Go

Childhood memories are a selective collection. The pictures paired with certain sentences seem an ambiguous slideshow. Cryptic at times. My folks will beckon the remembrance of significant ceremonies that I insist I did not attend. They seem to always have photographic evidence that indeed, I did. Though the scattered scenes I summon are offered in distant yet detailed description, frequently followed by stunned silence. “You remember that…?” And they wonder why I write.

Before being removed from where I assumed my roots were prudently planted, I suppose I had expressed interest in seasonally shifting surroundings. As one of few children along the road where I was raised, most of our neighbours were quite fond of me. Our streets patchwork quilt of boulevards and front yards became my playground. Hastily exhausting solo expeditions around one bird bath and fish pond, I would skip to the adjacent oasis. Soon, I had hideouts in every garden, nestled in low branches, beneath back porches, behind broad tree trunks, the world was my oyster. The world, of course, reached barely beyond our block.

When corralled indoors by weather or rules I routinely re-arranged my room. Every few months a day would be dedicated to the necessary change. Weighing less than half of some furniture I would push and pull and shove and shimmy each piece in a dispersed doe-si-doe, not allowing anyone's entry until I was satisfied with the advanced atmosphere.

At nine I officially became a nomad. I was already accustomed after all. With my mum I moved three times in three years and once she settled, my dad sold our “family”s house. At twelve I adapted the ricocheted routine of a bustling businessman. For the next six years I lived out of a suitcase as I was passed between separated parents and thus, separate lives unfolding at opposite ends of town. Thankfully. The polar lifestyles allowed variety as I went through the motions of completing high school. And then, with rehearsed refinement, I did what I had unintentionally learned to do best. I moved on.

At eighteen I left town and by the time I returned “for good” at twenty-one I had called eleven different places home. My parents were able to release a bated breath as I rented my first apartment in their city. Until I cancelled the lease one month early when I fell in love. Sharp inhale. My dad in particular could only shake his head as I traded my Honda Civic for a 1979 Volkswagen Van. My mum, at least, had seen it coming. I’d been admiring these vans for as long as my memory allowed. I would halt as one passed by on the street, or peer in the windows of one parked, or inquire the age of one being re-fuelled at gas pumps, I had always thought these buses beautiful. But of course. How ideal to reside ON the road. How much easier than lugging luggage between vehicles and houses. I had spent numerous nights folded on the backseat of previous cars, dozing and dreaming of the delight distilled when one would be able to comfortably recline on the highway's shoulder. Or silent side street. Or desolate dirt road. Or beach front strip. Or tree lined lot. Or friends driveway. Anywhere. I gathered some cash and dashed East. Freedom, finally, in its fullest. In 33 days I drove 8,000 miles. Having never been to another province I was beyond eager to glimpse the glories the rest of my country held. My bus and I rumbled through the rockies, pealed across the plains, moseyed up mountains, cascaded down cliffs, lined the great lakes, endured dust storms, resisted relentless rains, and turned around in Montreal. It left me rejuvenated. It left me content. Against a variety of horizons I felt perfectly at peace. With my turquoise typewriter and a blog updated daily, ribbons of words unravelled. My choppy childhood had instilled in me an acute attention to detail. Upon realizing at a young age that circumstances can instantly change, I became very observant. Inspired by a movie about a young writer I developed a habit early on to always carry a notebook. When dancing between parents I spent many hours at the local library: the neutral grounds for drop-offs and pick-ups, both after school and on “switching” days. During this time I read almost every novel in the Young Adults section and began my affinity for mysterious and adventurous tales. Paired with my astute inability to be stagnant, it was inevitable that I develop an incessant need to write. Noticing and accumulating minutiae, the desire to document was unavoidable. I had to write, had to clear my mind to make room for the new. Keep it flowing. And once it was written down, I only wanted more. Yet familiarity did not foster these linguistics, and it was when I found my van that this truth became tangible. Consistent new sights were within reach. While I was four provinces over and not yet at my pivot point, I found myself ambling amidst mother nature’s striking spectrum of autumn. The rocks and small slopes beside my bus had churned into a deep maroon and soon the road too took on the tone. That’s when it really resonated. After days spent in my thoughts as new sights settled within, I couldn’t ignore the pure and unyielding happiness that I felt pulsing and growing inside of me. Like a fire fanned with every kilometer covered, every curve of the road, every new town in the distance, every friendly stranger I’d met, this feeling was fuelled and so flourished. And on this evening, somewhere in Ontario, I caught my first sunset of the road trip which bloomed in my rear view mirror and trailed across the sky ahead. Above and below my bus nature showcased its proudest pinks, the highway seeming to blush as I realized - I was home. - written for my Creative Writing class at Camosun College -