Field of Dreams

This isn’t my home, I just live here. Such an ungrateful and selfish thing to say. So privileged. It bears no reflection on the perfectly lovely suburban address to which my mail is delivered. Nor on those who reside within its walls who are more of a home than a building could ever be.

For the better part of 25 years I’ve lived in a place I don’t belong.

The desire to go for a walk has always seemed foreign to me. At least for as long as I’ve had a drivers license. It’s partially a distaste for physical activity, but also… where would I go? The closest store is a 7-11 three kilometres away, adrift in a sea of culs-de-sac and catwalks.

It took a whole month before the urge to stroll overtook me. Not because of cabin fever, an endless scroll of Netflix would never allow that. More it was my thighs screaming, “HELLO! Are you alive in there?” I had my doubts. Both to walking and the aliveness of my thighs. Strapped into my most straight-jacket like sports bra and flashiest yoga capris I headed out for adventure. Or as much adventure as one podcast and the threat of impending rain would allow.

Down the hill and around the corner. One foot, two foot. Check for traffic before stepping two meters into the street for some tweens headed my way. A slight albeit socially distant nod. Left past the elementary school. I voted for the Prime Minister there. Twice. My old classroom is just visible at the back.

Cherry blossom snowflakes have fallen on a faded burgundy sedan. The trees have been left to their own devices for a few decades now and thick limbs burst out in every direction. Puffy bunches of pink pack into every inch like too many crinolines below a skirt.

I broke up with a guy who lived around the corner. He liked Jimi Hendrix. And he cried that my being an atheist was hurting Jesus.

Lawns seem to come in two styles. Those mowed into visually pleasing lines of lush green, and those covered in fluffy dandelion balls. A black lab raises his head to say hello as I pass but doesn’t bother to bark. His yard could easily double as a golf course.

I turn down a street I’m not sure I’ve ever been on before. It feels vaguely familiar. Maybe I cut through here on the way to a friend’s house when I was fourteen. Or maybe all the streets just look the same.

A chalet style roof still has Christmas lights on it. A colonial is trying to be taken seriously despite the garden of clown statues undermining it’s authority. The mid-century rancher shows off a fluorescent “SOLD” sign.

I walk and walk and barely see another soul. Not that I would recognize them if there were people around. My friends have long since moved on. The earthy smell of damp cedar is the only thing familiar.

Passing by a bay window that has been filled with a crucifix I double check the sky for lightning.

It is by all accounts a lovely little town. Growing up kids played hockey in the street. The smell of someone barbecuing hamburgers and the crack of a baseball bat were summer staples. A stork on the lawn announced the arrival of a new baby. And across the creek a little historical village with a general store still selling penny candy and locally made ice cream. It was, and is, the backdrop of a movie about suburban life.

On Friday nights we would make a point of renting the most obscure VHS tapes they had. Whatever was a single copy. Stealing Beauty, Welcome to the Dollhouse, Tank Girl. We talked about feminism while ripping pages from Seventeen. At the big box store we photocopied our ‘zines and drank Frappuccinos like they were oxygen.

There was a strange circular tool they clamped on her tongue when I took my best friend to get it pierced. I’ve never seen anything else like it. It’s what I focused on when they put a hollow needle through her flesh. The tattoo parlour in old downtown felt sketchy but their sterilizing ovens were proudly on display. It’s home to an artisanal bakery now that serves slightly burnt coffee.

At prom she wore Doc Martens with fishnets. My date was the blonde captain of the rugby team. He and his equally blonde and beautiful wife live up the street from me now. Their daughters sell girl guide cookies.

It’s time to head back.

A giant empty field takes up a whole block. Overgrown, fences sagging. It was a cattle farm for most of my life. Calves would appear and grow, before suddenly leaving. And the following spring the cycle would start again. When the old man died the land held its shape for a while. The cattle were replaced with a family of deer who came and went. I got a thrill each time I saw them on my drive home from work. Now the gate lays open, slack-jawed and tired. Waiting for the condos it will surely become.

At seventeen I didn’t know choosing the path of an artist would mean the same sidewalks leading me to middle age. I thought it meant Paris. Rolling Stone. Hollywood. My heart didn’t have a road map. It couldn’t have known about the recession that would hit when I finally started my career. Or the crushing inflation of housing costs. Seventeen year old hearts don’t think about health challenges or resumes. And even if they did, I’m not sure they would listen.

Teacups are suspended in a miniature maple tree with no indication why. Freshly painted wooden siding shares a driveway with a motorhome that has “FOR SALE” fingerprinted into the dirty windshield. Blue ribbons are tied to trees as a salute to first responders. Rocks painted with happy messages appear every few houses like a community scavenger hunt.

It is a nice neighbourhood on the good side of town. The kind of place you’d see in a manual on how to raise a happy family. And everything I should want. Ever the round peg in a square hole my heart is restless and rootless. “You promised me adventure.” it sighs.

The mail is collected and I open the front door greeted with the scent of perfectly cooked dinner. Safely inside the downpour begins washing the street clean.