The Brown Knowser

At the end of my first day of high school, more than two-and-a-half years after I left Century P.S., I decided to return to my old elementary school for a visit. Halfway through the sixth grade, my family had moved from Nepean to Chelsea, across the Ottawa River, on the Québec side. I didn't get to finish my last year at my old school, which was a shame: my teacher, Mr. Townsend, was perhaps my favourite teacher of them all. He focused on our writing skills, encouraged us in our creative writing, and had the greatest influence over my decision to become a writer. Just as I was beginning to flourish in what he said came naturally to me, we moved away. My second-half of grade six was a challenge. Everybody in the class knew each other, had grown up together. I was the new kid. No one, for the longest time, wanted to welcome me into the fold. Many students in that class, and even the teacher, never fully accepted me. French was also a challenge for me, as the lessons in Québec...

I choked up when I told DD16 this story. She came with me to the school, wanted to see where my education began. She helped me carry equipment and followed me as I recounted stories—the room where Monsieur Leflock taught me French: the vice-principal's office, where, for a time, he had set out a chair for me. More on that, later. We had ventured to the second floor, to find that the lights had been turned off. All of the classroom doors were closed and locked. Grades 4, 5, and 6 had been held up here. It's where I felt like one of the big kids, even though I was one of the smallest in all of my classes. There were no light switches: at least, none that we could turn on. Each required a special key to activate them. The only light emanated from the far end of the corridor, where a set of doors took you to the stairwell that led out to the courtyard. It lit the two doors at the far end: one led into the library; the other, to the room where I had my grade 4 class. I set...

Do you remember where you were when Paul Henderson scored the winning goal in the 1972 Canada-Russia hockey series? I remember where I was. I was sitting on the cold floor of the auditorium, which doubled as a gymnasium, at Century Public School. There were a few classes, huddled around a TV set that had poor reception. I wasn't a hockey fan—had never been interested—but it was an excuse to get out of class. When the final horn sounded on that eighth game, the auditorium rang out in cheers. Teachers high-fived. Students threw up their young arms. History had been made. The auditorium/gymnasium was where we gathered for our Christmas concerts, where we sang carols loud and clear. Our principal, Mr. Gordon, would personally select the students who would be in the choir: we would stand and sing "Oh, Canada!" at our desks, and Mr. Gordon would walk around the room, stopping behind each student to listen. If he liked your voice, he would gently tap you on the should...

I knew that revisiting my old elementary school would bring back memories but I never expected that, at every turn, in every room, I would see my younger self, hear the voices of classmates and teachers, remember the sound of my old principal, softly calling for attention. "Shh... shh... listening. Listening... " I found Mr. Gordon, in a framed black-and-white photograph, posing with the vice principal, Mr. Gouge, and a crowd of young students with their Safety Patrol sashes. The students were from my grade, many from my class. I recognized Pam and Joanne, who I had known since kindergarten, standing near the front of the crowd. I also remembered other faces but couldn't put names to them. Everything seemed smaller, as though time had shrunk the gymnasium. My kindergarten classroom, whose sloped ceiling seemed infinitely out of reach, had sunk with age. Tables and chairs were doll-sized, the hallways shortened. Not everything was the same: the wooden climbin...

Bridgehead . I cried in Bridgehead. Not in loud, blubbery sobs that would turn heads and have other patrons talking and pointing fingers. You would have had to look closely to see my watering eyes, to notice my chest convulse, despite my attempts to hold it together. If you were there, you would have seen me typing on my smartphone, staring at the screen, and you would have wondered if I was suppressing a whole-hearted laugh. That is, until that big blob of a tear fell and left a wet mark on my shirt. Yes, I did have a bit of an emotional outcry, in public, but I did my best to keep my emotions in check. When I thought I might erupt again, I chugged the last of my coffee, cleaned off my table, and swiftly left the shop. My tears weren't ones of sorrow. They weren't particularly of joy, either. My emotional outpouring was more of relief, of hope, and of optimism. I had just come from a visit with an orthopedic surgeon at the Civic Hospital. My meeting came after more t...

On Wednesday, we saw the longest day of the year. Or, rather, the day with the most hours of daylight. Every day is 24 hours long. On a cloudless, warm day that marked the beginning of summer, the best place to say goodbye to the setting sun and the blue and orange sky was by the river. I could have stood there and watched until the blue grew darker, until the sky filled with countless points of distant light. If not for the bugs. Those pesky, biting, summer bugs. Happy Friday!

Every so often, I venture to my basement to take inventory of the bottles and cans of unopened beer, to see if there's anything that I bought but somehow neglected. You would be surprised to know that there are times where, atop the wooden wine racks, stacked with dust-covered bottles of old vintages, sits a flat shelf that is even-more stacked with cases and individual selections of ales, lagers, and stouts. With the beginning of summer, I'm looking to shed any of the last remnants of heavier, winter beers, to make way for the light, refreshing summer ales. I was surprised to find several bottles that have been in my basement since the beginning of the year, plus cans that I had bought at the beginning of spring. Too late for spring cleaning: time for summer clearance. Tucked behind a half-empty, spring-sampler six-pack from Mill Street were two cans that held promise. I knew that I hadn't had the beer before because with two cans, I was looking at my taster can ...

Sure, Mother's Day is nice, but I think that dads sometimes get treated as the underdogs of the family. Mom is always sensible. Mom always thinks ahead. Mom is the practical one. But father's are important, too. We look out for the safety of our kids but we also throw caution to the wind, thinking it's better to show a life lesson after the fact than to shield our kids from the experience. Dad's are there, no matter what. We always see our children as children, and we have our kids' back through thick and thin. And so, on Father's Day, it's okay to be spoiled, to let our kids fawn over us. Let them make us breakfast in bed. So they messed up the kitchen: that's okay. For all the dads out there, I hope you had a great day, yesterday. I hope yesterday was the most important day for you, when you were not the underdog of the family, but the centre of it.

My wife isn't happy about my year-long photo project. Oh, it's not the content of the project: with most of the photos, she's given me an "oh, that's nice" or a "that's a beautiful shot," or even "I love that one." She wasn't crazy about my Photo of the Day (POTD) pic of that young woman on the beach at Playa Pilar , but what can I say? I'm at heart a childish, dirty old man! One of my favourite photos, so far, that was shot on our recent trip to Cuba, was a street scene in the town of Morón, an hour's drive from our resort on Cayo Coco. DW liked it so much, too, that I earned one of her "I love it" praises. Here it is, for Photo Friday . (Notice how I keep with my current Cuba theme?)   So just what is DW not pleased about with my POTD? It's how I process the RAW image. For years, I've been using photo-editing software that her company produces: Photo-Paint. PaintShop Pro. Aftershot. I'...

"You really don't know where we're going?" DD16 asked, eyes wide, the look of terrified anguish on her young face. She's a worrier, one of those people who, when she hears galloping hooves, assumes that unicorns are headed her way. "No idea," I said, "let's go!" I had, at most, five pesos in my pocket. It was late on our second evening at our resort, and I had already had my fill of Cuba Libres, which flowed freely from the lobby bar, next to the theatre. My next intended stop, after the live show, was back to our so-called bungalow —which was three-stories tall, despite its name. One of about eight structures that housed the guest rooms. The show was a dance interpretation of Romeo and Juliet , performed by a group of young dancers that we would see perform in two more shows before we would head back to Canada. The story was told through contemporary pop songs, some that made DD16 and DD14 look at one another, roll their eyes, and sm...