nameless curbs

A little souvenir from Toronto.

It was a full weekend moving The Kid to her new digs in Toronto where she will take on the world.  We made an abortive attempt to wander our old haunts that once were hippie hangouts (yes, even in staid TO) but are now toney boutiques.  I claim the heat got the better of me but I’ve taken a considerable ribbing about the cause being the many bags I was lugging around the streets of Yorkville.  Totally untrue but do check out the stunning red purse at Kimina.

We actually spent much of the time in Ikea dodging the millions of back-to-schoolers looking for bargain furniture for their own digs.  It was a little strange to be assembling tables and chairs late into the night when it wasn’t Christmas Eve and the former-child was doing her share of cussing at the Allen Wrenches and bemoaning the absence of a Phillips screwdriver.  About the time we seemed ready to launch into the etiquette of tool naming – wrench, spanner, wrench – the collection of circles, squares, and triangles manifested into rather pretty and useful objects.

On the way to our car, a frantic man in a car pulled up beside us and mumbled, “Vanier…Vanier…”  I was about to say, “You’re about two neighbourhoods and 500 kms in the wrong place.”  He managed to clarify: “Frosh week.  Vanier Building?”  As I apologized and said I was new here too – and intended to remain so – a voice shrilled from the passenger seat.  She looked about 12 years old and was slamming her hand on her iPhone: “Dad!  Forget it!  Ok?  Just forget it!”  

Life can be very intense at some ages.

For me, it was nice to learn through a fun exchange with Roshi Joan that I can put some of those bags of intensity down at “nameless curbs.”  And walk away.

3 thoughts on “nameless curbs

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