After a tough day battling torrential storms here on the West Coast, I headed back to the Hotel, and snuggled into bed with a piping hot cup of exotic tea.
While I was channel surfing, I stumbled across an infomercial of Petula Clark belting out "Downtown" and her other hits of yesteryear.
Suddenly, I was transported into the past to the days of my innocent youth.
In the wee hours of the night - I often plugged in the earphones of my tiny transistor radio (shaped like a hockey puck) - and mouthed the lyrics of catchy tunes made popular by the "British Music Invasion" which Petula was a vital part of.
In those childhood years, I resided outside of Oshawa, on a quaint little street known as Kilmaurs Avenue, next to an old country farm.
A smile comes to my face when I recall the clever rig I devised with a cord to facilitate an on-off switch on the beat-up TV so I could savor classic films on late-night TV, without getting caught.
In the event Gramma heard strains of the ongoing dialog on the boob tube in her room down the hall, I simply had to tug on the rope to turn the set off.
By the time the door swung open, I'd be pretending to be fast asleep, as the old gal peered into the bedroom, perplexed.
Heh, given the opportunity, I could have invented the remote control, eh?
On sun-drenched days, in those boisterous days of my lazy youth, I often trotted over to "Happy Hollow" - a swim hole in the local creek - to splash around with the neighborhood kids and wile away the golden hours.
Occasionally, I would take a detour, though - and head over to the sprawling "Little Buckaroo Ranch" - where a miniature-sized western town was inclined to urge tourists to indulge their fantasies during the summer break.
My first kiss was out back in a field where nigh-high reeds gently rustled in the whispering wind next to an old rustic barn.
The object of my affections was a pretty young girl by the name of Pamela who lived a hop-and-a-skip down the lane.
To this day, her crystal face - and luminous eyes - loom large at will.
Across the street, Mrs. Chamberlain - a God-fearing woman - baked bread for the locals to supplement her income.
Gramma would plop a few coins in my hand, and I'd dash across the dusty road to pick up a couple of loaves fresh out of the oven, before she closed up shop for the day.
Back home, we'd pull off the hot crust and slather it with butter and homemade jam - and quite generally - make pigs of ourselves.
What a gluttonous feast, it was.
The Chamberlains were "Seven Day Adventists".
Some of their religious practices were a bit peculiar to me at the time.
For instance, the children were barred from watching TV, of all silly things.
Worse than that - because of their strict ideas views on war - the towheads were not allowed to play with toy guns in make-believe shoot-outs with the other local boys.
Or, even engage in a raucous game of capture the flag. Rats!
Their spiritual practices puzzled me somewhat, too.
For the duration of my stint in the country, I attended a two-room school house farther out in the sticks, at the edge of town.
If the pipes froze up in the winter (which they were want to do more often than not) or the school bus couldn't barrel through the pristine snow drifting across the highway in a wintry blast - we'd play hookey for the day - go tobogganing, ice-skating, whatever!
You know, when you live in the country, you learn a lot about animals, nature, and things that go bump in the night.
For instance, it struck me as odd when the local farmer erected a slip-shod fence around the pond each winter; after all, it didn't appear to make any sense.
But, one fine morning, I cornered the rancher on the back forty - and after some quizzing - he revealed the reasoning behind it.
"Cows are dumb," he laughed.
"When the pond is frozen, they wander on to the ice and quickly lose their balance. Usually, in the struggle, their hoofs go this way 'n that - at which point they fall down - and end up breaking their legs."
Ah, the memories.
One balmy summer eve - as the crickets chirped in harmony and stars twinkled brightly in the inky black sky - I gazed at the heavens wondering what lay beyond in the great wondrous divide.
Suddenly, without warning, the night air was pierced by the voice of Poppa, hailing me for dinner.
Poppa!
Such a kind old man.
One stormy night, we were caught in the thick soup of a nasty snow storm that blew in from the North, unannounced.
At one point, as Poppa steered the old Studebaker carefully through the blinding blizzard, the vehicle started to skid and slide towards a gutter at the side of the treacherous road.
"I'm sorry, kids," he cried out in distress.
That was Poppa, always thinking of others before himself.
Funny, the memories that cling to the inner recesses of our minds, over the dusty course of the eventful years.
Each moment is a treasure - all the salient ones cherished and strung together - to account for a life that is uniquely our own.