Monday, July 19, 2010
Today was my birthday. My wife, son, and daughter made me the Best Cake Ever. It was a lovely day.
This evening, my brother, who lives in Alberta, phoned to say happy birthday. He was on vacation in Ontario with his family, showing his three young sons the town where we lived until I was eight years old. He took them to our old house, our school, the school where our father was a teacher, and so on.
"I showed them Flummerfelt Street," he said.
I was stumped. The name was in my head, but there was no image. "Where is Flummerfelt Street?" I asked.
"The one that Dad always told us was the shortest street in the world."
I still couldn't picture it.
"Where the BP station was."
And then I saw it, and knew exactly where it was. I have been conjuring Flummerfelt Street daily since the oil well went kerblooey, every time I read or heard "BP."
The station is gone according to Google Streetview. I still see it in my memory though, and probably will for some time to come.
On Flummerfelt Street.