I AM SO HAPPILY HAUNTED BY THE PAST - I GET A CHANCE TO SAY THANK YOU, GRAVENHURST TO BURLINGTON
MAKING A BURLINGTON CONNECTION AFTER ALL THESE YEARS - I AM INDEBTED TO THE ALCHEMY OF THE INTERNET
For those who know me well…..maybe too well for their own good, they realize that when I tell them something we do together, will generate some unspecified psychic action and reaction, they will thusly appreciate the importance of making this latest connection, from my first true hometown, to most likely, my last. Suzanne came running to me last night, to pull me away from the CBC News, to tell me about an incredible email we'd just received……that was allegedly, going to make my year. Emails I get are usually short and sweet, and begin and end with the word "jerk." Other emailers typically want me to buy a skid of Viagra or baldness eliminator, which I respectfully decline. I just couldn't imagine what kind of electronic correspondence would quality as "incredible." Keeping in mind, my wife is a school librarian and measures her words and excitement about such things very carefully. This was a code blue for her. Well by golly, the content of the email, not only was a highlight of the year, but of more than three decades. You see, it was back in 1977, that I last visited with our family friend, Anne Nagy, of 2138 Harris Crescent, in Burlington, Ontario. Where I "cut" my teeth on outdoor adventures, and earned my stripes as a resident, and neighborhood trouble-maker. It was where I became both a collector and a future writer, and in many ways, Anne Nagy was an effervescent, unfailing source of direction and inspiration. She was my day-mother for quite some time, while my parents, Merle and Ed, worked through the week in either Hamilton or Toronto.
The email was sent by a very kind lady, who happens to know the Nagy family well. In fact, Tracy McKelvey, lives in the same building, where our own small family used to reside, and often sits at the front of the building with Anne herself. They like to chat about the neighborhood and its history, and apparently Anne has quite a few stories about the good old days. I don't think my name came up, during their conversations, but Tracy decided to do a bit of online research, to see if there was any morsel of unknown history about this quaint bailiwick of residential Burlington……nestled so comfortably on the hillside above the expanse of Lake Ontario. This is where she found reference to Harris Crescent, and Anne Nagy. I had written a blog some time ago, about my rapscallion days growing up on this wonderful cul-de-sac. In fact, over the past six or seven months, I've written a dozen or so blogs about my early days growing up in this chestnut-tree lined neighborhood, rising up Torrance Avenue (I think it was), from the Lakeshore Road. I'm not sure if it was Lakeshore Avenue or Road. I just know I loved it there, with the sound of Ramble Creek gurgling in the abutting hollow, my mother called "the ravine." I went to school in Burlington listening to the fog horns of the freighters on the lake. I went to school in Muskoka, in later years, listening to loons. I liked both sounds.
Tracy you see, offered, so kindly, to print-off a copy of today's blog, for Anne's benefit. While Anne was always a very astute and progressive contemporary lady, I couldn't imagine her hunkered down over a computer, like I am today. I was sorry to learn that her husband is in a retirement home, because Alec was my first close friend. You see, Alec and Anne, and their daughter Mary Anne, were the owners of the apartment building I have always remembered as "2138 Harris Crescent." It's what Merle had written onto the inside label of my windbreakers and snowsuits, so I'd get them back, when I dumped them because I got too hot playing. But it was always "Nagy's Apartment," and, if I was vain enough to write a proper biography, it would take up the first six chapters. I learned a lot in those few years, from the mid 1950's to just after the Assassination of John F. Kennedy. That's when my mother had to write a new label in my clothes. For several years our new address was "1321 Brant Street," in the Mountain Gardens area of Burlington. I didn't like that apartment, because it wasn't Nagy's. I never really understood why we moved in the first place. I was a happy camper sitting under the shade of Anne's beautiful cherry tree in the back yard. I was more than just a little contented to hover over the wire fence, that separated our apartment building from the enchanted Victorian home belonging to Mrs. White. She had some interesting fruit trees and mysterious out-buildings, that Alec warned me to stay away from……and Merle told me Mrs. White, God rest her soul, would turn me into a horny toad, if I crossed that threshold property-line. I did cross that line, ripped the arse out of my pants, getting back over, and had a hard time explaining to my mother, how I got a two foot long scratch down the inside of my leg, during one of the great escapes.
Anne looked after me, and another child, by the name of Jeanie Sproule, and I think on several occasions we may have done somethings deemed "very bad"…….not sure what it was……possibly eating our silly putty, or something, but we had a fair number of time-outs. I used to take my soul-searching respites, huddled under the Nagy's beautiful piano, where I could not, for the the life of me, stop screwing with the pedals. Anne had a way of emphasizing my name, that was deep and stretched in speech, such that it sounded like, "Tedeeeeeeee!" When I was removed from that portal, I was told to sit on her leather couch, which contained an unspecified smell of preserved hide, that I can recall any time I want to reminisce. If I'd been particularly bad that day, I hid my face deep in the corner of that couch, to bury my shame for disrupting Anne's always busy schedule. I don't know if inhaling leather was a good thing or not, but I spent a lot of time riding that former cow. The scent always reminded me of walnuts. As I usually only sat on the couch when I was in trouble, I associated leather and walnuts as contrary articles to the person I was becoming.
As I'm a devilish bugger even today, I was to the exponent of ten, back then. If my mother told me not to come home with a "soaker,' I would come home with two, the behind torn out of my pants, a cut on my forehead from some innocent rock throwing, and I might even have a couple of slippery smelts tucked into my pants. No really. Don't laugh. I'd even come home with frogs in there, and maybe once or twice, one of the big "Suckers" that used to thrive in the still, dark pools of Ramble Creek. So For Anne Nagy, I was a challenge. I was much more respectful of her, than my mother, because Anne could run like an Olympian hurdler, and catch me by the arm like she was in the throes of a relay race……Jeannie with the other. Alec was also surprisingly nimble when he heard a crash, and it's a wonder I didn't give him a heart attack…..because there was a lot of crashing attributed to "that Currie kid." I heard one lady remark, after I'd overturned a grocery cart in a store, by accident, that she could smell "sulphur." So I wanted to know what that meant, and what sulphur smelled like. "Like the devil," she said with a chuckle, picking up the broken eggs, and pieces of glass from the former pickle jar, shattered in the tipped-over cart.
My greatest pleasure, as I have written about frequently, over the years, was when Anne was in her kitchen cooking, and I had to be kept under control. I wanted to be restrained, if it meant my time-out zone was her kitchen. I'd sit in the small room, watching her cook…..bake pies, cut up and peel apples. I got to eat the peels first and the fresh baked pie at lunch. Her culinary creations were to die-for, and Alec knew how good he had it…….and on a few occasions, he may have winked, when we'd come in the hallway door, and he start licking his lips in advance…….because he knew what each aroma represented that lunch or dinner. It was Alec Nagy, who taught me the old-school way, of dining in Anne's kitchen. You didn't worry about utensils. That's what the honking big slice of bread, dripping with butter was all about. He showed me how to "embrace the bread," as if it was man's best friend. It was what would sop-up the gravy in the stew, and curved into the shape of a scoop, to then bring forth the meat, potatoes and carrots, without the metal taste of a spoon. He showed me how to enjoy good food. I can always remember Alec in his trademark undershirt, with arms like Popeye, settled down over his meal like…..as if it might be his last; he was going to celebrate every bite. I watched him like a Hawk, because I was often experiencing menu-items I wasn't used to getting at home. I had the best of the best. Hot apple pies for desert. Home made by a heaven-sent cook, who liked nothing more than a guest who begged for seconds. Actually, Alec and I got to the point we just looked at her longingly, and we'd get a re-fill of whatever was being served. Her cabbage rolls were like a drug for me. Even as a teenager when one of my cronies would ask if I wanted some marijuana, and while it was kind of embarrassing, I'd mumble softly, that honestly, I'd sooner have a cabbage roll instead. It was Anne Nagy who honed my passion for culinary adventure, and Alec who showed me what a "boarding house reach," was. If I wasn't fast enough on the draw, with a long enough reach, he'd beat me for the last slice of bread, or the one hot muffin still on the table.
The Nagy's ran the nicest, cleanest, and friendliest apartment building anywhere on earth. I used to help her clean. My thrill was to get to use the giant mop-type contraption, she used on the apartment hallways, and the aromatic product, red and green, she used as a dust suppressor. Dustbain or something like that, but the smell is also one of those childhood senses that has survived, for me, into this new century. When Alec had a day off, from his manufacturing plant, which I always thought was International Harvester, I used to help him mow the lawn. He had this giant open bladed mower, like a hand-pushed model but with what sounded like a Harley-Davidson engine; that when he started it started up, got the attention of all the neighbors, including the evasive Mrs. White, who would show up on her covered verandah, wondering if an aircraft was going to crash. He kept it in a small white shed, with many intriguing doors, at the side of the building, and it always smelled of lawn care and gasoline. I didn't gain any mechanical skills from Alec, just some good cuss words when he pinched his finger in the lawnmower, or hit his thumb with a hammer. Once again Mrs. White might look over the fence to see what all the fuss was about. Alec would just smile and wish her a good day, and then return to cussing…..but not for my ears.
Then there was the day I was riding my first two-wheeler, when I did a cartwheel in front of the apartment. Alec, who was no stranger to tending his own wounds, as a handyman, ran out of the side-yard like a superhero, pulled the bike off my head, and when he asked if I was okay, it was just seconds before he saw the huge gouge in my leg, caused by an errant pedal. So while I was dusting off my road-rashed ass, he kept me distracted, because I got faint at the sight of blood. I can see someone else's blood, just not my own. So before I freaked out about the big hole in my leg, Alec was already ushering me away from the middle of the road, and to his little shed where he kept a medical kit. At least this is how I remember it. 'It's okay Teddy, just a little cut." "Cut?" I answered. That was the magic word. "Am I going to die?" I blurted as I started to feel light-headed. I was on the verge of fainting, when something began searing at my flesh. Cripes, he'd dumped about a half bottle of iodine on the wound, and I swear to Christ there was smoke coming off it. I have feared iodine ever since. I'd have gladly bled to death, than have that horrible stuff on my cut. He actually had to hold me from strangling him, and I was only a kid. Strange thing about iodine. It has about a two minute horror threshold, before the pain subsides. I know it was the right treatment at the perfect time, and every time I look at the impression, still visible after all these years, I can't help think about the morning of the iodine incident. It sure as hell made me want to stay on my bike, after that. I've always been wary of medical kits however, and what antiseptic that can hurt me, is tucked inside.
Alec didn't like repetitive chatter on my part. I think that's why he used to do the lawn so recently……that seemed like the whole time when he was home, and not eating or sleeping. I had two items I wanted from his collection of old stuff. I wanted a metal popcorn basket with a wire handle, that I think was used over an open fire, and an old suitcase he kept in his shed. So knowing he didn't like my badgering, I gave him both barrels. It took weeks. He even went to my mother and asked permission. "Teddy's driving me nuts Merle…..can he have this stuff," he begged. The popcorn popper was for no other purpose, than to prove I had what it took, as a kid, to get what I wanted. The suitcase? I was a big circus fan, and I had an idea that I was meant to be a performer in one. I often heard people in our neighborhood say things like, "That Currie kid belongs in a three ring circus," and "Does the circus know that kid escaped." So I thought it would be neat to put all my performance tools in the old musty smelling suitcase, that I could haul around the yard……ready to perform on a moment's notice. I used the empty suitcase as a small but adequate stage for my acts. I wasn't very good, or so folks told me by walking away briskly, and not looking back. So the circus phase was over quickly. Merle wouldn't let me keep the musty suitcase in the apartment, so guess where it wound up…….for the very next kid to find, while watching Alec working in his shed.
Anne and my mother used to sit on the parking lot side of the apartment, adjacent to Mrs. Bell's multi-family house, just above the ravine, where Ramble Creek frothed over the flat limestone bridges. I remember the spring we had a nest of newly born bunnies. Rabbits. The mother had made a nest in a clump of spring flowers, in the side garden. Anne, by her own admission, had made the mistake of showing me the wee ones, when the mother had hopped away down the hillside. I was a bunny junkie. I could not stop watching and peaking at the young ones. Anne warned me a hundred times or more, not to disturb the nest or the mother rabbit would abandon them. Like Ringo touching the button on the Yellow Submarine, warnings didn't matter. I was persistent beyond comprehension. So when Anne and my mother weren't around, I had my head in the clump of flowers. I made the tragic mistake of touching them. I returned one day, after school, to find two of the bunnies were deceased. The third one was gone. Anne's kitchen window was right there, on then bottom floor of the apartment, and she knew what had happened. So I got one of the best life and death lectures of my life. She told me the mother rabbit had abandoned the nest because of the human scent I left, and the babies had starved. "But there were three babies," I exclaimed, believing it was possible, the mother had rescued one of her litter. "A fox got one," she said with what looked like a wink, so I was never sure if she was just being emphatic, and demonstrating the importance of listening to sage advice. I was a mess after this. I'd caused the death of three beautiful little bunnies. I destroyed a whole bunny family. "See what I told you," she said, my mother nodding in the background. 'When we tell you not to touch something, what do you think we mean by that?" Now this was a poignant recollection, and a story I used on my own boys here at Birch Hollow, where there are critters everywhere……and we're known as conservation activists. But I have this blemish, you see, and although I've repented for my sins, I'm stuck with that image. It's so traumatic, that I had to beat a hasty retreat out of the local grocery store, at Easter this year, when I saw a skinned rabbit at the butcher's counter. A life long trauma because I wouldn't listen to Anne Nagy.
My first introduction to "The Beatles"……and I'm pretty sure of this, was when Mary-Ann showed me her collection of "Beatles Cards" she had purchased…..and I was really freaked-out that any one would have cards with bugs on them. I remember the sweet smell of chewing gum on the cards…..as this is how they were sold in those days. The gum was horrible but it smelled nice. Now if it wasn't the Beatles, it was something similar. She didn't have a lot of interest in the snotty-nosed Currie kid from upstairs. She was in high school then, I believe, and she was always on the go, if I remember correctly. I'd just sit beneath the piano, when I was bored, and play with the pedals, until I heard Anne's booming voice once again.
As a career writer, who has always had more fun at the craft, than financial success, I have been drawing on all my fascinating connections, built-up over a lifetime……and Burlington still offers a big pool of past experiences to fill my bucket. I might be an historian by profession, but I'm a "memory keeper," by habit. I relate many contemporary realities and events, to my years growing up, and if I look at you strangely, I may be either connecting with your previous life, or you look similar to someone I knew in those neighborhood ambling days in Burlington…….creekside relics hanging out of my pockets, a snake or toad in my hand. I was a real treat coming home from school, with arm-loads of chestnuts, some still in the barbed green husks, others all shiny and oddly shaped in every pocket. I can remember occasions when Anne and my mother saw me coming around the corner, and I know they were hatching a plan to reduce my load before it made it through the apartment door. They got some of the contraband, but I became a capable smuggler.
As I got a little more independent, Anne just became the somewhat invisible "watcher," to make sure I was safe, and held nothing in my possession that would either start a fire, or blow something up. My mate Ray Green was the trigger man in our operation. We would be standing there one moment, good as gold (as my mother used to quip), and then something large would fall over, or a neighborhood kid would come home screaming about the fact we had pulled his underwear so tight, in a see-saw motion, that it had completely disintegrated in a whisp of smoke. I won't lie. Ray and I were the devil's spawn in those days, and on many occasions I heard the angry footfall of a Nagy, either Anne or Alec, or both, running to see what the commotion was all about. Like the time Alec told me to stay away from my dad's old car. It was really old, as it was all he could afford. It was about a 1947 Pontiac. He had parked it out the front, after having just bought it at a local car lot, and I was particularly interested in how the trunk worked. Alec was at his work shed, at the side of the building, and every now and again, even without seeing me perpetrate the deed, he knew the trunk had been disengaged. After about four or five interventions, only to find that I had disappeared before he could catch me, the final act was precious for all those who felt I deserved a little something special. Yup, I slammed my hand in the trunk. I was stuck there, when Nagy came around the corner hell bent on catching me. It was real easy that time. "What did you do Teddy," he barked. I couldn't spit out the words to describe the pain I was in, as my fingers were wrapped around the frame of the trunk. He popped the truck, looked at my hand, cussed a little under his breath, and led me to his shed. I knew what that walk meant. My feet only lightly touched the ground. Out came the first aid box, and before I could object, I got the iodine treatment again. I was of course speechless, but I cried a lot. I always felt Alec thought, that even if I'd had a broken bone, there was nothing better for one's recovery, than a heaping helping of iodine. His heart was in the right place. My father treated all ailments, even my mother's initial stroke, with a glass of ginger ale. Every childhood illness I had, he'd order a bottle of Canada Dry to be delivered from the drug store. I survived all this illnesses. Maybe he was right. I not so sure about the iodine. I hated the smell. The pain wasn't so great either.
So then there was the occasion when Anne, Alec and Merle told me to stay away from a metal vent pipe, or conduit for something, at the side of the building, near the doorway to the furnace room. I didn't know much about Mud Daubers…….still don't, other than what I learned that fateful day. It seems these wasp-like creatures make their hives out of gathered mud….or dirt that they somehow moisten with secretions. So at the end of this candy-cane style pipe, there was a clog-up of mud and these flying critters. I was told I could watch them from a safe distance. They didn't tell me, I couldn't send my friend Ray in for a closer look. In fact, they never once explained to me, how dangerous it could be, to suggest Ray actually sniff the mud, because I told him that these unusual, magical insects made it smell like honey. They certainly didn't warn me that while Ray was sniffing the Mud Dauber's den, that throwing a baseball at the base of the pipe was employing horrible judgement. Poor kid. Ray had his nose within an inch of the suckers, and I hit the pipe with the ball, and the kid's whole body was covered in these bandy legged wee beasties stinging the crap out of him. So I started screaming too, to diminish the likelihood I would be seen as the villain. I hadn't counted on witnesses who heard me instructing Ray to get a closer look. Well, the good news is, Ray recovered, but looked kind of funny in class the next day. I told those who were kidding him, to back off, or they'd deal with me. What are friends for? It wasn't like I'd been trying to kill him or anything, or at least this is what his mother wondered. Ray made up for this, on the winter afternoon when he suggested I should jump on thin ice, over a deep pool of Ramble Creek. I had a body-type snowsuit on, that when full of water, was like wearing several cement blocks around your neck. When I started screaming, in the chest deep water, Ray did what he thought was right. Buggered off. If it wasn't for a couple of girls playing in the driveway above, who heard my shouts, I would have been reduced to ghost status, to forever haunt the ravine. I think Merle was with Anne when they found me just about to slip below the ice, and it took a behemoth effort to pull me out of the water. Ray and I did this to each other until our late teens, and it is truly amazing that we survived as long as we did. Of course there was the time Ray and I and some of the local notables, dared each other into a frenzy, to climb through the levels in the still open structure of Torrance Terrace, in the middle of construction. We were about six floors up, I think, and were running all over the place, with nothing closed in, to stop us from plummeting over the side. I was pretty good at fobbing things off on someone else, as I do today, so on this Sunday afternoon, I was the only one not hauled home by the ear lobe home, courtesy the attending constable. Why did we do it? Well as a famous Mount Everest climber once answered, "Because it was there."
I have so greatly benefitted, throughout my life, as a journalist, writer and historian, possessing so many recollections of the places I have lived before. There are few writing jags at this keyboard now, when I don't push back the chair for a brief hiatus from work, and think about the collective of positive influences I've enjoyed, and the truly wonderful characters I've known in these charming places I have dwelled. I will spend the rest of my life, feeling fortunate, to have had the good company of Anne and Alec Nagy, and their daughter Mary Ann, who tried everything possible, to keep me, as they say, on the straight and narrow. It might sound sappy, and sweetly nostalgic, and of this I can only offer the apology….."I'm sorry you weren't there with me…..we would have had a heck of a time."
So here's one last little tidbit of recollection, about an event I kept secret from the Nagys and my parents. Despite all the warnings, and dire predictions, I was going to kill myself by excess…….as a rabid seven year old, (or in that general vicinity) there was the time I managed to ride my two wheeler down the street without crashing on my own. I was thinking about the iodine. I was riding on the sidewalk, and heading past the driveway of the Ratkowski (not sure of spelling) market garden, straight up Torrance, and I met a car that went through the intersection without stopping, and into the driveway of the farm warehousing. I got hit while on the sidewalk, and I know it wasn't my fault. The older gentleman hadn't seen me, but reacted quickly once he did. I was knocked over by the big chrome bumper of the car, and the bulge of the hood crushed my fingers against the handlebars. If he hadn't hit the brakes when he did, I would have been the dearly departed. I jumped back on my bike, and fled the scene. Even before the guy could get out of his car, I was gone like a shot. I had never been that frightened of anything….even the iodine. One of the reasons, is that if word had got out, and the fuzz had been called, I inevitably would have brought down our Elmer the Safety Elephant flag, at Lakeshore Public School. The last kid that was hit by a car, destroying a three hundred day incident-free period for our school body, had been beaten to a pulp by students, for his carelessness on the street. I could live without that!
Well, I could never tell my mother what happened that day. When Anne asked what was wrong with my hand, I admitted to falling off my bike, but not that I had just been hit by a car. My mother always figured that's how I would finally meet my maker. A car on top of me and my bike. I don't ride bikes any more, but I proved her wrong. I had the urge to tell her, shortly before she died, but I couldn't have faced my father either, as I had also been told about the "going to hell" part, if I told lies. I told my boys the same thing and they lied to me as well. It's kind of a requirement of youth, to bedazzle those who care for us, by always holding a little bit of the truth back, for an uncertain posterity, none of us really understands.
I am a better person for having known the Nagys. I had the benefit of living in a safe building, with many on-duty parents "of the day," and Harris Crescent was one of the most comfortable places to reside in the whole community. It was my first and most important portal, to look out from, as a writer in training. I always remember one sad occasion, in retrospect, when Anne had once arranged, that I would stop for lunch at a friend's home, who lived near the base of Torrance at the Lakeshore. When I sat down for lunch, the charming host served me a large plate of golden brown french fries, which were my favorite. But to my chagrin, she only had cider vinegar. As the world was supposedly made for me, I put on quite a show that afternoon……the prince didn't get his white vinegar, and thus, no fries could be consumed. When Anne found out about this, I think for the first time, she may have felt I was possessed……the devil incarnate, or something like that. I was just fussy. Ask Suzanne, about the cider vinegar thing. I'm awful when it is a food related crisis.
I can remember hearing about it, some years later, that the same woman's son, had been hit and killed by a car, that had accidentally mounted the curb near their lakeshore home. While I realized that eating my fries with cider vinegar wouldn't have made any difference to that particular outcome, I did feel bad about being a horrible house guest…..and ignoring the fact, I had been rude and inconsiderate……and well, the young mind does funny things this way, and it all just remained unresolved business of childhood.
I hope Anne will recall some of these instances that were important and life-changing for me. I grew up with a good outlook, because of all the kindnesses I knew I had received during those formative years……while I was also hatching some contrary ideas in the minds of neighbors who watched me grow. I would like Alec to know how good a surrogate parent he was, to me, and as my protector, my healer, and my lawnmowing chum; and how his tutoring influenced how I dealt with my own boys, Andrew and Robert, now businessmen here in our town. And Alec taught me how to truly enjoy good food. As if we were both spellbound by culinary artistry. We both knew that the magic, was with the "preparer-of-these-foods", and that was Anne.
Through good times and dark, joy and sadness, success and failure, I have always found sanctuary in those old dog-eared memories, of picnics beneath the old cherry tree in the backyard, and smelt fishing in the spring, and darting here and there in the tangle of jungle, we loved as the "wild" characteristic, of the overgrown Ramble Creek Ravine. But it is recollection of the people I knew once, that brings a smile to my face, no matter what the circumstance, or the pressing engagement at that precise moment. Just before my father, Ed, passed away, several years ago, he came out of his confusion one afternoon, and we had a great chat about those days at the Nagy apartment, and in fact, it was the last real conversation we had before the end. While Merle and Ed may never have told Anne and Alec how much they had needed their friendship, for those early years of parenthood, I know they cared very much……and it was always a positive reminiscence when we talked about the ups and downs we'd had as a family. You can then imagine how wonderful it was, to know Anne is still at 2138 Harris Crescent, and doing well.
It's in the fall of the year, I get most nostalgic about this neighborhood, when I think about climbing up that chestnut lined avenue from the lake, and seeing, in all its melancholy grandeur, the old Victorian house on the hillside, where the apartment was eventually built, and watching my contemporaries playing in the piles of leaves being raked up…..and feeling as if my sensory perception might at once burst…….as it was all so memorably heartfelt and beautiful……and a scene that even could even impress a wild child of the 1960's.
In many ways, I have never really separated from those sensory-powerful days, of youthfulness, and even here at Birch Hollow, just above the forest and lowland we call The Bog, Gravenhurst is very similar……and what I enjoyed as a wide-eyed child adventurer, I celebrate just as heartily, and spiritually, but here, now, in my present hometown…..where Suzanne and I have, quite contently, spent most of our adult lives……raising a family, and playing host to assorted abandoned cats and such, that also, with some affection, call this place home. I have always been an historian. When someone asks what my qualifications are…….I never offer my university degree, as proof I've earned the title. I will tell them about the past. I will represent it with respect. I will acknowledge the importance of remembering, and paying respect to times past, and people once known. To be proud of one's heritage……carrying the torch of legacy from one generation to the other. I will tell them with a wee, detectable grin, about the kind of life I've had….and the people I've remembered, and the foundation I've built……and suffice that this is all that can be expected of any historian……to have enjoyed the experience of living…….and when all is said and done, feeling the satisfaction of enlightenment…… history dutifully rewarding its survivors.
I want to thank Tracy for putting us together, finally, after all these years. How neglectful I feel, that it wasn't so much sooner.
Bless you.
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