One of my favourite memories as a teen was when I would sneak out at night and meet up with friends for a late night coffee call at the local donut shop. Maybe it was the whole rebellious thing. Maybe it was because we enjoyed meeting strange people who were coming home from a late night at the bar or leaving for the grave yard shit at the nearby factory. But I liked to think it was one of those spontaneous moves that make friendships tighter and while we were sipping on our medium black with three sugars, we were writing another chapter in the book that we'll share with other friends, and maybe even during the speeches at our weddings.

 

One night comes to mind.

 

It was a late Thursday evening in mid August. I had a disagreement with my Mom. I needed to take a walk to cool off. The town was still new to me. Sure, I had been living there for almost eight years, but I hadn't really wondered by myself around the streets of the suburban Toronto town unless I was with a friend or my sister or cousin.

 

I was a sheltered kid.

 

I decided to walk new grounds. Instead of turning right, I turned left and headed down this dark eerie path that led to the Mill Pond. As I put my walkman up full blast and rhymed along with the new Method Man and Mary J Blige joint, I thought of what happened. Saw where I went wrong and also even got angrier when I kept on thinking of how my mom went wrong. I wasn't even ten minutes away from the house when I cooled down, but I had to make her think I was still mad. No way I was going to go back home, now after furiously running out of the house promising her that I won't be back until she chose to page me and say sorry. So I had to find somewhere to chill for a bit.

 

"She should come look for me", I thought to myself while I was dodging bird dodo and watching the water move smoothly along the soft midnight wind coming from the east.  As the song faded, and the intro to Leaders of the New School's `Sob Story' began, I realized I knew a way to get to my secret retreat. My home away from home.

 

I headed down a street, made a quick left and then another swift right where I cut through

A plaza and jaywalked across Yonge Street and I was there. Country Style. As the owner saw me coming along the sidewalk and past the two cars parked in the lot, she was getting my coffee ready and already had put it down on my table when she greeted me at the door waiting for my dollar-ten.

 

We talked for a minute but she always gave me my privacy. Like a veteran bartender, she knew when her customers came there to get away from it all and never asked anything when you told her to `Keep'em coming'. She smiled, nodded and even gave you a couple for free sometimes. 

 

That night, I stayed there for almost five hours sipping five large coffees and talked to a couple of regulars before a friend came to meet me when we went to the bowling ally to sneak a couple of drinks and played free pool. After, we returned to our hideout until the sun rose. We walked home as we lived just down the block from one another. I walked her home and handed her the breakfast bagel I had bought for her before we left our private tree house. As she walked up to her door she looked back at me and yelled out

 

"We'll do this again, very soon."

 

"Look forward to it" I yelled back as I passed the paperboy throwing the mornings news on the doorstep of the early risers.

 

When you're a kid and your family knows about everything in your life, you look for some kind of private clubhouse where parents or sisters or brothers aren't allowed. Sometimes, kids build a tree house or make forts. They even make little homes inside of their own room. Just somewhere they can create sweet memories that don't involve family outings, or sing-a-longs by the Christmas tree or being part of Uncle Earl's vacation slides.

 

I had long walks, mixtape memories, and hot coffee in August with friends. It's been years since my treehouse was torn down but my own private times live on – keeping them private but also knowing that it's okay when my kids wonder off into the woods to listen to their mp3 player and make their own paths by the pond.

 

I read other blogs at times to get some kind of inspiration on what I want to write about. After a few lines of a blog, a light bulb goes off on top of my head like in those old cartoons on Saturday mornings and a little guy beside me like Fred and Barney's buddy gives me a few pointers of how I shall begin it. He picks out the clothes. I just dress it up.


I was reading Mike Stafford's blog. He was talking about where he was when the huge things happened. Lennon and JFK being shot, The Nixon resignation. And the subway terror in Toronto back in 1995.

Even though I wasn't around for the JFK tragedy or to read the headlines about Nixon, I remember a few things in my life. The major moments that in 50 years you'll be telling your kids about because they'll be learning about it in History class.


August 1st 1997. The night Princes Diana died. I remember this night very well because it was also one of those perfect summer nights'. Perfect company. Perfect weather. Perfect music coming over the car radio while I was polishing up my third Mikes Hard Lemonade outside of our favourite coffee shop at the time. My friend Aman was dropping me off at home with our four girlfriends in the backseat. We were listening to Biggie Smalls when our friend Amanada got a call on her cell. It was her sister. She told her the news that the princess had gotten in a car crash and was in the hospital. Amanada started to cry. Since we were only three minutes away from my house, I asked them if they wanted to watch the late breaking news on my TV. They said yes. When we got home, I got everyone a drink and we sat down to watch the travesty. It wasn't even five minutes after we got comfy when it was confirmed that Diana had died. I ran upstairs to my mom's room. I knew I couldn't wait until the morning to break the news to her. I opened the door and silently called out for her. She opened her eyes as if she was expecting someone to wake her up. She knew what I was going to say. Before I could say anything she asked me a question. "She died, didn't she?" I said yes. She yelled out "Noooo!" as she swiftly jumped up from her bed and we all started to watch CNN. I remember my friends left just after 2 o'clock in the morning and my mom had made coffee for them.


Another late night `I remember where I was' story went down on April 29th 1992. The night of the LA Riots. It was another one of those perfect nights. The whole family had gotten together for my Sisters high school fashion show. All the cousins were in the front row as I watched my sister being eyed by many of the guys while I looked at some of her hot friends. As we were about to leave, I heard mumblings regarding Rodney King and some beatings and something happening in LA. I asked my Dad if he knew anything. Nah, He didn't. But he did say that we would check out the news when we get in the car. As soon as we were about to drive out of the York Millsparking lot, we heard about the LA police being acquitted and the whole of downtown LA was in shambles, as residents started something that would be known as a mini-civil war or another race riot. It would also be dubbed as the Rodney King riots. As we got home we went straight to the television to watch the beatings over free large screen TVs and new Nintendo systems. The one thing I do remember vividly from that night was that Arsenio Hall had a special program. He had cancelled all his guests and for most of the show he just talked to the people in the audience about racism. It was a pop culture moment I'll never forget.


September 11th 2001 is one day I know the kids will be talking about in the future. I had woken up to get a glass of water and take a pill since my allergies were still here after a terrible match with them throughout the summer. I just gotten back into bed as the phone rang. The phone had that sound about it. The same kind of sound of the ring when you know it'll be bad news. I answered. It was my sister. She told me that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Centre. I laughed thinking what a dumb pilot. She told me that the people on the news are thinking it's something more than just a mistake. So I decided to wake up my mom and check it out. Seconds after I woke up my mom and we turned on the TV the second plane hit. That's when everyone knew that this was more than a pilot sleeping at the wheel. We ended up being glued to the tube for the whole rest of the morning, answering calls from family members just checking in making sure we were okay and how we were dealing with the disaster. I e-mailed a family friend to see if he was well as he worked in that area. He e-mailed me back seconds later saying that he was working on the other side of town that day due to meetings in the area and that the phone lines were all down. New York was a war zone.

These memories, maybe not very good ones are also memories that remind you how different things were back then and how things changed after they happened. And when they didn't change, you ask why they hadn't. Moments like these change a nation, and unites a nation when a nation mourns.




Every man's memory is his private literature. ~Aldous Huxley