Off my parents' bedroom on Llewellyn was a tiny hall that led to a closet area on one side, and to a sunroom which was over our front porch. This room was unheated and in terrible condition, unused and served merely as storage area. One summer I had the brilliant idea of turning it into a bedroom! Tired and fed up with the third floor girls' dormitory, I coerced my younger sister into begging my parents to let us fix it up and use it for the summer. My mother, distracted with the every day needs of managing ten children, blew us off by saying if we cleaned it up, we could use it. The next week was Homeric in our resolve to change it into a viable living quarter.
We dragged everything out, cleaned it all up, washed and waxed the wooden floor, somehow managed to find two twin beds, and triumphantly displayed our work to my mother. She agreed we had kept our end of the bargain and let us use it as a bedroom! We were allowed to move to the sunroom for the summer.
Sleeping there, with the windows open (they were on all three sides, half way up and could be latched to the ceiling) and trees surrounding it, was an experience I will never forget. We woke to the sun shining in the windows, the breeze wafting over and around us - it was as if we were in a tree house shut off from everything and in our own little world!
Once summer was over and the cold weather came, our sunroom bedroom turned back into a storage area and my sister and I went back to the third floor. My recollection is we never used the sunroom as a bedroom again - it didn't matter - we had a dream and we made it happen!
Showing posts with label Llewellyn. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Llewellyn. Show all posts
Saturday, January 22, 2011
The Women of Llewellyn
Please dear readers, understand that in my description of the Women of Llewellyn, I am describing them as I saw them at the age of six up to fourteen, with the brutal unfeeling eye of a young girl who did not have any patience or appreciation of their life or what they had endured!
Our next door neighbour was Kay Dallimore. She never raised her voice and always had a slight smile on her face. She was kind and loved my mother. I remember her hands with short blunt unpolished nails - the hands of a nurse. My mother wore nail polish all the time - like her, I paint my nails, and always when I do my nails, I remember my mother. Later in life, when she was unable to do her own nails, my sisters would put polish on them for her. I never did but when I would see one of my sisters carefully applying the polish, I would sigh and think how wonderful they were to do this for my mother. Perhaps one day my daughters will have to paint my nails - although I have told them repeatedly that when I am no longer able to go and get my roots done, or get myself to a salon for a mani/pedi, they have my permission to 'pull the plug'.
Mrs Dallimore had seven children - a small family by my standards. Her husband Larry, loud, brash and my tormentor! He would tease me about the church as he was not a Catholic - theirs was a 'mixed marriage'. He would make jokes about priests and cardinals and my head would spin with visions of him going straight to hell for his blasphemy. The Dallimore children became close friends of my younger siblings while I, being older, was of an age to be a babysitter!
Their house was the mirror image of ours but somehow seemed to be better. They were not as 'poor' as we were so there was always a tinge of jealousy when I thought of them. They had a little record player that I would use when I babysat - 45s as they were called - and I would play records over and over.
Across the street was Kay Egerton - I cannot recall how many children they had but I know that they were even poorer than we were. Her husband was Lou and I picked up my mother's negative opinion of him - the unspoken message was that he did not measure up. Kay Egerton was fiercely loyal to him and I admired that she never ever complained about him. They sold their house and moved to Georgetown. We went to visit them once - they had purchased a farm house and it had flies! I was obsessed with the flies and couldn't get out of there fast enough! How shallow I was........
Peg Newton also lived across the street. She was a 'war bride' and had met and married Bev Newton in England during the war. She was ontologically scarred by the deprivation she had experienced during the war in Britain. She would carefully check over each and every shopping receipt against what they had bought - although I didn't appreciate it at the time, I later came to understand how wise she was. I recall her saving butter wrappings and using them to grease pans - a tip I later used! She had a huge scar on her neck from a burst gland - things children notice and fixate on!
Then there was Mrs Hill. I always thought of their family as being 'hillbillys'. Where this came from, I have no explanation. She had long grey hair and it seemed that there was always some crisis in their household - either with the husband or the children - Keith, Roy, and Irene - there may have been another brother but I cannot recall his name.
There were the Harrisons - the husband was Wilf (I thought the name weird until I realized my own father's middle name was Wilfrid) but I do not recall her name. She had long red hair which I heard my mother curtly and dismissively mention being due to her husband liking long hair - harrumph! Two boys - Bobby and Gary - Gary a bully - and Bobby, sweet and gentle. Gary tormented me and my younger sister and one day, fed up with his constant attacks on us and feeling all righteous, I punched him and miraculously managed to connect with his nose giving him a glorious nose bleed. His mother came over to complain to my mother, and although she went through the motions of saying how awful it was that her daughter had been so violent, I knew she applauded my bravado when she smiled at me after Mrs Harrison had left.
At the end of our street, on Islington Avenue, was Mrs Mitchell. I thought of her as Marmy from Little Women and saw her daughter Heather as the embodiment of Beth from same story. I do not recall her ever saying a word but she exuded a calm and spiritual manner that greatly impressed me.
These women embodied the spirit of their time. They cared and nurtured their children and served not only their families, but one another. I know that every woman on that street would drop whatever they were doing to come to the aid of each other. Over the years, their kindness and support helped my mother through a very difficult time. It was with sorrow and a huge sense of loss, that my mother left our home on Llewellyn when the area was rezoned to extend Islington Avenue.
While I had few regrets at moving, I know that I am so lucky to have experienced the community that was Llewellyn
Our next door neighbour was Kay Dallimore. She never raised her voice and always had a slight smile on her face. She was kind and loved my mother. I remember her hands with short blunt unpolished nails - the hands of a nurse. My mother wore nail polish all the time - like her, I paint my nails, and always when I do my nails, I remember my mother. Later in life, when she was unable to do her own nails, my sisters would put polish on them for her. I never did but when I would see one of my sisters carefully applying the polish, I would sigh and think how wonderful they were to do this for my mother. Perhaps one day my daughters will have to paint my nails - although I have told them repeatedly that when I am no longer able to go and get my roots done, or get myself to a salon for a mani/pedi, they have my permission to 'pull the plug'.
Mrs Dallimore had seven children - a small family by my standards. Her husband Larry, loud, brash and my tormentor! He would tease me about the church as he was not a Catholic - theirs was a 'mixed marriage'. He would make jokes about priests and cardinals and my head would spin with visions of him going straight to hell for his blasphemy. The Dallimore children became close friends of my younger siblings while I, being older, was of an age to be a babysitter!
Their house was the mirror image of ours but somehow seemed to be better. They were not as 'poor' as we were so there was always a tinge of jealousy when I thought of them. They had a little record player that I would use when I babysat - 45s as they were called - and I would play records over and over.
Across the street was Kay Egerton - I cannot recall how many children they had but I know that they were even poorer than we were. Her husband was Lou and I picked up my mother's negative opinion of him - the unspoken message was that he did not measure up. Kay Egerton was fiercely loyal to him and I admired that she never ever complained about him. They sold their house and moved to Georgetown. We went to visit them once - they had purchased a farm house and it had flies! I was obsessed with the flies and couldn't get out of there fast enough! How shallow I was........
Peg Newton also lived across the street. She was a 'war bride' and had met and married Bev Newton in England during the war. She was ontologically scarred by the deprivation she had experienced during the war in Britain. She would carefully check over each and every shopping receipt against what they had bought - although I didn't appreciate it at the time, I later came to understand how wise she was. I recall her saving butter wrappings and using them to grease pans - a tip I later used! She had a huge scar on her neck from a burst gland - things children notice and fixate on!
Then there was Mrs Hill. I always thought of their family as being 'hillbillys'. Where this came from, I have no explanation. She had long grey hair and it seemed that there was always some crisis in their household - either with the husband or the children - Keith, Roy, and Irene - there may have been another brother but I cannot recall his name.
There were the Harrisons - the husband was Wilf (I thought the name weird until I realized my own father's middle name was Wilfrid) but I do not recall her name. She had long red hair which I heard my mother curtly and dismissively mention being due to her husband liking long hair - harrumph! Two boys - Bobby and Gary - Gary a bully - and Bobby, sweet and gentle. Gary tormented me and my younger sister and one day, fed up with his constant attacks on us and feeling all righteous, I punched him and miraculously managed to connect with his nose giving him a glorious nose bleed. His mother came over to complain to my mother, and although she went through the motions of saying how awful it was that her daughter had been so violent, I knew she applauded my bravado when she smiled at me after Mrs Harrison had left.
At the end of our street, on Islington Avenue, was Mrs Mitchell. I thought of her as Marmy from Little Women and saw her daughter Heather as the embodiment of Beth from same story. I do not recall her ever saying a word but she exuded a calm and spiritual manner that greatly impressed me.
These women embodied the spirit of their time. They cared and nurtured their children and served not only their families, but one another. I know that every woman on that street would drop whatever they were doing to come to the aid of each other. Over the years, their kindness and support helped my mother through a very difficult time. It was with sorrow and a huge sense of loss, that my mother left our home on Llewellyn when the area was rezoned to extend Islington Avenue.
While I had few regrets at moving, I know that I am so lucky to have experienced the community that was Llewellyn
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Central Park
Llewellyn was bordered by train tracks on the south, Islington Avenue on the west, and Central Park behind and which stretched around the north and east perimeter of our street. Central Park was the recreation area of our microcosm and provided unlimited activities for us. Tennis courts, baseball diamond, swings and slides, skating rink in the winter - everything we could ever ask for! Islington ended at our street so access to Central Park was either down the dirt hill at the end of Islington, or down through the bush behind our street.
At the bottom of the hill and beside Central Park, was a swamp area (later cleared to make way for Richview Side Road), which we called the 'Chinese Gardens' for some unknown reason. This swamp was filled with bull rushes, a variety of pond life, and was a magnet for the boys in the area. The bull rushes were collected to use as weapons during fights and I remember getting hit with them and having them explode showering me with fibres and seeds.
Central Park had a summer day camp every year and once school was out, we couldn't wait for the camp to open. We spent every day at this camp doing arts and crafts, playing games, but mainly watching in awe as our camp counsellors worked on their tans with baby oil! They seemed like gods to me. I recall Brian Shore, bleached blond hair and muscled body, who looked like a Beach Boy (before the Beach Boys ever existed) and who became the object of my affection that summer. Another counsellor was Dave Dryden (brother of the legendary Ken Dryden). I marvelled that these gods would walk among us and interact with mere mortals - and mortal children at that!
The end of summer camp was marked by a Penny Carnival! We had booths for games and to sell things we collected from our neighbours! The carnival culminated with a parade where we all got to dress up and march around the neighbourhood! One summer parade, I wore a long green velvet gown (obtained from Chrissy Crawford's dress up trunk) and had my hair down (usually in braids to avoid cootees). I felt like Guinevere and cast longing glances at my Lancelot (a male counsellor of course).
The park has been renamed Thomas Riley Park but it will always be Central Park to me!
At the bottom of the hill and beside Central Park, was a swamp area (later cleared to make way for Richview Side Road), which we called the 'Chinese Gardens' for some unknown reason. This swamp was filled with bull rushes, a variety of pond life, and was a magnet for the boys in the area. The bull rushes were collected to use as weapons during fights and I remember getting hit with them and having them explode showering me with fibres and seeds.
Central Park had a summer day camp every year and once school was out, we couldn't wait for the camp to open. We spent every day at this camp doing arts and crafts, playing games, but mainly watching in awe as our camp counsellors worked on their tans with baby oil! They seemed like gods to me. I recall Brian Shore, bleached blond hair and muscled body, who looked like a Beach Boy (before the Beach Boys ever existed) and who became the object of my affection that summer. Another counsellor was Dave Dryden (brother of the legendary Ken Dryden). I marvelled that these gods would walk among us and interact with mere mortals - and mortal children at that!
The end of summer camp was marked by a Penny Carnival! We had booths for games and to sell things we collected from our neighbours! The carnival culminated with a parade where we all got to dress up and march around the neighbourhood! One summer parade, I wore a long green velvet gown (obtained from Chrissy Crawford's dress up trunk) and had my hair down (usually in braids to avoid cootees). I felt like Guinevere and cast longing glances at my Lancelot (a male counsellor of course).
The park has been renamed Thomas Riley Park but it will always be Central Park to me!
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Llewellyn as Microcosm
The online dictionary that I checked, defines microcosm as 'a little world; a world in miniature' and that is exactly what Llewellyn was. The street was a cul de sac with houses in a semi-circle. As a result, we were able to play outside on the street (and on everyone's lawns) without fear as there were few cars.
On occasion, we would each stand on our own lawn and declare it the country of our ancestry with fierce pride and not allow anyone else to trespass. Our lawn was Ireland - and across the street was England with the Newtons - and so on around the circle. This would only last a few minutes until someone brought out their skipping rope and all the girls would immediately cry 'never ender' and race for position. We had special skipping songs that we chanted while waiting to jump in and join the intricate 'double-dutch' game. Another favourite game was Yogi which entailed a long line of elastics (rubber bands) joined together, that you had to jump over in a variety of difficult ways - one foot, hands behind back, and so on. The boys would run off to play baseball or road hockey - or fight each other - a popular pass time much to annoyance of the parents of the 'losers'.
This was a not an elite or wealthy neighbourhood, and most were poor and struggled hard to provide for their families. I was perpetually jealous of the single child families (Chrissy Crawford who had more toys than the rest of the street combined, and Marlene Burke who was called Little Miss Sunshine by her parents because they said she looked like the girl on the Wonder Bread wrapper). There was a sense of security knowing that the parents were keeping an eye on all of us and would discipline any of us if necessary. Parents were omnipotent in those days and no one would dare to disobey our own or any other parent - unless of course it was worth the risk!
There were so many children on the street that there was always someone to play with - or get in trouble with. Little cliques would form and then change or melt away. My recollection was that everyone was my friend (to a greater or lesser degree). There were some older siblings on the street who were not part of the gang that regularly played together. They had a certain aura of mystery around them - we did not know what they actually did all day long while we were out playing. They were, however, always available to step in and settle disputes if necessary but that was looked down upon as being unfair. Once Bernie Burley threatened to call his older brother Wayne to beat me up if I didn't stop teasing him. I had a huge crush on Wayne so the thought appealed to me. I chased Bernie and he actually climbed a spindly little tree on their lawn and started crying (he was older and weighed much more than I did so I had no remorse for terrorizing him). Instead of the hoped for appearance of Wayne, it was his mother who came to his rescue shouting 'Bernard, get down out of that tree'. Bernard? She calls him Bernard? He never lived it down and when anyone wanted to tease him, all they had to say was 'Oh Bernard" and he would immediately start crying!
In the summer when we were all out of school, we played from dawn to dusk - literally. My younger brother described it well by saying that each day seemed like three - there was the 'morning' - and the 'afternoon' - and then the 'evening' - and each seemed to last for hours and hours. We had races, we skipped, we played hide and seek, we built forts, we explored the 'bush' (a stretch of uncleared land that ran behind our street) to find sticks (handy for fights), or just to jump back and forth over the little creek at the bottom of the bush.
In winter, we skated down the hill to the ice rink in Central Park - or had snow ball fights behind snow forts we made, that went on for days stopped only by the need for lunch, or dinner, or dry mitts. My mother had placed a dish drainer on the radiator in the kitchen where we put our mitts and hats to dry and which fell off regularly with a huge clatter. There were no ski jackets in those days and we all had to wear wool felt coats with hoods - even the boys. Our winter gear would quickly become soaked along with our mittens and hats. I had chapped wrists for most of the winter but it never stopped me from participating in the Homeric snow ball fights!
As one of the older children in my family, I was forced to care for the younger ones. This severely cramped my activities and I was always trying to figure out ways to avoid having to look after my younger brother and sisters. I would tie my younger brothers to the big maple tree on our lawn with their harnesses (yes, kids wore harnesses in those days!) where they would dutifully sit while I played with my friends. It wasn't as bad as it sounds - there were other younger children who would sit with them or play games - and their harnesses were pretty long - I swear!
On occasion, we would each stand on our own lawn and declare it the country of our ancestry with fierce pride and not allow anyone else to trespass. Our lawn was Ireland - and across the street was England with the Newtons - and so on around the circle. This would only last a few minutes until someone brought out their skipping rope and all the girls would immediately cry 'never ender' and race for position. We had special skipping songs that we chanted while waiting to jump in and join the intricate 'double-dutch' game. Another favourite game was Yogi which entailed a long line of elastics (rubber bands) joined together, that you had to jump over in a variety of difficult ways - one foot, hands behind back, and so on. The boys would run off to play baseball or road hockey - or fight each other - a popular pass time much to annoyance of the parents of the 'losers'.
This was a not an elite or wealthy neighbourhood, and most were poor and struggled hard to provide for their families. I was perpetually jealous of the single child families (Chrissy Crawford who had more toys than the rest of the street combined, and Marlene Burke who was called Little Miss Sunshine by her parents because they said she looked like the girl on the Wonder Bread wrapper). There was a sense of security knowing that the parents were keeping an eye on all of us and would discipline any of us if necessary. Parents were omnipotent in those days and no one would dare to disobey our own or any other parent - unless of course it was worth the risk!
There were so many children on the street that there was always someone to play with - or get in trouble with. Little cliques would form and then change or melt away. My recollection was that everyone was my friend (to a greater or lesser degree). There were some older siblings on the street who were not part of the gang that regularly played together. They had a certain aura of mystery around them - we did not know what they actually did all day long while we were out playing. They were, however, always available to step in and settle disputes if necessary but that was looked down upon as being unfair. Once Bernie Burley threatened to call his older brother Wayne to beat me up if I didn't stop teasing him. I had a huge crush on Wayne so the thought appealed to me. I chased Bernie and he actually climbed a spindly little tree on their lawn and started crying (he was older and weighed much more than I did so I had no remorse for terrorizing him). Instead of the hoped for appearance of Wayne, it was his mother who came to his rescue shouting 'Bernard, get down out of that tree'. Bernard? She calls him Bernard? He never lived it down and when anyone wanted to tease him, all they had to say was 'Oh Bernard" and he would immediately start crying!
In the summer when we were all out of school, we played from dawn to dusk - literally. My younger brother described it well by saying that each day seemed like three - there was the 'morning' - and the 'afternoon' - and then the 'evening' - and each seemed to last for hours and hours. We had races, we skipped, we played hide and seek, we built forts, we explored the 'bush' (a stretch of uncleared land that ran behind our street) to find sticks (handy for fights), or just to jump back and forth over the little creek at the bottom of the bush.
In winter, we skated down the hill to the ice rink in Central Park - or had snow ball fights behind snow forts we made, that went on for days stopped only by the need for lunch, or dinner, or dry mitts. My mother had placed a dish drainer on the radiator in the kitchen where we put our mitts and hats to dry and which fell off regularly with a huge clatter. There were no ski jackets in those days and we all had to wear wool felt coats with hoods - even the boys. Our winter gear would quickly become soaked along with our mittens and hats. I had chapped wrists for most of the winter but it never stopped me from participating in the Homeric snow ball fights!
As one of the older children in my family, I was forced to care for the younger ones. This severely cramped my activities and I was always trying to figure out ways to avoid having to look after my younger brother and sisters. I would tie my younger brothers to the big maple tree on our lawn with their harnesses (yes, kids wore harnesses in those days!) where they would dutifully sit while I played with my friends. It wasn't as bad as it sounds - there were other younger children who would sit with them or play games - and their harnesses were pretty long - I swear!
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Moving to Llewellyn
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?
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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