The truth is, my father’s life was a deeply touching failure.
Despite being declared the greatest journalist of his generation time and time again, he could never keep a job. He holds the simultaneous Canadian record for numbers of newspapers worked at, number of newspapers fired from. At first impression he made a lasting impression. He wrote two best selling novels on baseball players. Almost every reviewer said he chose the wrong protagonist.
He should have lived on those pages.
My father was a star. He was a liar and a cheat. Tell me, how could a four year old be dancing on the ceiling while you’re still eating your potatoes?
Like most sad people, he remembered his childhood best. He idolized his dead family, his brick house at 742 Woodbine Avenue, the 1950‘s. The present was always completely fabricated. I grew up being told to believe everything he said was a lie.
But now, years double back and skip forward.
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