A working man’s shop

As far back as I can remember, my dad worked hard making a living for his family. He was a barber, a part time provincial government employee, and in later years a custodian for the schools.

I was one of 5 kids growing up on Canada’s east coast, in Nova Scotia. My parents taught us to value morals, integrity, common sense and decency. We grew up with kids of different nationalities and colour. Our teachers were respected and sometimes feared.

Of course there were the bad apples, those guys who pushed the boundaries of authority. But we never knew of any of them landing in prison. They didn’t have guns, they didn’t threaten life or property with threats, knives or fire. They were growing up, flexing their man muscles trying to figure out what they could get away with. Ripping down the street squealing tires, throwing eggs on Halloween and toilet papering someone’s tree in the front yard, that was the extent of vandalism and distruction in my neighborhood.

Everyone’s family were doing the exact same thing, making their own way in life here in Canada.  Some had a better jobs, others were not as well off financially.

Us kids, we didn’t discriminate, we hung out with every kid in the neighborhood. Everyone knew some children who didn’t get much to eat, so we would organize a backyard BBQ and everyone would get together and have hot dogs roasted over the fire!