The Life I Once Knew

We walked down St. Mary’s Road. It was Autumn and the trees were slowly changing to a gold-tinted colour palette, leaves languidly falling and crunching on the ground beneath our feet. I pointed out a familiar apartment. It belonged to a former boss, Ed, a small business owner that carved out a niche in the Winnipeg advertising community with his partner Richard. They were two of the most honest, down-to-earth individuals I had ever had the privilege of knowing and collaborating with in my life. Looking up at the residence, nostalgia flood my memories. Without their support and encouragement, I never would have started my own business. My father knew this as well and asked if we could stop by and say hello.

I paused, not knowing how to address it with him.

Both Ed and Richard had passed away years ago. But if I told my father this, I would also have to tell him that he did too.

I woke up from this dream and had to lie in bed, staring at the ceiling for a bit before fully consenting to the day. This isn’t the first time my father has visited me in a dream but it was the first time in a long while. It’s always a bit jarring; the warm comfort of a familiar embrace shattered by the reality that you’ve lost that presence—and that life you once knew—forever. I knew my day would be thrown off kilter as I increasingly searched for meaning during a time in which everlasting sleep seems like a welcome respite.

I feel this dream was a result of the continued, relentless stress and anxiety of the ongoing pandemic. I try to limit overexposure to the news and social media, however, it’s hard to escape the current ripple effects of a society divided. Just in the past week, I’ve born witness firsthand how emboldened certain segments of the population are to freely express their hate and discord. As I ran an errand at a local mall, an angry white man yelled obscenities and told the South Asian taxi drivers parked at front to “go back to your own country”. It is disgusting. It is deplorable. I never thought I would live during a time where this and nazi flags being flown in broad daylight would be acceptable in Canada, where the perceived consequence from one’s personal choice are compared to the rape, pillage and genocide of an entire race of people.

But I suppose it’s always been present.

Just hidden.

Many have said that 9/11 was the defining moment of a generation but that seems so long ago (I actually remember watching it with Richard on the small office TV as it happened). The dual pandemic of COVID-19 and social media, and how different our lives and perspective will be moving forward is well surpassing it with everything from everyday safety protocols to personal relationships forever altered. I feel that I may always long for my previous carefree life. That bitch didn’t know how good she had it.

Meeting my father again in a dream, leaves crunching under our feet as we breathed in the crisp, Autumn air, was the momentary escape I needed. The life I once knew is there … if I close my eyes.

Egg Nog Season

When I was a kid, I knew Christmas was approaching when I’d see Lucerne Egg Nog on the shelf at Safeway. The bold colour combination and design of its packaging stood out amongst the regular milk cartons and signalled the start of the holiday season.

During the eighties, grocery shelves didn’t have as much variety as they do today. Food was obviously in abundance but the full impact of capitalism and globalization weren’t as visible. There was only ever one flavour of Oreo, for starters, and winter was the only season Canada would import mandarin oranges. If this sounds like I’m about to say I walked to and from school in -40 degree Celsius weather … well, yes, I did that too. Never uphill though. I was raised on the plains. Fact is, times have changed a lot over the decades and the wide-eyed wonder and delight at the debut of Lucerne egg nog each November has now been replaced by fatigue at choosing amongst dozens of types of egg nog all with their own festive branding and social media presence.

Alas, as an adult I don’t even really like eggnog but continue to buy one 1L carton each holiday season for tradition and nostalgia. If Lucerne brought back their glorious terracotta retro packaging, I would feel like a kid again.

Vintage Lucerne eggnog packaging illustration (©2021, Deborah Clague).

Eighties Vintage

After moving out of province over a decade ago to build a life of my own, it can feel strange returning to my childhood home. While some things have changed, others seem stuck in time; a nostalgic connection to my younger self (and all the hopes and dreams she harboured). From random tchotchkes that caught my mother’s eye over the years to a rotary phone I remember cradling in my tiny hands while talking to my father as he worked on the road for Canadian Pacific Rail, these relics of a bygone era feel like they represent a museum of my life.

A ghost of me lingers in that home.

A rotary phone, issued by Manitoba Telecom Services in the early eighties, remains the main method of inbound and outbound communication at my childhood home. As my elderly mother ages, she appreciates simplicity and familiarity, refusing to use a smartphone.

A set of Funk & Wagnalls New Encyclopedia rests on the shelf in my childhood bedroom. In an era before computers and the internet, these were a fountain of knowledge. My father purchased them for me while grocery shopping at Safeway in the eighties. As part of a promotion, a new volume in the series was available each week for a discounted price with purchase.

Cleaning Out the Closet

When I visit home, my childhood home, I sleep in a room with wood-panelled walls and a window facing East. The floors are cool as it’s in the basement. The bed frame is old with new mismatched sheets. A dresser and closet contain artifacts from another time. A time when my father was alive.

It’s been seven years since my father received news that he needed to get his affairs in order as he had mere months to live. And then he was gone. Throughout that short period, my life felt like living in the eye of a hurricane. There was a million things to do. A million things to say. A million tears to cry. It is only recently that I’ve been truly reflecting on his life, impact and legacy. I’m sure the pandemic played a role in this pause.

In those seven years, his possessions remained untouched. Pairs of eyeglasses rest in cases placed on the dresser. Socks and belts are rolled up in the drawers. The closet is filled with XL-sized sweatshirts and the garish Hawaiian shirts he loved to wear. There are even old pairs of shoes. It never crossed my mind to get rid of these items because preserving them meant a part of him was still present. I didn’t want to lose that, nor lose the memories these inanimate objects held. But seven years is a long time. I struggled with the decision to clean and donate what could be salvaged but finally decided it was time.

Filling several bags with his clothes, I sorted between clear refuse and something that someone might need. There was a leather jacket that appeared good as new. A retro bowling shirt from one of his favourite television shows, Corner Gas, that a collector might have interest in. And, of course, all those Hawaiian shirts (Halloween is just around the corner)! I searched pockets for hidden treasure while taking in the moment. I was officially letting go. I felt sadness but also a sense of calm. There’s more to our being than the material possessions we leave behind. Love is the true legacy of a life well lived.

My bedroom at my childhood home is now filled with different signs of life, such as Monty’s squeaky toys and books that I dip into before slumber.

I kept one item after cleaning out the closet. Something that I rarely saw my father without. A hat always covered his head and while I sorted through his collection containing the emblems of a variety of random companies and sports teams, I decided to keep the one most well-worn of all — a Saskatchewan Roughriders cap that he bought, and proudly wore, after I moved to the province.

Wearing the one item I kept, my dad’s well-worn Saskatchewan Roughriders cap (©2021, Deborah Clague).

Wearing the one item I kept, my dad’s well-worn Saskatchewan Roughriders cap (©2021, Deborah Clague).

It's been 7 long years

It’s been a long time since I visited family.

I wanted to visit at Christmas but couldn’t because of the pandemic.

I wanted to visit on my birthday in early Spring but couldn’t because of the pandemic.

I wanted to visit on my mother’s birthday earlier this summer … but couldn’t because of the pandemic.

So it’s been a long time since I visited family. One year, in fact (or seven long dog years). I missed this guy.

Monty and I at my favourite park (©2021, Deborah Clague).

Monty and I at my favourite park (©2021, Deborah Clague).

Monty (©2021, Deborah Clague).

Monty (©2021, Deborah Clague).