The fine art of resurfacing

The resurfacing of Cote St-Antoine is finally done. For a while anyway. The heavy machinery has fallen silent, the dust is settling and, little by little, the cowering citizens of NDG are timidly emerging to reclaim their front gardens and footpaths.

It wasn't quite a war zone but what a bloody noise those machines made! Worst of all was the orange brute identified on its flank as a Hamm HD+ 140 High Frequency. In this picture it looks almost benign, and its name reminds me of a HiFi audio component. But it flattened tarmac to a brutal soundtrack.

The Hamm HD+ 140 High Frequency

It hit with two distinct sonic impacts simultaneously: the first a low frequency rumble felt in the chest (amplified in the swimming pool water where I'd taken refuge so that it almost took my breath away); the second a high-pitched whine that a Boeing would be proud of, that rose and fell and, just when you believed it had ended, rose again.

The noise was exhausting, draining, but the workers seemed not to notice it. They wore no ear protection at all. (Nor did they wear anything over their noses and mouths against the dust and fumes, or anything to cover their bare arms and necks in the fierce heatwave that ambushed us this June). Their work looked and sounded violent but was so precise: the thickness of each layer of tarmac carefully measured by one of them every few seconds as he stabbed the tarmac with a stiletto ruler, a second wielded a spirit level to check the camber from roadside to crown and along the channels leading to each drain. Most impressively the driver maneuvered the giant roller to within millimetres of each path.

Their last day, Friday, was a long one as they rushed to finish: 7 am to 7.30 pm. Next week they'll undoubtedly invade another neighbourhood in a blitzkrieg of resurfacing. But for us on Cote St-Antoine the rest of the summer is, hopefully, silence.

The Coal Hole

The coal hole was the dark closet under the stairs of my childhood home in Crumlin. I would crawl in between the winter coats to sit down beside the hoover, staying still in the close darkness for hours with only the sound of my own breathing for company. 

There was no longer any coal there - there may never have been any - but there was certainly a faint yet sharp odour of gas from the metre. But mostly it smelled of my Dad's old coats, a comforting smell, the smell of him, of home. The ancient crombie overcoat which, though well-worn through many years, he still considered to be his best coat. A view most emphatically not shared by my mother. Various anoraks which he'd forgotten he had. And most impressively to my young eyes, his brown leather motorbike jacket, thick and heavy, and with it his old helmet and goggles.

My Dad's old motorbike had long gone by this stage. It wasn't very practical as transportation for a family of four. After a decade standing unused and forlorn in the garden, green, grimy, and rusting, he sold the old Sunbeam S7 to a passing dealer who restored it to the point that we saw it on display with other vintage motorbikes in the St. Patrick's Day parade. But my Dad always and forever considered himself a biker, as evidenced by his ownership of that jacket, even if he no longer possessed a bike. 

In my teen years I was often annoyed at Dad, for lots of trivial teenage reasons. Later, when I got over myself and wanted to talk to him, my Dad proved difficult to connect with. He adopted a persona for each situation, and with me he was always the parent. It was hard to get through to the real him, whoever that was, and I never really succeeded.

I've heard it said that it's in the effort to not be like our parents that we become most like them. As a teenager I resolved that I would be a biker, that I'd have the coolest and most uncompromising sports motorcycle, and that's exactly how it worked out. I had several bikes, each as red and deafening as a fire-engine and just as alarming to my wife. And of course, I had matching one-piece leathers and helmet. But the truth is, my bikes weren't very practical as transportation for a family of five. Eventually my Honda VFR750F stood covered in the shed for a decade before I finally sold it - and then only because the shed was being rebuilt and I had nowhere to store it. For I still considered myself a biker, and the bike represented that. Now it's gone. But I still have the red leathers and helmet, stored carefully in the space we call the cedar closet, a space I've seen my youngest son snuggle into on top of the bags of duvets and pillows.

What do we leave behind us when we die? Memories in the minds of those who knew us, a few material things we possessed that invoke those memories. Mannerisms and phrases, maybe even a predisposition to certain choices that we unwittingly pass on to our children. Things that we ourselves inherited.

I wonder what my children will remember of me.