On The Shore.

Being back on the North Shore is a trip, and I don't just mean that in the it-takes-one-hour-to-get-here sense, although that certainly applies too.

I mean it in the sense that I can walk up the hill from the house we're house-sitting, and stumble across the home of an old classmate of mine, a kid who once bought me my first bouquet of roses when I was in grade nine. His dad was-and still is- a taxidermist, and he was obviously a man who loved to take his work home. The lamps were made of, well, legs. There was a stuffed bear looming in a dark corner, and beavers and deer frolicked stiffly in various poses. It was the stuff of nightmares; no wonder that relationship never went anywhere, although I remember the roses fondly.

Around the corner from where we're staying is the house belonging to the father of my best high school friend. She married in Ireland, and had a second wedding at her dad's place. Now we've fallen out of touch, and walking past his place makes me feel nostalgic and sad. She has two kids now, and a stepson who must be a teenager. The last time we spoke, she sounded more Irish than Canadian.

Another short walk downhill is the house where my dad lived for a short time, with the woman he rebounded swiftly into a relationship with after my mom left. (sorry, that's bad grammar, but oh well) They had a giant dog, a Great Pyrenese, who had hip displasia because of her giant size. Dad and Misha would hobble down to William Griffin Park because, as Dad said, "We like to watch the skateboarders."

Bits of memories swirl around my neighbourhood like leaves; I reach out, and catch a memory in my hand with every walk I take.