When we first moved to Strathroy OntarioCanada, it pretty much had the same layout that it does now although the appearance has somewhat changed. It was much less populated and commercial. Regardless, it remains a beautiful town, in a beautiful setting. When my family located there from Toronto in 1976, I was 11 years old. Initially, the move itself did not agree with me. I felt like an alien, trapped in the land of boring white people. I missed my friends. I missed the diversity. I missed my neighbourhood. I even missed the CN Tower. I just wanted to go home. It hit me rather quickly that Strathroy was now where I lived. I resented it a little. No one asked me whether I wanted to leave the city. No one asked me if it was okay to uproot us all. Eventually, things settled and I accepted this prison but only because I really didn’t have a choice. School started shortly thereafter and I was easily distracted by my new surroundings. For the longest time, I just couldn’t let go. I wanted to go back and do it all over. I knew I couldn’t go back. I was destined to die in this backward, nursing home infested slice of white bread. About a week after school started, I decided to take a different way home. The direct way was ripe with traffic and people. I got on my bike and I pedaled through the town. I had resolved myself to unhappiness. Over time, those bike rides got longer and they became more frequent. I suppose that exploring the town was a way of embracing the town. Each adventure was a different kind of adventure than those I had in Toronto. I discovered the attraction that brought my family here. It wasn’t that my Mom’s family lived in the area. It wasn’t that the countryside was a better place. It certainly was a safer place, a quiet place. I had to learn how to adjust to the silence rather than all the sounds of a metropolis. It took a few more years but eventually I have come to love Strathroy. It has become my home, even though I no longer live there. It has become much more of a touchstone than Toronto ever was. I am still pleasantly aware of this turn of events. I spent the first few months after we moved there wanting to return from whence we came. It’s ironic, Strathroy is now where I come from and where I’ve been. I could never have imagined that it would end up this way. I guess life really is full of surprises.

            The Strathroy Lions swimming pool was a part of my life long before our relocation. Every summer, my siblings and I spent a few weeks visiting our grandparents. It was torture but it was worth it. It gave my parents a much needed break but it gave each of us kids another swimming tag. For a week each July or August, we registered  then received the appropriate Canadian Red Cross Water Safety Level Badge. I started early on, at age 6, with my Beginners. In Grade 10, at 15 years, I concluded my stay by achieving high standing with my Bronze. The pool became somewhat of a second home during the hotter months. With swimming lessons in the morning and swim time all afternoon, I spent the good part of every vacation underwater. So did my sister. In the summer of 1978, we were both asked if we wanted to assist the swim team with workouts and meets. My foot was still quite weak from an accident that crippled me in January, so competing was not going to happen. Tracey and I spent a great deal of time setting timers, cleaning the deck and setting lanes. We usually were responsible for holding the starting line then raising it as an indication to begin. Honestly, it was a hell of a lot of work but my sister and I did it free of charge. No one ever criticised our performance, even if it wasn’t in the blue.

            On the final night of the final matches, we did our jobs like we always did. We stood with the rest of the team and cheered each other on. When the coach went to announce most valued team member, I instinctively said to myself anyone but me. My sister and I almost fell in the pool when they announced our names. Together we were the most appreciated of all those members. What a surprise. What an unexpected surprise. When the cheers were done and the goodbyes said, Tracey and I set out to walk home. It wasn’t that far but the giant life-size trophy made it seem so. It was almost as big as my sibling. I have to admit I used that as an excuse to carry the thing home, despite my sister’s complaints. I should have let her carry it even if I thought she couldn’t. Still, that trophy sat on the mantle in our dining room for almost a year. We returned it, as instructed, just before the next swim season. I was unaware just how attached I got to it. I wanted to keep it. It was nice having a reminder of such a pleasant experience and such an unforgettable surprise.

            Strathroy was the town where my mother grew up. She returned home with her family many years later. Throughout my childhood, my grandparents lived on a huge lot just outside the town’s border. Eventually, they divided the property between my mother and her two brothers, as well as retaining the land their house sat upon. I think everyone thought it was a good idea starting out but it soon turned out to be one very big mistake. Building the house and establishing a home was one thing, dealing with our new neighbours was another. Just as a warning, never move next to a family member and never even entertain living near more than one. Things turned rather sour rather quickly. The details are unimportant but the consequence is clear. There was no love lost between the three siblings. Grandma and Grandpa only made things worse. My parents carried on regardless of the chaos each day seemed to bring. They built a lovely home and the gardens around the property flourished and spread. Out back, where the pool used to be, there was the vegetable patch. My folks have always maintained such a commitment since the first summer they moved to Scott Street. Come spring, tomato plants, pepper plants and onions galore were established in rows and pretty little columns. My Mom and Dad could be found seeding, edging and weeding the beds. New plants joined cold soil and formed the genesis that would be, come warmer temperatures. When they travelled,  I watched the gardens, diligent of frost and the like. One late spring, my family took a vacation in Northern Ontario. Sault Ste. Marie is beautiful, from the Canadian side. In Strathroy, the warning had been made on the 6:00 PM news. I went out to cover the vulnerable. I heard the barking right away. When I opened the garage, I got the surprise of a lifetime. My uncle, the middle child, stood kicking Nugget, the purebred poodle who had been part of our family since he was a puppy. It was the shot to his head as I opened the garage door that shocked me the most. Joe scurried out the back door like a Catholic schoolgirl caught playing with herself. I checked the dog and he was okay, at least he was okay physically. I followed the trail. There stood my uncle and my grandmother, covering pepper plants with small green plastic pots.  When I confronted him about the dog, he told me to shut up and rushed me. The shovel I brought with me was raised in clear defiance. I even told my grandmother to go fuck herself. When my parents got home, it was like that schoolgirl had seen someone smoking. Joe ran out of his home like a wheel on fire. He approached my parents and started cursing me. Unfortunately for him, I had already acquainted them with the activities of the night before. Thanks to my mother, the chips fell where they may. We all knew not to piss her off. She attacked him with the very same energy that he had attacked Nugget. He may have abused his own dog Pepper, but my mother would not stand for him attacking our dog. If you get what you pay for, then he sure got himself a bigger surprise.

            The town eventually swallowed up the area my parents lived in. The tobacco field across the street eventually turned into half-million dollar homes. The neighbourhood changed and it changed rather quickly. Where those tobacco plants once covered the fields, for as far as the eye could see, now stood hundreds of very expensive and very exclusive homes. When the town tried to add affordable housing to the mix, the neighbourhood got together and boycotted the idea. I had long before left Strathroy so it was of little concern to me. I frequently came back to visit and I even lived there for a few months while my life transitioned. One Christmas, I decided to go outside and have a cigarette. I would return to my regular life on the morrow. I stood in my half-length flack army jacket with black scarf and work boots. I had shaved my head years before and I will admit I looked rather formidable in this attire. Rather than standing in the cold dragging on death, I took a walk to see the newest additions to the neighbourhood. Into the new subdivision I wandered, unaware. I walked down Scott Street to York Streetand headed into the brand new light show. The field across from my parents’ place had always been so dark and looming. It was strange to stand in the place that I used to pelt frogs and toads with a badminton racket. Now, Christmas decor flattered the streets and lamps of bright gold illuminated the walkways. I can’t say that I appreciated what I was seeing. Even the green space set aside for the town was nothing more than an eyesore. I was not well pleased, to say the least. As I headed out of town via Parkview Drive, I occasionally spotted a few homeowners spying at me through a window or a door. I thought it was funny, at least for a moment or two. As I reached inside my coat to grab another fag, a police car sounded its sirens and pulled up beside me. I was so surprised that I almost pissed myself. Like a lot of people these days, I have never trusted the cops. I never have and I never will. If the past is a guide, it has always steered me as far away as possible from them. This Christmas Night, they came looking for me. Apparently, dispatch had received numerous calls from people regarding a skinhead who was casing out homes in the area. I almost joked with them as to whether they had found him yet but I already knew not to joke with frying bacon. They questioned me and I tried, with great difficulty, to be pleasant and agreeable. I don’t care if people thought I was a serial killer walking around, until someone commits a crime you don’t assume they will. I had to confirm with ID that I was who I said I was. Luckily one of the officers was rather friendly with my father so I was dismissed with warning. As I walked back from whence I had come, the police car pulled past me and disappeared behind a neighbouring church.  I was not surprised, as I headed onto my parents’ property, to see the same vehicle pull off the road up the street. I’ll assume it was to observe me, to confirm what I claimed was true, rather than getting a donut. The Tim Horton's is downtown.

            The grounds are still lush with plant life. The landscape is chiselled and there are  water sculptures placed throughout the other scenery. There is peace and quiet all around. The nature is in surround sound. Wildlife flourishes in every part of the land. The property my parents shaped is a little different these days but the flavour, the impact of the place can still be felt every time I come home to visit my father. My mom has been gone over 7 years. I can still see her sitting up by one of the ponds, hose in hand, song in mouth. I can still hear her calling out to all us kids that dinner was ready and to get inside or go without. To my surprise, the world has kept turning even without her in it. I could never have imagined losing her, even though I knew it was coming. I can’t believe so much time has gone by. I can still feel her when I go back to Strathroy. Hell, I can still feel her whenever the sadness chooses to come. As I look back over the time I have spent in Strathroy, there is a mix of such good things and such bad things. I eventually fell in love in the stupid little town. I lost my first partner to the hands of gravity and a nine storey silo in the middle of this stupid little town. They say you can’t go back and that’s okay because sometimes I don’t want to. Surprise, surprise, sometimes I can’t help it.

Tanton Street, Strathroy

circa 1985

Lion’s Park, Strathroy

circa 1990

Arthur Street, Strathroy

circa 1979

York Street, Strathroy

circa 1950

Scott Street, Strathroy

circa 1981

Scott Street, Strathroy

circa 2016

http://www.strathroyagedispatch.com/2012/03/28/lions-pool-to-stay-open-this-summer

http://www.eureka4you.com/wtower-on-s/Strathroy.htm