Preface

Pointe Claire, Quebec 1959

A five-year-old boy stands motionless, gazing out the large dining room window, a paralysis born of fear and awe gripping him, as fire fills the entire night sky. The giant flames flickering and strobing in a terrifying death dance, it’s like nothing the boy has ever seen or imagined. 

His mother, sensing his distress, says, “It’s the Priest Farm, down by the lake. There’s lots of water to put it out.”

It’s not much comfort as the frightened child reasons, “with all that water, the fire should be getting smaller”. It wasn’t.

Mississauga, Ontario 1979

“Are we leaving?”

The five of us were in the kitchen on Sunday morning, eight or nine hours after the train derailment. Jane, Mary, Pat, Dad, and I had just learned that a massive evacuation of our city was in progress.

“Yes, of course we’re leaving. Everyone, get a bag together of what you’ll need for a few days. Also, the dog and cat have to come with us, so we’ll have to bring their food.”

We knew where we were going. Pat had an apartment in Brampton, a city just north of Mississauga.

Five people, a cat, and a dog in a ninth-floor one-bedroom apartment. It would be crowded, but damned if we were going to sleep in a school gymnasium or a shopping mall with hordes of people we didn’t know. 

No Worse Than Rush Hour

So away we went in our convoy of three cars, expecting bumper to bumper traffic with multitudes of worried and frustrated refugees fleeing the scene. Naturally, it took quite a bit longer to get to Pat’s than the thirty-five minutes we were used to, but it was surprisingly orderly. 

Even the fat hosers in baseball caps driving those raised pick-ups with the big tires that were popular in those days seemed to be behaving themselves. That, in itself, was enough to make me think we’d entered some kind of alternate reality. There were, of course, a few bullies that would get right on my tail and blow their horns, but I figured they were just worried that the beer stores might close early.  

When we did finally arrive, we set about getting our bags and animals up to the apartment.   

If You Gotta Go, You Gotta Go

Doug the Dog had never seen an elevator before, and he was suspicious. We had to drag him on and drag him off. 

“Better get used to it,” I said to him, “There’s no place up here where a dog can do his business without causing a family squabble concerning who’s going to clean it up. They might end up hanging your butt over the edge of the balcony. Going outside the building is a better idea.” 

Morris the cat was cool. When we got to the apartment, he found himself a nice private nook somewhere, and the only time we saw him was when he’d come out to eat or use the litter box.

Like A College Dorm

Using couches and mattresses thrown on the floor, we managed to find everyone a place to sleep. I got the short end of the stick with a reclining lawn chair. 

It was unclear how long it would take to patch the tankers, if they could be patched at all. Most people were figuring on two nights. My family ended up staying at Pat’s apartment for almost the whole rest of the week. It wasn’t until Friday that our neighbourhood was deemed safe.

Easing The Burden

I was only there one night. There was a week long gig I had booked in Cornwall, Ontario, which was more than far enough from Toronto to require them to supply rooms.

So as planned, I was out of there Monday morning. I felt like I was abandoning my family, but they were probably happy with the extra space.

I stayed in touch with them all week, and I followed the news. Arriving home Sunday, I was amazed by how calm everything seemed. It was as if nothing had happened.

PTSD

By the way, the little boy in the preface was me. Both fires, twenty years apart, looked strangely the same at my vantage point from the dining room window in two different houses.