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I was born in the middle of a jungle of big pipes, small pipes, towers, flares and huge white oil tanks with spiral staircases hugging the contour, looking like giant polka dots on a lunar landscape.

I was born in Montreal East when it was Canada’s oil refining capital. We moved to Hochelaga-Maisonneuve when I was four, but I still remember the sulphur smell of rotten eggs. The clanking noise of tanker cars coupling in the night made my little iron bed rattle.

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But I can’t remember the night my parents had to flee as oil reservoirs were exploding left, right and centre, during the winter of 1956. Even at 300 yards, the fire was so intense, one could not touch the windows. Even the inside walls facing the fire were warmer than normal.

But we survived. As did the house, and my dad’s Industrial Tavern on Notre-Dame St. East, near the docks, a famous meeting place for sailors from everywhere.

Oil, then, spelled prosperity. Yes, it was as polluting then as it is now, even more so as lead was still used as a performance-enhancing additive to gasoline.