Monday Memoirs: I am a small town boy and have the birdhouse to prove it

I’m going to pick up where I left off one week ago because two phrases in the last three sentences seem to pop into my head at least four or five times per week.

Here are the final sentences to which I refer:

I’m grateful I was a small town boy until I was 18 years old and not just because I could occupy my time with lots to do, both good and bad.

Though the time spent sorting out which was which was responsible for more gray hair on my parents’ heads than I’d like to guess I benefitted in many ways and have thick albums of black and whites and a head full memories to prove it.

Maybe my homespun philosophy - live small and prosper - came about as a result.

The End

Not ‘the end’ really. Nobody is getting off that easy.

‘I was a small town boy’ should read: I am a small town boy to this day.


[I am a small town boy but maybe not this small.]

For example:

Though I think I’m a good car driver and not a Triffid I still feel more comfortable on a bicycle.

My first red CCM bike with pressure brakes would do just fine if there weren’t so many cars hogging the road.

Nothing beats the smell of homemade bread.

Mrs. Blackburn sold a few loaves every week for 50 cents a loaf at Maedel’s Red and White grocery store in Norwich and because I was usually bagging groceries for Mrs. Tucker near the front of the store I’d smell the loaves the second they arrived and get my pick.

After carrying groceries to a waiting car I’d slip in the side door of the store, find the pound of butter I’d hidden in the vegetable cooler and cut a few slices still warm from the oven. If I close my eyes I can still see the butter melting on Mrs. Blackburn’s white bread just moments before jamming a big piece into my mouth.

It doesn’t take much to entertain me.

When I was in public school and had a 90 minute break between morning and afternoon classes a group of boys and I would head to Little Otter Creek after lunch for an hour-long game that involved nothing more to the casual observer than tossing sticks into the water from a bridge and flicking them back upstream with a longer stick in order to see who could keep flicking their sticks the longest.

I was world champion on more than one occasion.

When we had five minutes to go we’d toss the sticks onto the shore, grab our bikes and ride like crazy to beat the bell.

Small bits of wood still amuse me.


I used a few pieces of scrap lumber to make a birdhouse this afternoon and stained it after supper. If I sell it at a local shop my share will be $16. That’s enough for a tank of gas for my motorcycle and two trips to small villages on the north shore of Lake Erie where I'll often pick up and bring home more small bits of wood.

I’ll need to sell another birdbox if I want to have coffee at Shutters on the Beach in Port Bruce or The Causeway restaurant in Long Point. But chances are good with Father’s Day coming up.


[Father's Day is coming up. Call me. Let's make a deal]

Give me two bucks, a notepad and pen, point me in the direction of a neighbourhood coffee shop and I’ll be happy as a clam for two hours or more.

If you’re from a small town I bet you have many habits that started in or near your backyard and still linger.

I think the second phrase ‘live small and prosper’ is closely related to my full life in a small town.

More about that at a later date.

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