Roger Pires May 12, 2011
When he's not offering his take on daily life, Roger Pires spends his days as a computer systems analyst. It's not exactly a glamorous calling but hey, it pays the bills. He enjoys hockey, canoeing, snowshoeing, and spending as much time as he possibly can outdoors. He lives in Udora with his wife and two kids, who are his prime inspiration for Ravenshoe Ramblings.
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The rural option
It was classic Canadiana. Trees alive with the first buds of spring; birds rehearsing their annual songs of rejuvenation; husband and playoff junkie sprawled on the chesterfield; his wife and hockey widow exiled to another room – any room – turning the necessary wheels of day-to-day affairs. Sometimes his inert mass isn’t seen for hours; the spouse-in-exile ventures into the man cave periodically to poke him with a stick to see if he’s still alive.
On this particular day, I – the aforementioned inert mass – dodged the stick and arose under my own volition. During one intermission, I brushed off a slagheap of peanut shells and hauled my carcass into the kitchen for a drink of water (hey, it was a Monday night!). The fact I was upright and mobile halfway through a “Hockey Night in Canada” tripleheader startled my wife.
“Now that you’re up, perhaps you can be of some use.”
“Wanna know the score?”
“No.” She pointed at some papers spread out on the table. It was some sort of demographic survey. Probably one of those that ask you all sorts of relevant questions. Like your dog’s middle name and how many times a week you eat lima beans. And if you mail it in before a certain date, you become eligible to win a toaster. My puzzled look asked the question for me: “It’s the Census,” my wife said. “and if I don’t mail this one in by a certain date, you’ll be making license plates.”
She continued to scan the forms until one of the questions made her stop. “When did we move to Udora?” I thought about it for a moment.
“Let’s see, it was some time before the NHL lockout and after the Leafs last made the final four.”
“I’m glad you have your priorities straight.” And with that, I scratched my left cheek and wandered back to my rink side seat.
Later that evening, when the games were over and everyone had long since gone to bed, I got up to let the dog out. I stepped onto the porch and was greeted by one of those perfect spring nights. The air was cool and crisp; a chorus of spring peepers wafted through the stillness. I filled my lungs with the scent of pine and fresh dew. In the distance, a cow lent its voice to this little opera like a bovine Pavarotti.
I thought about my wife’s earlier question – about how long we’d been “out here”. Eight years. Seemed like forever. Even more astonishing was the fact we left the city a few months after our son was born. He’s going to high school next year. I sat in one of the porch chairs – Ward Cleaver rejects but as comfortable as the wondrous spring night – and I thought about how we got here. First to Goodwood, then on to Udora. And about the morning in a Don Mills apartment that would lead us to the back roads of Uxbridge Township.
The neighbourhood had been going into the dumpster in the couple of years we were there. Traffic jams were as constant as the sirens blaring from the Peanut Plaza down the road. Police tape and chalk outlines had replaced tinsel and holly as the most common Christmas decorations. Many nights, my wife and I would sit on the balcony wondering what the future held. Our daughter was in kindergarten and our son was still filling diapers. The local high school served as a battleground for rival gangs. Drug dealing was the most popular pastime in the park across the street.
My wife and I were both born and raised as city kids. But we spent our summers at the cottage, or camping, anywhere but the city. Our patience with the urban experience was stretched to the limit. We felt like we needed deep analysis after returning from weekends away.
The breaking point came on a clear spring morning as I was leaving for work. I stepped off the elevator and into chaos. A crowd of frantic residents gathered around a couple of police officers, shouting over one another to be heard. From the clamor, I learned that a young woman had been assaulted that night in the parking lot of our building. They stole her purse and her watch and left her on the concrete. I thought about my wife pushing the stroller with our daughter by her side. That afternoon, we hired a real estate agent.
As I prepared to turn in for the night, I thought again about the road that led us to this rural Eden, how it was one part planning and several parts blessed fortune. I breathed in the cool, still night, listened again to the frogs and the cows, and let the smell of pine dance on my nostrils. It was Canadiana at its storybook finest.
