At what point in leaving your place of birth for a new country, does one become a stranger, unable to return? Immigrant, citizen, or expat?

One foot here, one foot there...

There are two gifts my father gave me. One was to bring me to Canada for a better life, and a better opportunity.
The other is in our genes. He was a worker bee. Did what he needed to do. Always getting up. Son of a farmer. Never quit. You can’t ask for much more than that.

With hard work, and acceptance, and the drive to learn, everything in your power. Everything is up to you.

Great music inspired me, especially early-seventies rock. But at my peak as a guitar player, performing felt empty. Writing saved me, and my carefree highway years were gone.

Practicing to get better, through addiction and crazy times. Dedication over motivation all day long.

Depression and mental health issues have less stigma now, but when I was a boy these things were unacknowledged. The scars remain, but hope beckons.

"Growing up in Toronto, we got a lot of American news. A lot of Vietnam coverage, and body bags coming off planes. Hippies. Riots. Civil unrest. Expo ’67, the political rise of Pierre Trudeau (one of my teachers had his poster up in our classroom), trouble in the Middle East, astronauts, the Cold War, and the last time the Leafs won a cup."

We came to Canada in the mid-sixties. From small town Scotland to big city Toronto. My childhood filled with the sounds of radio and television. Living in a new place as immigrants, and ex-pats. One foot here, one foot there. Always a stranger.

Read my work on Substack