When I Couldn't Sleep

It was going to be sunrise in about an hour and I hadn't slept all night.

I had been writing fiction, working on a story that would become part of a trilogy. My head was full of ideas and I was trying to figure out some broken ties. Though I had stopped typing—yes, I used a typewriter in 1989—my brain was still working away.

I also missed my girlfriend. We had only started dating a few months earlier but we had known each other for about a year before then. Shortly after we started our relationship, she had told me that she had a summer job, up in Northern Ontario, planting trees, and she would be away for two months.

Little did either of us know that she would later become DW.

With the story tumbling around my head and thoughts of my absent girlfriend, it was no wonder I couldn't fall asleep. And, finally noticing the time and realizing that the sun would be up soon, I decided to grab my camera, jump in my car, and drive.

I had no set destination. It wasn't uncommon for me to go for long drives in my '85 Pontiac Sunbird. I'd just get behind the wheel and go, letting each intersection randomly take me left, right, or straight on through.

In 1989, Barrhaven was considered way out in the boonies. So when I passed it and continued along Fallowfield Drive, toward vast farm fields, I was far from home. But it wasn't the furthest a random drive had taken me.

One time, I drove until I found myself along the St. Lawrence River, at the Ogdensburg bridge, and I decided to cross into the U.S.. Back then, a passport wasn't required; just a valid driver's license.

"Where are you headed?" the American border agent asked me.

"Just going for a drive."

"Just a drive?"

"Yes. I might stop and take some photos." I always had my camera bag in the back seat, just in case I saw something and wanted to capture it.

"You aren't looking to sell any camera gear, are you?" the border agent asked, looking suspiciously into the back of my car.

"Not at all. I just thought I'd drive along the south shore of the St. Lawrence, stop and take any photos along the way."

"How long do you plan to be driving?"

"Not long." It was already about 8:00 in the evening. I didn't want to be out all night.

The border agent waved me through. I got to Highway 37 and headed eastward, stopping in Waddington, New York, where I stopped to photograph an old church that was lit up in an eerie orange glow. I continued through Massena, which, at that hour, seemed closed up for the night, and crossed back into Canada at Cornwall.

Those were the easy days, when there was no questions for a 20-something out for a ride, crossing international borders. But I had an innocent face, to boot.

But on the day where I stayed up and went for a pre-dawn drive, I knew that no matter how much my Sunbird wanted to take me far away—maybe, as far as to see my girlfriend—I was going to stay relatively close to home.

I had to be at work for 9:00.

As I drove past Barrhaven, some fog was rolling in, sometimes thick enough to obscure the road ahead. Absolutely, I wasn't going to wander far in these conditions.

I made it as far as the village of Fallowfield and stopped near the united church, which, unlike the similar church in Waddington, was shrouded in darkness. Only it's outline was visible against the coming blue-hour light.

I took a few photos but felt the chill of the fog in the air, which was getting thicker as dawn drew nearer. Across the road, I captured the grain silos of Valleyview Farm. I even took some photos of my car, at the side of the road, in front of this scene.

The sun was going to be up at any moment and I had an idea for a shot I wanted to take. I climbed back into my Sunbird and raced back to Barrhaven.

In 1989, Barrhaven was relatively small. Farm fields occupied a lot of the land between Greenbank and Woodroffe, along Fallowfield Road. There was a small shopping mall near the railway crossing but not much else, once you crossed that spot. And Fallowfield Road was only a narrow, two-lane street.

I pulled to the side of the road, hopeful that my flashing taillights would alert anyone coming from behind. The fog was extremely dense, which made my photo plans perfect.

The sun had risen above the horizon and had lifted only a bit, but it was at a perfect height. I moved so that it was immediately behind the railway-crossing barrier and took my shot.

Within a minute or two, the first car of the morning made its way toward the crossing, coming from the east. Also, in the late 80s, this part of Fallowfield Road didn't see much traffic. The car had a burned-out headlight, giving it some character, so I took a wider-angled shot.

Satisfied with my work (but not knowing exactly how any shots turned out because this was before the digital age), I returned to my car and made my way homeward, stopping only once to capture another foggy-sunrise-silhouette shot. I was home before 6:30.

Plenty of time for a short nap before my alarm would sound, reminding me it was time to get ready for work.

Happy Thursday!

Blind Shot

We were heading north, on West Street, between the World Trade Center and the Holland Tunnel. We were in my 1985 Pontiac Sunbird, making our way home after a long weekend in New York City. It was a beautiful, sunny spring day, with not a cloud in the sky: perfect for a last look at the city that never sleeps.

Through the sunroof, the twin towers loomed large. I looked up and wanted to capture an image with my camera, but I was behind the wheel.

I was also a young and whimsical 24 year old.

DW—before she and I were married—was sitting in the seat next to me. In the back seat was my best friend, Stuart, and his girlfriend at the time. Stu was meeting DW for the first time, as she and I had only been dating for about a month. I knew Stu's girlfriend, though she made it clear that she wished she didn't know me (that's another story, which I don't care to share).

My camera was in the trunk area of the car but because it was a hatchback, it was easy for Stu to reach. And when I asked him to hand it to me, he was only too obliging (much to his girlfriend's chagrin).

My camera, a Minolta X-700, did not have auto-focusing capabilities, so I handed the camera to DW and told her to do two things: make sure that the focus ring was set to infinity and set the aperture to f/16. I always kept my camera in aperture-priority mode, so I knew that on this bright day, the shutter speed would be able to handle this setting.

While DW checked the camera, I rolled down my window (it was a crank). With everything ready, she passed me the camera, I stuck it out the window, pointed skyward, and pressed the shutter release. The whole time, I had one hand on the wheel and my eyes firmly locked on the traffic ahead.

A couple of minutes later, before we turned off West Street toward the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel, I stuck my camera out the window one last time, pointing the camera behind me.

With the shots taken, I gave the camera back to Stu, who returned it to its case in the trunk. I wouldn't see the photos until I returned home and sent the 35mm film to the lab for processing.

I avoid using my camera while I drive. I'm no longer old nor quite as whimsical as I used to be. It's still distracted driving.

Be safe out there, folks. Happy Thursday!

My Second-Last Grad

A couple of years ago, for a Throwback Thursday post, I had found a photo of myself, ready to head off for my Grade 12 graduation ceremony. It was a night to celebrate and say farewell to friends who were heading off to college or university, or who were leaving school to start a full-time job.

Other friends at the party, like me, would return to high school in the fall, to complete Grade 13.

In that Throwback Thursday post, I described my outfit: a navy suit. I loved that suit and would continue to wear it for years to come, at special occasions.

Only, I didn't wear that suit for my Grade 12 grad. I wouldn't have that suit for nearly a year later, when I wore it to my Grade 13 grad.

Besides the difference in suits for the two graduation celebrations I attended, there were differences in those evenings. In Grade 13, I joined three other friends in a limousine that we rented, when we rode around the city in luxury. Our driver would pull over, every once in a while, to refill our champagne glasses or to stop at a place where we could take photos.

That was my Grade 13 grad suit and experience.

In Grade 12, I had a girlfriend, Sue, who I was taking to the grad. I remember that evening, because when I arrived at her house to pick her up, Sue's parents had just surprised her with her graduation present: a brand new Mustang GT. Two-door. Convertible. Red.

And here I was, in my parents' 1980 Pontiac Phoenix. Four-door. Hatchback. Beige.

A few days later, Sue and I broke up. She had met someone else, a guy that I worked with at the paint and wallpaper store but who went to a different high school.

Meh, water under the bridge. We remained friends for years later.

I didn't have my blue suit for that grad party. I still wore navy slacks (polyester, if I remember) but had a grey tweed jacket with suede patches on the elbows. Again, I wore a light blue shirt but this one had a white collar that was held at the lapels by a gold-plated pin. My tie was of a knitted wool that ended in a blunt cut, rather than a point.

Corsage in hand, ready for my date.

I don't remember the shoes. They may have been black, though I seem to remember a dark-brown suede pair with gummed soles that I used to wear a lot around that time. They would have matched the brown elbow patches on the jacket.

And my parents' Phoenix.

But not the blue pants. Oh well.

Maybe that's why Sue left me for another guy. I did see him driving her Mustang one time, shortly after Sue and I broke up. And he was always well-dressed.

So you can forget what I said a couple of years ago, on another Throwback Thursday. That wasn't 1983, it was 1984. The photo was shot as I was waiting for the limo to pull up. I was better-dressed a year later and had a better car. And I didn't need a date because I had a bunch of friends.

Happy Thursday!

I Knew She Was Right for Me When...

As a small kid, I could never sit still for a camera. I always wanted to ham it up.

The first time that I introduced DW (then, my girlfriend) to some of my closest friends was at a wedding, in Kingston, in 1991. It was the first time all of us had been together in more than five years, since we graduated from high school, so I wanted to get a group shot. And because my friends had also fallen in love with DW, they insisted that she be included in the shot.

She just couldn't sit still for the camera.

Happy Thursday!

Photo Friday: I Love New York

We had just started dating. It was March, 1989.

We decided to see a movie^*. We had never sat in a cinema together, had never sat in silence, our attention turned away from ourselves. Young lovers, not absorbed in each other, but focusing on the big screen before us.

It was the closing scene, the underdog finally realizing she has won, has achieved her goal. She looks out of her highrise office window, out into the city before her. The camera watches her from the outside, through the spotless glass. It draws away. The city scape comes into view and the city is laid out before the audience.

It's New York City.

I lean into my new girlfriend as the credits begin to roll. "Let's go there," I say.

"I'd love to," was the reply.

Two weeks later, we're in the Big Apple.

Twenty-six years later, to the month, we will find ourselves there again. Just the two of us, alone.

I love that city, always feel the rush of excitement at the prospect of being it the large, sprawling metropolis, the city that never sleeps.

I can't wait.

NYC, 1989

Happy Friday!



^* The movie was Working Girl.

Behind Philemon Wright

The woods are gone.

Across from the football field and track, the trees grew in abundance. A few metres from the north end of the track is where the woods began. There wasn't much to it: a dense thicket of trees and shrubs, a chain-link fence, a creek, and then the upwards slope to Highway 5.

There wasn't much to do in those woods. Sometimes, my friends—David, Sandra, and Christine—and I would go there. We would talk, make jokes. David, who was my friend despite joking at the fact that I was much shorter than the others, that my growth spurt was lagging, had a nickname for me: Ratchet. I liked to think that he called me that because it was a very handy tool to have in your toolbox, but I didn't like being thought of as a tool.

But he wasn't calling me by the name of a tool. He was shortening what he was really saying: rat shit.

We were good friends, Dave and I.

The woods were where the four of us could get away from the other students in our year. The woods were later a place to where my girlfriend and I could later hide. In the late months of the school year, toward the summer holiday, Joy and I would go there and mess around.

But the woods are gone now, replaced by a massive concrete structure. I used to think it was a giant skateboard park, with all of its graffiti. But it was too huge. I'm still not sure what it is: a reservoir, or culvert. Reagn Serny, it reads. A bike path cuts behind and follows the 5 up that steep rise above Gatineau.

There are still some trees that separate Philemon Wright High School from the highway, but the part I knew, the section where I spent my free time with friends and lovers, is gone.