was here in
’43
.
Each house is surrounded by a big lawn, a view of the cornfields never far away. Lawns can make slaves of their owners, but all anyone does in Centralia is water and cut, and the grass flourishesthick and green. Same with the maples that cast their twirling keys to earth, the blossom-raining elms, the shaggy bushes that erupt in snowstorms of confetti each spring,
Just married!
There are no fences. Crescents and bends form tulip-shapes, the whole place is hugging itself. Madeleine looks out the window at this bright new world.
Bikes and trikes and red wagons, sprinklers going, the distant roar of a lawnmower, the smell of freshly cut grass. Kids glance up, mildly curious, strange adults wave casually at the car, Jack and Mimi wave back.
“Who’s that?” Madeleine asks.
“We don’t know yet,” says Dad.
“But we will soon,” says Maman.
Or maybe they won’t. The people who waved may be moving out just as the McCarthys move in. Or you may run into a family from two or three postings ago, and it’s a great reunion but either way it’s just as well to start off as old friends. That’s how it is in the forces. You bond, you move on, there is no contradiction.
They drive past a park with swings, a slide, merry-go-round and teeter-totters. Paved footpaths run between the houses and open onto empty fields full of possibilities invisible to the adult eye. Among Centralia’s PMQs there are sixty-four such empty acres—big grassy circles rimmed by the backs of houses. Someone’s mother can always see you. No one worries about children in Centralia.
“Dad, why is it called Centralia?” asks Madeleine.
“Because it’s at the centre of the world.” Jack winks at his son in the rearview mirror.
“Every place is the centre of the world,” says Mike, “’cause the world is round.” And Centralia feels round, the looping streets, the neatly mown fields that fill the centres of these loops. Madeleine pictures a target. And in the crosshairs, Centralia. Bombs away. Rubble. Women in kerchiefs picking up the coloured pieces of the PMQs. Lego.
“Madeleine, stop daydreaming and look at your new neighbourhood,” says her mother. “Where do you think your best friend lives?”
Gee, doc, maybe in that garbage can with Popeye the Sailor Man
. “I don’t know, Maman.”
I like to go swimmin with bare naked wimmin
,
I’m Popeye the Sailor Man!
Rude lyrics she learned from Mike. She pictures her Popeye ukulele. It’s on the same moving van with her hair and the rest of their stuff—including, unfortunately, her accordion.
“Madeleine.”
“Oui, maman?”
“I said, pick one and then later you’ll see if you were right.”
Madeleine rests her chin on the window frame and tries to guess where her best friend lives. The one she has not yet met. Does she live in the pink house, the green one …? Suddenly she remembers that she already has a best friend, Laurie Ferry. But she can no longer quite picture her face.
“There’s your new school, kids.” Jack stops the car. Modern single-storey white stucco with big windows and a taller section at one end, the gym. J. A. D. McCurdy School, kindergarten through grade eight. Deserted, deep in its summer sleep. The flagpole stands empty. The swings hang motionless, the slide and teeter-totters static.
“Hop out and take a look,” says Dad. Mike opens his door and Madeleine slides out after him.
Their parents watch from the car as they cross the playground without stopping to swing or slide, past the bike racks and up the broad front steps. In just over a week they will line up here with other kids, some of whom they will know by then. Friends.
Brother and sister cup their hands around their eyes and peer through the glass of the big double doors. The first thing they see, once their eyes have adjusted to the gloom, is an arrangement of framed photos. Mike rhymes them off: “Sabre, CF-100, Lancaster….”
Two larger photos preside over
’43
.
Each house is surrounded by a big lawn, a view of the cornfields never far away. Lawns can make slaves of their owners, but all anyone does in Centralia is water and cut, and the grass flourishesthick and green. Same with the maples that cast their twirling keys to earth, the blossom-raining elms, the shaggy bushes that erupt in snowstorms of confetti each spring,
Just married!
There are no fences. Crescents and bends form tulip-shapes, the whole place is hugging itself. Madeleine looks out the window at this bright new world.
Bikes and trikes and red wagons, sprinklers going, the distant roar of a lawnmower, the smell of freshly cut grass. Kids glance up, mildly curious, strange adults wave casually at the car, Jack and Mimi wave back.
“Who’s that?” Madeleine asks.
“We don’t know yet,” says Dad.
“But we will soon,” says Maman.
Or maybe they won’t. The people who waved may be moving out just as the McCarthys move in. Or you may run into a family from two or three postings ago, and it’s a great reunion but either way it’s just as well to start off as old friends. That’s how it is in the forces. You bond, you move on, there is no contradiction.
They drive past a park with swings, a slide, merry-go-round and teeter-totters. Paved footpaths run between the houses and open onto empty fields full of possibilities invisible to the adult eye. Among Centralia’s PMQs there are sixty-four such empty acres—big grassy circles rimmed by the backs of houses. Someone’s mother can always see you. No one worries about children in Centralia.
“Dad, why is it called Centralia?” asks Madeleine.
“Because it’s at the centre of the world.” Jack winks at his son in the rearview mirror.
“Every place is the centre of the world,” says Mike, “’cause the world is round.” And Centralia feels round, the looping streets, the neatly mown fields that fill the centres of these loops. Madeleine pictures a target. And in the crosshairs, Centralia. Bombs away. Rubble. Women in kerchiefs picking up the coloured pieces of the PMQs. Lego.
“Madeleine, stop daydreaming and look at your new neighbourhood,” says her mother. “Where do you think your best friend lives?”
Gee, doc, maybe in that garbage can with Popeye the Sailor Man
. “I don’t know, Maman.”
I like to go swimmin with bare naked wimmin
,
I’m Popeye the Sailor Man!
Rude lyrics she learned from Mike. She pictures her Popeye ukulele. It’s on the same moving van with her hair and the rest of their stuff—including, unfortunately, her accordion.
“Madeleine.”
“Oui, maman?”
“I said, pick one and then later you’ll see if you were right.”
Madeleine rests her chin on the window frame and tries to guess where her best friend lives. The one she has not yet met. Does she live in the pink house, the green one …? Suddenly she remembers that she already has a best friend, Laurie Ferry. But she can no longer quite picture her face.
“There’s your new school, kids.” Jack stops the car. Modern single-storey white stucco with big windows and a taller section at one end, the gym. J. A. D. McCurdy School, kindergarten through grade eight. Deserted, deep in its summer sleep. The flagpole stands empty. The swings hang motionless, the slide and teeter-totters static.
“Hop out and take a look,” says Dad. Mike opens his door and Madeleine slides out after him.
Their parents watch from the car as they cross the playground without stopping to swing or slide, past the bike racks and up the broad front steps. In just over a week they will line up here with other kids, some of whom they will know by then. Friends.
Brother and sister cup their hands around their eyes and peer through the glass of the big double doors. The first thing they see, once their eyes have adjusted to the gloom, is an arrangement of framed photos. Mike rhymes them off: “Sabre, CF-100, Lancaster….”
Two larger photos preside over
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