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Happy Birthday, Jack!
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FROM SPAGHETTI
“Get out,” he screamed. “Get out now.” The veins of his forehead pulsed. Before I could utter a word, the door on my side of the car violently swung open. Dad yanked me from the vehicle, jumped back into the driver’s seat and sped away. We lived five miles from Five Corners. I walked home. On this day, I developed an abhorrence for spaghetti. You suck at guessing.
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Sharpen your knives.
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You suck at guessing.
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Get the lighting right: turn off the overhead one, turn on lots of lamps (but turn off when you leave the room).
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Lindsay Wincherauk is a record-holding (Saskatoon Sports Hall of Fame) one-eyed quarterback, author, freelance opinion-editorial columnist, and (was) a marketing + human resources guru for the No. 1 Labour Agency in Vancouver for over fourteen-years. Frequently, he’s been mistaken for Vin Diesel and the Domino Pizza Noid.
Most of that was true, except, of course, for the Noid. He knows his memoirs (Meta) are breathtakingly interesting, filled with unsettling twists and turns, amusing + disturbing family moments, giddiness, and gripping painful moments that morph quickly into brightness. With every page turned, he invites readers to take part in his life's ride. If the prose falters, he was told to add gratuitous high-speed nudity, naked nudity. Here are the straight goods: Lindsay Wincherauk writes about what he sees; life, and a world filled with the seemingly unrelenting noise spinning around us daily. And damn it, he sees a lot of life with his one working eye. Occasionally, he leaves normal and trips into atmospheric—a pleasant break from the mundane. |
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Always bring ice to house parties (there’s never enough).
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Happy Birthday William C
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Dinner time. Mum is spent from work. Dad’s nightly tirade is complete. Turn on the tube. “Boy, can you break out the TV Trays?
I do. Gone were the days of sitting at the table and eating together. On this day, we ate off mountain vistas. Yesterday, it was flowers. Tomorrow, it will be a combination. “What’s for dinner, Mum?” Swanson, delicious. Please remember to keep the foil covering the desert.
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Keep a bird feeder by a window, ideally the kitchen. It’ll pass the time when you’re washing up.
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NO CURFEW
Mum was on the verge of collapse. Dad’s injury caused him to become more angry + bitter. He was quickly turning into a jaded old man. Eventually, he returned to work. He could no longer handle the grind of being a mechanic. Instead, he took a position as a commissionaire at Saskatoon’s airport. A job reserved for those who’d served in the military. Despite returning to work, his scotch drinking and chain-smoking were inflicting a heavy toll, dad’s health began a steady decline. I feared home. I tried to avoid it as much as possible. Instead, I continued organizing games for neighbourhood kids. Each night, the porch lights of Sturby Place started flashing in a seemingly choreographed dance, announcing it was time to retreat home. Our porch light never flashed.
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Send a voice note instead of a text; they sound like personal mini podcasts.
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CHILDHOOD MEMORIES
I ran to the door. The door was locked. I frantically banged on the door. I screamed at the top of my lungs, “LET ME IN.” I began to shake in fear. Tears rolled down my cheeks. Thirty minutes passed. A light standard at the entrance to the gas station began hissing and crackling as if it were about to expire. Insects buzzed around its dim glow. The only other lights around were the city lights miles away. My shivering intensified as thirty minutes turned into eternity as pitch black had arrived. In the distance, I could hear a dog howl, or it could have been a hungry coyote. I slammed my fists on the door with every ounce of might in one last frantic attempt for salvation. Finally, I heard the clack of the lock again. The door opened, I rushed inside, trembling; the house was draped in blackness. I dove under the chesterfield hiding from my brothers’ who were chanting in unison in a continuous loop. “Lindsay, you are not one of us. We are going to get you. You are not one of us.”
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Plant spring bulbs, even if they’re just in a pot.
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HOME SWEET HOME
“We will take him until he’s adopted. Thank you for your time. But one thing, I want to make clear, we shall never breathe a word, to anyone, about where he came from. He can never know. Nor can the people in our lives. We all must take this sordid secret with us until the end of our days.”
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LIFE TIP 6
Everyone has an emotional blind spot when they fight. Work out what yours is, and remember it. |
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Happy Birthday Morely
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FROM NAME DAY
Bernice took Saturday into her arms and walked him to her car. And they, too, drove into the city. Then, one hour later, Bernice pulled her wheels to the corner of Jasper Avenue + 97th Street, parked, and sauntered the few blocks to the Vital Stats Office. Today, Saturday would be given a name, a final act of defiance by Bernice, to hurt her father. It was becoming abundantly clear Saturday would likely remain un-adopted or un-sold, so Bernice wanted to give him permanence. Perhaps, her kindest moment. She filled out the last name: Wincherauk, Middle Name: Left Blank, First Name: Lindsay. Whether intentional or not, Bernice’s truth to never be told selected a girl’s name for Rebekah’s seventh child. Bernice knew the name would twist the knife deeper into Nicholas’s soul.
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Happy Birthday Karen + Kathleen
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FROM SHAME
As for the babies, in this case, the bouncing baby boy was labelled Saturday. Saturday was to be a temporary name until the family decided on the outcome of this unwanted child. The newborns were often ripped out of their mother’s arms a few moments after birth so the healing process could begin for the straying woman. The church decided it was for the best. They were, of course, acting on behalf of their interpretations of God’s will. As for the babies, they were nothing more than painful reminders of failing. In simpler terms: who the fuck cares. Christianity was too busy patting itself on its back, believing these harsh steps and reality were for the betterment of the broken families and their wayward girls who had fallen from grace. Christianity thought the world would be a better place if the demon seeds were removed from their origins—to be spoken of no more. The Beulah Home staff and donors advertised aggressively for adoption, including advertisements in the Edmonton Journal. An ad was immediately placed, highlighting a trio of children for adoption or purchase.
Saturday, wasn’t even a day old, and his destiny in the eyes of the lord dripped in deception + if he could be swept under the carpet—it would be for the best. Saturday (me) had been ripped from my mother’s arms and immediately placed in a glass crib in a dimly lit room, equipped with nothing more than the crib and a rocking chair.
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BEULAH HOUSE
A group of cottages + the main house run by mortals interpreting the words of God. Beulah House sat in seclusion on a plot of land, a few miles north of Edmonton’s city center—hidden from the prying eyes and the often-disparaging minds of Christianity. Its sole purpose was to fix young girls and women deemed unfortunate, fallen, needy, erring, wandering, women who had stepped aside from society’s norms or women who allowed themselves to be raped. Young women who continued to fall, becoming repeat visitors, were often sent to the sterilization room for further treatment. Men and women acting on behalf of God dubbed these women as feeble-minded, unable to control carnal urges. The home’s prime directive was to scrub the shattered women’s minds of sinful ways, erasing flawed morals, and finally, preparing the floundering women to be cleansed and available for marriage. Beulah House’s counsellors provided these women Interdenominational Christian Guidance to help them recover to a healthy, moral, and spiritual life.
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DAY 1
16 JULY 1960
16 JULY 1960
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My arms are littered with goosebumps; I’m freezing—I’m new—I’m alone. I’m lying in a glass-walled container in an empty room peeking out into a darkened world. This must be my beginning. It is not a place of celebration. The sun is blasting through the windows, but somehow inside this less than sterile room, the bitterness of long winters to come is swallowing me. I’m not wanted; I don’t know that yet. My family is burdened; my birth is bringing them despair. I don’t know that yet. I’m never supposed to find out.
I will write about my discoveries and the unrelenting pain they will bring one day. Today is not the day. Today, my only responsibility is to breathe, cry, and scream out, I’M HERE—you brought me here—all I did, was be born.
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IT STARTED WITH A LIE
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"Sir, come back. You can't store your baggage here."
"I don't want it. It's not mine. It is filled with deception. It is swarming with solitude. I'm not strong enough to endure. Keep it." "Sir, that's not how life works. You must take it with you. It will haunt you forever, but; I can see in your eyes that you are meant to survive, find understanding, and thrive. Now, go, go forth, become who you are meant to be. Your voice, your narrative, belongs to many. You have been blessed with the gift of individuality and, you must be the voice for those who struggle to speak up for themselves. Your pain and heartache will never leave you; embrace the lessons they will bless you with."
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Happy Birthday, Marcin!
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FROM PREFACE
I believe that we arrive at two doors with every step-in life. The door on the left leads down into misery. The door on the right leads to happiness. Maybe we are destined to pick the doors we select. I don’t believe that. My life lessons have taught me I have a choice. I could have chosen to continue spiralling downward, losing myself in misery, dragging everyone in my path down with me. But I chose the door on the right. We all have the choice as to the path we decide to take. The way I see things now, I was fortunate. I got a chance to find out the truth about who I am and make a fresh start in life, a second chance.
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FROM DEDICATIONS
At work, one day, an employee named Jody approached me. He asked me what he believed to be a poignant thought-provoking question. Lindsay, have you ever noticed how many white guys are dating Asians? To which I replied. No, Jody, I haven’t. But have you ever noticed how many white guys are dating Germans?
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A boy is born in a secret place. A dark place. A sad place.
His Mother is his Sister. Making her his Sister + his Mother.
His Father is his Grandfather.
His Grandmother is just his Grandmother.
His Brothers used to be just Brothers. But then it is discovered they might be Uncles as well.
That turned them into Brunkles.
His Sisters used to be just Sisters. But then it is discovered they might be Aunts as well.
That turned them into Sisaunts.
The boy is never meant to know the truth because his birth brings with it, shame.
How could any of them be, okay?
Especially, the boy and his Grandmother?
My Life on the Slush Pile (Lindsay Wincherauk)
His Mother is his Sister. Making her his Sister + his Mother.
His Father is his Grandfather.
His Grandmother is just his Grandmother.
His Brothers used to be just Brothers. But then it is discovered they might be Uncles as well.
That turned them into Brunkles.
His Sisters used to be just Sisters. But then it is discovered they might be Aunts as well.
That turned them into Sisaunts.
The boy is never meant to know the truth because his birth brings with it, shame.
How could any of them be, okay?
Especially, the boy and his Grandmother?
My Life on the Slush Pile (Lindsay Wincherauk)
