I used to start the countdown much earlier, but now there’s just too much counting to be done that it’s hard to keep up. Hard to keep track. Countdown to lunch. Countdown to deadline. Countdown to air time. Countdown to bedtime. Countdown to morning. Countdown to Friday. So many shrinking numbers that the countdown to Winnipeg, to home sweet home, to holidays, to dog parks, to 204, and 874, to Mom etc., to hearty dinners and relics of heartache, to everything that has ever warranted counting, has been completely discounted. But never forgotten.
This weekend, on the way to the water, still 93 km (and counting), we drove through his hometown. The kind of hometown that can actually be called a town. The kind of hometown with street names like Meadow Grove and Ash Tree Way. The kind of hometown where you can go for blocks without encountering a traffic light or the blast of a city horn. The kind of hometown where the yellows on the roads are just dried leaves, not drawn lanes. The kind of hometown where the girl walking her dog was his first girlfriend, and where the schoolyard, that very one, is where he smoked his first cigarettes, where he played tag. That kind of hometown.
He points out the TCBY where he used to get samples, and dates with older women, and before that, along the four lane stretch of downtown, we pass the place where his mother’s candy shop once stood, and the pet store that employed him when his only reference was his paper route.
My mother was an accountant, and I rarely played tag, and never while I was smoking. I never smoked. So many differences between his hometown and mine. His childhood and mine. Still so much the same that I'm sick for home. Never before sicker. The car pulls past all the places that I’ve never been, but have been many times, in my own way, in my own un-townlike hometown, and then away from his nostalgia and closer to mine.
I count how long it takes to get back on the highway. Four minutes. That's no record, it seems. And then my own countdown begins. Twenty-two down. Twenty-one to go.
This weekend, on the way to the water, still 93 km (and counting), we drove through his hometown. The kind of hometown that can actually be called a town. The kind of hometown with street names like Meadow Grove and Ash Tree Way. The kind of hometown where you can go for blocks without encountering a traffic light or the blast of a city horn. The kind of hometown where the yellows on the roads are just dried leaves, not drawn lanes. The kind of hometown where the girl walking her dog was his first girlfriend, and where the schoolyard, that very one, is where he smoked his first cigarettes, where he played tag. That kind of hometown.
He points out the TCBY where he used to get samples, and dates with older women, and before that, along the four lane stretch of downtown, we pass the place where his mother’s candy shop once stood, and the pet store that employed him when his only reference was his paper route.
My mother was an accountant, and I rarely played tag, and never while I was smoking. I never smoked. So many differences between his hometown and mine. His childhood and mine. Still so much the same that I'm sick for home. Never before sicker. The car pulls past all the places that I’ve never been, but have been many times, in my own way, in my own un-townlike hometown, and then away from his nostalgia and closer to mine.
I count how long it takes to get back on the highway. Four minutes. That's no record, it seems. And then my own countdown begins. Twenty-two down. Twenty-one to go.
12 comments:
four years in, three living spaces later (two buildings we shared), and two (too) many reasons to leave town for the one city I (we) end up in.
love that from time to time the memories that are yours are the memories that are mine.
i didn't know your mom's an accountant! mine is too. also, counting down is something i've recently stopped doing. looking forward to things sucks because it only ends in disappointment, in my opinion.
You forgot about Winnipeg? It is a dump, but to think you actually forgot your roots makes me feel so bad for you. Did you actually need to drive through some small bumpkin town to remember the city you grew up in? hHve the bright, blinking big city lights honestly made you forget your childhood? Have all your skinny fashion friends made you forget your real friends back home? Thats sad. I will never forget where I came from. No matter how "chic" my shoulder pads are. Youre blog is too shallow to look at & your city doesnt want you back anyway.
yeesh. anonymous anger much?
i happen to like your blog, and shoulder pads, and mostly, anonymous haters that leave novels as comments on the blogs they 'hate'.
--> Have all your skinny fashion friends made you forget your real friends back home?
No, 90 per cent of her skinny fashion friends in Toronto are from Winnipeg. We all leave, move on, and inspire anonymous comments.
That's the Winnipeg way.
I worry because I am wearing shoulder pads today...
They're watching me.
i'm sorry? where does it say Carli's forgotten winnipeg? and your comment lacks persuasion by starting with "it is a dump." i love winnipeg with all my heart and soul, but it's a small town and your shitty (and by the way reeking of jealousy) comment has ignited some speculation as to whom it may be attributed... and really? you're going to go on the attack by labeling her friends skinny and fashionable? some friends, despite how much they love and adore and miss winnipeg on a daily basis, don't want to live beneath glass ceilings. glass ceilings which still remain in place in toronto and elsewhere. having to move-to numerous locations- in your twenties can be important for some to gain skills unavailable in the prairies. choosing to stay home, on the other end, can be equally beneficial if it so suits you.
i'm sorry, that comment was so fucking stupid, mean and ignorant. and made me for one fucking small tiny minute hate winnipeg. but then i remembered how much i love it and most of the people there.
Amen, D.A.F.!
I too am counting down to when my down-counting, mathermatically challegned, skinny, fashionable, shoulderpad wearing daughter comes to eat hearty meals I lovingly and joyously prepare for her. Both Winnipeg and I and ABSOLUTELY want her back!
22, 21, 20, 19.....
this is not from the anon above:
that comment from mom is the cutest/best I have ever seen....Winnipeg moms are THE BEST
ohhh shit. i love when caron gets her claws out. can i have honorary 'peg citizenship already? (despite never having been!)
by the way, it's really too bad everyone's talking about a silly comment instead of this achey lovely blog post...
xo
Car, this post actually brought tears to my eyes. You're amazing.
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