The Last Trip Home

There's something about growing up in a small town. It's the innocence, being isolated and making the most of what you have. My hometown of Chelmsford, Ontario was nestled in the middle of the Sudbury basin. It's a bedroom community mostly comprised of blue collared workers that worked in the outlying mines. It was a two light town and there wasn't a mall or a theater. Back in the 70s, we didn't have cable and there were two channels, one in English and other in French. You had to use your creativity to fend off boredom. Some kids played sports, others read books, and I could be found in the bush or along one of the streams or lakes fishing. Whether it was summer or winter, we would mostly be outside. But as with most kids from small towns, they out grow their childhood homes and move to bigger and better places. Mine was to Southern Ontario, Alberta and eventually the United States. 

Last week I made the journey to meet my family to spread my father's ashes. My father passed away last December and in his will, he wanted his ashes spread at the golf course where he played. Sunday morning, I leave Cleveland blurry eyed and tired. The night before I was at the U2 concert, I was lucky to get any sleep. The last time I was back home was 2009 and I remember that trip clearly as a week after visiting, my grandmother had a stroke. Due to her age and the severity of it, my father and uncle made the decision to move her closer to my uncle in Ottawa. Years before, my parents moved to British Columbia to be closer to their grandchildren. A couple years later, I got news that my aunt and uncle had sold their home and moved to Ottawa as my aunt was the early stages of dementia. They were the last of my extended family to leave. That's when I wondered if I would ever return home.

Eight years later, I'm driving up north. The sprawling urban jungle of Toronto gradually gives way to the rolling hills and then the rocks and lakes of the Canadian Shield. It's a quiet trip as my girlfriend is sleeping. I use the time to reflect. My father was in poor health for several years, I hadn't seen my sister and her family for a very long time. Last year, my grandmother passed away. It was a stark reminder that I'm getting older. I get a text message from my sister and I tell her I'm almost near the city limits. We check into the hotel and head to the restaurant where they were eating. 

As we walk in, there's my sister and her husband and one of my nephews. My mother hugs me and cries as it has been some time since I've seen them. Then there is my uncle and one of his sons. I go over and hug my brother. It's a little overwhelming because we're so spread out across the country. It's a time of catching up and I'm mostly listening as I'm stuffing my face with food. The next morning, we're all meeting at the golf course. We get back to the hotel and I'm out before my head hits the pillow. 

The next morning, we meet at the Lively Golf Course, where one of my father's friends has planted a tree in his honor. It's a small blue spruce planted near the 18th hole. We all gather around and my mother breaks down as she spreads his ashes. I, my brother and sister gather to support her. We say our goodbyes and I look at the tree and wonder how big it will be when I'm 72 as that was the age of my father when he died. 

After the ceremony, I take my girlfriend to Chelmsford. We drive on the Northwest bypass and in the distance I can see the town. We come up to the traffic light and there was the old grocery store where I worked as a teen. The Tim Horton's is still there as is the Canadian Tire and Northland Hotel. I see my old high school that is slated to close due to low enrollment. My father was a teacher that school and spent his entire 30-year career there. We drive down Edward Street and see the house that I grew up in. As it was in 2009, the house is for sale again. I tell my girlfriend all of the names of the people that lived in that section of the street. Not surprisingly, all of them are gone. We turn onto Main Street and nearly all of the stores that I remember are gone. There is a sense of sadness because it's not the place that I remember. I point out the Algoma Hotel and the French church as they are the two oldest buildings in the town. We cross over the Whitson River into Whitson's Gardens. This the section of Chelmsford where I grew up as a young kid. It was the place where a lot of the younger families lived in the 70s. Back in the day, we would be playing out in the woods or riding our bikes throughout the neighborhood. Today, it's eerily quiet, not one kid was out. The neignborhood looks so run down. We drive up Errington Street and then on to highway 144 to see the High Falls in Onaping.

Back in the 70s and 80s, there were still a lot of people working in the mining industry. But as time went on, the mines didn't need as many people working there. As people retired, some stayed and others left. The majority of younger people left and included me. We all had bigger dreams. A few returned, but the majority of us never looked back. But I'll never forget my roots. 

Tuesday morning, we leave the hotel and I stop to fill up at the gas station. The clerk notices my U.S credit card and asks what brings me to Sudbury. I tell him I was here to spread my father's ashes and I brought my American girlfriend to show where I grew up. We talked for a little a bit and he asked if I would come back and I shrugged and replied "Not sure." When I got back in the car, my girlfriend asked what I was saying to the clerk. I told her we talked about spreading my Dad's ashes and if I would come back. She said it would be nice to check up on the tree. I said I could make the trip ten years from now. It's a good reason to honor my Dad's memory. If I did, I would be 58 years old. 

We turned onto the highway and drove south and I looked in the rearview mirror and see the last views of the Sudbury. Inside my head, I said farewell to home.