I was around six or seven and my friend and I were playing Lord of the Rings in their back yard. My two friends were the brave and heroic Aragorn and Legolas while I was Gimli, the comic relief fat slow dwarf. We had already fought Orcs, dragons and spiders and decided to go deeper in the woods. But my friends didn’t really have “woods.” It was more of a thin barrier of trees between my friend’s property and the neighbour’s. We stumbled through the bush and knew we had done something naughty.
We’d stumbled into the yard of an Irving.
Being six, I knew little about who the Irvings were, but I knew one thing. I hated them. It’s a primal hatred born to Saint Johners. Something we have before we know our colours, or other elementary information, like not to go to Sussex for a wild time. Standing in that backyard, I felt I really was at the gates of Mordor.
We then found something that gave us all a sadistic grin. It was magic, too good to resist. With bladders, we’d found the Irving’s backyard well.
…
In retrospect, I doubt the Irving’s used that well for drinking, I’m sure they can afford indoor plumbing. Still, when I whipped out my little man I thought I was doing a great justice on behalf of Saint John. I’m also sure many adults would have cheered me on. That’s my problem with Saint John. Sometimes people hate the Irvings just to hate the Irvings. My parents didn’t raise me to hate them but there is so much slander toward them they sound like Mr. Burns from the Simpsons had the antichrist child with the Monopoly man.
There are lots of reasons to hate the Irvings. Jamie Irving fired my father from the Telegraph Journal. I could hate him for that. I don’t, but I used to. They own the wood, the oil, the steel and the newspapers. The only thing they don’t own in Saint John is the fog. I think Moosehead owns that.
In early high school I’d go to a lot of all-ages shows, normally held in church basements or teen resource centres. Sometimes I’d sneak away to smoke pot. I thought I was edgy shit. I’d raise my fat fists to God and curse the Irving name.
This blind, faceless hatred couldn’t last though. The black and white empire had to fall to grey. The Irvings owned my hometown but they also kept ive. I don’t want Saint John to become one of those “the-day-the-Mil closed down,” stories.
At one of those all-ages show I eventually met an Irving. One of the grandsons of the original three Irving sons. A nice kid, a bit sheltered, a bit awkward, but he was fun to have around. How could I hate the Irvings when I wanted to invite their grandson to parties?
Growing up in the shadow of the Irvings has shown me the futility of hate and envy. Do they care what I think of them? I doubt it. I wouldn’t if I were them. What’s the point in hating them? We’re both stuck in this province — might as well be neighbourly. Besides, if they won’t give me the steam off their piss, at least I gave them mine.
