occasionally unpleasant (about 33% of the time) it reminds me of something else altogether. August has always been a really funny month for me. It's my favourite as far as weather goes (September a close second) and the month as a child during which I was always happiest. Simple: August = camp, cottage, cousins. But I always had a really, really hard time coming home from our place in New Hampshire. I didn't connect with that part of my family often and when we did, I always felt such a strong sense of protection and belonging. I still do. And we had so much fun. We still do! I often cried on our way down the mountain, or up the dirt road from the lake. Still do that too! And I feel like crap all the way home because if I'm seeing these things, Bennington VT, Schnectady and Troy, Bob's Big Boy, then summer is definitely over.
But then you'd kind of resign to it. The day would wear on and on and on and after 7 hours, no matter what, you'd be totally ready to be home. You'd remember the cat, and the television, and the food you were used to, and the bed you hadn't slept in in a month. And you'd remember that you were kind of okay with going back to school cause you were 9, and had friends, or were starting juniour high. And for me, this always used to happen around the time you'd cross the Lewiston Bridge back to Canada. It's always late, and hot, the border guard is always cranky and you always have something to do tomorrow. But the look of that bridge heading north, and the border guards, they always bring me back to those long drives with my family and getting excited to see my hometown after sometimes six weeks away. Lying on my back on top of my sleeping bag across the bench seat of the Dodge Caravan, watching the way the light from the street lamps made shadows that pivoted and stretched as we drove home.
chipper
peaceful
cynical
silly
enthusiastic
quiet
early-stage hangover
