Author Archives: bagelberger25

It is August 1968. I am 10 years-old living in Montreal. It is a Sunday, a day I have looked forward to all week. We are going over to Auntie Sylvia’s for lunch. Auntie Sylvia is my Dad’s sister. They are not very close and we only really see her at weddings or Bar Mitzvah’s so this is a rare and special event. My brother’s and I like to go over to her house because she always makes us feel special. She is not an attractive lady but she is charming and has a great personality. I remember her being ahead of her time and quite a woman. We got visit our cousins along with Uncle Al and Auntie Sylvia’s “friend” Sam who also lived with them.

After wet kisses on the cheek and tons of questions about how our summer was going we immediately start to eat. Our eyes grow big as we get the 6-ounce bottles of Coke – this is extravagant to us as we only have Super Bev Cola at home, which tastes like insecticide. Al cooks up steaks on the BBQ, a rare and delicious delicacy for us. We have a tiny little charcoal BBQ on our balcony and we only have hot dogs and hamburgers.

The meal ends with ice cream for dessert, another amazing treat. As we head out the door, Auntie Sylvia covers us with more wet kisses as she stuffs a $5 bill in our hand. The sight of that Canadian $5 Bill for a 10 year-old was like we won the lottery. Chocolate bars were only 10 cents back then so the thought of being able to buy 50 chocolate bars made our heads spin.
Giving a 10 year old kid $5 back in 1968 is equivalent to giving a kid about $35 today. Luckily times have not changed for my 13 and 11 year old daughters who are also more than happy to receive a $5 bill. I won’t share with them the inflation rate circa 1968.

My Own Room

It is early July 1976. I am 18 years-old living in Montreal. It is the summer Olympics in Montreal and the city is abuzz. I have gone to a couple of events, a soccer game and the decathlon but my mind now is not on the Olympics. My grandmother (my Bubbie) just passed away a week ago and I am sad and in a bit of shock. I see the sadness in my mother’s eyes. We live in a 3-bedroom apartment. I share a room now with my younger brother as my two older brothers have moved out. For 18 years I have never had my own room, sharing bunk beds with my three brothers. I now have the opportunity to have my own room, my Bubbie’s room. Her room is beside the washroom and a door that leads to the balcony. Her bed takes up her whole room except for a small chest of drawers with a tiny black and white TV on top. I feel both weird and excited. As I lie in her bed on the first night many thoughts go through my head. What did she think about while alone in her bed? Was she thinking of Odessa, Russia where she was born, coming to Canada, having children? 

Fast forward August 2007. My first child is born, a daughter and we are bringing her home. She is coming home to her own room in our house. Her room is decorated with Snoopy wallpaper. I am proud she has her own room and hope she grows to appreciate what she has. The moment is recreated in July 2009 when my second daughter is born. She also is brought home to her own room.

Today I laugh when I am reminded by each of them “Daddy, knock before you come into my room”. I am filled with gratitude that my kids have their own room and think about how far I have come from the days of sharing bunk beds with my three brothers.

First Time I Realized I Was Poor

It is early December 1969. I am 11 years-old. I am playing ball hockey at Van Horne parking lot in Cote des Neiges in the west end of Montreal. The lot is on the same block where I live. It is dark but the parking lot is illuminated by the street lights above. The lot is full of cars from the Van Horne movie theatre but we manage to carve out a narrow pathway where we can play. We don’t have the standard hockey nets using two boulders of snow to mark each goal post. It is the usual group of players from our street who are out to play including my brothers. It is a bitter cold night, no wind, but you can see your breath in the air. We are all bundled up to stay warm when I notice that Kevin Kenney is not wearing any gloves. Did he forget them at home?  He only lives a few apartments away. Did he lose them? Did he not borrow some from his brother? My mind shifts to the game and the goals I score. As I return home all exhausted and sweaty from the running around and wearing too many layers of clothes my thoughts return again to Kevin. I am obsessed why he was not wearing gloves on such a bitter cold night playing ball hockey. It dawns on me at that moment that his family had to make certain buying decisions because they couldn’t afford to get everything they wanted or needed. They were poor. My neighbour down the street was poor. The guy I played ball hockey was poor. I realize at that moment that I too am poor. It never occurred to me when I hung out with other friends from other streets who lived in homes. I realized on that cold winter night that not only living on the same street was a connection but being poor was as well.

Beauty Is Definitely In The Eye Of The Beholder

It is June 1992. I am 35 years old and dating lots of women but I can’t seem to find a true connection. I am at the point where I am receptive to blind dates not only from family members and close friends but any contacts I happen to meet. I receive a name from a contact I barely know and contact this woman for a coffee date. As I wait for her at the coffeeshop I notice several attractive women walking by and I am feeling optimistic about this date. Finally a woman approaches me and asks if I am Neil and we grab our table for our date. 

My first honest reaction is that this woman could possibly be the most hideous woman I have ever met. She has a heavy European accent, fiery red hair that is unkempt, pale skin with acne and a misshapen body. She is poorly dressed and has a distinct smell either BO or bad breath, I can’t really tell.  As we exchange pleasantries, I ask myself how long will this date last and how can the contact I know set me up with her. Shortly after though I realize how superficial I am being focusing only on the person’s looks. I start to become real engaged and our exchange is both interesting and fun. I realize what a truly nice person I have spent some time with.  Upon going home and over the next few days I realize as much as I enjoyed our time together, I did not have any attraction to this person so I didn’t reach out to her again. 

Fast forward one month. Another contact has given me another name and I reach out to this woman for a blind date.  I suggest the same coffee shop that I had my previous date a month ago. As I am awaiting this woman to arrive, I now have no expectations for this date. Suddenly I am approached by this tall slender woman immaculately dressed with a warm smile asking if I am Neil. As we sit down at our table and exchange pleasantries I am stunned by her beauty where I am not paying much attention to the conversation. As I come to my senses I begin to realize that this woman is totally not into me. There is no eye contact, no questions being asked and her one-word answers are monotone.  Is she being superficial or is she simply not attracted to me?

I have a flashback to one month ago and realize how now I am the one on the other side being prejudged and being superficial. It’s not a great feeling.

The Stench Left Behind

I am 13 years old living at home in a three bedroom apartment in Montreal with my Mom and Dad, three brothers and Grandmother. We only have one washroom so my whole life I have learned what will power is. One day my stomach begins to gurgle and I needed to use the washroom immediately. It is late Friday afternoon and the apartment already reeks of boiled fish that my grandmother is preparing for dinner. I race to the bathroom but it is occupied by Grandma. She doesn’t speak English so my Mother is yelling at her through the closed bathroom door that I have to use the bathroom urgently. Finally after an eternity I am able to use the bathroom to relieve myself but not before yelling in silence “Oh my God, what happened in here”.

It is now July 1981. I am 23 years old, a salesman driving in Hamilton going to my next client. It is mid-afternoon and suddenly my stomach is gurgling possibly due to the lunch I had or the stress I am feeling starting a new job. My only thought is finding a washroom ASAP. I am too far from my apartment and reluctant to have to use the facilities at my client’s place. I scour the unfamiliar area of town and notice an independent donut place, not your typical franchise place and quickly pull up to the front of the store. I rush in and head to the back of the place and breathe a sigh of relief when I notice the men’s washroom is vacant. It is a private bathroom with an open stall, not particularly clean but this is no time to complain. In the middle of doing my business I hear a knock on the door and respond shyly with “It is occupied, I will be out shortly.” I quickly finish and head out the door. As I am leaving the donut shop I hear in the background the waiting patron yell “Oh my God, what happened in here”. I go to my car and drive off.

While I am both relieved and embarrassed by the stench I have left behind, I smile and think back of my Grandma and the days of sharing one bathroom. Even the “bad” smells can bring back good memories. 

Turning Fear Into Joy

It is late August 1969. It is a hot muggy day, overcast but you can feel the humidity in the air. I am 11 years old, tall for my age but scrawny and very shy. I am in St. Agathe, Quebec in cottage country, one hour north of Montreal. I am with my family, Mom and Dad and my three brothers enjoying a picnic lunch of cold cut sandwiches and potato salad and coleslaw and cold pop and watermelon. Following lunch I toss the baseball and football around with my Dad and brothers. We are at a public beach and families are enjoying the last bit of summer on this muggy day. Getting all sweaty from throwing the ball around and having ample time to digest my lunch I welcome a dip in the lake. I notice on the far side a small dock with a diving board and decide that it would be a great way to jump in and cool off.  As I am on the dock approaching the diving board I notice a sign indicating a warning about this area being the deep end. The sign is a blur as I run and jump off the diving board and feel the cool rush of the lake as I plunge deep down in the water. As I descend, I try to make my way back to the dock area but suddenly after a few strokes, I grow tired and try to tread water. I begin to panic and feel myself going down. In an instant, a man grabs my arm and holds onto me as he brings me to the dock where I am able to climb back on-board.  I am tired, embarrassed and grateful for a stranger who rescued me. I say thank-you and return to my family’s picnic area and tell them the story. They are all relieved that I am fine. 

Fast-forward 50 years and I am now in my backyard watching my 11 year-old daughter in our pool, smiling and laughing, doing handstands and back flips. Swimming lessons and a natural love of the water has allowed her to embrace the water with joy and no fear. My family is aware of my story that day in St. Agathe and my trepidation when I go into a lake, ocean or pool extends to the present. I am cautious spending all my time in the shallow end, no swimming laps just taking a dip to cool off and then relaxing in the sun. My wife and two daughters are the complete opposite spending hours in the pool with no fear and pure enjoyment. I am not traumatized by that event 50 years ago, embarrassed yes but also feeling blessed that a stranger or was it the hand of God who took my arm and brought me to safety. Now my joy is watching my family enjoy the beauty of being in the water and me being the one watching over them to provide the safety if necessary.

The Soup Guy

It is late October 2003, a cold blustery Friday night.  I am bone tired from a long week at work and all that is in my mind is grab some take-out comfort food from a local diner and crash at home.  I am 45 years old, single, never married, no kids, some would say a confirmed bachelor.  Life is pretty good.  I have a good job, a nice house and the freedom to work out and do the things I like to do.  I have had several long-term relationships but never committed to marriage.  Currently some would say I am a player, bedding several different women in the last year.  As I am waiting for my Montreal smoked meat sandwich and fries I notice an elderly man sitting alone in a booth hunched over eating a bowl of soup.  He is poorly dressed and focused on the comfort the soup is providing him on this chilly night.  A quick thought and a smile comes to my face as I say to myself that him and I are a lot alike in this moment.  As I arrive home and savour the smoked meat sandwich and fries I recall growing up in Montreal and enjoying similar meals.  My thoughts suddenly turn to the elderly man alone at the diner.  Why was he alone at the diner on a Friday night?  Is he a widower?  Is he divorced?  Retired? Kids?  I am haunted by these questions and suddenly I grow dark thinking will that be me in 25 years.  What kind of life I am living not being vulnerable, not committing to anyone.  Am I afraid, will I be alone the rest of my life?  I don’t feel sorry for the elderly man as I realize he is more courageous than me, eating by himself in a restaurant as I run home.  I project that he had a partner, has kids and lead a meaningful life.  Days go by, I am back at work and doing my thing with sports and women but I can’t shed “The Soup Guy” from my mind.  Finally I make a commitment to myself that I will be more vulnerable, more courageous and live a meaningful life where I will find a life partner.  Fast forward one year and I am dating my eventual life partner, the mother of my two daughters and I am happy.  In moments of gratitude I refer back quite often to “The Soup Guy” who I never formally met nor know his name but changed the path of my life for the better.