The One Who Stays …

By chance, this morning, I found myself sitting in the farthest corner of our local McDonalds, tea in hand, looking out on the one main-drag street that I’ve cruised down my whole life. A block away was where Mom and I got into a car accident, her treat of picking me up for lunch crushed when another car crashed into my door, I was pretty excited to return to school in a neck brace. Down a few more blocks is where I failed my driver’s test the first time, not coming to a complete stop at a flashing red light. Further down is where the cop let me off on a seatbelt ticket, me leaned all the way back in the passenger seat of some guy’s car, on a Saturday night of, yes, cruising down this same street. The ice cream shop where I used to rollerblade with my friends, the corner that ALWAYS floods at least once a summer from a thunderstorm downpour, right down from the street where the old water tower used to stand and the old apartments, now burned down, that everyone said where haunted.

I sit in this corner of McDonalds this morning, a place I come to less than a handful of times each year, but here today, because I knew it would provide good “people watching fodder,” and suddenly I smile. If I close my eyes I can think of at least three, maybe four interior design iterations of this very building. Three year old me, in this same corner, party hats on, wood panelling and bright orange decor, as I celebrated my birthday. I remember the famous McRib days, getting Flintstones tshirts, and some sort of stuffie of the original McDonalds characters, remember Hamburglar and Birdie? I ate innumerable two-cheeseburger meals with orange drink, some syrupy concoction that now makes my stomach curdle, during my teenage years – a whole meal for less than $5… I knew it down to the cents. My brother worked here, got locked into the walk-in cooler one day. I was approached for a possible date once, nine months pregnant carrying a tray with three happy meals on it, he wasn’t my husband. I’ve changed diapers in the bathroom, played in the ball pen, now replaced by screens and a small play structure, collected Monoploy stickers, recall the excitement of the instalment of the ketchup pumps instead of the small packages, swivelled back and forth on chairs, slid innumerable trays into the wood grained garbage cans.

It’s a funny thing, staying in the place where you grew up. Though there are changes, the Zellers turns into a Canadian Tire, the strip mall changes businesses every six months or so, there are some solid things that remain, and because you’ve been cruising down this main drag your whole life, you stop seeing details, stop looking with amazement and just see every-day. But lately I’ve been noticing just how much things are changing, and what does that mean for someone like me who has been here my whole life, who has generations of memories here?

When you’re the one who doesn’t leave … you always wonder – what it would be like if you left? Wonder what it would be like if you were elsewhere. Especially when you were the teenager who couldn’t wait to get outta this place …

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My Dad has been on a family history journey over the last few years. Following clues and memories he’s retraced his family’s footsteps and found himself in many small towns and unknown to him places. At each stop he’s encountered miracles. People who knew his family members, people who had no hesitations to invite him to hop into their vehicle so they could drive him around, people who took hours out of their days to share stories, people who invite you into the carehome to chat with the elders, people who dig for every bit of family information to share with you, people who point you in the right direction, people who now send Christmas cards.

People who stayed.

We need people to stay. 

And we need people who go, too.

Many of us have no choice.

But some of us stay and look around at familiar places and complain and grumble, wonder aloud why anyone would want to move here, take things for granted, dream about living in other (mostly warmer) places. But every once in a while, this place can dredge up memories from decades ago and when we do that, we can look out at a boring old street, snow piled up on the curbs, and see not just buildings, not just restaurants and businesses, but we see our whole lives, our younger selves, generations of our families driving down these same streets. Sometimes we hold memories and stories within us, and sometimes we find them out there, like in McDonalds on a cold, snowy, January morning, just before you go pick up your own teenager from the same highschool you graduated from decades ago. Sometimes you find versions of yourself you forgot about, and sometimes you see how much you’ve changed, when you sit amidst all that hasn’t. Or maybe … how much has remained amidst the constant change. And sometimes you remember what a gift this place has been.

Until Next Time…

N