One Bird's Choice

by Iain Reid

  ONE BIRD'S CHOICE

  A Year in the Life of an Overeducated, Underemployed

  Twenty-Something Who Moves Back Home

  • IAIN REID •

  Copyright © 2010 Iain Reid

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  This edition published in 2010 by

  House of Anansi Press Inc.

  110 Spadina Avenue, Suite 801

  Toronto, ON, M5V 2K4

  Tel. 416-363-4343

  Fax 416-363-1017

  www.anansi.ca

  LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

  Reid, Iain, 1981–

  One bird’s choice : a year in the life of an overeducated, underemployed twenty-something who moves back home / Iain Reid.

  eISBN 978-0-88784-283-2

  1. Reid, Iain, 1981–. 2. Adult children living with parents — Canada — Biography.

  3. Adult children — Canada — Biography. 4. Generation Y. I. Title.

  HQ755.86.R43 2010 306.874092 C2010-902002-2

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2010926755

  Cover design: Bill Douglas

  Cover photographs: Shoes and Welcome Mat © Edward Pond; "Lucius" the Guinea Fowl © Alec Robertson

  We acknowledge for their financial support of our publishing program the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund.

  To my parents

  If you have any enterprise before you, try it in your old clothes . . .

  perhaps we should never procure a new suit, however ragged

  or dirty the old, until we have so conducted, so enterprised, or sailed

  in some way, that we feel like new men in the old . . .

  HENRY DAVID THOREAU, Walden

  Prologue

  THE NEW MILLENNIUM couldn’t come soon enough. Not for me anyway. In the year 2000 I turned nineteen, graduated from high school, and enrolled in university. It was also the year I left home. And once I was gone, I was gone. I rarely returned, not even for summers. The taste of independence was too sweet. When my days of study ended, I watched friends pack up and head home to “figure things out.” Some did it to avoid the trappings of adulthood, the onset of the daily nine-to-five grind, or just to save money. I couldn’t imagine going back to any routine that whiffed of adolescence. Most of our parents left home before their twenties and never looked back. It’s only my generation that has adopted a return to the nest as a precondition of adulthood. No, I would find my own way. I vowed that when I left home at nineteen, it was for good. So after four years of university, armed with an unreliable bachelor of arts degree, I headed to Toronto to find work and begin Real Life.

  It turned out I wasn’t much of a career man, and I often stumbled when answering the inevitable question of what was I up to. “Oh, well, these days, you know, just keeping busy,” I would lie, hoping the topic would turn to something less discomfiting, like the weather, religion, or war.

  The majority of my friends had dipped a toe into the waters of bright careers and hefty pay stubs. Others were finishing medical school, law school, and postgraduate degrees. I was wearing slippers and mastering the art of stove-top popcorn. Most nights I would make huge batches, loaded with salt and cayenne pepper. I ate a lot of popcorn in those days. I also spent my time writing, mostly for myself and very rarely for money. So I had to find other means to live. It seemed like every few months I was starting a new job, anything to cover food and rent. I even spent some time coaching a basketball clinic at a church. It was at night, for women over forty — women who had never dribbled a basketball before. The job paid forty dollars a week.

  My decision to return to my parents’ modest farm was made on a whim. I was headed back to Ottawa to prepare and present a weekly book review for CBC Radio. I had pitched the idea, not convinced anyone would accept it. When the morning-show producer in Ottawa emailed saying she liked the idea and wanted to “get started on it by June,” I immediately agreed, without a thought as to where I would live. I was thrilled I would be making a bit of money, even a whisper, by finding, reading, and talking about books.

  The afternoon I learned that my pitch had been accepted, I met my friend Bob on a Queen Street patio to celebrate. We sat in our hoodies and toques drinking cheap bottles of cold beer. It was a sunny afternoon, but we drank alone because the early spring air was still too chilly for most. And because it was one o’clock on a Tuesday.

  “That’s brilliant,” said Bob when he heard my news. “So where are you gonna stay?”

  The book review was temporary, a summer segment, and I was broke, still weighed down by hefty student loans. “I don’t really have time to look for a place downtown. I don’t know, I guess I’ll probably ask my parents if I can stay with them at the farm. I can’t see it being for too long.”

  That was it, the first time I had even considered going back home after almost a decade of living on my own. Neither Bob nor I spoke. We just took long pulls from our beers and stared out onto the crowded street.

  That night I called home. I hadn’t heard from Mom or Dad in weeks. When I phoned, Mom apologized, telling me they were still lingering at the table, finishing a bottle of wine. “Of course you’re welcome back,” she announced after I hinted at my plan. “It’ll be fun.” I was pleased she didn’t make a big deal of it. “Guess what?”

  “What?” I said.

  “No, I’m talking to your father now . . . Guess what?” I could picture Dad sitting across from her at the table, his chair pushed back, wineglass in hand, shrugging his shoulders. “Iain’s going to be moving back home for a bit.”

  “It’s only temporary,” I reminded her.

  “Great,” I could hear Dad. “That’s great. He’s always welcome.”

  “Do you know when you’re going to arrive?” asked Mom.

  “No, I’m not sure. Sometime in the next few weeks.”

  “Well, if you let us know, we can plan something good for supper. Oh, and I’ll have to change your bed. You’ll be okay in your old room, right?”

  “Sure. But don’t worry about doing anything like that. I can change the bed when I get home, Mom.”

  “Does he know when he’ll be arriving?” asked Dad.

  “No, he’s still not sure.”

  “We could make something nice for dinner, if he knows,” continued Dad. “It’s getting nice enough to barbecue; we could do steaks maybe.”

  “Don’t you have some of your extra shirts in Iain’s closet? You might have to move those out.”

  “Yes, yes, I’ll get them out before he gets home. I think I have a few blazers in there too.”

  “Seriously, don’t go to any trouble. I don’t need much closet space. I’ll keep out of your way. And don’t worry — it won’t be for too long.”

  “I know. We’re not worried,” Mom said.

  “Not worried about what?” asked Dad.

  “We’re not worried about anything.”

  “Okay,” replied Dad, “but I still don’t know what we’re not worried about.”

  “Mom, listen, I better get going.” S
he agreed, saying she had to get started on the dishes anyway. But we chatted aimlessly for another half-hour or so, mostly about the animals on the farm. At one point Dad excused himself to go to the bathroom, declaring his return by asking if he’d missed anything important.

  “Okay, well, I guess that’s about it. I should get going on those dishes.”

  “Right. I’ll see you soon then, Mom.”

  “Yup, see you whenever.”

  In the background I could hear plates being stacked and Dad saying goodbye. “Oh, and your dad says goodbye!”

  In less than a week I tied up what few loose ends needed knotting, packed up the contents of my microscopic basement apartment, and headed east down the 401.

  Summer

  One

  Back to the Future

  APART FROM THE TRANSPORT TRUCKS, the highway is uncharacteristically roomy. At least it is on my side. Across the grassy ditch, the westward lanes heading to Toronto are jammed. In Oshawa I stop for some gas and a coffee. I linger at the rest stop for longer than I need to, reading the paper and people-watching. Most of the travellers seem to be in a hurry. I finish my coffee and get a second one for the road. Back in the car, an hour or so later, I lose the Toronto-area frequency. I scan compulsively through the static for a while. Nothing. So I abandon the radio entirely. My car has no CD or MP3 player. Apart from the grumbling motor, I’m buckled into a muddy silence. My mind is racing along with the trucks. After almost ten years of living on my own, I’m headed back home . . . to live with my parents.

  Another hour or so down the road I pass by Kingston, my home for four years during university. I roll down the window to empty the dregs of my cold coffee. The wind rushing in over my arm and face is both loud and restorative. So despite the noise and nip of chill, I leave it down. I lean back in the seat and rest my left arm on the ledge. I’m telling myself I shouldn’t be too concerned about returning home. It’s not the end of the world. It’s temporary, only a pit stop. I’ll probably be gone again after a couple of weeks, a month or two at most.

  I almost hit the new gate when I turn into the lane leading up to my parents’ farm. When Titan, their Great Pyrenees sheepdog, started exploring the fields across the road, my parents raised a gate at the end of their gravel driveway. They had told me about it on the phone the other night. Because of Titan’s new-found ambition the barrier was built from necessity, but with plenty of reluctance. The idea of a gated lane seemed cold and inhospitable. My parents delighted in surprise visitors and displaced drivers who pulled up to the house with a map spread across the passenger seat. So, in their oxymoronic way, they aimed for a welcoming gate. With the car idling behind me, I walk up to it, unhitch the latch, and swing it open.

  I turn back to the car and peer into the cramped back seat. It’s carrying all of my worldly belongings: a few CDs, some clothes in a garbage bag, and several boxes of used books. Hanging from the tiny hook above the door is my pièce de résistance: a shabby umber suit. The same suit I’m wearing in every photo taken at every formal engagement over the past twelve years, from weddings to parties to funerals. I had bought it hastily before a semi-formal dance in high school, hoping the pockets were deep enough to stash king-sized cans of beer.

  “Yeah, sure, the brown one,” I told the salesman at Moore’s when he held up the first suit he picked from the sale rack. It was 40 percent off. I would have prolonged my decision making had I known the extensive role the suit would play in my adult life.

  I open the rusty car door, lean into the back seat, and grab the worn blazer off the hanger. There is a stain on the left breast pocket. I can’t remember from what or from when; it just seemed to appear one day, and I never bothered to get it dry cleaned. I slip on the stained jacket over my hoodie and get back in the car. The gravel crunches and pops like crackers under the tires as I drive slowly up to the house.

  The farmhouse itself is more than 160 years old, and it acts every bit its age. Built from thick logs, it’s drafty and off-plumb. The never-ending repairs call for Sisyphean resolve. A roofed verandah with a handful of chairs and benches and a swing wraps around the front side of the house. Out back are Mom’s flower and vegetable gardens and a sinking stone patio that catches the afternoon sun. I see a new metal roof on Dad’s homemade sheep barn, which is next to the chicken coop. Another forty or fifty paces down the hill is the duck pond and beyond that the lilac trees, which are a landmark in these parts.

  I was five when we moved here in the mid-1980s. It was a thrilling time — an urban family of five stepping off the stable path of suburbia, away from the small lots, paved driveways, and fenced backyards. My parents decided to move out to the country after a stint in England, where Dad was finishing his Ph.D. We’d rented a small dairy cottage in the middle of a large cattle farm in Oxfordshire. Neither Mom nor Dad had lived on a farm before, but they loved it. They wanted to find something similar, even if on a much smaller scale, when they returned to Canada.

  Our farm isn’t the typical industrial spread; my parents aren’t professional agriculturists. So instead of the economically sound practice of raising one type of animal or crop, my parents have opted for the opposite approach: a separate handful of many breeds and plants — ducks, turkeys, chickens, sheep, dogs, cats, tomatoes, carrots, peppers, pumpkins, lettuce, and radishes. I’m sure they’ve spent more money on their collection of beasts and bushes than they’ve made. As my parents age, the animal population thins, but the diminishing numbers don’t lessen their importance in my parents’ lives.

  We moved in a week before Christmas in 1986. That first week, Mom found a sign in the shed. It was white and had LILAC HILL painted in purple across the front. The strip of land bordering the road is lined by thick lilac bushes, and the neighbours had told my parents they would be in for a treat come May, when the flowers came into bloom. They were right: it was a glorious sight to behold. Dad hung the sign on a pole at the end of the lane that first spring.

  Growing up, our chores were nothing like the chores of our friends. Instead of cleaning our rooms, washing dishes, and vacuuming, we had to collect eggs, shovel manure, weed the vegetable gardens, and even load up the lambs, chickens, and turkeys when they were set for slaughter. My parents didn’t have enough certified farmer in them to kill the animals themselves, so we would entice, catch, and wrestle the animals into Dad’s truck and drive them to another farm to have them butchered. The lambs were always the hardest to collect. They were strong and stubborn. A day later we would collect our fresh meat wrapped in paper. We kept it all in a large box freezer. Every Sunday we would take some meat out for the week and have an extravagant home-grown feast that evening.

  Eventually my sister, Jean, my brother, Jimmy, and I all grew up and left home before we turned twenty. Being the youngest, I was the last to leave. My parents, on the other hand, have been living at Lilac Hill for almost a quarter of a century now. They’ve always said they couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

  I park my car beside Dad’s truck, collect my bags, and labour onto the porch, arms full. From there I can see into the kitchen. I haven’t seen Mom and Dad in months. They’re standing under the kitchen’s yellow ceiling light, and they look distressed. I knee open the door.

  “Hey.”

  “Oh, well, look who it is,” says Mom.

  Dad turns to face me as well but is less spirited. “Hey, bud.”

  There is a plate of shortbread cookies resting on the table. Two comatose cats are dozing underneath. Nat King Cole is crooning quietly from somewhere to my left. I set the box down on the chair beside the door and unzip my hoodie.

  The kitchen smells of a mix of roast meat, homemade gravy, and freshly baked cookies. Supper dishes and baking sheets are patiently waiting their turn to be washed on the counter. To my right is the fridge, which doubles as a heavy, humming bulletin board. It’s always been covered in high-school-locke
r-style paraphernalia. Children’s drawings, handwritten notes, “interesting” and “inspiring” articles from the newspaper, and postcards wrap the sides and front of the fridge like a paper quilt stitched together by magnets. The majority of the space is covered with photographs of friends, family, and the animals.

  I see a picture of Jimmy, me, and two of our boyhood pals. I can’t be much older than nine. Jimmy and I are dressed in long trench coats and holding toy machine guns. One of our chums has a toy handgun tucked under his belt, gangster-style. The photograph was taken one Saturday afternoon when we were engaged in a game we called Cops and Dealers. Two would play the role of cop, the other two, drug dealers.

  Sometimes Mom would stumble across our little game. Once we had explained the gist of it she would hustle back to the kitchen and fill sandwich bags with flour. “Give these to the dealers,” she would instruct, white handprints now covering her shirt. “They should have to hide them somewhere.”

  “What’s that supposed to be?” one of our prepubescent friends would wonder, pointing at the bags.

  “Pure coke,” Jimmy would snap without missing a beat.

  “Straight from Bolivia,” I’d add, tucking it into my underwear.

  “The good stuff!” Mom would assert.

  Two photos above I notice a shot of the ski jump that Jimmy built. He constructed it out of several bales of straw, snow, and ice beside the driveway, close to the big drift. He directed Mom too, sending her to the car and telling her precisely when to floor it. “I shouldn’t be doing this,” she would say to me on her way outside, wrapping her scarf around her neck, “but he put a lot of effort into that damn jump and it does look fun. But don’t tell Dad.”

  Jimmy would grab a rope he’d fastened to the bumper of the truck, and Mom, as instructed, would floor it. The tires would spin and then they were off. It looked like Jimmy was water skiing down the driveway, but instead of wearing a life jacket, he wore a parka. I would sit inside on the couch, sipping tea and watching for hours as Mom raced down the lane and Jimmy sailed off the jump high into the air. Over and over.