Home for a rest

Another morning waiting for a train, watching my breath disappear into the cold, frosty air. I’m listening to Labour Day, my favourite Spirit of the West album. I’m not going to the continent or Edinburgh with my Canadian flag-emblazoned backpack firmly strapped to me this time. I’m catching the commuter train downtown like other suburban dwelling professionals. But the music takes me back almost 30 years. 30 years ago trains took me on adventures. Places unseen, names sometimes mangled by my attempts at Hungarian or Portugese. The promise of adventure and finding connection with strangers lured me to city after city with my trusty Eurorail youth pass.

Today I’m looking at the Burrard Inlet, no problem pronouncing that. But Spirit of the West still uplifts and comforts my aging soul. It reminds me of home wherever I am. Reminds me of my youth. Those precious years, increasingly in my rear-view mirror, spent daydreaming of love, adventure and outrage.

When I read a week or so ago that SOTW’s lead singer, John Mann, died far too young of early onset Alzheimer’s, I admit I shed a few tears. Then I danced around the living room to Home for a Rest, smiling, laughing and thankful that in my early 50s I can look back with fondness on my youth. That unlike John, my memories haven’t been stolen from me by disease. And now I’m going back to writing about those years in my young Marie short stories. Those ones are intensely personal, perhaps more so than recent stories. It feels cathartic to write them now. They are stories that I’ve wanted to tell for years but only now I’ve found the voice and the inspiration to do so. It’s time to open up and share those boxes of memories.