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).

Philly Melt, The Nob

I never really thought of myself as a sandwich person. Throughout my life, the thing I most associate with bread is peanut butter and maybe raspberry jam as that is what I ate for lunch 95% of the time as a kid. But sandwiches as an adult are worth so much more exploration and, upon reflection, have provided some of the greatest gastronomic delights of my life—honestly, the best thing I ever ate was a cajun chicken sandwich from La Grande Epicerie in Paris that consisted of just three simple ingredients: cajun-seasoned chicken and guacamole on authentic French bread.

There is a sandwich in my hometown that is also worthy of high praise and ranking on my personal “best of” list. The Philly Melt from The Nob in Winnipeg is sheer perfection. Generously portioned roast beef topped with onions and peppers smothered in cheese resting atop a toasted pretzel bun. I’m salivating on my keyboard just typing about it. A visit home is incomplete without eating it at least once.

The Nob itself is a hidden gem in the historic south Winnipeg neighborhood I grew up in. Located on the side of a motor hotel, bar and beer store, the cafe might be unnoticeable to those passing through to the city proper. But eat there once and I guarantee you will return. Everything I’ve had on their menu has been delicious. The Nob is totally worthy of being featured on “You Gotta Eat Here” or “Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives”.

Yes, the name of the restaurant is ridiculous.

Yes, this is one of the first things I ordered when visiting recently.

Yes, I am going to eat the whole damn thing.

Monty eyeing my Philly melt from The Nob, Winnipeg (©2021, Deborah Clague).

Monty eyeing my Philly melt from The Nob, Winnipeg (©2021, Deborah Clague).