They had bought the place when they were young — so long ago, Grandma always claimed, that it had been the only house on the street, surrounded by apple orchards. Over the years the city had grown towards it and eventually enveloped it. Grandpa Lane had driven a taxi since he and my grandmother had moved to Toronto from Winnipeg, and after they had scrimped and saved for some years they bought some used radio equipment, hired another guy who used his own car, and became the Shoreline Taxi Company, a strange title, since their house was at least half a mile from Lake Ontario. Dad had grown up with the crackle and static of the dispatcher’s radio in his ears, Grandma being the dispatcher. Now they were retired and owned a couple of duplexes that Grandpa seemed happy to supervise and keep in repair. Because of his years behind the wheel, Grandpa had firm opinions about automobiles and he shared these views every chance he got. “I’ll never know why you bought a pickup truck in the first place,”
