The Girl

A snowstorm was raging one night I rode the bus back to Timmins from Haileybury. Marc had quit, taking my steady ride back and forth from home with him. It was close to Christmas, so the bus was fuller than usual. A classmate was riding home with me, sitting next to me in the last seat at the back of the bus. I was not impressed. I smelled back there whenever the bathroom door opened. When it wasn’t, the upholstery smelled of caustic chemicals, of cigarettes and of melted snow and sweat. I watched the snow rush past the high window, half hidden by the beads and streaks of condensation.
We pulled into New Liskeard, a few people disembarked, pulling up their hoods of their parks before braving that wind. More than a few climbed up and inched down the aisle, scanning the seats as they shuffled to the rear. Before long there were no more and a girl even younger than I was left surveying the already full three-seater me and my classmate were on.
“Can I sit with you guys?” she asked.
We, each of us, looked at the already full seat, and at the occupied seats ahead of us all the way to the front. At the scruffy guy who shared our seat. She was pretty. We made room and she slid in between us.
She was talkative, going on about her trip to Timmins, how this was the first time she’d been on the bus, asking us where we were from. Where we were going. The fourth in our seat moved up when a seat came open at the next stop. She could have, but she didn’t. The ice broken, she opted to remain with us. She got up to use the bathroom. Asked us to watch her things. The door closed behind her, my classmate rolled his eyes and commented on how she never shut up. I shrugged. She was not hard to look at, and she helped pass the time, I said. You can have her, then, he said, curing up in the corner and pretending to nap, leaving ample room for her between us once she returned.
“I bet you like to travel,” she said to me when she returned.
I smiled. “Me? I’ve never been anywhere,” I said.
“But you like to, don’t you?” she said.
I nodded, not sure what else to do.
“I thought so,” she said. “I can always tell.” Then she said, “I’m psychic, that way.”
I thought the statement ludicrous, then. But even then I was beginning to wonder what was over the horizon. I hated where I was, that was sure.
She settled in closer to me, leaning into me, beginning to talk herself out. Her voice went soft after a while, only she and I witness to our now quiet concentration. She told me about how crappy her family was, how she wished she too could get up and go, and how lucky I was to travel, to be independent and out on my own, and how she only wished she could be as adventuresome.
After a while, she said she was tired, and asked if she could lay her head on my shoulder. I felt her nuzzle into me. I felt her fall asleep.
I think she was more adventuresome than she imagined herself to be. I’d never met a girl like her till then, and wouldn’t again until Debbie.

Dance Hall Daze

We finally took over running the dances.

Of course, there came a time when my grade became the seniors, Grade 12, and 13. Were we the role models one would expect of such mature individuals? We who cursed throughout our high school years, gambled in the halls, were nearly expelled, raced about town, spent all our money on gas, and video games and LPs? We rose to the occasion, as you’d imagine.

I recall Sean Quinn spinning a few dances. I remember Chris Cooper doing the same. Where did they get the music? Did the school have an album collection? I don’t think so. It did have its own sound system or lights, as far as I remember, but I won’t say that under oath. So where did all that music come from. From us. Chris had oodles of albums, milk cartons full of them. We all did. (Personally, I didn’t have any milk cartons, although I was always on the look-out for them, if never actually laying my hands on them; the world had gone metric, and the new ones weren’t compatible to LPs.) But not one of us had enough to run a dance with. There were too many types of music for one person to have copies of everything everyone wanted. So, we pitched in, much like, I believe, all the disk jockeys prior to us must have done. I remember Chris borrowing a number of albums from me, from Mark Charette, Garry Martin, and John Lavric, as well. And I recall the dances being as good as all the others we’d attended, but different. We spent as much time behind the table as in front of it. Well, they did. I’d hang out there with them, but I wanted to be dancing. I wanted to have my arms around a girl.

The Christmas dance was our finest hour. It was hopefully going to be the best one yet. We all helped to hang decorations, set out the chairs and such. And when all was in place, we still had hours to spare.

I went home to get myself all dolled up. Silk shirt. Parfumed. Probably Hai Karate!

Chris and John went over to Dan Loreto’s house. I suppose they may have gone home first. I suppose they must have eaten something. I do know that Mario Loreto Sr. fed them homemade wine. John, from what I gather, understood homemade hooch. Chris did not. Mr. Loreto handed them small glasses of homemade wine, strong as moonshine, light on the tongue as air. They had one, then another. John begged off a third; Chris did not. I don’t know how many glasses slipped past Chris’s lips, but there were more than a few; there must have been. Undoubtedly, more than enough. Because those glasses did not hit Chris directly. It was a brutally cold night. And Chris and John and Dan were numb with it.

Their supper finished, the wine drunk, they made their way to the school, in advance of we participants, to deliver the music and begin the night’s festivities. And that’s when the wine hit Chris. To say it hit him like a ton of bricks sounds like a cliché, but you’d have to have seen Chris, and not fail to imagine that Monty Python 16-ton weight not resting atop him.

I arrived. The music was playing, newish stuff that no one danced to yet, but familiar enough that it set the mood, got people excited, got their feet tapping and their adrenaline pumping. It was loud, spilling out into the hallway from the gym, into the hallway, out through the door and into the street. I stowed my parka in my locker, changed from boots to shoes and began to make my way to the gym.

That’s when I saw Chris, held aloft between John and Dan, headed toward me and away from the gym. Chris was polluted. No doubt about it. He was drunker than I’d ever seen him.

“Jesus H. Christ,” I said, like any good Catholic boy would say within the confines of a Catholic school, “what the fuck happened?”

John was calm. He also wore a grin that stretched from ear to ear. But he was calm. “Well…” he said, drawing that out with a chuckle trailing after it, “Chris dipped into the pot a few times too many.” He explained what had happened, how it happened and when it happened. And he said that Chris was okay when he left the Loreto’s, but upon leaving, he declared that he may have had a little too much wine. They bought him some coffee somewhere, but it had little effect. Chris was getting drunker by the minute, beginning to stammer, weaving on his feet. But what was to be done? The dance was about to begin. They drove to the school, Chris claiming that he would be alright the whole way, an obvious lie by all reckoning, but duty called. And Chris was never one to shirk his duty. Back out in the cold, he seemed to get a little better. Hope prevailed. Not enough, but, one can always fall back on hope when all else fails.

They thought we could cover for him. There was John, Garry, Renato, Anthony Lionello, Sean Quinn, and hell, there was even me, who could pitch in and get Chris through this nightmare. We could feed him albums, spin them for him with a little coaching. It was going to be alright, they told themselves. Hope prevails.

Of course, once they got Chris to the gym, and into his seat behind the turntables, the heat hit him anew, and it was obvious that Chris ought not to be in faculty’s view. So, they needed to get him outside, and most likely home, before all went awry.

And that’s when I came in.

“All we need to do,” said John, “is to get Chris a little air,” bustling past me.

And right into Sister Fay.

She looked Chris up and down, and inquired as to Chris’s state.

“He’s just a little under the weather, Sister,” John explained.

Sister Fay was not convinced, I imagine.

Chris looked up, took the principal in, and said, “Oh, hello, Sister.”

And promptly threw up all over Sister Fays’ shoes.

She was horrified. We were horrified. We also had to bite our cheeks to keep from bursting out laughing.

Somehow, she allowed that he had the flu, even though the smell of wine was rising from his pores in a flood.

How’d the dance turn out?

It was one for the books!

Pitfalls of Peers

We were all trying to find our way through those formative years, some more successfully than others. Friendships were reassessed, and we are all shuffling whom we hang out with.

We all learn new things, adapting as we go. Learning about ourselves, too.

John Lavric introduced me to punk and metal. Punk stuck. Chris Cooper opened my eyes to Ska Revival, Reggae, and Post Punk. Garry Martin loved New Wave. Garry was a bit restless, always in need of motion. New Wave and dancing was a pressure release valve. Dan Loreto was very much a Classic Rock guy. John, Renato Romey, Roger Rheault and Mark Charette had cars. I did not. There were girls. There were bullies. So much to absorb, so much to assimilate.

How did I do at negotiating those pitfalls? I have my opinion on that, but you be the judge.

One day I was walking towards the school, up Joseph, with two of the aforementioned gamblers (see earlier memory, gambling in high school). We were in sight of the school, literally at the corner of the “senior” building, when suddenly the two of them jumped me, trying to wrestle me, and at times throw me, to the ground. I gripped them, then I somehow (I’ve no idea how I managed it) managed to get both in a headlock, and we hit the ground together, probably not what they’d been expecting. They struggled. I held on. From what I could see, they were turning red. “Are we done yet?” I asked. They said we were, and I let go of them. Upon rising, I saw other members of their steady clique further on. That should have told me something. But I brushed that bit of foreshadowing aside. They said we were done, and so I thought we were, until I’d learned otherwise. I refer to the night they took me to the cleaners.

After they took me to the cleaners, there was a spat of punching. I don’t know who started it, or why, but I understand the whole alpha male posturing thing now. Only the jocks and toughs participated. But I did, too, once. I agreed to this to vent my rage on one of the gamblers. Stupid, really. The rules: Each took his turn, balling up his fist and driving it into the fleshy bit of the other’s shoulder. The scrappers pulled this off with a rapidity and an accuracy that boggled the mind. Was I good at it? No. I was never a fighter. But I did connect solidly a few times. I know I did because I heard it. Most of mine were glancing blows, though. Not so the other guy, who took the time to aim, and he punched me repeatedly. I was bruised and sore for days on end afterward. But they did leave me alone, after that.

As I said, there were girls. Crushes and likes included Sandra, Dawn, Patricia, Gretchen, Mona, Elaine, and Carole, among others. I suppose we all fell in and out of love with dizzying regularity. I discovered young love makes one stupid, though, gullible in one’s aim to please.

Carole asked me if I wanted to play a game. I was flattered and agreed. She pulled out a quarter and traced its edge on a piece of paper (then palmed the original coin, unseen, and produced a new clean coin), then said all you have to do is roll this coin off your face onto the pencil circle and you win the quarter. She proceeded to do so. Her coin landed outside the circle. It’s hard to do, she said. She traced the coin again, telling me it got easier with more circles.

So, I rolled it off my nose. Missed. She traced it again. I passed the coin to her but she said she’d already done it and wanted to see if I could beat her time. Of course, the rules said I could not roll the coin off the same spot, so I tried off my cheek. Missed again. Repeat a few more times.

A crowd had gathered, a teacher among them. After a few more attempts, Paula Soucie looked in, and gasped.

“David, you need to stop this, right now,” she told me.

I was obviously confused so she took me by the arm and lifted me from my seat, and said, “You need to stop this and wash your face.”

I was then surrounded by laughter.

Paula threw a look of disgust at the assembled onlookers. And an even more vicious one at Carol.

As we left the room, Paula explained the trick I had been a victim of. Shocked, I hid my face and rushed past those giggling faces in the hall until I reached the bathroom.

I looked on my pencil marked, crisscrossed face in the mirror.

Crush ended. In a heartbeat.

The Route Downtown

I’d walked to and from the downtown core so many times over the years while growing up on Hart Street, I could walk it in my sleep. And have.

The route I took passed through much of the “old town,” so there were a lot of back lanes, and I put them to good use. I probably shaved about 5 minutes off my time, considering the wide arcs I’d have had to walk round were they not there. Before I’d make the trek, either to or from, I’d check the time. The Howard-Lee bus departed from the depot every half hour back then, not like now, when the bus departs every hour (no wonder no one takes it anymore, given the inconvenience of the service, nowadays; I could rant on this for a while, but I doubt the town would waver from its tired old use-it-or-lose-it arguments). If the bus was due to leave downtown, or arrive at my bus stop within 10 minutes, I would take it; otherwise, I would begin walking. I walked fairly fast, back then (I suppose most adolescents do, having litres of adrenaline and hormones to burn off), and if I had a head start on the bus, I would usually beat it to my destination, or arrive at about the same time. That was a fare saved, a huge deal when existing on a limited allowance, or working for less than minimum wage, later on (more on that in memories to come). One had to count one’s pennies if they were to add up to quarters, the currency of choice for the arcade generation.

Here was the route. Follow on Google Maps, if you’ve a mind to. I’d leave my house (560 Hart), mount the hill up to Howard, where I would enter the first laneway. That back lane crossed Leone, and continued on until it exited back onto Hart Street, go figure (many steps saved). Hart merged onto Patricia. Where Patricia merged/ended at 8th Ave, I followed another back lane to Cherry Street, rounded the corner onto 7th, just in view of Toke (you know that intersection; it’s the one with the Art Deco house on the inside corner), followed 7th to Hemlock, then Hemlock to 5^th, past St. Matthews Anglican, past Spruce, cutting across the 101 Mall’s parking lot to Algonquin, and then onto Pine, and there was Downtown and Top Hats. The bus stop, on Cedar, was just a short alley’s walk away.

There was a blue-eyed husky along the way. I named him Blue, because of the blue kerchief tied around his neck. Not terribly imaginative, I know, but he wasn’t my dog (Piper was my dog then, a feisty West Highland White). I’d always stop to greet Blue, crouch down and scratch him behind his ears, accept the expected licks, and if I were leaving from home, I’d always pocket a couple of treats for him. He was a lonely dog, I think, tied up in a back alley, with little foot traffic to keep his interest. And sadly, one day he was gone. His dog house remained, the rope that held him too, but he was no longer alongside there to greet me, having faded to a memory I still cherish.

One day, after Blue had left this world, I was walking home, lost in my thoughts. A moment passed. And when I looked up, I found I was spilling out of the lane at the top of Hart Street. The last thing I was conscious of was rounding the Art Deco corner at 7th and Cherry. I’d walked almost half way home on autopilot. So, yes, I’d walked home in my sleep.

School Trips

Memories are a muddle, all twisted up together, at times. Two memories collide in my mind, somewhat similar, but obviously separate upon further exploration: the Grade 6 Midland school trip, and the Grade 8 Toronto school trip. There had actually been two school trips, not just one! I’d suspected that, but couldn’t separate them. The two were similar in only one aspect, the visiting of historic forts, but that was enough to overlay one on top of the other, confusing them in my mind. Middle-age, and the long span of years taking their toll, go figure. Pictures would have helped separate them, but I have none, either never having been taken, or long lost.

The Midland trip. Grade 6. I recall the theft of the ten dollars from my suitcase vividly. That left me with almost no mad money for souvenirs, as I’d mentioned in that earlier memory. Left without the means to buy much, I had to be very careful with what remained. I made one purchase that I remember, a small fur pelt, purchased at the fort from a native display, one about a foot in length, the pelt, not the display. It was soft, the hairs parting and flowing between my fingers. I had to have it, and I did. I remember placing it on the small desk in my bedroom at home, not sure what else to do with it, always wondering as the months and years passed why I did buy it, what use I had for it. My first impulse buy. Not the last.

The Toronto trip. Grade 8. I recall the Pong game and the shoplifting at the end of the trip. I remember who did it, but as with the theft from my bags during the Midland trip, I don’t believe any mention of names would be fair, not after so many years have passed. And what would it serve? One memory is rather vivid from the Toronto trip, however. For whatever reason, our bus had not picked us up at the end of some tour, and our supervising teachers decided that we were not so far away from our hotel that we could not walk back. We were further than they imagined, as we were exhausted by the more than the hour’s walk on concrete. Along the way, a woman stepped away from a building, and through a wicked smile, asked me/us/the cluster of boys I was with if we would like to party. She was dressed as you might imagine. I imagine she was in hot pants and a tube top, her hair flared out, her make-up loud and not particularly subtle. I blushed. I think we all blushed. The woman laughed, so did her “friends.” Embarrassed, we begged off, trying and obviously failing to be cool, and found ourselves walking a little faster, to catch up with the more numerous cluster of kids ahead of us, the one presumably protected by our chaperoning teacher.

That was the first time I’d ever seen a prostitute.

Star Wars

Have you seen the Star Wars opening scene? Of course you have. I think everyone has. But did you stand in line with everyone else in 1977 to catch the phenomena sweeping the world? I did, though I have no idea with who, my sister most likely, or my neighbor, David Miller, if not her. I wasn’t yet meeting up with and hanging out with school friends, or keeping up with them throughout the summer. We were now scattered across town, some of my new friends living as far away as Schumacher and South Porcupine; not like those from Pinecrest, most of whom lived within two or three blocks of one another. So that summer was a somewhat lonely affair. No longer part of the public school system, my old friends and I were no longer hanging out; they'd moved on, and so had I. I don’t blame them; they had new friends met at R. Ross Beattie Secondary. It wasn’t that bleak: there was swimming lessons and public swims at the pool where I’d begun to take note of new friends from St. Theresa if I hadn’t already.

So you can imagine how important this movie was to me, how I might have been swept up by it, as thoroughly seduced by it as Eric Foreman was in “That 70’s Show.” Its simplistic vision was thrilling and drew me in, with its heroes, its villains, its clash of good and evil. The loudness of its Wagnerian theme, the epic scope. I saw it more than once.

Everyone under 20 did, most likely. But do I remember actually doing it? No. I remember sitting through multiple viewings of “The Empire Strikes Back” at the Palace years later, probably because I went on my very first “date” ever with Lori Ann Miller to see it a second time, sunk down in its red velvet seats, heads close, whispering, me wanting to show off by explaining every nuance of every scene. But I don’t actually remember standing in line and seeing “A New Hope.” You’d think I would, but I don’t.

I do remember being able to quote every phrase from it in the St. Theresa school grounds when school resumed, the boys I knew in a circle, all of us discussing it, all of us equally swept up by the film over the summer.

What I especially remember is their hanging on my every word while I quoted the film. But of course, that’s not entirely true. We hung on each others’ words, reliving the film in its retelling.

To this day, every time I hear the 20th Century Fox intro theme, I think of Star Wars.

A House Unfinished

Our house on Hart Street seemed to be in a perpetual state of construction. My father always had the best intention of finishing the work, but there was always another project to consider. He did finish the areas that were actually lived in, but if there was a major project to be done, like when “we” built the addition (cue whatever music you imagine that accompanies the entrance of able-bodied contractors), it was time to call the professionals.

He did complete the rec room, furnished with the most ‘70s fashionable bold floral carpeting, that crawled up the walls of the bar and storage couch—think chocolate brown, orange and yellow, with matching cushions.

The spare bedroom in the basement, with serviceable en suite, was also completed, albeit with similar, and almost matching wood paneling.

So too was the new rec room and sauna under the addition. It was good, even great when it was complete, if you could stand the burnt orange carpeting, again, all the rage in the late ‘70s; my friends and I thought it all very cool there, so that’s where we hung out. The sauna was a thing of beauty, the shower outside the sauna sturdy enough to support the living room fireplace above it, if need be. Sadly, the cast iron tube next to the shower was painted the same colour as the carpet, but that’s just paint. The plumbing was sound, after two or three fits; the lights worked. What else could one ask for?

The utility room, where my mother spent more than enough time doing laundry, was another thing. It was never completed, the walls never dressed with wall board, the electrical wiring exposed for all to see for as long as we lived there.

What can be said about my dad was that he tried. He sometimes succeeded, he mostly succeeded, and the finished work was alright, when he applied himself; but patience was never his strong suit. One cannot spend one’s week on the road, living the life of the travelling Molson Brewery rep, and then spend the night out with one’s friends when one comes home, and be endowed with patience when attempting finished carpentry, electrical work, or plumbing.

Once I was old enough to “help,” I was drafted. You’d think that was a good thing. But I was only used as the jack-of-all-trades helper, useful for fetching, carrying, and holding in place. I was never really instructed in the use of electrical tools, just hand tools, but never actually trusted to do anything with them, not often, anyways. I was to learn through osmosis, I suppose. On more than one occasion, I was instructed to come help, which I always did when asked, but not without trepidation, because whenever I did, somehow, things did not come off right. Depends on what we were doing, though. Some things went swimmingly, others not. Say we'd work on the plumbing for the shower and sauna, and I’d be expected to hold the copper pipe immobile while my father soldered the joints; but I’d have to hold it all in place above my head while he readied the soldering tools, not an easy thing back in those days when my arms could never be mistaken for those of a bodybuilder’s (FYI, they still aren’t, as I’ve not seen the inside of a gym in some years). The soldering complete (but not before I’d heard “hold it straight” a number of times), we’d test the work by turning on the tap. There may or may not be a drip. We’d drain the pipe, and begin again. The joints would be pulled apart, dried, replaced and re-soldered. We’d turn on the tap, and there may or may not be a drip. After a few repetitions of this, my dad’s patience was a thin skin at best. He may or may not yell at me, although the first was more likely than the second. How this was my fault was beyond me, so after a few repetitions, my patience may or may not have been a thin skin, too. After being yelled at three times, I’d drop the pipe and walk away.

As you can imagine, I’ve never developed many home improvement skills. I hate it. The mere thought of doing construction work and repairs sets my teeth on edge. A nervous fear of failure rises up into my chest.

If I have to work on the house, I can feel my father rising up in me. His language, too.

Coming of Age, Of a Sort

That would be between ‘76 and ‘78, I’d say. That's a hard thing to nail down for most people, if not all of us, as it happens in leaps and bounds over a period of time. So let’s observe some of this process. Further details of each to follow, I imagine.

In ‘76, I began helping out at the pool, not the Schumacher pool (that’s where my sister began her junior guard experience), the Archie Dillon Sportsplex, then only a year old. Judy Miller was still at the cash (God love her for her longevity of service), but other than that, the two pools could not be more different. The Sportsplex was brick, tiled, windowless, '70s modern in every way. It echoed, as all pools do. It was humid, as all pools are; but hot, as the Schumacher Pool never was.

In ‘77, I bought my first albums with what little wealth I had: Fleetwood Mac’s “Rumours,” and the Eagles’ “Their Greatest Hits 1971-1975.” I loved them both, but I can’t say I chose them on my own. They were picked out on the advice of my cousin Alan, in from Cochrane. We stumbled upon each other in the new Timmins Square on a Saturday afternoon, at Circle of Sound. I was in a record store for the first time, out with friends, trying and failing to be mallrats, leafing through the maze of future personal purchases, browsing the best sellers, when Alan appeared. We talked, he asked me what I liked, and I admitted I didn’t really know, limited to the playlist on the local radio and the memory of the too many ‘60s and ‘70s rock in my older cousins’ collections to remember; I’d yet to find my groove. When he asked me what albums I had already, I begrudgingly admitted that I didn’t own any LPs, then, yet. He took those two off the best-sellers wall, and said that these were two worthy of building a record collection from. He was right.

In ‘76, the class trip to Midland, the first time I was ever away from my parents. We were placed four to a room, one of whom likely stole the $10 of mad money my mother gave me for the trip. That kid held a $10 bill up to me and all in the room and said, “Look what I have.” Me too, I said, in response, unsure why he was so boastful about showing it off, my own mother telling me to keep it secret; but upon a search of my own luggage later could not find my own money my mother had given me. Read between the lines, and I’m sure you will come to the same conclusion I did. But how to prove the theft? I let it go.

In the summer of ‘77, Star Wars was released. I very much had an Eric Foreman moment.

In ‘78, I saw my first video game, Pong, on the school trip to Toronto. We spotted it in the restaurant of the hotel/motel we were staying at, and were soon 3 to 5 deep around it, fascinated, transfixed by what we knew was the future. That same trip, someone was caught shoplifting on a stop on the way home. One of our teachers went down the aisle with a basket, telling us that if anyone else had stolen something, to place it in the basket and nothing more would be said. He left with an empty basket. The shoplifter was eventually returned to us, his head low with shame upon entering the bus.

In ‘78 and beyond new interests began to penetrate my shell: girls, New Wave, Post-punk; video games, first at the Square, then Andy's Amusement, and later still at Top Hat’s.

The list of crushes to that point: Heather, Alison, Patricia, Shelly, Kim, and Sandra. Obviously, more to come.

The Red Room

Your room is your first personal space. On occasion, it is also your place of punishment. Time outs were never long, probably no more than five minutes, but to a kid, five minutes can seem an eternity. I suppose I only lasted about two before calling down to my mother, begging for release, promising to be good. That is so odd, when you consider that my room was where all my toys were stored, all neatly stacked on the shelves that climbed the wall opposite the window. You’d think I could spend hours there and never be bored; but I suppose my begging release had more to do with seeking parental approval, and of being forcibly confined.

That said, my room was arguably the perfect space for punishment. It was a fitting colour, thematically red: red hanging lamp shade, red curtains, red bedspread. I have my doubts that I was consulted in the colour scheme. East facing, when the sun rose the room was bathed in a hot red, making the room seem even more close and stifling in the summer months (hardly anyone had air-conditioning then, to say nothing of ceiling fans). At night, when I lay about reading, the hanging lamp projected a single, focused circle of white light onto the bed, and bathed the rest of the room in a layered and faceted glow from the folded red glass. It had a somewhat hellish aspect to it. Oddly cool.

Later, an old, pint-sized school desk was added, set next to the entrance, where I had a full view of the hallway and a bit of the stairs, but nothing of the living room (these were the days before the addition was tacked on to the rear of the house and the living room migrated back there, and the dining room took its place). When I say old, I mean having an inkwell hole in the upper right-hand corner, and an open shelve under the writing surface. I kept a table lamp on it, and a transistor radio to help me pass the time while doing homework. I’m not sure how true that is; I recall stopping all work when Paul Simon’s “Slip Sliding Away” came on.

Later still, a turntable occupied the lower wall shelf, a stack of albums on the floor beneath it. I’d sit in front of it until my back ached, and then for some time more, selecting singles and LPs, lifting and setting the needle, memorizing every lyric, every riff, every nuance of those songs, impressing them on my memory.

Was the room always red? Probably not, but it will always glow red in my memory.

Transitions

Transitions can be hard. So can letting go. I had always felt oddly separate in Grade 7. All the kids around me had come from other schools in groups, in readymade cliques, if you will. Not so me, the lone transfer from the public-school system to the Catholic. Of course, as I said in an earlier memory, thank God for my being set next to Garry Martin in Grade 7 Homeroom. We struck it off that first day, and later, when I followed him out into the playground at first recess and approached him (not without an extreme fear of rejection, I might add), he invited me to stay, introduced me to his friends from Schumacher Public, and soon that small group attracted a few other geeks and freaks, the too tall, the too redheaded, the slightly overweight, the bookish, the poor who were poorly dressed, a few natives down from Moosonee.

But I always pined for my old friends from Pinecrest. I think that’s understandable, but my old friends from Pinecrest living in my neighbourhood didn’t share my nostalgia, it seems, Larry specifically, not to rant on Larry; in retrospect, he had grown up faster than I had, and he and I didn’t actually share the same interests, anymore. What they were then, I could only guess at: girls most definitely (I liked them, too, but I really didn't know this new batch of girls, was hopelessly confused about them, and was terrified that this new batch of girls didn’t like me much, a couple of which were openly hostile to me), hockey maybe (I don’t really know if hockey was in his repertoire, at all). I’d call on them/him weekends, but nothing came of it. Larry’s younger brother Ralph hung out with me for a couple summers, then I outgrew him, we outgrew each other. By then, I was hanging out at the pool more, first as a teacher’s aide (junior life-guard, we called it). These people became my closest friends throughout high school.

But separations are sometimes hostile, fueled by hurt and doubt and the need to sever and move on. Shortly before the summer vacation following Grade 7, I was missing Larry, who I thought my closest friend at Pinecrest. I walked the short distance (just around the corner, really) from my house to his, hoping to find him and rekindle our flagging friendship. I crept up to his fence and peered between the boards to see if I could catch a glimpse of him before ringing the doorbell.

Larry and his new crew rounded the front corner of his house just then, and he and they saw me at the fence.

“What are you doing there?” Larry yelled.

“Looking for you,” I answered.

“What are you doing in my yard,” he said, his voice full of threat. His tone baffled me. And I had no idea how to answer, thinking I just had. His new friends thought this the height of fun, and laughed. I had no idea who these kids were. I’d never seen them before. I still don’t know who they were. I have no memory of their faces.

“Get off my yard,” Larry ordered.

Not to lose face, I didn’t, but I did begin to make my way home, keeping an eye on this menacing group led by my grade school and childhood friend. I wasn’t not fast enough, apparently.

Larry said, “I said, ‘get off my yard,’” again. Now, I knew that this was city property and that his yard ended at the fence, so, I said so. Not the brightest move, because Larry’s pack decided to force the issue. They rushed me. I stood my ground. Again, not the brightest move, as there were 5 of 6 of them. They rushed me, pushed me, grabbed me, surrounded me, and made to push me off balance. I pushed back, more to keep to my feet than to do damage.

I blurted, “You don’t scare me,” and “That didn’t hurt, at all,” or something of the sort.

That’s when the first punch landed, first to the body, then others to the neck and head. Now, I was never much of a fighter, but I fought back, limited mainly to elbows, knees and kicks. For every landed blow, I lashed out, and with every new punch, my fury rose. I remember landing a few vicious elbows to other’s heads. And that’s when the punishment stopped.

We separated, exchanged the expected insults, and then each made our way home.

When I got there, my Dad saw me first. I was crying, by then. He asked me what happened and I told him. I could tell he was mad as hell, but he told me to not tell my mother, that telling her wouldn’t do any good, anyhow. Then he decided I should know how to fight. Fight dirty, he told me. That’s the only way anyone fights, he said. You may not win, but if they’re going to hurt you, make them regret it. Make the fuckers bleed.

A Reader is Born

I was never a reader until Grade 7. I didn’t have the attention span until then, preferring to be out and about, running, playing, riding my bike. I suppose I may have always been young for my age. It’s not that I had never read; I did, but the books were largely short, children’s books, the ones a couple steps above picture books, books where anthropomorphic animals were the main characters. Each story was no longer than a couple pages, at most. They actually put me in “special” reading class before I was held back, where the text was largely “see Jack, see Jack run.” Keep in mind I was a December baby, and a year younger than others when I began school. As you can imagine, special reading class was a real boost to my self-esteem. Only dummies were enrolled in special reading class, that’s the way we kids looked at it. It was only for one year though, my first year in Grade 2. Once I was held back, that extra year of development meant that I could concentrate more, absorb more, and make those cognitive leaps required to transform those symbols on the page into words and sentences and finally into thoughts and images in my head. I went from a struggling student to a high B student, and remained that way until post-secondary where I continued to improve. Still, regardless my huge improvement as a student after being held back, special reading class may have put me off reading.

Everything changed in Grade 7. My mother had always read, and now my friends read, too. And who does’t want to fit in with their friends? I had a book report to do, and I chose Arthur C. Clark’s 1952 science fiction novel “Islands in the Sky” from the library after much deliberation. I had grown up watching Star Trek, so when I saw the cover, I thought I might like it. There was a man in a space suit (a suit without individual legs) floating in space above the Earth, a ‘50s style rocket, and a space station similar to the one in 2001 behind him. Luckily, it was one of his earlier works, and a juvenile novel, so it wasn’t outside what I’d be able to handle for a first novel to read. I ate it up, surprised by how completely I was captivated by the story. More books followed, this time without the requirement of a book report. And then books into the summer, nothing too taxing, yet, the first few like “Alien,” adapted from the screenplay, and a few other horror and sci-fi.

I’ve read ever since.

Hockey

My father always wanted me to play hockey. That’s understandable; he’d played hockey most of his life, mostly defense, but he could play any position, except goal (my Uncle Jerry played goal...right up into his 80s, if you can believe it). And he was good. Really good. I remember seeing him play a couple times when I was 4 or 5 years old. To say he flew on the ice would be an understatement. He had grace on the ice, as well. But he was dirty, too, I was told. No kidding. One of his nicknames was Dirty Leonard.

Back to my father wanting to follow in his footsteps: There was one problem. I never really learned to skate. Not from lack of trying. My parents had bought me skates when I was a tot, and I used to scurry up and down the driveway, mainly on my ankles, despite ankle supports. As years passed, I spent quite a few hours skating around the rink at Pinecrest, but I’d also spent some of it on my ass and even more time hugging the boards. I was alright taking a slow turn after years of practice, but crossing my legs over one another was out of the question, not to mention executing the classic hockey stop. Gliding or crashing into the boards was more my technique.

Not that my father didn’t try to teach me, he did, on occasion, but he was also a travelling salesman and didn’t come to the rink with me often. I don’t believe he knew how to teach me how, actually; it came to him too naturally to know how to describe it well, let alone teach it, and I don’t think he had the patience, either.

He took me up to Pinecrest one time, probably on my mother’s urging. He did not bring skates. There were a couple older kids there. They had a net, and took turns playing goal while the other took shots. My dad just had to get in there, so he called out to them, and I was left on the boards to watch. He winked at me before he slid over there. He may not wearing have been wearing skates, but he did glide over there with grace, he always had perfect balance on ice. He told them about his glory days (I did say he was really good, by the way), I’m not sure if they believed him much, so, he asked if he could take some shots on them, they agreed, exchanging looks that said, “let’s humour the old man.” They shouldn’t have (stupid kids, didn’t they see how he moved on the ice even without skates?). My father had a wicked slap shot, a good wrist shot too. He warmed up with a few wrist shots before hammering the poor kid with a few slap shots. The kid was hit a couple times, then there was fear in his eyes. Needless to say, my dad was showing off, more for me than them, but them, too.

Later, my dad wanted to put me on a hockey team. I think my mother tried to put him off the idea, but my father was adamant. I was going to play hockey. So, he enrolled me on a team, Esso, I think (actually, I remember the name, quite well). My mother took me to my first practice, and stayed, watching from the boards the whole time. When I got on the ice, I knew I was in trouble, not only were the guys racing back and forth the length of the ice and doing rapid direction changes, they were skating figure eights...backwards. I promptly landed on my ass. The coach sent a kid to help me, to teach me the basics. And to give the kid his due, he really tried. But there was too much skill to make up in so short a time and he grew frustrated, then finally giving me some tips, and raced off to practice with his friends. Once the “practice” was done, humiliated, I slumped into the car and told my mother, “I’m NEVER going back there again.”

I know my parents argued about it, but my mother won. I never did go back.

I’ve hated hockey ever since.

John

A John. Not The John. This distinction will be evident in posts to come.
One of my first friends in St. Theresa in Grade 7 was a Native boy. His name was John. I have no clue what his last name was. I can’t even say that I knew him well. I didn’t know him that long. He was a quiet young man, not terribly scholastic. Maybe that was what drew me to him, his unpresuming quiet. He seemed out of place in all the bluster and activity that surrounded him. If you've ever known a North American Native, you'll know what I mean.
As to his less than scholastic nature, he was not stupid. He was just quiet. That said, he was not particularly interested in his studies. I cannot comment on what is schooling was, or where he went to school before I met him, or even how long he had lived in Timmins. But I remember seeing how he struggled. I wanted to help him. He was kind to me, after all. I lent him the notes he was missing once (he'd been away, and had fallen even further behind than he'd already been), he tried to hand them back, but I insisted. John was too shy to insist I take them back. He had reason to; he was moving back to Moosonee, and I would never see him again.
I had to borrow Garry Martin's notes to copy when I discovered that John had left. Needless to say, I studied how my straight-A friend took notes. They weren’t that different from the notes I took. He just retained the information therein better than I did.

Bits and Pieces, and Such

Oddly, I have a lot of gaps in my memory of attending St. Theresa. I have a fair number of gaps in my memory of attending Pinecrest, too. Grades 1 to 2 are not quite as vivid as 4 through 6, when my class had solidified, somewhat.

I remember surprisingly few teachers. I remember a woman in ruffled shirts and salt and pepper hair teaching Grade 2 (don’t quote me on that, she may have been Grade 3), then Mrs. Gage (I do not remember her maiden name—she had that the first semester, then returned married after Christmas...unless I’m confusing two separate school years) for Grade 4, Mr. Litchfield for Grade 5 (our Principal took over the class after the nameless teacher we began with left for maternity leave quite early in the school year), and finally, the beloved Mr. Reade for Grade 6. I remember Mr. Battachio subbing in for gym class, his change jingling in his pockets. I remember mistakenly calling Mrs. Gage mom, once; being seated beside Alison Tilly for art class in Grade 6; Mr. Reade reading a chapter of a novel about a winter plane crash to us each day. My memory is replete with playground recollections: lots of soccer and touch football, then baseball and basketball. I remember being bused to the Schumacher Pool for swim classes, the water so cold that Tony Syball (sp) used to shiver uncontrollably. There were occasional testosterone clashes with Larry MacDowell in the playground, and sometimes with Donald Rhodes. I remember Alison Tilly and Tony Syball joining our class sometime around Grade 4 (I’m sure there are many who can tell me exactly when). There was Kathy Kreiner mania after her gold medal win at the ‘76 Olympics, and track and field try-outs.

But surprisingly few memories of Grades 7 and 8. I remember a snow day which turned out to be one of the best winter days ever, a solar eclipse when we had to sit in class with all the curtains drawn to protect us, a school Olympics where teams made up of people from different homerooms and grades were combined. I recall a socially awkward boy who was ridiculed by almost everyone. He was clueless, it seemed, unable to follow others’ lead to fit in. I first saw him up against the urinals, with his pants and underwear down around his ankles, all the boys in the washroom laughing at him. I felt so sorry for him, but what was to be done? He went from one social gaff to the next, never talking to others. I do recall how many people left to go to Ross Beattie in Grade 8, the socially awkward boy among them, the year parents had to pay extra for the privilege of having their children attend Catholic School.

I am cognizant of how many times I had to “start anew.” I began school in Cochrane, then began again after moving from Cochrane to Timmins (another beginning, when you think on it), then again when I was held back in Grade 2. I began again in Grade 7, when my parents transferred me from the public-school system to the separate. Losing many people mid-middle school was another surprise.

This trend of my starting over would continue in post-secondary, even in work, but those are stories for another day. Throughout my entire life I was always finding myself starting over. I shouldn’t complain. I may have lost many friends with each renewal, but I also met new people with each beginning, as well. It’s no wonder that my memory is a riot of mixed memories, somewhat loosely anchored.

The Transfer

My mother wanted my sister and I to go to O’Gorman High School, part of the English Catholic Separate School Board, so, my sister Karen and I being 23 months apart, I had to transfer to St. Theresa (now O’Gorman Intermediate) when she entered O’Gorman High School (it’s a taxes thing). I was not pleased to leave all my friends behind (I imagine was my sister wasn’t too keen, either), but we weren’t given much of a choice. My mother was also under the impression that O’Gorman gave a better education than the public school, Timmins High; a lot of parents were under that impression, but as all school boards had to teach the same curriculum that was mandated by the Province, I can’t see how going to one school of the other made much of a difference, but hindsight is 20-20. I don’t regret going there. I enjoyed going there, for the most part.

I was nervous that first day; I was going to another new school, after all, and I didn’t know a soul (you’d think I would have this new class/new friends thing down by now, having moved from Cochrane at 4, and then held back in Grade 2; see earlier posted memories).

Karen and I walked together as far as St. Theresa, then she continued on her way to O’Gorman. I didn’t mind the walk; I’ve never taken a school bus (I always lived within the bus limit), and we gave one another moral support. But once she’d left to face her own first day in a new school, I was on my own. I recall milling about, leaning against the school walls, trying to appear cool in such a way as to attract the right new friends, trying not to appear envious that others were already grouped together. They at least, were not alone; they were already friends, having spent the last seven years of school together. The bell rang, teachers emerged to group us by grade, and my new school year amongst strangers began. I expect Karen’s experience was similar.

I met two boys fairly early on. The first was Garry Martin, a largely hyperactive boy who was drafted to take me under his wing, so to speak. Thank God for that, and thank God it was Garry. He and I became close friends and would soon share about a decade’s worth of life experiences together. The second was Gord Disley. We found ourselves at the back of a class together, and we began chatting. It was a comfortable chat. Then came introductions, but there was a sight change to the usual exercise where the teacher would just get each student to stand and tell something about themselves. In this case, we were to write something about ourselves, place the papers in a hat, and then as the teacher read each in turn the rest of the class would try to guess who that person was. I was clueless to all these clues, of course. But the girls were actually giddy about the game. When each was guessed or not, each of us then stood up in turn to introduce ourselves and tell the class what we wanted to do when we grew up. No one guessed mine (understandable, considering no one know who I was); I can’t even remember what I wrote, or what I said. But I’ll always remember what Gord said when his turn came: “I’m Gord Disley, and I want to be a Rock Star!”

True to his word, at 18, Gord packed his bags and moved to Toronto, guitar over his shoulder. He never looked back.

Did he become a rock star? No. But he did become a professional musician for a time, which is very much the same thing, I expect. He worked in restaurants to pay the bills while he waited for the expected to happen, which never did. Did he become famous? He did, somewhat. He became a stand-up comedian. He’s been on TV. He never became famous, but he did something few others ever did: He took a shot at it.

Hockey Night in Canada, and Beyond

I remember my father watchin

g Hockey Night in Canada on Saturday nights when I was growing up. There wasn’t much choice then, as very early on we only had two channels, English and French CBC, both of which televised the hockey game, Leafs and Habs, respectively. But that's not entirely true, either. My mother tells me my father’s interest in hockey began to wane when the league expanded, from the original six to God knows how many (not that he ever lost interest; that would be a silly thing to say, if you know my father; but his obsession certainly waned). I think the league expanded to about twenty teams in a very short time. What I do remember is the whole family anticipating watching TVO on Saturday nights, once the field of viewing began to open up in the mid-70s (first with TVO and CTV, then with Global and the American Big Three at about ‘78). Doctor Who aired at 7:30 pm, then Saturday Night at the Movies with Elwy Yost. We used to donate to TVO back then, just so that my father and I could get the SNatM season guide. We’d get the full season’s upcoming movies, with far more detailed descriptions of the week’s theme and movie blurbs, not just the name and year that was in the Daily Press TV guide pullout. 1975 kicked off a lifetime love of Doctor Who and B&W classic film.

Christmas, Part 3, Sweater Hell!

Skipping forward a bit, and it’s more a snapshot than a tale. After toys, in the era I refer to as sweater hell; you know, that zone where you are too old for childish things like toys, yet not old enough to require those practical gifts that are more for a house than for you. You remember those years in spent in limbo, don’t you? It’s a memory set after the completion of the extension onto the back of the Hart Street house, and many years before Alzheimer’s began to creep into my Nanny’s life. I’m a teen, not a child.

It was Christmas morning. We were opening gifts. Mom wanted Dad and me to open specific gifts together, gifts wrapped in boxes of identical size and shape. I was a little nervous about that, but I opened mine the same time my father opened his. And there it is, the terrycloth robe I’d asked for. I can’t remember if I asked for a specific colour, although I imagine I was thinking white, simple basic white, like in hotels. It was not plain white, it was striped, red and blue on white; the same as the one my Dad was holding up.

We were prompted to put them on and stand together to have our picture taken. Remember, I was a teen. I’d rather die. But of course, I had my picture taken with my Dad.

He was so happy that we had matching robes.

I got over my embarrassment. I got to like my robe, over time. It broke in. It was soft. It was warm. And I got over the fact that my dad had the same robe as I did.

Christmas

Every Christmas morning after we left Cochrane for Timmins, we’d wake up to my father rushing about the house, hammering on doors, declaring that Santa had been here! We’d leap or drag ourselves out of bed, depending on the year, leap at young ages, drag later. We’d eat a hasty breakfast, despite our ogling the feast of presents about the tree, open our gifts and be left to play with the toys for a time; not too long though. There was preparations to be made: every year for 10ish years after leaving Cochrane, we were to return to the homeland for celebrations with the family, eat an early lunch, pack up the car with the gifts to be given, and pile in, Cookie at my mothers’ feet in the front. I can’t recall if Piper, our next dog, ever made the pilgrimage with us, if she had, she'd have been in the space at the back window (that’s where she loved to lounge for the hour-long trip).

I recall many such long commutes back to Cochrane, getting car sick, puking into the ditch despite tripping on Gravol. I was not a good traveller then.

We’d arrive at Nanny’s (my mother’s mother’s) house, where we’d open gifts, then be herded back into the car for the short drive to Gramma’s (my father’s mother’s) with Nanny in tow (my mother’s parents were always invited if I recall properly, certainly my Nanny after Poppa passed away), where we opened gifts again. Those gifts were packed away in the trunk of the car before my uncles, aunts, and cousins arrived.

Gramma’s house already smelled like dinner when we arrived. There was a great deal of cooking to be done in such a small galley kitchen. Food was piled high on the dinner table, arranged in depth, buffet style. Only Grandpa sat at the table, holding court on how much anyone might take, even though there was enough food for three times our number (about 30ish people in what I would describe as a wartime house). Turkey, ham, mashed potatoes, pickles and beets and Lord knows what else, my memory fails me. There were six types of pie: apple, cherry, raisin, mince, pecan (?) and sugar (?), one for each son’s preference. They each had to have their favourite. And they’d have been disappointed had their personal favourite not been there. Family politics. Enough said.

Grandpa would always call me over, draw me in and hug me, and slip a two-dollar bill into my pocket.

There wasn’t enough room at the table for everyone. Obviously. And with thirty people in attendance, seating was an issue. Families sort things out, and by the time I came along, a system had long since been adopted. The adults ate in the living room, with paper plates in wicker baskets on their laps. We cousins were arranged on the stairs, each to his own riser, Keith and I sharing a small bi-fold table at the base.

Gramma never ate until everyone else had. And by then the Great Clean-up was in full swing, the food and dishes tackled by the women, teens and adults alike; but not by Gramma, though, she was eating.

The men congregated in the living room, the chairs and stools arranged, years of Daily Press Carol booklets laid out, one to a seat. Once the Great Clean-up was complete, we sang, we soloed. I most certainly soloed. I was expected to sing “Rudolph, The Red-nosed Reindeer” every year. Tradition, you know how it goes. There was no accompaniment though: I don’t know if anyone could play anything portable. Karen could play piano, but there was none present. Gramma played fiddle, but I don’t remember it ever being brought out. I recall French songs being sung after the carols were complete. Beer flowed. There were chips and snacks and such, because that’s what we all needed, more food.

We kids took that as our queue to retreat downstairs where there was tabletop hockey and an absence of adults and alcohol and demands by our elders to bring them more. I think the elder cousins may have played street hockey out front or may have just slipped away to party with friends.
If they did, Keith and I were oblivious to it all, having lost interest in all things adult, even all things teen. Later still, Karen and I were packed up by our parents to go back to Nanny's for the night. Over the next few days, we visited...everyone. It was exhausting, fun, but exhausting. Christmas would never be as exciting as it was then.

The Schumacher Pool

Almost all of my swimming lessons took place at the Schumacher Lions Club Swimming Pool. I loved that old building, despite its faults. Built by the MacIntyre Mine, it was originally intended as an open-air pool, the metal frame building that rose above it was an afterthought. I will always remember the almost deafening drumming on the roof whenever there was a storm. And I seem to recall our having to clear the pool whenever there was lightning. Whistle blows echoed off those corrugated metal walls, sounding shriller, by far.

It was poured concrete (rumour had it that after all the mining underfoot, 10,000 gallons poured through the cracks in the floor every day; I doubt that, but we all said it and we were all convinced of the fact then), the change rooms, showers and offices cinderblock shells. There were always pools of water scattered about the floor where there was poor drainage, and we all hated the feel of them, believing them to not only be slimy to the touch (they were), but toxic. They smelled of must and mildew so why wouldn’t they not be toxic to the touch. It afforded neither heat nor air conditioning, and was never intended to operate year-round. And it didn’t, so all swimming lessons then were held only in the summer. It goes without saying, the Schumacher Pool was always humid, always a little musty.

Karen and I used to ride our bikes to it for public swims when the weather was good, lock them up to the rows of bike racks out front. Sometimes we went with neighbours, mostly by ourselves. We always knew we’d meet up with kids we knew, we and they having spent years of lessons there. And that was why we swam there, despite Gilles Lake being half the distance from our house. Then again, you couldn’t swim in Gilles in August unless you brought an extra suit or a change of clothes with you or else you'd get swimmers’ itch, cercarial dermatitis, inflicting hive-like welts wherever the damp cloth rested on your skin (there were nasty little parasites in the water back then, at least until the city dredged the lake). I didn’t want to get swimmer’s itch. Not ever. Every welt raised was automatically assumed to be another bout of hives. Panic inevitably arose from the sight of them.

Another reason to go to the pool: we never had to pay, free admission was the perk of taking lessons there. We’d show our lesson card and be waved within. We’d collect our change baskets, jam out street clothes into them, and pin our stainless-steel tag to our suit, then return the baskets to their racks for the duration. I can't say I ever lost anything from the baskets, and they never misplaced one, not ever; the kids working at the pool kept a keen eye on our stuff while we were having our fun.

We’d wait at the change room doors, piled up against each other from the door back into the showers waiting for the swim bell. Swim caps were the rule. We all had to wear them for the sake of the filters. And most fetching they were! Sleek speedos, loud floral frescos, a riot of colours that always clashed with the loudly coloured suits of the day. The bell always took forever to ring. Those lucky enough to be at the door would watch the seconds tick by on the clock. Loud, it rang like a fire bell klaxon.

The guards would yell at us every swim to slow down and walk. We would, we did, but in the most comical quick half-run shuffle.

The Concussion

When I was about 9 or so, we were racing down the hill on Patricia Street, north of Ross. My sister was there, my neighbor Dave was there, I’m not sure who else. I was riding my green CCM Mustang, the sort with a banana seat. I loved that bike; I still love its memory. Anyway, we were racing, crouched down, streamlining for greater speed.

Then a station wagon rounded the corner onto Patricia from Brousseau. We weaved left and right to avoid it. I went right, but there were a couple others crowding that edge, and it felt a little less roomy than I liked. It was tight, that much is sure in my mind. Too tight. Too tight to manoeuver. Worse still, once I’d committed to going right and discovered the lack of room there, there was no time to change my mind. That’s when I noticed that there was a rock on the road directly in my path. It wasn’t enormous, certainly not a boulder, but it wasn’t a pebble either. It was big, though, surprisingly big.

I felt trapped, unable to edge left or right owing to the bikes to the right and the car to the front that would be to my left in a moment.

I hit the rock and found myself flying over the handlebars. I reached out ahead and tried to ward off the onrushing ground at the same time.

I remember hitting, hearing my head bounce off the asphalt ... and then nothing until I was on a gurney at St. Mary’s Hospital. I’m told that I was awake after wiping out, that I never lost consciousness, that I was sitting up and responsive the whole time. I just have no memory of it. I remember waking up for about thirty seconds in the hospital, unable to see but aware of my mother next to me. Frightened, I tearfully told my mother I couldn’t see, and then I heard a nurse complain, “He watches too much TV.”

I was pissed at that. I still am, whenever I recall it. Then I was out again. I woke up again in the middle of the night in a panic, not knowing where I was. Not to worry, I wasn’t awake for long then, either, no more than a couple minutes before crying myself to sleep.

When I woke in the morning, I was asked by a nurse (maybe she was kitchen staff; I wouldn’t have known the difference then) to fill out my preferences for a meal plan, for some reason. Was I to be there long enough to require a meal plan? I didn’t like the thought of that. I wanted my mother. I wanted to go home. I didn’t like any of the choices given me; what I wanted was spaghetti and meatballs. Doesn’t matter; I only ate breakfast. I was released from hospital that morning, if I remember properly.