Monday May 30, 2005
7:00 - 9:00pm
“Would you mind if I ask you about what these posters are about?”
“No, not at all.” The inquiring speaker was a tall, poised gentleman with neatly groomed white hair.
“That’s interesting. Which house was theirs on this street?”
“They actually lived on Franklin, close to the park.”
“This is Franklin Street.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’ve been walking these streets for 16 years.”
“Well, you’ll come to the street they lived on if you walk through the school yard. I’m sure that’s Franklin, but maybe the street name somehow continues on this street. I don’t know.” Neither of us thought to walk for 15 seconds to the street sign to find out which street we were standing on.
“I’ll have to continue my stroll and find out what these streets are called. Do you go to school?” When I told him I was finished for now, he asked me where I went.
“First, I studied Studio Art at the University of Waterloo, then I went to York to study Art History.”
“My grandson goes to the University of Waterloo. We’re going to see his family at a gathering this weekend.”
“What does he study?”
“English. It’s strange that he doesn’t have a mathematical bone in his body, since his father excelled in the field. Now, his girlfriend is a different story. She studies Physics. That was her father’s area of expertise, but her sister is not interested in math or sciences in the slightest.”
“I was just talking about this with a friend of mine the other day. She’s a left-wing political activist and her sister is rather conservative and lives a regular life in the suburbs. She says that they disagree on almost every subject and was wondering how the two of them could have grown up in the same household, yet ended up so different as adults.”
“We’re all born with our distinct personalities, I imagine.”
“I suppose. If you look at my family, I’m the weird sibling. Or as my Mom usually puts it, I’m her interesting and unique daughter.”
By this time, I had finished taping my current poster, so we walked along to the next pole in line.
“This house here, it used to belong to the local mechanic. There used to be a big garage next to the house. Then a lady bought it, tore down the garage and fixed up the house. She sold it a few years ago and moved out west to Vancouver. And this house used to be a small single story home, but they raised it up and turned it into two stories. They have five children.”
“I’m starting to find out some interesting stories about this neighbourhood from people. Imagine what I would find out if the buildings could talk.”
“That would be interesting. I’m going to leave you now and continue on my walk. All the best with your project.”
Five minutes later, he re-emerged back on the street and with a friendly wave, he said, “You’re right. That is Franklin. This is Markham Street.” And he continued on his way.
My grandfather took the time to tell me about his childhood on one of my visits to Markham as a kid. I remember that I was sitting on the rust-coloured carpet in the living room next to the coffee table and my Grandpa was seated on the sofa, moving his legs around in ways you wouldn’t think were possible for someone his age. He was a spritely man. Spritely, yet set in his ways. He told me that his first job was herding cattle along the roadways and that he started working at the age of eight to help out his family. He said he only went to school in the winter, when the weather wouldn’t allow him to work outside. I remember not knowing what to say to this. It didn’t seem real to me at all. I was also watching TV at the time. My grandparents had cable and had a lot more channels than what we were able to pick up on our TV antennae in the country outside of Plattsville.
“You know that the only thing that happens to your posters is the high school kids come and rip them down.”
“Some of them stay up”
“Well, even so, the kids come and tear them right after you put them up, so it’s kind of…pointless…”