It’s no secret that the past three years have not been my finest. I’ve made progress but the graph of my mental health and overall happiness would look very much like the rollercoaster it has been. This winter, in particular, hit me with an unexpected wave of loneliness and malaise. (And by “winter” I am also referring to the spring that refuses to arrive in our corner of the world.) 

With all that in mind, I decided to accept the invitation of our dear friends Pat & Joyce and head to the mainland for a mini-vacation to visit friends and family, enjoy some of the perks of the big city, and just generally shake myself up and get out of my head. It has been a long-damned time since I’ve spent solo time in that part of the world, and I was looking forward to five days with little in the way of an itinerary or expectations.

The trip was everything I’d hoped it would be—relaxing, fun, a needed change of scenery—but with a little bonus lesson: You can’t go back.

Fred wisely suggested that I take his GPS to navigate and I’m sure glad I did. The days of me knowing every street, neighbourhood, shortcut, and nook & cranny of Vancouver and the surrounding areas are long, loooooong gone. Only one navigational error was made, and that’s on me, not the nice lady who lives in the GPS. That error, however, led to one of the most enlightening moments of my trip.

I’d spent my first night in a hotel in Richmond, which sits next to Vancouver, close enough that I could bop over to see my brother and his wife without battling city traffic for hours. In the morning, I turned my wagon toward Port Coquitlam, with plans to hit the mall for a few hours before checking in at Casa Roney. Distracted by the pleasant drive and deeply engaged in my new audiobook, I misheard the nice GPS lady’s directions to take exit 11 as exit 7, and that’s how I found myself crossing the Alex Fraser Bridge to North delta.

I was in no hurry, so I wasn’t stressed. I would cross the bridge, turn myself around, and head back.

Or would I?

North Delta is where I grew up. I hadn’t been to my old “hood” in decades. What if I took an extra hour out of my day and indulged some nostalgia? I knew from my last pass through that North Delta was no longer a pastoral, suburban playground but I was curious what my old house looked like now and how many old landmarks were still standing. So, I unplugged the GPS and continued up Nordel Way toward good ol’ Scott Road.

Now, before you travel with me any further, let’s pause and jump in my handy time machine.

My parents moved to North Delta, from Vancouver, in 1974. I was on the cusp of turning five and yet can still remember how HUGE our new house seemed. We were some of the first owners in this new section of the suburb near Scott Road and 80^th Ave. Across from us were the Wingers, a couple who’d moved to Canada from New Zealand, and their young daughter Tania (a year older than me) and baby Aaron. Next to us were the Lillquists, with their daughter Tricia (my age). Eventually the Mangats would move in and complete the quad of houses, with their daughter Rita (one year older than me) and their younger son Rob.

Our house and the Wingers house marked the end of the development, and we were bordered on one side by old orchards and bush. Pheasants and deer frequently wandered into our yard, and there was no shortage of bugs, birds, snakes, wildflowers, and berry bushes. Geographically, you couldn’t have picked a more perfect place to grow up—quiet, clean, lots of wild spaces to play, and yet only a 30-minute drive to the city and all it’s offerings. My elementary school was so close that many times I walked home for lunch.

North Delta grew as I did, and while I lamented the loss of the old, haunted chicken coops up the street, I had no complaints about the new strip malls and video stores. After all, North Delta was never going to be a “big city”, there would always be plenty of farmland, open spaces, and greenery. A few modern touches were fun!

I understand The ‘Burbs much better now than I did when I was living in them. Suburbs, especially those of the Spielberg variety with gangs of young kids on bikes, running through sprinklers in the summertime and playful snowball fights in the winter, paint a picture of life as safe, wholesome, and family-centric. In reality, there was a lot of darkness behind many of those doors—abuse, addiction, loveless marriages, affairs, and the constant struggle to appear happy and perfect. There was also heaps of open racism, sexism, and homophobia. The dangers in the suburbs weren’t the burglars or gangs of the city, they were the secrets hidden behind closed doors and the social penalties for not fitting in.

Even so, I was formed in the suburbs and my memories of North Delta, and my neighbourhood, contain a powerful magic. Almost 50 years later, with perfect clarity, I can hear the smack of hockey sticks against asphalt and high-pitched cries of “Car!” that would send us all scattering; smell the smoke of chicken and burgers charring on briquette barbeques; taste the slightly metallic water from a garden hose in the heat of summer; feel the scratches of thorns as we reached ever higher for the plumpest blackberries to fill our empty ice cream buckets. For fourteen years, this was home, and this was where I became “me”.

And then I was standing there, on 119A Street, in 2023, staring at my old house, my old home. It had been renovated and they’d done a good job, (my mom would be happy to know that), but the foundation remained the same. Here was what had once been the center of my universe and I felt…nothing.

A young Indo-Canadian man pulled up in a security company car and slid out of the driver’s seat, bleary eyed, with a thermos and a pillow. Returning from the night shift, I assumed. He looked at me—standing across the street, staring at the house–with naked suspicion. I approached him amiably.

“Do you live here?” I asked.

He squinted at me, uncertain. “Yes.”

I smiled widely to let him know I was not a threat. “I grew up here!” I pointed to his house. “My parents bought this house when it was new. We were the first people to live here!”

It wasn’t difficult to see that he was exhausted and did not care about the crazy old white lady babbling about her old house. But, just then, a younger girl, maybe 16 years old, approached us with a happy looking pit bull at her side. I repeated my over-excited spiel and she was a tad more receptive than her brother (cousin? father?).

“We renovated the house,” she said.

“It looks great!” I replied. I babbled a bit more about how our house had been the end of the road when we moved here, and about the deer and the pheasants and the orchards. Her eyes glassed over, uncaring, and I realized I’d run out of things to say.

What had I expected? I’m not sure but it wasn’t this complete lack of interest in something that was a cornerstone of my very existence.

“I lived here! Do you understand? That’s important! This place formed me. You are living in a piece of history! There is magic here!” was what I wanted to scream, if I’m being honest.

In reality, the magic was all in my brain. That time, that place, is gone and there’s no going back. This is their North Delta now.

I was wrong, too. The green spaces were not invincible and have almost all been plastered over with houses, condos, high-rises, and strip malls. Few recognizable landmarks remain and, truthfully, as I drove past them, I realized I really didn’t care about them at all. Even if little Shum’s market had still stood on the corner of Scott Road and 80^th Ave, the kids who rode there on bikes, collecting bottle caps in the parking lot, and trading cans and bottles for Pixie Sticks and penny candy, are ghosts.

North Delta may have helped form me up to the age of eighteen but neither of us stopped growing, and there have been much bigger and more important influences on me since then. Other municipalities, cities, islands, countries, cultures, and even suburbs have all done their part to inform my worldview and build my identity.

I was heading to one of those very suburbs, as it happened. And there I knew I would be greeted not with suspicion and indifference but with open arms, friendship, and love. That is real magic. The only kind that matters.

I plugged the GPS back in and the nice lady gave me directions to the Patullo Bridge, which, for the record, is just as terrifying to drive across as it was forty years ago. There is a new bridge under construction because I suppose someone realized that sometimes change is necessary. Off I drove, toward Port Coquitlam.

My chance visit to my distant past wasn’t all for nought. I felt like I was finally able to let go of something that has had far too much of a hold on me for far too long. My childhood wasn’t always all that great, my brain has simply chosen to hold onto the best parts of it, as children’s brains often do, and I think I needed a new perspective to see that. There were many things I hated about living in North Delta, not the least of which was the constant drumbeat of “Conform! Conform! Conform!” The ‘burbs of the 70’s and 80’s could be hell for a young person with a wild imagination who longs to express herself beyond the narrow limits of acceptable societal norms.

It was also a timely reminder that nothing is static. Yes, I have been in a sad place but that will change. Everything changes, whether we want it to or not.

White-knuckling my way over the Patullo Bridge, I found myself asking, “Well, Kristene, what next?” This wasn’t a question the nice GPS lady could answer; this was a question about my future.

I didn’t have an answer then, and I still don’t, but something about that feels like freedom.