2.1 (a): This is my home, piece by piece

My parents lifted us, still in our pajamas, cocooned in the warm embrace of our blankets towards the car. They buckled us in – all five – still bleary-eyed, clutching our pillows, stuffed monkey, dog, or dragon to our chests with our little hands. We would make our way to the ferry in the early morning light, my mother prepared with packed grapes, muffins, and juice for breakfast. Denman Island was where I spent the summers of my childhood. The sweet smell of wheat bleaching in the sun, mixed with the salty hints that defines the air of an island filled my little lungs, while the acres of swampy streams and gravel roads callused my small feet. The decaying barns provided an ideal jumping ground into piles of hay, and a bruised elbow or a few wasp bites soon were forgotten among the excitement of following a garter snake through the fields, watching it weave in and out of sight.

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My sister and I both woke up. It was the middle of the night and we were shaken awake by a mutual fear. I remember seeing her eyes shine in the dark room, our siblings and cousins still asleep in the beds next to us, completely unaware. Where’s Genny?

Our white standard poodle had hopped in one of the cars with us as we had, earlier, made our way to Graham Lake for a late afternoon swim. When we were all sufficiently waterlogged we piled back into the vans, our parents fretting over what to feed seven young children while we fought over seat space and prime dry-towel real estate.

My sister and I jumped out of bed. Genny? Genevieve? My dad emerged from his room. Girls? By a way of answer we both ask Where’s Genny? We call out, grabbing flashlights, throwing on shoes, stumbling out the door. The rest in the house have woken, too. Who saw her last? Did anyone see her at dinner? Whose car did she come back in? In the chaos that followed the afternoon swim, no one realized that both cars had driven away from the lake assuming that the other had the dog. My dad grabbed his keys. I sat in the back seat, whimpering and begging my dad to confirm we would find her. I don’t know, Charlie. I hope so.

It was a ten minute walk through a narrow path in the woods to get to the lake. We found her halfway down. Her eyes reflected the light off the flashlight, and she came running to us, jumping between trees. I held onto her collar the whole walk back to the car, knowing that she would never run off, but needing to have her close.

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Every summer, on the last week of August my mother’s side of the family goes to Cox Bay, Tofino, for a family reunion. She has been going since she was nine years old. Next summer will be the fiftieth summer there. She has a sister and three brother. On that side of the family there are sixteen cousins. We ran wild for a week every summer.

For those who don’t know Tofino, it can be defined by fog. There are beautiful sunny days to be sure, but my favourites were the days where we would need to dawn the resort’s oversized yellow jackets, before stomping barefoot into the shallow surf. My grandparents had a unit with a hot tub, and we would all pile in. He would belt out at the top of his lungs I’m the fattest man in Siam, yes I am! I’m the fattest man in Siam, yes I am. I’m the fattest man in Siam, there’s no fatter man than I am, I’m the fattest man in Siam, yes I am! I, to this day, do not know if this is a real song, or one he invented, but we would all join in giggling at these silly lyrics, positive that there was no greater man than our grandfather.

Long Beach. Tofino. Cox Bay. Pacific Sands. These are all names I know this place by. I know it by the smell of the mist, I know it by the sound of the waves, I know it by the rocks I used to climb when my mother wasn’t looking. When a foggy day falls on Vancouver I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and I am temporarily taken back there.

Last summer was my grandpa’s last trip to Cox Bay. We took his ashes into the water, the same spot we took my grandma years before. The grandkids sang on the way back to our units.

I’m the fattest man in Siam, yes I am ...

Coincidentally, it was also the first year that my cousin’s baby made the trip. He is the first of the next generation.

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Christmas had a routine at my house. On Christmas Eve we would have a grand feast with all of my aunts, uncles, and cousins, popping Christmas crackers and filling our bellies with turkey and chocolate. Once everyone had gone home, my mom would hand each of us a present: always a pair of new pajamas. We would try them on for my mom to compliment, then hurry off to bed, leaving ginger cookies on a plate by the fire. In the morning we would gather in my parents bedroom, and my dad would go downstairs to see if Santa had brought us anything. Every year he shouted from the bottom of the stairs “Santa didn’t come!” and every year he would climb back up, clutching five overflowing stockings, grinning ear to ear. After we had thoroughly investigated our spoils, we would gather for a picture on the stairs; our two unhappy cats held in arms, and our confused poodle at our feet. While our parents finished breakfast we played with the toys Santa had left for the family. A new doll house, or a race track, or a new guitar.

Breakfast was spectacular. My dad was the breakfast-king, and my mom was a magician in the kitchen. We would stuff ourselves with waffles, cinnamon buns, bacon, smoothies, and so much more. After we ate we would open the presents that we had bought for each other. My youngest brother would always start, handing his gifts out to the older children and our mom and dad, then it would be me, my sister, my brother, and my eldest sister last. In the afternoon we would head across the street to where my grandparents lived. They would have buns, cheese, and cold cuts set out for a light lunch while we tormented our cousin, an only child, who visited every year from Toronto. The evening would be quiet, reading new books, playing games, or just enjoying the fire and the lights on the tree.

Christmas is different now. We don’t get new pajamas, and we don’t go to my grandparents house across the street. It has been sold, and I look across every once in a while to see when the new owners are going to bring the machines that will tear it down. My siblings still come home every year for Christmas – my sister from Boston or Germany, my brother from Australia – and my dad still claims that Santa won’t come. The first year it changed, it hurt. I knew these traditions like a friend. But, I am over the hurt now. I get excited to pick my sister up from the airport, or watch our dogs cry with happiness when my brother comes home after a year away.

I have a thousand more stories I could pull up, all piecing together the mosaic that I call home. These are permanent. These are mine to keep long after this house is gone.

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