Edmonton is a good place to be from. Few friends can top me with bad weather stories, fewer come from a more remote place and most of my American friends take a while to realize that it is as far south from Edmonton to Chicago as it from Minnesota to Florida.
I was born in Edmonton. So, I thought your nose hairs were supposed to freeze together, mosquitoes always swarmed in clouds and there were only three to four weekends that resembled pleasant in any one year.
I was raised by a single mother. We lived in low-income housing near Mill Creek. Nobody bragged about living in the “Dawson Huts,” but it seemed like a fine place to grow up.
After school, at the age of seven, I paid a dime to take two buses across town to pick up my four-year-old brother from day care. The winters were cold but we leapt along bluffs of plowed snow to school. In the spring I would lift the wooden sidewalks up section by section while my brother would duck underneath to scoop up the change. We’d argue like venture capitalists over which penny candy we wanted.
When the trees bloomed, my brother and I would venture down to the creek with the same thrill I feel decades later when I enter Afghanistan to do missions with a U.S. Army Special Forces team. Roving bands of older bullies would chase us and, if we were caught, pummel us. In the summer, I would ride my bicycle as far as Nisku. I’d catch baby gophers whose mothers had been killed by cars and carry them back in coffee cans. They whistled at night until I released them near the creek in the morning.
I was kicked out of class in the second grade. The principal, Miss McConway, banished me to the library and I read every book I could. I started with The Odyssey by Homer, went on to neurology books and blew through the entire Hardy Boys’ series. Later, she was surprised that I passed Grade 9 English at the age of nine. I was then sent to the nearby French schools to be taught by the nuns in a foreign language “to slow me down,” and I took the first to the third grade again in French.