A Love Letter to My Home, Ontario
My son is out with his friends tonight. Sixteen years of listening to every noise that kid ever made — the babble, the questions, the rants, the jokes — and suddenly the house is quiet. Quiet enough that I almost reached for the phone just to hear him breathe on the other end.
That urge, that instinct… it got me thinking about home.
Not “home” as in four walls and a roof. I’ve lived in too many places for that. Different cities, different neighbourhoods, different countries even. And none of them — not my parents’ house, not the places I rented, not even Toronto where I spent more than half my life — none of them fit the word properly.
So what is home to me?
It’s Ontario.
It’s the way the air smells right after rain hits cold pavement.
It’s every lake that looks like the ocean when you’re standing on the shore.
It’s the maple tree that turns so red you swear it’s on fire.
It’s long highways, long winters, long stories told in Tim Hortons parking lots.
It’s fall leaves crunching under your boots and spring thaw running down the gutters.
It’s the stubborn optimism of people who shovel their driveways at 6 a.m.
It’s the mix of languages you hear on a single subway ride.
It’s small towns with one good diner and big cities with a thousand places to disappear into.
It’s the north, endlessly quiet.
It’s the south, endlessly busy.
It’s the way we complain about the weather like it personally insulted us —
and brag about it five minutes later.
But Ontario is also an odd place.
Often boring. Utility-based.
A rat race, but someone’s gotta keep the economy going.
It’s liberal, it’s conservative, it’s everything in between.
And somehow, there’s still not a lot of hate here.
People get along pretty damn well.
We all wish the Leafs would just win it already — and I’m not even a hockey fan.
And can we get a good government here for once?
At least the current guy — who might be an idiot — seems to be listening to the guy at the top who actually knows what he’s talking about.
It’s a start.
But this isn’t about politics.
This is about my home.
The place you think is average, and then it surprises you.
Not the East Coast. Not the West Coast.
Just stuck right in the middle.
Everything you need, nothing too dramatic.
Safer than most places.
Crime? Sure, but manageable.
Natural disasters? Maybe, if you’re way out there — but mostly, you’re fine.
It’s just the cost.
Holy shit, the cost.
And our car insurance?
I’m paying thousands for something I pray I’ll never use, because if I do, they’ll just raise it again.
Meanwhile, my 16-year-old is out tonight with the car,
so that background hum of parent anxiety is alive and well.
But I’ll tell you the truth:
A lot of this will fix itself.
Ontario always finds its rhythm again.
We bend, we limp, we complain —
but we figure it out.
And still, I’m proud to call this place my home.
Maybe it won’t be forever.
Life leads where it leads.
But Ontario is my home,
and I’ll always be a Toronto boy.
Fact check me if you want.
But I’m bringing the 6 with me wherever I go.