Apparently it’s true that you can’t go home again

My childhood home in Good Ol’ Hometown.

I moved out of my parents house at age 19, which means I’ve been making rent or mortgage payments for 55 years.

I’ve never missed a payment. Not one. In 55 years.

Even as I went through a bout of bankruptcy or had the misfortune to be caught between work assignments, I always found a means to pay for the roof over my head and the walls around me, and it mattered not that it involved the sale of jewelry or my vinyl albums collection. They were just “things.” A roof and walls trumps “things” every time.

But I’ve discovered that a payment record without blemish carries zero sway today.

I mean, I’m more than a month into a quest to return to my roots, Winnipeg, and there’s no room at the inn.

Correction: There’s room at the inn for other people, but not moi. At least not where I’d prefer to hang my bonnet and, as we all know, location is everything.

I have my desired destinations inside the Perimeter Highway and Duff’s Ditch, and East Kildonan sits atop the list, although I suppose I should put that in past tense—E.K. sat atop the list.

It seems that my old stomping grounds has become too uppity in price for a senior getting by on government pensions and, unless the rental market crashes and burns like the Blue Bombers in the last two Grey Cup games, it appears a yearning to spend my final years in E.K. shall go unsatisfied.

Thus I set my sights on Osborne Village and downtown (on the Assiniboine River side of Broadway).

I know, I know. Downtown Winnipeg can be a seedy bit of business, but I consulted with friends Maura and Robert, both of whom have postal codes just a whoop and a holler from Portage and Main. They acknowledged the gritty element of downtown, yet, at the same time, neither of them fear for their safety when stepping out of doors.

As for Osborne Village, well, I’m told and read that she ain’t what she used to be when I was spending too much time bending an elbow and wondering why delightful, gnomish barman Des played nothing but Dylan music while ignoring patrons and filling ketchup bottles at The Toad In The Hole.

I’d like to observe the changes to the eclectic neighborhood for myself, but, again, it’s been no sale for moi.

I’ve been shut out by Thorwin, Sussex, Shindico, Globe, A.S.H., and I’m waiting/hoping to hear from Murdoch Management about a suite in a seniors building in the Village. The trouble with seniors buildings is the wait list, which can be longer than the Winnipeg Jets quest for the Stanley Cup.

I thought I had something good going with a Thorwin property downtown. I got favorable vibes from the portion of their mission statement that read: “Our team is caring and treats others with dignity and respect, and values individual differences and contributions.” That struck a favorable chord with me. And I had a very positive to-and-fro with the building manager for about two weeks. Alas, I never heard back from the decision-makers and canceled my application due to too short a time frame for arranging a move from Victoria to Good Ol’ Hometown. It’s April 1 tomorrow and organizing a 1,900-km relocation in two weeks isn’t as simple as deciding what to have for lunch. But I like the Thorwin people.

Actually, all the property management folks have been nice and obliging, with one exception, and she shall go unrecognized. Suffice to say she was mega snooty.

I’ve never had difficulty finding lodgings, so perhaps the reality that mine is a long-distance search has considerable bearing on my fruitless hunt to date. I mean, I live half a country away and the words and numbers I provide on application forms are just that—words and numbers.

It’s difficult to sell one’s self when one’s self is a hodge-podge of words and numbers on a piece of paper. They like to see a face, as well.

I’m not waving the white flag, though. Not yet.

I’d like to be in Good Ol’ Hometown in time for the Stanley Cup parade in June (as if), and it would be cool to have a seat in the pews at the Football Field In Fort Garry the night, or afternoon, that Mike O’Shea passes the legend, Bud Grant, on the Blue Bombers head coaching W list. A Sunday afternoon down at the Ball Yard By The Forks this summer would also be nice. Ditto a corned beef on rye at Oscar’s or a cheese nip at the Sals.

So much to see, so much to do. Just gotta get there to see it and do it.

In the meantime, I curse Thomas Wolfe, who borrowed the phrease “you can’t go home again” from Ella Winter and used it as the title for one of his books.

Apparently, they were right.