If you were born around here between 1952 and 1972, you probably remember what it felt like to grow up in a town where everyone knew your name—and your mom’s too.
Back when your address was just “down the road from the hospital,” and your weekend plans were whatever your bike could get you to.
We played street hockey ’til the streetlights flickered on, pockets full of marbles, knees full of gravel, and games of hide-and-seek that stretched across half the neighbourhood.
We were the first to plug in an Atari, to tape songs off the radio onto a cassette, to pop a Walkman on our hips and think we were invincible.
We sipped glass-bottled pop from the corner store, listened to rock’n roll on the AM dial,
and rode in our parents’ station wagons without seatbelt or a care in the world.
We didn’t wear helmets, and our parents didn’t panic. We shared 10-cent candies, campfire stories, and traded hockey cards.
We had no apps, no filters, no need for Wi-Fi. Just friends, freedom, and the great outdoors.
We’re the bridge—raised in a time before tech, but smart enough to keep up with it now.
Still here. Still standing. And still remembering when “swipe” just meant borrowing pie off your neighbour’s windowsill.

By Peter Yurek, BSc. Phm.