Toy story: How a boy becomes a man

I'm spending the better part of a stormy Saturday afternoon under the dining room table with my two boys playing on the carpet. Lego pieces dot the landscape as far as the eye can see. Beyond the coffee table, a car lies on its side under the La-Z-Boy. As sappy as it sounds, I'm incredibly sad just now, lamenting the loss of my childhood.

Funny. Most people go through this sort of thing a few days before high school graduation; I guess I'm just not in touch with my feelings. Emotionally stunted. I'm rather content with being a tourist inside my own skull.

My older son is carrying on an important conference with a Lego man, possibly about a missing colleague: "There's been a single-vehicle accident across the room." "Let's check it out!" And they're off like the Duke boys.

The defining moment of early adolescence
Me, I'm remembering the exact moment my childhood ended, when all my fantasy worlds went up in a puff of ether. I can't recall the day or the year, only each and every gory detail: I have just finished lunch after racing home on my bicycle after baseball practice. My afternoon is free. No canoe lessons, no visiting my grandparents, no anything. A new friend is on his way over and I want to impress him, so our meeting is of crucial importance. Besides, he's biking all the way across Charlottetown.

I want to make sure we have plenty to do. We could head to the swamp or the woods -- maybe look through all the stuff the teenagers leave behind (sometimes there are beer bottles, and once I even found a dirty magazine) -- but it's cloudy, so I need a backup plan. I check out the basement to see if there's anything to do down there. "Hey, that's weird," I remember saying to myself. "I haven't been downstairs in a long time."

It had been a week or more.

Too busy with sports, I guess. Still, I think, I'd better go down and check out what he might like to play with. I take the stairs two at a time, then jump off at the fourth-last one like I always do. Carefree...

I walk over to the toy box. It's a big yellow crate overflowing with old Christmas and birthday presents. Hours of adventure. Boats and planes and dozens of action heroes prepared to struggle with the diabolical in an infinite number of scenarios. I heave a huge sigh. These toys are boring, I think, downright childish. Take my G.I. Joe, for instance. Sure, he's pretty cool looking with the two-day beard and all. And together we've climbed mountainous chairs and fought courageous battles on the Plains of Dad's Pool Table. But he's for little kids to play with, not me. I can't risk it with my new friend. I have sports, now, I decide, and even girls to talk to (they are getting less dumb every day).

I stand up and walk away from G.I. Joe and the big yellow box full of fantasy. The magic vanished: Poof.

A few days later, I visited G.I. Joe one last time. I pushed him, but he didn't respond. I looked into his eyes, but they were glazed over. I talked to him, but he didn't talk back. He died in my arms. It was a great blow. And here I am grieving, 20 years later.

I gaze at my little guy still engaged in earnest conversation with his Lego man. I hope they have a long, long talk.

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