Uninhabited Spaces

In the summer of 1984, my parents packed me into the car and dropped me off at an overnight camp near Haley Station, Ontario, not too far from the southeast boundary of Algonquin Park. I was 13, pretty upset, and really did not want to be there. In the end, that week changed my life. I had an incredible experience, meeting wonderful people and, in fact, did not want to leave when my parents came back to pick me up. Notably, a fellow camper brought out his boom box and played a song from some band from Ireland called U2. That song was “Pride (In the Name of Love)” and I was transfixed. I kept a careful watch for more new U2 music and was in Grade 10 when they finally released “The Joshua Tree”. I started to earnestly collect their back catalogue and bootleg live recordings in music shops on Rideau St in Ottawa. By 1988, with the release of “Rattle and Hum”, I was deeply invested and started to most assuredly bother family and friends with my constant playing of my beloved band. What ce

I remember clearly the first time I called my father “Dad”. I don’t remember what day it was, or how old I was, but I do remember the where and how. We were living in Breckenridge, Quebec then, and one day Mom asked me to go get Dad, who was in the basement. So, I ran over to the top of the basement stairs and I paused. Until that moment I had always called him “Richard”. I thought about it, and with heart beating, I called out “Dad’? I don’t know if it surprised him or what he thought, but he came when he heard me. It was a watershed moment for me. A few years later Dad would formally adopt me. Dad was a man of few words. He was more a man of action and deeds. I have come to appreciate through many stories of his friends and family members how Dad’s actions and deeds affected them and made a difference in their lives. Dad was someone who you could depend on in your time of need; someone who was there for you and would unselfishly help out. The words Dad did use were often in the ser