I left Mississauga
And I moved (back) to Toronto.
Kevin came with me. Reluctantly.
So I make him wear a bow-tie when he’s bad.
I have two new roommates. We make tacos on tuesdays.
I drink IPAs now. But I’m not snobby about it.
I started a vinyl collection.
My little sister turned 19. We got drunk.
I went to the ER alone. With morphine. And a cell phone.
I met a girl.
I’m happy.
I am at that age (23) where young men find out a lot about themselves.
So it is no coincidence that this morning I realized a gaping character flaw in myself that has plagued me for years:
I absolutely SUCK at travelling in my dreams.
Last night, I had a dream I was supposed to be flying with a group of people to Iowa. The airport gates travelled underground and came above ground right as you entered the plane. I ended up on the wrong plane (a la Home Alone 2) and never made it to Iowa.
Two nights ago (i know this becuase ive started to write my dreams down) I was supposed to be attending a Blue Jays game alone at night. I got on the wrong bus and ended up north of the Skydome and couldn’t for the life of me switch buses to get back to the game. I woke up before i could witness a Ricky Romero perfect game (or something equally awesome).
On other occasions in the past I have: been the cause of many plane crashes, late for planes, forget something important at home so I missed the plane; Once, I even got on a cruise ship that didn’t end up going anywhere
Maybe I should get an air miles card.
Years ago, my grade 8 french teacher tried to tell us that listening to music while studying was bad and made you lose focus. She said we should sit at a quiet desk, with motivational posters, trophies and/or medals within sight. Not only did i never follow any of these studying tips, over time, I became a firm believer in music as a positive study tool. It warmed my heart when years later, I learned of studies proving music as an aid in memory recall. Take THAT grade 8 french teacher.
Today, my love of music and my love of geography has heightened these beliefs tenfold. If I were to compartmentalize my life into main events, situations or era’s, I could make a soundtrack.
So I’m going to.
And these aren’t “Hey, remember that song? i think i was in high-school when it came out…man, high-school was awesome” moments. These are full recall situations. These are situations where one song turns me into a time traveler and helps me recall almost every emotion I felt at the time and every sense that was being stimulated.
Not in chronological order:
Track 1: Lifehouse - Hanging by a Moment
I realize writing about an ex girlfriend is usually not kosher, but this song represented the first time around with Chelsea…when I was in grade 8. We were in a long distance relationship (King City to Whitby) and would talk on the phone almost every night for hours. I would hang out in my basement on a giant white cordless phone and walk around the room talking to my “girlfriend” while my pubescent hormones were doing their thing.
This song was the first song we bonded over. It was popular at the time, we both loved it, and it was a perfect soundtrack for young teenagers. The moment I hear the bass line slide from the 12th fret to the 5th fret, it puts me back in my cold, dimly lit basement in King City, talking to a girl i would eventually fall madly in love with.
Track 2: Patrick Watson - Close to Paradise
I bought two albums, Patrick Watson’s “Close to Paradise” and Tokyo Police Club’s “Elephant Shell,” before i went to Europe with my friend Andrew. My obsessive music listening at the time meant these two albums were literally the only thing i listened to for those two weeks. The first track on the Patrick Watson album is the title track. Much like the opening bass riff from Lifehouse, the opening Glockenspiel riff on this song puts me back on a high speed train (or a communist era Czech train depending on the trip) somewhere in continental Europe. The train rides on this trip were our relaxing moments, our hangover cure moments, our make-salami-sandwiches-with-cheap-bread moments, and this song was a perfect relaxing companion. And I would be a fool not to mention the lyrics. I really felt close to paradise while on the trip, whether it was the exploration we did, the people we met, the sights we saw, the alcohol we drank or the girls we…looked at.
This song, along with putting me on a train in Europe, is a constant reminder that often times sitting back and soaking it all in is the best way to enjoy your time.
Track 3 - Jimi Hendrix - Hey Joe
When I first heard about the death of my dad’s long time best friend and business partner, I was at work in an office building, working for the company he and my dad built out of our old basement in Toronto. Brooke was an amazing soul, quirky to the nth degree, and was extremely fond of music.
Anyways, i immediately started crying so my boss gave me the day off to be at home with my family. I had to gather myself to be able to drive home, so i decided to put on some music in the car before i left. It was right around the time I was getting into classic rock, so Q107 was on the dial in my car. The song had already started, and I just sat in my car, listening to Hey Joe (and always thought it sounded like he was saying “Angel”) crying, and thinking about life and death. To this day, this song puts me in the driver’s seat of my Pontiac in an above ground parking lot, trying to deal with a loss.
Track 4 - Bedouin Soundclash - Mountain Top
That girl from the Lifehouse song? She also ended up being the first girl I fell out of love with. As I write now, half a year after a brutal break up, the bitterness of being heartbroken is completely gone. But, for a long while, I was a lost soul. Music undoubtedly played a huge part in getting me back on the right track, and “Mountain Top” became the Commander in Chief of my army of “get your shit together” songs. The lyrics are uplifting, the song is catchy and upbeat, and it makes me dance around my apartment. I will always remember laying on the couch in my living room not wanting to move, or eat, or speak, or live, and forcing myself to listen to this song and enjoy it.
The funny part is that most music that I listen to during shitty periods of my life I develop aversions for (i really wish I could love Florence and the Machine again…maybe in time). However, even as this song accompanied me through the lowest of the low, i still love listening to it.
Track 5 - The Tragically Hip - Fifty Mission Cap
A late 1980’s black Nissan Pulsar is the home to of many of my early memories. It was my dad’s car and we would drive all around Toronto and the GTA in it. He would pick me and my sister up from swim practice in the Pulsar, we would go near the airport and watch planes land after swim meets (It had a T-Roof so it made plane watching awesome), and we would run errands in it.
Around the time of all of this Pulsar driving, the Tragically Hip came out with their “Day for Night” album, and “Fifty Mission Cap” was a single. ALSO occurring around this time of my life was my exponential growth in love for hockey. I was, at the very youngest, 5 years old.
So what do you get when you combine a car that you spend a lot of time in, a new album, and a dad who loves the hip? The memory of, on multiple occasions, sitting in the back seat and jamming to a song I still love to this day. Fifty Mission Cap was my first ever “favorite” song. The memories from around this time are obviously mashed together given how long ago it was, but Fifty Mission Cap represents my love for my father, music, hockey, and T-Roofs all combining into one of my earliest, fondest memories.
Track 6 - The Weakerthans - Sun in an Empty Room
I have listened to this song more than 20 times in the last 24 hours. It has easily become my new favorite song. It is helping me live in the moment. I want this song to be on repeat in my ears as the next few weeks unfold. Right now I am happy, hopeful, and enjoying every moment of life, and I know “Sun in an Empty Room” will be the song to remind me of this. But not now. And yes, i understand the irony of the lyrics being about decay, but the song representing growth and hope. It’s still awesome.
Liner Notes:
Ill keep this post short like a 6 song EP right now because, as anyone who has experienced this histiogeographical-music phenomenon will be able to attest, it could easily be a Full Length Double CD with a bonus “Making of” DVD and unlockable online content.
Oh, and histiogeographical? I totally just made that word up.
One night, when I was in high school and still living in King City, i stayed up late watching TV in my bedroom. On Bravo there was a movie from what seemed like the late 70s. The ambiance compelled me to stay on the channel, rather than endlessly flip through the 50 channels I got on my 27” tube TV.
The next two hours, I lay motionless in my bed watching a movie that had a plot about, well, nothing.
It was two hours of film about group of high school kids who skipped class and went to the beach. They rolled down sand dunes and frolicked in the sun. It was kind of like “Dazed and Confused,” but with less of a plot (hard to imagine, given Dazed and Confused is about nothing.)
It was the greatest movie I’ll never know the name of. And I want it to stay that way.
I recently found and fell in love with this song on CBC Radio 3, and the Youtube video for it reminded me about the movie about nothing.
** Author’s note: It is easy to get lost in the statistical and analytical world of hockey. Sometimes you need to take a step back to remember why you love the game, and more importantly, the Leafs.**
It was barely 1994, January 6th to be exact, and i was 5 years and 11 months old.
I don’t remember how my dad broke me the news about going to see my home-team play for the first time ever. In fact, I don’t think I really would have cared, as the excitement about seeing the leafs in person would have masked anything related to the surprise itself. Maybe my dad wanted to give me a place to wear my newly acquired home-white Felix Potvin jersey; a gift Mr. Clause had draped in front of the christmas tree days earlier.
We hopped on the subway at St Clair west and headed down to College. The plan was to grab a burger at Fran’s and then go early to see the warm-up. This, like it is for so many other leafs fans, became somewhat of a tradition for games we saw at the Garden’s. I remember thinking at the time how cool it was that an entire restaurant could be filled with people all going to the same place. How naive a five year old mind can be.
The dinner could not be over soon enough, as my anticipation was building to monumental levels. We made the short, cold walk from Fran’s over to Maple Leaf Gardens and I remember not realizing that the building I saw as we rounded the slight bend on Carleton was the Maple Leaf Garden’s. I can’t quite remember what 5 year old me expected the place to look like, but what I saw was a building that fit into its surroundings almost too nicely. The only thing that gave it away was the giant electric sign (the kind with only orange lights) that was advertising something for the game. I was absolutely fascinated by how statuesque the yellow brick building looked, as if its history was somehow creating an energy on the streets.
Inside the building provided much of the same amazement. Black and white pictures of hockey players i had never heard of; pictures of fans from years past, some of whom were probably at their first game as well. There were massive pictures (of which i equated to be giant hockey cards) of current leafs: Gilmour, Andreychuk, Clark, and my favorite, Potvin.
This was my first time in any major sports stadium (save for the times my family drove down to Cleveland to see the Jays play, but I was much too young to remember anything about that). I didn’t know how any of it worked, and my mind was filled with questions. Why were we going upstairs? Where was the ice? Why are there so many places to buy food?Why do the pretzels smell so good?
We made our way towards the tunnel for section 301 (possibly 314). As we entered through the curtains, there was a noticeable change in atmosphere. The light was brighter and the sound was deeper. Every step opened up a new view of the glorious building. At first, all I could see were people sitting in their seats far away. And then the jumbo-tron. And then the bright white ice. Every step made my eyes open wider. The old man in a suit with a leafs pin on his lapel at the end of the tunnel looked at our tickets and pointed us to the seats. He had a huge smile on his face and said to my dad, “this is his first game, isn’t it?”
My dad replied with something like, “why yes, how do you know?”
to which ‘old suit man’ said “his eyes are about to pop out of his head”
Throughout the game, he kept looking up at us and smiling, knowing what was going through my mind on one of the greatest days my 5 year old self had lived. In fact, I still get that feeling today as I walk down the tunnels of the ACC or the Skydome, that grandiose feeling of something big about to go on. The anticipation, the change in sound, and the opening up of the view still takes me back to the first time i walked down the tunnel at The Maple Leaf Gardens.
Our seats were incredible, and would be our home for many future leafs games, as they were season tickets for a business associate of my dad. They were diagonally opposite of the “Molson Best Seats in the house” (something i would brag about to my friends) and right up against a massive concrete wall. We had a perfect view of the ice, with no one to our right to cramp our space. We watched the warm up, and I remember being amazed at how many pucks they used, and how loudly the sound echoed when Dave Ellett or Jamie Macoun would miss the net with a slapper and hit the glass, and how fast the referees skated, and how big the jumbo-tron was in person, and how the press box looked like it was hanging from the ceiling, and how cool it would be to be in a box seat, and how many people in the crowd had similar jerseys on, and how dare anybody wear a senators jersey to a leafs game. My how things change.
I wish i could say I remembered any of the gameplay, but the specifics have gone the way of high-school math, or most of grade 9 and 10 for that matter. Besides, it wasn’t the game that mattered; It was experience. I do remember being completely overwhelmed when the leafs scored their first goal. The goal horn may as well of been right behind my head, and the people jumping up all around us startled me, if only for a second, as I joined them very quickly. I got used to it though since the leafs potted 5 more goals to win the game 6-3. Unfortunately I didn’t get to see Potvin play, as he had the night off against the 8-32-3 Senators. In his place, Damien “Dusty” Rhodes put up Toskala like numbers on an .863 night. I was honestly sad I didn’t get to see Potvin’s awesome pads and helmet in person. Dougie had three points that night, instantly making him my favorite forward, and Wendel grabbed the second spot with a massive open ice hit that everyone in the crowd saw coming. Andreychuk took third because his name fascinated me. They remain, in that order, my three favorite leafs (not named Felix Potvin) from the early 90s.
The game ended and we piled out of the arena. This time, I was captivated by the atmosphere outside of the building. Everyone was a buzz and cheering while they walked quickly towards their destinations. There was a frantic energy, as people were basking in the win, but trying to beat each other to their cars or the subway. My ears were ringing, and my adrenaline was still pumping. It was an incredible blur and an assault on my senses. Everything I had experienced from that night, as my dad and I walked through the January cold, was running through my head. At 5 years and 11 months old, I knew I would forever be a Leafs fan.
The next day, I wrote the final score on the ticket that I kept, and put it away in a safe place. This was a tradition i was planning on doing for every game, until the second game I saw was a 5-2 loss against Gretzky and the Kings the next year. On my birthday. I couldn’t bear to write down a losing score on the ticket (undoubtedly the start of my “bitter leafs fan” side)
According to google, not my memory:
- That night, Bob Rouse fought Herb Raglan, prompting me to ask the question now “who the hell is Herb Raglan?”
- Ottawa finished the season 14-61-9 (Maybe my dad got these tickets to ensure i saw a Leafs win)
- The game was about 2 months after Mike Foligno was traded to Florida for some guy named “Cash”, so i was never able to see El Jumpe in all of his glory
- Nikolai Borschevsky, who 5 year old me always got confused with Drake Berehowsky, had a goal and assist
- This was the only game i saw with the quintessential early 90s leaf lineup, as the infamous ‘Landon Wilson to Quebec for Mats Sundin, Todd Warriner , Garth Butcher and a first’ trade would happen months later…
**Authors Note: i feel foolish writing about the life of a man who so brilliantly wrote about his own. This is but a brief recollection of my thoughts on a great man who changed my life.**
i believe that farther removed from death, we have the ability to more accurately portray the mark that someone has left on our life. To write this story a year or two ago would not do justice to the impact one man, my mother’s father, had on my life. Equal parts John Stuart Mill (for his moral philosophy), Bill Cosby (for his great story-telling), and Don Draper (for how god-damned cool he was) Albert Hansen was a man who i saw not as often as i would have liked, but filled those times with such invaluable guidance, life-lessons and thoughtful conversation, that i feel the need to write about him years after his death.
Al, or Bert as he was known around the lake (yet never Albert), was a coltish man, probably at one time a little above 6 feet tall, but a little below in old age. To look at his physical appearance (as i remember him) was to look at me 50 years in the future, save for years of Air Force training and fighting that would leave him with a much better posture than i. Though i normally walk with a slouch, when i saw him, i immediately straightened my back, rolled my shoulders and put my “chest out and stomach in” as he used to state half jokingly, half militarily.
His voice was a combination of growing up in Scotland, spending time in the RAF and living most of his life in Canada. His accent couldn’t be equated to a specific commonwealth country, but was nonetheless regal. He had the ability to command the listener’s attention with one sentence, and his voice was a major part of this ability; his experiences the other.
In his retirement, my grandfather built a house on a lake about an hour and a half west of Ottawa. Also having purchased nearby cottages, my grandfather paved the way for a strong family bond in a shared bit of paradise . 3 of his 4 kids (my mom and two aunts) now have cottages within walking distance of each other. It is here where almost all of my childhood memories from the summer occur; i lost my finger at the cottage, i developed friendships with my cousins that are still strong to this day at the cottage, and i did some growing up at the cottage (read: first and last alcohol poisoning experience). But my grandfather provided much more than just a place for family to vacation.
i remember in the early evenings, when my dad and mom would go over for a martini (or two, or three) on the deck of my grandparent’s house. Even 100s of meters away, my dad’s roarus laughter would echo across the lake and across our neighbor’s house. Sitting at my own cottage, or out in a canoe, and hearing my dad like that made me know it was my grandpa making him laugh and that i wasn’t the only one who looked up to this great man.
He taught me at the age of 16, along with a group of young people at my cottage, how to play “Colonel Puff”, an epic drinking game that completely annihilated the group of teenagers. His youthful approach to old age is one i admired and hope to emulate.
i remember when he used to come to my house in King City, and after a welcome from my family and a dry martini, would make his way down to my basement music room and immediately sit down at my drum kit. His horribly arthritic hands would grab my drum sticks and he would try his hardest to play a Duke Ellington hit or any other swing rhythm he thought he could pull off. i can assure you, Watching an 80 year old man with a youthful twinkle in his eye playing a rock drum kit will instill some sort of irreversible memory . For me, it was the fact that i was able to give back something to my grandfather. He was never a drummer, or a musician for that matter, but he loved music and i feel like in the short time we had together, that was my gift to him.
We had this thing too, where i would give him a proper salute every-time i left his house, or he mine. The British Salute, where you put the backs of your fingers on your forehead so the person can see your palm, with your other arm stiffly placed down your side and thumb outstretched, and feet making a “V” with heels touching, standing tall and with pride, showing respect to one another (Why Canadians use the American salute boggled my mind). It became an expected thing; on family visits, everybody would say their goodbye’s and give hugs at the door, and i would salute my grandpa and wait for him to salute me back. It was the ultimate show of respect a young boy could show his elder, especially one with a sense of pride and a militaristic background.
But most importantly, as a young lad, my grandpa would always tell me stories from his time in the RAF as a bomber pilot. He would show me his log books which had columns dealing with the amount of resistance/flak he encountered. He told me of time he had to visit a British POW camp, about the time he met a german pilot after the war (a conversation that had an overall tone of: no hard feelings, just doing our respective jobs), about the time he had to drive a couple of Scottish soldiers through heavily defended streets to an HQ where he was to stay the night, and having to deal with the moral dilemma of the lower ranked Scottish soldiers requesting to head back to their squad, and my grandpa’s choice of letting them go back, and hearing the next morning that they didn’t make it back. i heard stories of how one morning his bunk-mate, and best friend, didn’t come back from a mission. We watched war movies like “The Eagle has landed”, “Sink the Bismark!” or our personal favorite “30 seconds over Tokyo.” (Any movie that glorified the B-25 Mitchell was OK in our books). His vast wealth of stories (and movies) taught my young soul of the hardships of war, without having to be in one; about regret that you can control and regret that you cant; about personal sacrifice (he met my grandmother while training in Canada, and had to leave her for the Western front); about living life with purpose, even if that means just enjoying yourself.
As i got older, some of my grandpa’s stories got recycled, and as he got older, the stories were told with more emotion. i felt like his legacy was being passed down through his oration, and he knew that as he crept closer to death, he needed to be heard. i feel extremely grateful that i was able to listen.
A friend recently asked me why I don’t try and write fiction. I didn’t really have an answer other than I had tried in the past and most of it was rubbish. The truth is, i write about reality because i find it amazingly interesting (and because, no matter how hard i fought it, SAC made me self centered). I find more humor in the day to day on goings of life than in any other comedic form, and for that reason, i write about it. My goal is that most people who read it (all 15 of you) can relate to at least one thing i say and have a chuckle, and go on with your day.
My non-fiction writing normally pours out of me based on where I am in life. I wrote about my bed when i had to throw it out, i wrote about my girl when i realised how much she meant to me, i wrote about my finger when i finally got pissed off telling the story, and i wrote about silly things i do when i was up late and self reflecting. This brings me to my new story.
On February 28, the same day that this will be happening again http://www.canada.com/sports/2010wintergames/ice-hockey/Canadian+roster+announced/2370903/2370997.bin?size=620x400 , I will be moving out of my parents/sister’s house (again).
The first time i left the proverbial nest, i was on my way to the concrete paradise of Hamilton, Ontario. I was on a path in search of higher learning. Four years passed and that path led me to Metalworks and back home with my parents in my sister’s house. Due solely to my parents undeniable generosity and support (and maybe a bit of them having to put up with me and my little sister fighting again), we decided that moving out, for good, was the best choice. Many dates with the real estate agent later, we bought a condo in the heart of missisauga, very close to my school where i will be moving in with my girlfriend and great friend from home who is also at metalworks.
Now, i don’t want this story to be taken in the wrong context. I could spend the next 22 years trying give back to my parents what they have given me, and i don’t think I would be successful. I owe more than i can imagine to them and will forever be greatful on every level for what theyve done for me. This time, moving out is going to be different. This time i know my second attempt at flying away from the nest will be permanent. Yes, I will return more than I should, but its time for me to make my own nest.
Having said that, http://mentalfloss.cachefly.net/blogs/wp-content/uploads/2009/08/larrydavid-thumb-257x278.jpg heres a list of things i will NOT miss about living in the Sodonis household.
- Smelling like mango vanilla pomegranite apricot after a shower
- - The crappy internet connection
- Worrying what my parents think I’m watching on my computer when Im really just listening to P-Funk
- Constant reminders on a Saturday night that my parents are cooler than me and often stay out later than I
- Not being able to watch TV shows because the PVR is recording its 6th “Golden Girls” episode of the day
- Not knowing how much to feed the fish, even after several instructions
- The constant worry that I’ve fed the fish too much
- The Bengal cat that hunts me when I’m sitting on the couch
- The blueberry spill in the freezer that NOONE ever cleans up
Actually. Come to think of it, I think these are some of the things I’ll miss the most. Except the crappy Internet Connec
I view myself as a very lucky person. No, I don’t normally win the Bingo cards I sparingly purchase, and I rarely make a half court shot in horse. However, it’s the little things in life, normally the doing of my family, that have been the reason for my luck. Little things like having a Dad who talked his way into letting me meet Sean Burke at a Leafs game and a Mom who always made sure I had the best packed lunch among all my friends, giving me unfathomable leverage for any snack trade proposal that came my way. It’s those little funny things that I really cherish from my childhood, and perhaps one of the most underrated moves my parents pulled that has stuck with me for my whole life is their choice of bed from the time I was out of my crib.
For reasons STILL unknown to me today, my parents decided that my first bed from when I was able to move out of a crib was not going to be a single or double bed like the majority of kids get. No, they decided that my (presumably) sub 4’ body needed a queen size bed. To compromise for my height as a 2 year old, they chose a modest, wood-framed queen size futon. My room at my house in Toronto was of modest size, and a futon fit in perfectly with the yellow walls, kitten in a tea-pot picture, and ABC123 drawers. I’m assuming that their logic at the time was that I would be able to climb into bed at my own will from a very young age, freeing them of the hassle of constantly getting me in and out of bed. Or maybe it was the futon fad of the 1990s that led them to purchase this beauty of a bed. Either way, the purchase turned out to be a great decision as I am currently writing this story sitting on the middle of the very same bed, legs crossed, like I did so many times as a kid.
I know what most of you are saying, “Big deal, it’s a stupid bed.” Well I calmly retort with a “Nay,” the bed means much more than that. This wood-framed futon has been such a defining object in my life that I have decided to write a freaking story on it. Don’t believe me? Well, read on.
Despite the fact that the futon was extremely low to the ground, my view of things as a tyke meant that monsters could still, in fact, fit under it. This caused me to develop a sleeping style that, in my mind as a child, protected me from said monsters. My bed would always have to be pushed up against a wall that would run the length of one side. When I slept, I would man the far side opposite of the wall, facing away from the wall. I was the hardened defender of the bed, the first line of defence from the aliens and monsters who lived underneath me. I realise there is absolutely no logic to my way of self-comfort, but in my little mind, it worked, and it was a way that I calmed myself before sleep. What is important about this little piece of nostalgia is that this sleeping method is one I use to this day. I still sleep on the far side of the bed, facing the outside, still ready to defend my bed’s honour from the underlings. Chelsea once got slightly offended when I would blatantly turn my back on her while sleeping. Which brings me to my next reason for writing this story.
When Chelsea and I regained contact after several years, we began “courting” like everyone else used to court at the age of 15: over msn. The new technology of the time that everyone used was external web-cams. Chelsea and I spent countless hours webcamming back in the day, her in her upstairs den, and me, on my bed. She would have to stare at my lovely background of maxim pin-ups, while I sat on my bed, slowly falling back in love with her.
After I had successfully swept Chelsea off her feet for the second time in my life, the bed was the site for a series of firsts I need not describe. However it was also the sight of many firsts that can be discussed. In this bed, I said “I love you” for the first time. Any guy who has said those three words knows how big of a deal that is, all things considered. The bed was also the sight of my first major fight with Chelsea, years after the “I love you” of course, but an important event nonetheless.
The futon was the critical piece of my bedroom rearranging puzzle. Sometime around late high school I became obsessed with moving the furniture of my room, constantly trying to find the best possible set up, and the futon was always the centrepiece. It was always willing to be moved, whether in the upright position as a couch/ single bed, or in the down position, offering everything a queen sized bed has to offer (namely 33 sq feet of space).
It is with great sadness I write this story, less than a month away from having to throw out the bed that I grew up in (probably literally since I seemingly became 6’4” overnight). The bed has spent 3 years at my house in Hamilton, the witness of my pursuit of higher learning. About a year and a half ago, one of the three “legs” broke for whatever reason. Even with a huge sag in the centre of the bed, I put up with it. This bed had seen too much and had been there for me too many times for me to turn my back on it.
The mattress still shows the countless urine and puke stains from my early childhood (and only my early childhood). There are countless ink stains from nights of endless homework. One of the 2x4’s running the length of the bed broke about 4 years ago. That same day, I found a replacement piece and fixed the bed. It was completely out of the ordinary for me to do, but understandable now that you’ve been given some insight into its importance.
I don’t know how I’m going to act when it comes time for me to move away from Hamilton and move on from my life. I already have a newer, similar bed that resides in my room at home that has taken over the futon’s role, but I know it will never be the same. Not one inanimate object has witnessed so many important things in my life, and for that I am greatful. Too bad I couldn’t trade one of my classic lunch time King Sized Snicker’s bar for a place to put this bed. A place that would allow me to keep it, not using it as often, but hanging onto the one thing that has seen so much. But for now, I know the bed will soon be out of my possession, and I don’t know where its final resting place will be.
