back in his chair and leisurely waving to the crowd.
4 )
Round & Round
AugustâSeptember 1989
W hen Mom was very small, living in Kew Beach in East Toronto, some neighbourhood kids stole her skipping rope. It was a ruse, a conspiracy which in turn became a legendary set-up I replayed over and over again in my head. As a child, the story was told to me only once, but it had a huge impact on me in understanding anything about the woman who my friends said "floated" in her giant pink tea cozy of a housecoat and had a haircut in the shape of Darth Vaderâs iconic black helmet 8 .
8. âI think I still have a photo you gave me of your mom standing with her back to the camera in front of the washing machine,â my friend told me recently. âAnd yeah, she had that same hairdo, the triangle bob, black or dark brown. I remember I never saw her feet; she was a bit of a ghost. If your mom was prime minister, no one would ever fuck with Canada ever again.â
For me, the skipping-rope fable was a signal post; told to me after my own run-in with deception as the 1980s opened up. It was sweet revenge some forty years later when a group of camp bullies took it upon themselves to steal my chocolate milkshake at lunch. This was when we lived on Roehampton Avenue, that period in photographs when I wore glasses (June 1978âMay 1980). Mom came to pick me up and asked me about my day, and I told her that someone stole my chocolate milkshake. The drink came in a can and it was not regular fare for me. I was looking forward to it at lunch and maybe I had drawn attention to it when I unpacked my food. I knew the culprits but was helpless to confront them. Mom didnât feel this way at all, however, and proceeded to chew them out in the most ambitious toxic rant Iâd ever heard up to that point. (Mom doesnât remember this happening, but it was a life lesson, a triumph; she was making up for lost skipping ropes one shaggy-haired kid at a time, and to me it was a rare act of heroics I have permanently archived.)
The docile sparkplug that would change the course of history and be added to our caustic family flag next to the rolling pin, beer bottle, jar of goose grease, pack of Craven "A" cigarettes and fish-tank bubbler, lay in wait inside our light-blue Buickâs tired engine.
The morning was unscripted, tired and passed in tedious ritual as the cereal bowls, mugs, juice glasses and separate refrigerator-door seal breaches echoed in crude symphony.
Mom was antsy and full of tasks. "I have to go to the library at some point today. Do you want to go?"
We were almost finished emptying the dishwasher. "And if you have any clothes for the Salvation Army drop box," she added. "Hollyâs coming back tonight from camping." I wandered into the den and turned on the television.
Dad was outside, kneading the earth on his knees, his gut rubbing against the open earth; he put a mug to his lip every couple of minutes until his coffee became cold and he tossed the remainder into the garden behind him. The morning had escalated into an impromptu invasion as Dad mapped out his soil-turning conquest.
I could see him in action through the drapes as he tried to make the menacing zucchini sprawl see it his wayâits green prickling tentacles and leaves had pronounced themselves vivid past the lawnâs original border.
Something had to be done: Dadâs way, non-stop, toiling and chewing off his Saturday inch by inch. I never saw any photos of Dad with anyone other than family members; it was great when Dad had new friends, I imagined saying, but he never did that; he didnât know how or develop the need. He read newspapers, played cards, picked weeds and wore plaid shirts on the weekends. I never saw him on the phone talking to anyone for any personal reason unrelated to family topics. Did he know people? Did he see people on the street when walking, or was it blank?
Through the window, I could see
4 )
Round & Round
AugustâSeptember 1989
W hen Mom was very small, living in Kew Beach in East Toronto, some neighbourhood kids stole her skipping rope. It was a ruse, a conspiracy which in turn became a legendary set-up I replayed over and over again in my head. As a child, the story was told to me only once, but it had a huge impact on me in understanding anything about the woman who my friends said "floated" in her giant pink tea cozy of a housecoat and had a haircut in the shape of Darth Vaderâs iconic black helmet 8 .
8. âI think I still have a photo you gave me of your mom standing with her back to the camera in front of the washing machine,â my friend told me recently. âAnd yeah, she had that same hairdo, the triangle bob, black or dark brown. I remember I never saw her feet; she was a bit of a ghost. If your mom was prime minister, no one would ever fuck with Canada ever again.â
For me, the skipping-rope fable was a signal post; told to me after my own run-in with deception as the 1980s opened up. It was sweet revenge some forty years later when a group of camp bullies took it upon themselves to steal my chocolate milkshake at lunch. This was when we lived on Roehampton Avenue, that period in photographs when I wore glasses (June 1978âMay 1980). Mom came to pick me up and asked me about my day, and I told her that someone stole my chocolate milkshake. The drink came in a can and it was not regular fare for me. I was looking forward to it at lunch and maybe I had drawn attention to it when I unpacked my food. I knew the culprits but was helpless to confront them. Mom didnât feel this way at all, however, and proceeded to chew them out in the most ambitious toxic rant Iâd ever heard up to that point. (Mom doesnât remember this happening, but it was a life lesson, a triumph; she was making up for lost skipping ropes one shaggy-haired kid at a time, and to me it was a rare act of heroics I have permanently archived.)
The docile sparkplug that would change the course of history and be added to our caustic family flag next to the rolling pin, beer bottle, jar of goose grease, pack of Craven "A" cigarettes and fish-tank bubbler, lay in wait inside our light-blue Buickâs tired engine.
The morning was unscripted, tired and passed in tedious ritual as the cereal bowls, mugs, juice glasses and separate refrigerator-door seal breaches echoed in crude symphony.
Mom was antsy and full of tasks. "I have to go to the library at some point today. Do you want to go?"
We were almost finished emptying the dishwasher. "And if you have any clothes for the Salvation Army drop box," she added. "Hollyâs coming back tonight from camping." I wandered into the den and turned on the television.
Dad was outside, kneading the earth on his knees, his gut rubbing against the open earth; he put a mug to his lip every couple of minutes until his coffee became cold and he tossed the remainder into the garden behind him. The morning had escalated into an impromptu invasion as Dad mapped out his soil-turning conquest.
I could see him in action through the drapes as he tried to make the menacing zucchini sprawl see it his wayâits green prickling tentacles and leaves had pronounced themselves vivid past the lawnâs original border.
Something had to be done: Dadâs way, non-stop, toiling and chewing off his Saturday inch by inch. I never saw any photos of Dad with anyone other than family members; it was great when Dad had new friends, I imagined saying, but he never did that; he didnât know how or develop the need. He read newspapers, played cards, picked weeds and wore plaid shirts on the weekends. I never saw him on the phone talking to anyone for any personal reason unrelated to family topics. Did he know people? Did he see people on the street when walking, or was it blank?
Through the window, I could see
Similar Books
