03/25/2026
A SHORT MEMORY
The Man With The Watches
By Rainbow Connections
The purpose of Rainbow Connections short stories—what we call our “A Short Memory” segment—is simple, but deeply meaningful.
These stories are created to be shared experiences.
They are based on real-life moments, retold by individuals, captured by our Short Memory Teammates.
But here’s the key:
👉 The goal is not to finish the story.
👉 The goal is to start one.
We invite you to read this out loud with someone you care about—whether it’s a parent, grandparent, friend, or someone in care—and notice what begins to surface.
A smell.
A place.
A feeling.
A story of their own.
A SHORT MEMORY — by Rainbow Connections
This short memory was adapted from a true story as told by a young-at-heart man living in a caregiving facility in Ontario.
The story is based on his childhood memories growing up in a French quarter of Sudbury called The Flour Mill.
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The Man With The Watches
I remember the stories the way you remember a smell.
Not exact.
Not perfect.
But close enough that your chest recognizes it before your mind does.
My mother was from Espanola. Paper mill town. French roots. The kind of place where people knew your name before you even spoke it.
My father… he was different.
He came from Montreal, somehow ended up in the North, and instead of going into the mines like most men, he built something.
Three hotels.
A theatre.
A little store—whatever you want to call it.
He didn’t just work in the town.
He became part of how it survived.
People knew him. Everyone did.
And not just because he owned things.
Because when people were broke—and a lot of people were broke—he would lend them money.
No paperwork.
No big speeches.
Just a quiet exchange.
A watch… for a little bit of hope.
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I can still picture it.
His arms.
Four or five watches on one side.
Four or five on the other.
None of them his.
Each one a story.
A man trying to get through the winter.
A family needing groceries.
Someone waiting for their next pay from the mine.
When they came back, he gave the watch back.
Just like that.
I don’t even know if he charged interest.
I don’t think that was the point.
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But not all stories sit clean.
Some stay a little heavy.
There was a fire.
Foleyet. 1949.
One of his hotels burned.
My older brother ran in—trying to save what he could.
I still see him walking into the house after.
Bandages on his hands.
On his face.
Quiet.
Alive… but changed in a way you don’t talk about.
And life just kept going.
That’s what people did.
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Back then, people didn’t sit around explaining their pain.
They carried it.
Sometimes in silence.
Sometimes… in a bottle.
My father drank.
Not openly.
Not proudly.
Hidden.
My mother wouldn’t allow alcohol in the house.
So she sent me—just a kid—downstairs to look for bottles.
If I found one… she poured it down the sink.
And the next day, somehow, another one would appear.
Looking back, I don’t think either of them were wrong.
He was carrying something.
She was trying to protect something.
And somewhere in between…
a family was growing up.
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There were mines all around us.
Sudbury. The Flour Mill area.
Nickel. Rock. Dust.
Men went underground every day and came back up hoping they were still whole.
Some of them weren’t.
War took some.
Accidents took others.
And life… took the rest in quieter ways.
But still—people stayed.
Worked.
Raised families.
Built something out of hard ground.
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I was the last one to leave home.
1965.
After I got married, my mother sold the house.
Closed that chapter the way people did back then—without ceremony.
Just… forward.
⸻
When I think about it now, I don’t just remember what we had.
I remember what we held together.
A man with too many businesses.
Too many watches.
Too many people depending on him.
A woman holding the line in her own way.
A town built on work, loss, and showing up anyway.
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And maybe that’s the thing.
Legacy isn’t always clean.
It’s not just success.
It’s not just struggle.
It’s both… worn at the same time.
Like a man walking down a Northern Ontario street…
with ten watches on his arms—
carrying other people’s time
until they could carry it again.
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🗣️ “Une grosse famille, c’est beau sur le portrait.”
(A big family looks beautiful in the picture.)
⸻
💬 Conversation Starters
1. Do you remember someone in your life who quietly helped others, the way this father did? What did that look like?
2. What is a smell, place, or object that brings back a strong memory for you right away?
3. In your family growing up, how did people handle hard things—did they talk about them, or carry them quietly?
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❤️ Share & Connect
If this story sparked something—share it with someone.
Read it out loud.
Pause between sections.
Let the memories come.
Because sometimes the most powerful stories…
are the ones that aren’t written yet.
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