No Holds Barred



Ghosts of the past



There is truth to the saying that we view the past through rose-coloured eyeglasses.

You tend to remember only the good, the best moments in time, while conveniently forgetting the trials and tribulations.

My vacation this year happened to take me back to several of the places where in a previous life I had loved, worked and played.

In my usual reminisces about these places, they are remembered fondly, like a soft vision of a happy time with people from those others lives always laughing agreeably and walking hand in hand through a beautiful landscape.

The locales change little in memories and like a painting they remain fixed in time. Just like Sketches of a Small Town there is nostalgia about them that is not always borne out in reality.

I visited a number of old “hometowns” as I have done before, but I also made a conscious effort to actually drive a few of the old streets and neigbourhoods. I am very connected to place; my memories tend to be very visually oriented and geographically focused.

Picture, or even better, be in the place, and the people and times come flooding back.

I have always loved Montreal for that very reason – I can relive much of my early life just by being there and walking the old neighbourhoods.

Many of these places visited over the past few weeks though, I had not seen up close for a long time. I may have passed through but not purposefully visited my old homes.

One of those memories was in Thunder Bay.

I recall the old haunted house I lived in with clarity, but as I approached Banning Street and the old Armouries, everything seemed the same – but somehow different. How could I possibly miss the turn I had taken so many times in the past?

Eventually I did find my way, and sure enough, there was the house on the side of the hill.

Somehow it seemed smaller and the intervening years had done it no favours. Even the rest of the street seemed somehow odd, slightly twisted, and yet familiar. It was almost like one of those science fiction stories in which the hero gets stuck in an alternate dimension, that is much the same as his own, but subtly altered.

I remember the place so clearly! Yet things were not quite right. Nothing overt like a new mall. More like the house across the way seemed slightly closer, or the one down the way too far. It felt like someone was trying to play a cruel joke.

On the other hand, Vancouver was vastly changed. The street names were familiar but the streets I used to walk along many years ago had been transformed.

I always loved Van, living near the end of Robson, overlooking Lost Lagoon. The low slung apartments across the street from my high-rise always gave the street an aura of stability and the trees lining the block provided a haven of tranquility in the centre of the busy city.

My wife Dawn and I lived there for almost two years, a lifetime when you are young and in love. That city holds so many memories it is hard to count. Each one is as crisp as if it happened just a few months ago.

Yet, when I approached the old building I had trouble distinguishing which was which.

The trees were mostly gone, and the high-rises were crowding in on one another. The street was totally transformed. In a way, that was kinder because I can still see it as it used to be. The street I visited is not the same one at all that I recall, even though it bears the same name. The old building was still standing, but it looked like the cookie cutter ones next door.

I left the neighbourhood feeling a sense of detachment – I must have made a wrong turn somewhere along the line. If I could just find the right corner – I just know the old street would still be there, just as I so clearly remember it and the memories it holds.

Somehow I could not bring myself to try and find that corner. Maybe I was afraid I would spend eternity trying to find it.

Of all the places, Dawson Creek was the saddest of all.

I remember an exciting time in my life and all the antics at CJDC-TV.

The stories I can tell about that place (and often do) are centerpieces of my considerable tale telling. The strange thing is – they are all true! No need to exaggerate at all, the place was one-of-a-kind. It had a culture and ambience all its own, and yes – many happy memories, at least through those foggy glasses.

It was all still there, the Old Hart Highway and even the Mile Zero Post downtown.

Gearjammer Electronics was still on the curve out near the airport. I did the remote broadcast from there, the day they opened 25 years ago.

Even the Alaska Café was still there. I remember when it first opened its doors and I took a special lady for supper there. So little has changed, I have no doubt Gilleen walked the street just a few minutes before I arrived.

There was a new Wal-Mart out on the strip and a Super 8 motel in the north end, but in most ways the place is still the same.

However, there was no heart to Dawson Creek. My old house was still there, but hard to recognize as it was so run down.

I got the feeling the entire place was exactly as I remembered it – but no one had bothered to do anything in more than 25 years. No painting, no street decorations – nothing.

It was the shell of a forgotten dream held by one man for a quarter century, left to gather dust and petrify as it waited for his return in vain.

I left the town quickly, preferring to stay in Grande Prairie than face the ghosts that I could feel around every corner.

I had hoped to find a few memories still intact and alive in the places I visited.

No one told me it would rust.

I learned what is meant by the saying – “You can never go back.”

But more important I learned one should never try. You might just get what you asked for and in that direction lies the nightmare that was Dawson Creek.

Article Source: http://www.articleset.com