When I was six, we moved from a tiny bungalow on Whalley Drive. That house was in a new development which had no trees, no sidewalks, and our driveway had huge gravel stones instead of pavement (it was murder on bare feet). My only fond memory of this house was the basement - my father had put up a swing! We would have picnics down there with a blanket and sandwiches our mother made for us. After these picnic lunches, my older sister would get us to march around the basement singing 'we're marching to New Brunswick'. I have no clue what the significance was of this song, but only recall we would all dutifully march around singing it - for hours! Oh, and the time my younger brother was hanging from the glass towel rack in the bathroom and sustained serious cuts when it (of course) broke. He had to go to the hospital and we were all scared but secretly (at least I was) fascinated with this accident.
If my mother hated Whalley Drive (and she did - the isolation was terrible for her after living with her family on St Joseph Street), she loathed Llewellyn. She told me later that she cried for the first three days after the move! I have no recollection of her misery as I was too busy exploring our new home. The house was the original farm house from the time when the whole area was farm land, and had been split to make two residences side by side. We were on one side and the Dallimores lived on the other.
In an effort to make the house more palatable for my mother, my father had a friend of his come in and 'redo the kitchen' and the 'third floor'. The kitchen was painted a shiny lime green colour including the ceiling-high cupboards and was truly awful. Even at my young age, I knew a kitchen shouldn't look like this one!
Later an automatic washer and dryer were crammed in. I have to give my Dad credit for purchasing these as, prior to that, my mother used a wringer washer and hung all the laundry on a very long clothesline that ran the length of our backyard - summer and winter! As she was doing about 8 - 9 loads of laundry a day, as poor as we were, having these automatic appliances was not a luxury but a necessity. She continued to hang bedding outside for many years claiming it made them smell so nice. She would then iron everything including dish towels, socks, underwear - everything! When I was old enough to iron (around 8), I made a deal with her - I would help with the ironing but refused to iron anything other than shirts and blouses. Anything that could be folded right off the line, or straight out of the dryer, did not need ironing in my opinion. Strangely, for she was pretty strict, she agreed to these conditions and even she stopped ironing those items as well!
The rest of the main floor had a large dining room and a small living room. There was a front and a back porch - the back porch was where we got all our deliveries - the milkman (Jimmy Morrison from Borden's - a huge blond viking of a man who never seemed to age and who had a moving company on the side that we continued to use in the future), the beer man (cases delivered regularly for my mother), and the bread man who would appear daily with a basket of fresh breads and buns from which to choose (he was missing the middle two fingers on the hand he used to carry the basket - I was both impressed and horrified at the same time). He also had a horse-drawn truck that transported his bakery goods - we spent many happy hours tormenting that poor old horse and trying to make it eat rotten apples!
The second floor had three bedrooms. On our first day of exploring this new (for us) house, I told my older sister that the master bedroom was actually mine. She believed me and was so upset that I should have scored such a large room, that she immediately sought out my mother to appeal the injustice of this. I got in trouble for (a) lying; (b) making my sister cry; and (c) distracting my mother from her busy day of unpacking!
The third floor (attic) became the 'girls' dormitory'. A floor was put in along with an assortment of double beds. I slept with whichever sister I wasn't fighting with at the time. My oldest sister had a bedroom on the second floor shared with a crib for the current toddler. The middle bedroom had bunk beds for the boys, and the master bedroom had my parents' bed and the cradle for the current infant. As the toddler and infant got older, they were relegated to the crib in my older sister's room, the boys' room, or up to the 'third floor' with the girls - with the newest infant then occupying the cradle in my parents' room
When my father's sister came from the hospital to convalesce with us after a near-death experience due to a leg infection, she stayed in my older sister's room. My sister came up to the cramped quarters of the 'third floor'. My aunt's son slept in the bunk room. They stayed with us for three months until my aunt was able to return home and take care of herself. There must have been at least 8 or 9 children at this time! How did my mother ever do it?
Part of the recovery program that my mother instituted for my aunt included time outside on a rickety old chaise longue so she could benefit from the sun's healing rays. I remember rubbing her damaged leg with olive oil to help the healing process. I would light and start her cigarettes for her as she was too weak to do this for herself. It was the least I could do to help her get better!
Her husband (my uncle - another Jim) would appear periodically to check on his wife and son. My parents, when pressed by me for details about this absentee husband, would say cryptically that he was a 'rod and gun' type and then exchange meaningful glances that were completely lost on me. He would compare his trucker tan with our pale limbs and laugh triumphantly that his was better. I was then determined to best him by sitting out and trying to acquire a tan! All I got was severely sunburned and had to endure the mortification of ceding superiority to him for being able to tan without burning. Some victory!
When my aunt finally left (along with our spoiled cousin), things returned to a relative normalcy and my older sister got her bedroom back. When I look back on those days, I am forced (for I rarely give her credit) to applaud my mother for stepping up and taking in my aunt. The question still remains - why the hell didn't her husband take care of her - and where were her other brothers and sisters during this time of need?
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