Mom, Dad, me and Michael - I was about 4 months old. Do you think maybe they wanted a daughter?

I was born on February 28, 1954 in Glasgow, Scotland – at least, that's what it says on my birth certificate. I guess that’s one of those things which most people don’t question – I mean, either you were or you weren’t born on such-and-such a date in such-and-such a place. I was born in St. Frances’ Nursing Home, but for some reason I used to tell people that I was born in a convent. I tell people that there were no hospitals where we lived (as if there were no hospitals in such a large urban centre as Glasgow) and that my mother was attended to by midwives – sisters at the local convent (as if there were no doctors in such a large urban centre as Glasgow). Sisters! That’s probably why I told people the convent story.

Truth is, my mom’s obstetrician kept his office at the nursing home, so when it was time for her to deliver, that’s where she went. I was born in Bethlehem; my brother was born in Nazareth… those were the names of the birthing rooms – named for real places in the Holy Land; named for real places visited by Jesus. This makes perfect sense to me, since I tell people that I was born in a convent. Why would someone make up a story like that? I even tell people that my brother, Michael, and I were the only two non-Catholic boys to attend the local Catholic school – because there were no public elementary schools where we lived (as if there were no public elementary schools in such a large urban centre as Glasgow) – but hey, it's my story so I'll remember it the way I like. I probably tell that story because I had to wear a uniform when I went to school, and in Canada, the only people who wear uniforms to school were either very rich (which we weren’t) or they went to Catholic schools. My passport photo, taken shortly before we moved to Canada, shows me in my school uniform. Do you see how confusing that could be to a small boy?

Well… I’m older and wiser now, and I know the truth about a great many things! For those of you who aren’t good at arithmetic, I am 51 as of this writing... and my 52^nd birthday is fast approaching. After 50+ years on this earth, I'm entitled to a few opinions! Right?

One of my earliest memories was visiting the factory where my father worked. I think he owned it with his brothers, but I'm not really sure about that. For a long time, I told people that I could remember the layout of the factory – the floor plan, if you will. For many years thereafter, I thought I could remember the layout although I'd be hard pressed to actually draw such a plan – still, I like to think that I could remember. In my early adult life, I enjoyed drawing floor plans for houses which I thought I would someday build and in which I would live. None of them ever got off the drawing board, so-to-speak, but occasionally I’d drag them out of the drawer and look at them, and wonder what if... But, I digress!