Every family has stories. As you may have figured out by now, I tend to favor the ones with a slightly twisted bent. One in particular became infamously known as “Potatoes and Peas”. My brother and I were 4 and 5 respectively, and we were all sitting around the dinner table in our basement apartment. The divisiveness between my mom and dad was no secret and something they didn’t even try to hide anymore. On this particular evening the tension was unquestionable, and there was an air so thick you could slice it kind of feeling. Suddenly, from nowhere, no warning, no prelude, one of them throws a plate of potatoes and peas at the wall, breaking the plate but leaving a wash of creamy whites and greens before us. No one said a thing, no one cleaned it up, and my brother and I had to stay and finish our meal regardless. And so we did, allthewhile staring at this fascinating wall montage made of someone’s food frozen in place like some abstract acrylic painting. It was amazing to look at actually, the way the lines moved and the colours blended. And it enchanted us, completely rewriting the event, successfully overshadowing the company and the bitterness
that still hung in the peripheral.

“The Babysitter” is a window into the 70’s with its freedom, naivety and general lack of boundaries. We were living on Cote Saint Catherine Road in Montreal, and I was about 3, my brother 2. My mother had hired a teenager to take us to the park across the street so that she could have a break and do some errand shopping. When she got back home we were still out, nothing too concerning, but the hours dragged on and by the time my dad walked in it was dark and my mom was hysterical. The police were summoned, and as the story goes I was found on one side of the park wandering aimlessly while my brother was wailing at the other end amongst some trees, and not too far away from him was the tricycle. The babysitter, well, she was found passed out on a hill, stoned out of her mind. My mother never forgave that girl, while my father was just glad it all ended well. Myself, I look back and view it as a rite of passage of the times, as even though I was just a child, the revolution had found a way to place its mark on me.

Let’s see… one more. This one is called “Moon Landing”, which yes, is literal. We had just moved to Toronto. It was late at night and the sound of the TV had wrestled me from my sleep. I remember sheepishly stumbling into the living room where my mom was folding laundry, entranced by the black and white images on the screen. The expected reaction should have been a firm get back to bed, but instead, and this is what really stood out, she invited me to come and watch the show with her. A man had just landed on the moon, she explained, pointing to a grainy image of an astronaut bouncing on a baron surface. But I was more amazed by my mother, who was so uncharacteristically happy, in fact, dare I say ecstatic, which I was not used to. Naturally, I eagerly joined in to keep this mood going. I remember feeling so lucky to have won this time with her as we celebrated in the excitement and awe of history in the making. So much was going right,
including the fact that I was clearly not in bed.

And despite the fact that by sunrise I would lose her again to sorrow and depression, the moon’s light did shine on us for a few more years, bringing small but definite promises and illusion.