The things we remember.
Growing up is hard to do – part 1 ended with remorse for not knowing how to look after my dog Boots. I remember so much detail about his unfortunate end to life. But I have no memory of discussions with my parents about getting a dog or what we did when he got sick or what we talked about after he died.
In fact, I don’t recall much dialogue at all with my parents during those years. As kids we just grew up assuming our parents were there to provide for us, and they did. And they simply assumed we were there to do what we were told and we tried, most of the time. A few memorable family traditions do stand out: Christmas and Easter.
Christmas presents.
Our parents made Christmas a big deal. Biggest tree we could find. Loads of decorations. Lots of presents but kids not allowed to see them until Christmas morning. But in the middle of the night, when not even a mouse was stirring, my older brother and I would sneak upstairs from our basement bedroom.
We gazed in wonder at the tree lights shimmering in the darkness, casting their multitude of colours across the packages large and small stacked beneath, and tried to guess what was inside. One gift was hard to disguise – an 8-foot long toboggan leaning up against the living room wall. Our thrill was short-lived.
The next morning, six of us kids piled on at the top of a hill. My older brother stood at the back holding a long rope like the musher on a dog sled. We promptly ran into the cement corner of a house at the bottom of the hill and cracked open the front end of the toboggan. It never did get fixed.
Easter Sunday rituals.
In our Ukrainian Greek Orthodox Church community, Easter Sunday was huge. Painting elaborate, multi-coloured patterns on eggs. Washing with a dime and coloured Easter egg. Taking the Easter food basket to church for the priest’s blessing. Following Dad as he carried the basket through each room of the house. Gathering at the kitchen table to tear into all the symbolic food stacked in the basket.
Great memories of a tradition that we shared together as a family. So much symbolism attached to everything.
School trauma.
In Grade 4, a kid in the next desk asked me what year it was. Riding high on my self-perceived academic ability at age 10, I leaned over confidently and said, “1958.”
At that moment the teacher turned, saw, and heard me. She promptly dragged me up to the front corner of the room where I stood for a long time with my nose stuck on a piece of gum. It was either that or a strap.
I had to change schools for Grade 6. When I think of my first day, I still tremble. All because of my mother’s philosophy for repairing any holes, however small, in our clothes.
My green pants had a tear about the size of a quarter in one knee. Mom carefully selected a sheet of vulcanized rubber about 12 inches square (probably from the same shoemaker as the leather strap in part 1). She then proceeded to sew this 12-inch square of vulcanized rubber into the inside of my pant leg.
Mom’s thread of choice was dark black. And her preferred method was to zig zag wildly across the outside of the pant leg to firmly attach the 12 x 12 rubber patch to the inside. I still see her hair flying as she intently lunged back and forth on her sewing machine.
Mom drove me to my new school, parked directly in front of the main door where all the kids were gathering, and wished me well. I had a difficult time getting out of the car. My vulcanized knee wouldn’t bend. I finally got out and hobbled towards the school in my green pants and one stiff vulcanized knee criss-crossed wildly with a maze of black thread.
The Barenaked Ladies group sang “This is me in Grade 9.” Well, that was me in my first day of Grade 6.
Bumshining and pushing the bus up the second hill.
Our Northern town had two big hills to climb on the way to downtown. Winter snow and ice made the road quite an adventure. The first hill wasn’t too bad. Then, on the way down, drivers hit the gas to build up speed and hope they could get up the second hill without losing traction and stalling.
So picture this scene. Cars almost flying down into the valley between the two hills. Another intersection at the very bottom. People and buildings. And a large ‘Jesus Saves’ sign on the Pentecostal Church.
As a kid in Grade 5 or 6, I took the bus. We usually started out by bumshining on the back fender. That’s where you hunker down, grab the bumper with both hands, and let the bus pull you along the icy road.
It’s great until a dry patch turns bumshining into bum-scraping and a quick release from the fender.
And try explaining to Mom why you lost another pair of gloves (that froze onto the fender and waved goodbye to you).
Even when riding the bus like normal people, the adventure continued. Bus drivers were cautioned not to tempt the ‘Jesus Saves’ sign. So it was never certain if the bus would make it up the second hill.
When stalling out, standard procedure was for the driver to say, “Everybody out!” and, with his foot on the gas, we would push the bus up the rest of the second hill.
The sad life of a clown piggy bank.
I was 11, my older brother 16. Without explanation, Mom and Dad took my younger brother (6) and two younger sisters (3 and 1) on a three-week holiday. And left us two at home alone.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t three weeks. But it sure felt like it. [I wonder now if it had anything to do with not enough room in the car for even one more – me].
It was a Roman holiday for my older brother. With no supervision, he had great parties with his friends. And I was left to figure out where my next meal was coming from. That’s where the clown bank comes in.
Dad saved buffalo nickels (U.S. coins). He fed them into a slot in the mouth of the clown. When they left town, the bank was full and very heavy. And whenever I needed some cash, I would tilt the clown over and do the knife-in-the-slot routine to slide out nickels. It took a lot of nickels to get me much cash.
By the time they got home, the clown was very light. But even worse, the evidence of my crime was a sad sight. The slot was now a fully rounded circle where I had worn away the plaster with my knife.
Needless to say, Dad was not pleased. It was a good occasion for Mom to say, “Where’s that strap!” But she didn’t. She was quite amused by it all. Her little Ronnie was making his way in the world.
That’s it for now. I’ll ponder on the desirability for a part 3.