I tend to come to conclusions whilst on road trips. Needless to say, it is unbearably embarrassing that I need to resort to fossil fuels to sort out my thoughts. However, the fact that I must steer the car in a particular direction in order to avoid obstacles is metaphor enough to get the brain juices flowing.
Today, I pointed the car backwards in time. I started in a place that did (not) exist when I was a child. The "Premiere Moisson" on the main street of my home town used to be a Bar Laitier called "Caillette". It had a kick-ass neon sign of a cow on the front and sold the freshest curd cheese. That the vastly expanded building now sells honest-to-goodness-buttery croissant makes it a worthy successor.
Further down the street, the Miss Dorion has seen better days. The pool is closed and the rooms are for rent (one presumes) by the half hour. I remember "Miss Dorion" represented by a neon sign of a freshed-faced waitress ably holding a tray of steaming food.
Opposite Miss Dorion is the "Loyola Schmidt" hardware store. I always wondered who Loyola Schmidt was and how he found himself in Dorion. Of course, this tiny town attracted my family and its weird-ass name, so who am I to question?
The Valdo bowling alley is still there, as is the house where Neil Black, the grade seven hunk lived. M. Sarrazin still runs his small furrier business, but the depanneur beside him (where I bought cigarettes for my sister) is gone. Past the Scott's, the Robitaille's, the Guay's, and there it is: my childhood home.
The blue slate roof, which distinguished it from the other homes on the block, is now black slate. The two maple trees my father planted have been replaced by a single mystery tree. The shed my brother and father built is replaced with an aluminum-clad garage. Everything is smaller, rougher, and meaner. I wonder if I'm somehow smaller, rougher, and meaner, too. After all, what am I looking for except remnants of a "me" that is shorter, smoother, and certainly innocent of most everything I experienced after the age of twelve.
Maybe because the ground is still covered in sooty, crusty snow, or maybe because I'm old and tall enough to now see over a car's steering wheel, I conclude there is nothing here--at least there is nothing at this moment. What restores my equilibrium? The mirror in the bathroom; specifically the mirror in the bathroom of Tim Horton's, a new addition to the main street of my childhood 'hood. The mirrors in any Tim Horton's are invariable. They are all a bit smoky, complementing the fluorescent lighting that tends to the (more flattering) green side. I look fabulous, and today is no exception. Today, in this Tim Horton's bathroom, after finding my past wholly lacking in insight, I look like my cheekbones have been re-chiseled by the gods, my lips have been plumped by some bee-stung cherubs, and my skin has been smoothed by the buffing of the friction of a thousand cumulus clouds.
Truth be told, this is all I need to feel like myself again and steel myself to take on ... whatever you want to toss at me.
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