“Back in the day,” I repeated, “things were so much different. I don’t want to say ‘better,’ but it was, I don’t know just, well, better, I guess.” Across the table the 30-something looked at me. Was it longing I saw in his eyes? Did he too wish that he had been around for those glory days?
“The Toonie races,” I went on, “had, like, 40 people in them and the after-party was in someone’s backyard. Cliff would sling burgers from the grill and the party continued around the fire pit until the keg got finished. You could always count on Brad and Mike and Don and Curtis to hang in until the end, heh, heh. You know those guys, eh?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said.
“And we’d just build trails. There was no asking for permission or looking for permits, we’d just go build. Not like today,” I said shaking my head.
“Hey, I think I see my buddy over there, so I’ll see you sometime,” my young drinking companion said, taking his beer and turning toward a group standing by the fireplace.
I sat back and searched the room for a friendly face, actually, for any face I recognized. But I saw no one. What’s happened to my town? I wondered. When did it turn into someplace I no longer recognized and a place where I no longer was recognized? Where did all these people come from? And why are they all so young?
Then it struck me: I have become that guy. That guy who, whenever I met him through the 90s, told me about how much the town had changed. That guy who boasted about how, when the golf course was being built, he volunteered his time to walk the fairways to pick rocks. That guy who lamented about how much better things were before the new people — and by that he meant me — arrived.
That guy was one of “the old guard” in the language of the day. They were, in my mind, regressive.
They were unhappy to see the changes happening in Squamish, the changes that I believed would make the town a vibrant, livable community.
And we were the disruptors. We came to Squamish not for the forestry jobs, but for the lifestyle. We believed that Squamish truly was the “outdoor recreation capital of Canada,” and we imagined how things could be. And that’s what we got. Squamish became that hip, young, vibrant town that we envisioned: the coffee shops came, the breweries came, the amenities came and the people came. We got what we asked for, whether or not we really understood what it would mean.
Nostalgia can be an alluring tonic. Nothing tastes quite as sweet as a memory that has had its bitterness washed away by time. So when you hear me complaining about all the changes in town, don’t take it personally. But do take time to buy me a beer and listen. One day, you too may find yourself sitting at the bar and sipping the sweet nectar of your past.
