It ends in more or less the same manner with which it started. In a car.
Friday around noon Peter had come to pick me up from my house so that we could make the long pilgrimage back to 100 Mile. We'd stop and pick up Zack, my brother, 'long the way, after first getting lost in the hills by SFU. Nearly two hours later after being stuck in the edge of city traffic we were on the open road, music tumbling out of the speakers of Pete's Taurus, the wind whistling 'round our ears after we agreed to leave the windows open.
I always get a riotous feeling of ambition that leads me to taking notes or writing when I'm on a road trip. Perhaps it's because it's one of the most cinematic events we can witness in our regular day life. The sprawling beauty of the countryside coupled with whatever soundtrack you so choose. Even an uneventful drive is still a journey and as such can yield experiences and events that you'd never have come across otherwise.
I was back home for the fiftieth wedding anniversary of the Grandparents Levick. My mother's parents. Earlier in the month I'd bee on my way to Vancouver island for a very similar event though the participants there were all from my dad's side of the family. Two fiftieth wedding anniversaries, in two very different locations, with two contrasting families. The island's gathering was smaller and certainly less raucous than that in 100 mile. Immediate family only. Drinks were had dinner was eaten and conversation exchanged between all that hadn't seen each other in a good many years. I went home to Vancouver with a fresh salmon in my hand (having gone fishing with my uncle), and let out a huge breath and acknowledged that in a week and a half I'd make another departure from the place I now called home for the place I used to call home.
Along the drive home Peter, Zack and I had stopped at a roadside treasure hunter...enclosure? Best way to put it really. One of those places on an open stretch of highway that leaves wonder in the imagination and a spectacle for the eyes once you stop to actually look at it. Zack and I conferred that the sheer amount of stuff was simply amazing. Peter bought a bike for twenty bucks, and after dismantling it so that it would fit in the trunk of the car we were on our way once more. That treasure shop stuck with me. So many gems, so many little trinkets. Amazing to me that collections of silver spoons from across Canada still exist. Leather belts that I assumed were hand made? Idols from Cambodia and Luaus. They all had their place, and eventually they would all end up somewhere else. Just the nature of life and stuff I supposed.
Not twenty minutes after getting home, saying hi to my parents and quickly downing a beer I called Cody. Cody's been in 100 mile since more or less midway through August and I could tell that the charms of our small hometown had enchanted him less and less by the day. He jumped at the chance to come and hang out with my brother and I. Couldn't blame him. In the spring I'd spent a solitary three weeks in town after my accident and I almost hung myself in the basement. Cody arrived at the house and Zack him and I went down to the Iron Horse pub for a few beers.
The Iron horse pub was a general fixture around my youth. That is to say it was always there. The big Log building with the glowing windows and tin roof. The menacing portrait of a stallion clad in steel hanging by the road. And the broad and only sometimes used baseball diamond behind it. I could remember being seven years old and my mom laughing and telling people that the bar was only a stones throw away from our house, and that in fact there was a path leading there. Despite this my parents rarely went to the bar, neither of them being big drinkers and when they were they weren't about to pay seven bucks for a shitty beer. I had never set foot inside the Iron Horse until that night with Cody and Zack. For some reason my brain had always entertained the idea of brawlers, bawlers and general caribou riff raff inside. Like the cantina from Star Wars, a horrible den of filth and villainy. My magic world of rough 'round the edges truckers and loggers was soundly smashed as I stepped through the front doors. Empty as I've ever seen a bar it was. Only a few sat 'round and I'm pretty sure that they worked there. The two waitresses I'd gone to high school with but didn't really acknowledge. It felt rude but at the same time I sincerely doubted that they wanted to talk much with me.
We grabbed a pitcher of beer and sat. My two brothers and myself swapping stories and speaking of the future and what we looked forward to. Zack and Cody talked about school till the topic ran dry. We shifted to stories about summer camp, where we all work, and soon that topic was wrung out as well. Played a couple games of pool and several games of foosball before retiring back to our table with a second pitcher of beer and a fresh conversation.
We talked about where we'd ended up as opposed to where we'd started. And of our friends having gone on their own journeys. Agreeing that we didn't judge any of our friends, and in most instances were proud of them, we also felt that we were happy that our lives had turned out the way they had. Three years was hardly more than a few grains in the hourglass but to us it had felt like another lifetime. Amazed at how well we'd turned out we finished off the beer and made our way back to the house.
My parents have been working on our family home since I was roughly six years old. Remembering the days when Zack and I would run through the walls, which were not yet coated with jiprock much less the future dream of paint. We'd jump on the piles of pink insulation, use corner pieces of wood leftovers like throwing stars and look forward to the days when the house would be finished and we could invite our friends over without the shame of living in a construction zone. Now fifteen years later the house is close to donning it's cap adjusting it's tie in finality. Save for the main stairs needing to be re-done and the basement a good disinfection of clutter it was there. The blue plywood floors that had born the scorn of my sneakers for so many years had been replaced by blue tile and golden hardwood. The blue a matching hue to that which had always been under my feet, so much so that you barley noticed. The walls were fully covered and painted which left room for mom to furnish them with paintings and pictures. Seemed a shame to cover them, I thought, we'd spent so many years without walls you'd think we'd just want to full enjoy them not cover them up. The first floor bathroom was finished by my Dad, Actually it was in the process of being finished, as I arrived home. Finally I could pee and wash my hands without going to the kitchen sink! What a treat! Despite all the changes and lustre that the home had gained, she was still my childhood home. I say she because the house feels like another mother to me. A womb even if you want to get all Freudian with it. That house had seen me through some days that I'll never forget, and some that I wished I could. For better or for worse. I was happy to see that she'd gained some new things, to go along with her increasingly impressive finish.
In the house Cody and I looked through the mass amount of pictures accumulated by him over the years. Our first summer camps together. Shambala and the stories that went 'long with it. Canada day celebrations. Random assortments from high school. All there in wonderful digital celluloid. I've learned over the years that I collect my memories through the stories involved at any given time. Through the jokes or the tragedy. The food and the fights. The wonder and resolution that can come from any situation at any place or time in the world. I'm thankful that Cody, and others, are there to help me distill these images even tighter with their pictures. Those pictures are how other people collect memories. One in the morning rolled 'round and after a hug he left for home.
The next morning I dragged my ass out of bed to the sound of my mother calling for my help. A nostalgic feeling of annoyance came over me, as I felt just like I was still in elementary school. Pulling on my pants and a t-shirt I went downstairs to pour myself a cup of coffee and watch as the yard received more and more preparation for the evenings festivities. My mother had volunteered our home for the party, 'long with a guest list of over 60 people. I, despite my normally hard work ethic, did not want to linger 'round the house for the hours of set up work and quickly talked Zack into taking us both into town. With a list of things to retrieve from town Zack and I hopped into the car and were on our way. Skirting work was not my only motivation for wanting to leave the house.
Fascination Street, my alma matter, deserves a visit at least once when I come back home, often I'm there as much as logistics will allow. Two years of working at the toy store had produced some of the deepest relationships, skills, and experiences of my life. There are reasons why I'm so well adjusted and free with myself and I can attribute at least some of that to the magic that's stored in the walls of Fascination Street. I hadn't e-mailed or called Chris or Mikara (the owners) to let them know that I was on my way home, hoping that it would be a bit of a surprise. Thanks to my mother it was not. She'd mentioned to Chris earlier in the week that I'd be back in town, so my smiling mug coming through the door of his shop was hardly a surprise to him. Chris and I had a good long conversation about pop culture, as we always do, interrupted only momentarily by the foot shoppers of 100 Mile. Those looking for a child's birthday gift, sleeves for collect able cards or the occasional stunned browser. Christ gave me a graphic novel of which he'd received two for free from his distributor. I forgot to thank him for it when Zack and I left the store for lunch at the Alpine Deli just down the street. I'd wanted to stay and chat longer but I knew I had to be getting home for the party, as well as the fact that people were rarely patient enough to handle Chris and I's reverie of movies.
After lunch Zack and I picked up Allison, our sister, from a friend's where she'd stayed the night and were on our way home. The comfort between my siblings and myself is, at this point, based on our mutual openness and honesty. There are in fact no secrets between myself and my brother and sister. That's not to say that they know everything, but if they asked I wouldn't have a problem telling them. We arrived home to a household already starting to fill with family members which ranged from the very familiar (aunts uncles and cousins) to the entirely unrecognizable (Twice removed aunts uncles and cousins). Stepping in the door faces looked up at us though little was said as we scattered like roaches under a light, making way to better prepare ourselves for the evening.
I changed my shirt and put on my best smile before descending the stairs and allowing my mother to introduce me to everyone and their dog. It's perhaps a part that I was meant to play. Putting on my polite voice and undergoing the onslaught of questions that you'll invariably receive from those who know who you are but haven't seen since you were knee high to a fly. I hadn't had people confuse Zack and I like that since we were still reading Green Eggs and Ham. The question "So what are you going to school for?" haunting my every conversation of the evening as I was forced to again and again doll out my logical explanation of my career path as a writer. Surprisingly people seem to approve more of my ability to tend bar than craft a paragraph. My family, as viewed by me, appeared to have no archetype. We range from the reddest necks in the country to the flaunting bourgeoisie's of the inner city. It's hilarious to see these people connected by nothing other than blood interact in the vestiges of the beaten path of family. I enjoy looking at these people, their movements, their voices, their patterns. I see more of myself in many of them than they will ever know. I am the country boy, I am the city boy, I am the dirt on my hands worker, I am the silver tonged intellectual, I am young, I am old, I have stories, I like their stories, I'm related to you?
There are of course some faces that are newer than others. Roman. My cousin Becky's first child, a plucky two year old boy who exclaims "lucky boy" whenever he's treated by his parents. Becky and I used to be the best of friends, but time moving on and living in very different places we've since grown apart. Her husband Ken is around, displaying amazing virtues in both husbandry and fatherhood. I'm glad that Becky and Ken are together, their love and their family's love makes me happy. Becky is coming up on the due date of her second pregnancy which will be another boy. Her and Ken have decided to name him Montgomery.
Dinner was served and after holding myself back from eating and allowing a minimum amount guests to funnel towards the food before me I let loose. Turkey, ham, roast, chilli, tabuli salad, drunken sauerkraut, five layer dip and many more items fill the family dining table to the brim. Eat drink and be merry is the tale of the evening and there's not an empty plate or glass in the house. There are several deserts as well but non more impressive than the cake. Becky spent the past few days preparing for what I will grade as the best cake I've ever seen in person. Expertly baked and coated with a special bakers frosting that exists specially for projects such as this it is a thing of beauty right off've the food network. I'm glad that so many people are there to compliment it for it truly is a thing of beauty.
I'd held off drinking too much knowing what would be coming next. The room fills and the small toasting wine glasses are passed out. My grandfather hides in the corner while my grandmother beams at the center of the room. My mom climbs half the staircase and addresses the room. The speakers range from my granduncle, to my mother, to the best man of my grandparents wedding and, yes, me. The day before my mom had asked me if I could prepare a little something to say. I'd told her I would and then promptly forgotten that I'd ever agreed to undertake the speech. I'd remembered my charge just an hour before I was to speak and had spent the better part of forty five minutes attempting to fortify a flimsy story about my grandmother making pancakes and my grandad taking me fishing. In the end people told me that I'd done a good job, and I suppose that's all that mattered.
From there on in I was liberated from the yoke of sobriety and allowed a deluge of liquor to funnel into my guts, only pausing and gaining composure to say goodbye to my grandparents and converse with anyone who might've passed judgement on my hearty inebriation. A campfire was lit with gas producing a mighty whoosh and a belch of flame that left me wondering If I still had all my eyebrows. I did and with that I proceeded to sit and drink and shoot the shit with my uncles who continued to dole out more beer.
Becky Ken and Roman ventured outside. Equipped with a headlamp Roman, followed by me, went on a nighttime adventure into the shadows that surrounded the house. I felt a pang of jealousy wishing that I'd been able to experience the wonder of illuminating the dark with just a glance when I was his age. It is bonding moments such as this that leave a distinct imprint in my brain, whether he has any recollection of it or not. I'm glad I got to spend the time with him, knowing the bond I had with his mother I feel more like an uncle than a flimsy second cousin. After this Becky and Ken retired to the road home and I to the house.
Inside I began to create a foul concoction in my guts which would turn out to be the bane of my existence in the morning to come. Beer. Gin. Win. Whiskey, and I'm sure others. Not to mention that near the end of it all I even took my cousin Ian, who is sixteen so keep your panties on, out onto the back deck and prompted him to join me in shotgunning a beer. Successful family bonding time with the Levicks has somehow oft revolved around the consumption of liquor. These stories lead to the retelling of them in sobriety allowing for the comfort of that moment to seep back into life, your connection reforged through the memories. My eyes began to wobble along with my knees and I found myself concluding that I no longer wanted to be awake, nor did I want to experience the hangover that I would undoubtedly have to run the gauntlet of the next morning.
The Hangover is all that precluded getting into the car the day after the party. My mom was going down to the coast and as such would be giving Zack, Peter, Cody and myself a ride. All I could think about was drinking juice, and getting in the car. I'm over the hangover now. I've eaten some lunch, drank some five alive and am anxiously counting down the hours until we get to the city where I will immediately return to work. I've been writing this while in the car on my way home. Leaving the reunion of family that I travelled so far to get to. It was worth it, I knew it would be. There was never any doubt of that. I feel pretty good about all of it too. Cody returning to the city with me is a pretty momentous event. He said he'd never move to Vancouver, and while I doubt he'll be there for a truly extended length of time it's going to be nice to have him 'round. I consider Cody family, I consider him just as good as a brother. But I think that's part of the beauty of my family. Half the people that were at my grandparent's Anniversary? I'm not technically related to them. They're not my blood. Sure lots are, but those that are just friends but are still there? That's the family you choose. That's the family that my grandparents and aunts and uncles chose in their life. I have that family too. They're all over the place. They're static and fluid all at once. Constant figures who are always shifting and flowing 'round me just like I am them. They come and go, and some I don't think I've even met yet. There are people that I'm sure will enter my life in the next few years who will come to mean something to me, and hopefully I to them. So one day when my grandchild's at my fiftieth wedding anniversary and he's awkwardly explaining how he's trying to be a painter, or god knows what, he can feel the same thing that I felt all weekend. The unconditional love of family.
