Not so Happy Father’s Day…

DadMeSome years, Father’s day comes and goes without a second thought for me.
Others, like this year for instance, the lead up is like a slow burn of stinging emotions.
Life is rather shite for me at the moment. Strike that…
*try to find the positive spin Michele… *
Life is a tad “transitional” at the moment, and it’s left me feeling rather raw and exposed emotionally.
A little like a tightrope walker without a net. Continue reading “Not so Happy Father’s Day…”



SummertimeSummers, pre-teen, were spent at the campground. (fancy name for trailer park LOL!) Ring Tail Camp on Lake Katchewanooka to be precise. Even there, we were in the “projects”, but again, it didn’t phase us kids.
My mother and I would go on walks through the richer neighbourhoods at the park, and she would gaze longingly at the “Prowlers”. Those large, beautiful trailers, with all the bells and whistles. We had a one of those campers that fit in the back of a pick up truck, with the roof that popped up, creating a crawl space loft bed area. (that’s where my brother and I would sleep)

Each summer we added to our “estate”… a pop up 4-sleeper trailer, then a dining tent, a gas barbeque! Oh, and our lot had the fresh water well pump. Score!

We had about 20 mismatched lawn chairs (my dad would find them in the garbage when people would toss them away. “perfectly good!” he would say, then he would re-strap them and weld new arms on them) that were always filled with people. Fellow campers, friends of my parents, the teenage boys that played on the hockey team my dad coached, who would descend on our little oasis on the weekends and drink beer and smoke into the wee hours around the fire pit. I remember those summers vividly. I remember packing for the long summer, stuffing the camper full of everything we could possibly need to fill our days, sunny or rainy, for 2 months. Continue reading “Summertime…”

oh to go home again…

“I know they say you can’t go home again,
I just had to come back one last time,
Ma’am I know you don’t know me from Adam,
But these hand prints on the front steps are mine.

I thought if I could touch this place or feel it,
This brokenness inside me might start healing,
Out here it’s like I’m someone else,
I thought that maybe I could find myself,
If I could just come in I swear I’ll leave,
Won’t take nothin but a memory,
From the house that built me.”

It’s funny that saying… “you can’t go home again”
after a while, unless you’re one of the lucky ones, you really, really can’t.

I “grew up” in a few houses. Continue reading “oh to go home again…”