There are only three that I would give a star in the Priestly Hall of Fame - my list is short and brutal! Fr. Paul Duplessis (a Capuchin from St Philip Neri and chaplain to the French Language school my children attended), Fr Bernie Wilson (a late vocation as it was termed, at the Transfiguration Charismatic Prayer Group I attended with my older sister), and Fr Mongillo (a Dominican priest associated with the Catechises of the Good Shepherd and who won his place in my heart by calling my mother 'Mummy' when he visited us from Rome). Honourable mention would go to Fr Bud Cullen ( a Basilian and childhood friend of my father), Fr Paul Brennan (who valiantly tried to buck the tide), and Fr Hogan (former pastor at Our Lady of Sorrows and extremely popular with the school yard crowd) Oh, and I should throw in Bishop Allen - his redeeming quality was having great hair - silver and plentiful - and being nice to my younger sister when she was working part time at the rectory of Our Lady of Sorrows - he gets special mention for not being mean to her!
The rest were products of their upbringing and training at the seminaries of the time! One pastor of Our Lady of Sorrows would regularly call up parishioners to ask what they were having for dinner and invite himself if the menu was to his taste. This same priest embarrassed me beyond belief when I introduced my mother-in-law and her sister to him after mass one Sunday, by saying to me 'and you are?'. I had attended mass regularly at this church for over 25 years! Thank you very much (Oh my head is so big I can barely fit through the nave) Father!
My sister told me once that priests were merely sheep that had gone around in front of the altar - she denies it now and says I misunderstood what she was trying to say - but I took it the way I wanted. If we are all 'sheep' in the kingdom, we are all worthy to be behind the altar - female or not!
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
LENT - Not for the Faint Hearted!
I am about to describe Lent in the 1950s and I am serious when I say it is not for the faint hearted, so dear readers, beware. Do not read any (further as in more or farther as in down the page?) if you are blissfully unaware of the burden laid upon the tender backs of children by the Church!
Our parochial school revolved around the rites, observances, and liturgy of the Church. When Lent commenced, the nuns gleefully geared up for six weeks of penance and suffering. It started with the Ash Wednesday observance of mass and distribution of ashes. Every Catholic in the world attended mass that day to get their ashes - Remember man that thou are dust and unto dust thou shalt return. We would go to mass and get our ashes and rush to school to compare our crosses! In later years, the parish priest would come to the school to distribute ashes to those who had not attended mass. Ashes were a serious business and integral to the weeks that followed - a time to reflect on our unworthiness and to try and repent and make amends!
During Lent our school would have various fund raisers. The nuns distributed little cardboard boxes that folded out to make a church. We were to collect money in these boxes, bring them in, and then depending on how much we had raised, we could 'ransom' a little heathen baby in some under privileged place in the world. One Lent, we had a huge chart on the wall with a picture of a church. By raising a certain amount of money, we could colour in a brick or a window of this church to be built in some far off country. My family was barely able to make ends meet so I was never able to accumulate enough money to be able to colour in one of those bricks or windows. I was over whelmed with a huge sense of disappointment that all those heathen babies were left unbaptized because my parents would not give me money for my little Lent box!
My younger sister and I would trudge out in the dark each morning to attend daily mass. On occasion, we would stop at the Two Brothers' Restaurant on Bloor Street for a breakfast of white toast and jam - a fitting reward for our diligence in getting to mass every day during Lent. We would then return home in time to make porridge for breakfast for the rest of the family, and start the coffee for our parents. We were so small we had to climb up on the counter to reach things in the cupboard. Speaking of making coffee, Mrs Dallimore our next door neighbour, would send over one of her kids each morning with a coffee cup to be filled from our ever present coffee pot! We never questioned this practice - it was what it was.
Fridays during Lent meant the Stations of the Cross. The whole school, led by our resolute and often grim teachers, would head over to the Church for the dreaded 14 stations. Crammed in there, in my winter gear, hot, sweaty and impatient, all I could think was 'Simon, pick up the damn cross - Veronica, wipe those tears - oh please, let it end'. Is it any wonder that I spent every Saturday afternoon at confession! Which segues into......
Saturday Afternoon Confession! Every Saturday my father would gather up all the children who had made their First Communion, and haul us over to the Church to go to Confession. I figured out quickly which priest meted out the least amount of penance based on the length of the line outside their confessional. Surprisingly my main concern was not the accurate tallying of the number of times I had lied, disobeyed my parents, or got angry, but rather if I would remember the Act of Contrition that ended my part of the confession process. I now wonder what those priest were thinking when listening to the 'confession' of a child. I recall one priest saying as he dispensed penance and absolution, 'do something nice for your mother'. Whoa there Father, that's not the deal. Do something nice for my mother? Please, just give me my five Hail Marys and five Our Fathers'.
Our parochial school revolved around the rites, observances, and liturgy of the Church. When Lent commenced, the nuns gleefully geared up for six weeks of penance and suffering. It started with the Ash Wednesday observance of mass and distribution of ashes. Every Catholic in the world attended mass that day to get their ashes - Remember man that thou are dust and unto dust thou shalt return. We would go to mass and get our ashes and rush to school to compare our crosses! In later years, the parish priest would come to the school to distribute ashes to those who had not attended mass. Ashes were a serious business and integral to the weeks that followed - a time to reflect on our unworthiness and to try and repent and make amends!
During Lent our school would have various fund raisers. The nuns distributed little cardboard boxes that folded out to make a church. We were to collect money in these boxes, bring them in, and then depending on how much we had raised, we could 'ransom' a little heathen baby in some under privileged place in the world. One Lent, we had a huge chart on the wall with a picture of a church. By raising a certain amount of money, we could colour in a brick or a window of this church to be built in some far off country. My family was barely able to make ends meet so I was never able to accumulate enough money to be able to colour in one of those bricks or windows. I was over whelmed with a huge sense of disappointment that all those heathen babies were left unbaptized because my parents would not give me money for my little Lent box!
My younger sister and I would trudge out in the dark each morning to attend daily mass. On occasion, we would stop at the Two Brothers' Restaurant on Bloor Street for a breakfast of white toast and jam - a fitting reward for our diligence in getting to mass every day during Lent. We would then return home in time to make porridge for breakfast for the rest of the family, and start the coffee for our parents. We were so small we had to climb up on the counter to reach things in the cupboard. Speaking of making coffee, Mrs Dallimore our next door neighbour, would send over one of her kids each morning with a coffee cup to be filled from our ever present coffee pot! We never questioned this practice - it was what it was.
Fridays during Lent meant the Stations of the Cross. The whole school, led by our resolute and often grim teachers, would head over to the Church for the dreaded 14 stations. Crammed in there, in my winter gear, hot, sweaty and impatient, all I could think was 'Simon, pick up the damn cross - Veronica, wipe those tears - oh please, let it end'. Is it any wonder that I spent every Saturday afternoon at confession! Which segues into......
Saturday Afternoon Confession! Every Saturday my father would gather up all the children who had made their First Communion, and haul us over to the Church to go to Confession. I figured out quickly which priest meted out the least amount of penance based on the length of the line outside their confessional. Surprisingly my main concern was not the accurate tallying of the number of times I had lied, disobeyed my parents, or got angry, but rather if I would remember the Act of Contrition that ended my part of the confession process. I now wonder what those priest were thinking when listening to the 'confession' of a child. I recall one priest saying as he dispensed penance and absolution, 'do something nice for your mother'. Whoa there Father, that's not the deal. Do something nice for my mother? Please, just give me my five Hail Marys and five Our Fathers'.
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
The Family Chain of Responsibility
When I say 'Responsibility' I mean there was no 'Authority'. My parents hit upon a particularly brilliant (for them) idea where the older members of the family were assigned responsibility for the younger ones! So, around the age of 8, I was made responsible for my second younger brother. It might not have been so bad had not the luck of the draw linked me with a particularly troublesome. accident prone sibling.
Since I was responsible for him, not only did I have to feed, bathe, change and look after him, I was also the 'go to person' if he got in trouble - and the trouble he got into surpassed all others in the family! When the city decided to put up new telephone poles, he managed to fall head first down one of the post holes which was filled with water after a prolonged rainfall! Miraculously (his Guardian Angel no doubt) a neighbour saw what had happened, ran out and was able to grab his legs, but being very slight, she could only lie beside the hole holding him above the water! Another neighbour, Mr Mitchell (big and strong) luckily came home in time to rescue both by hauling my brother out of the hole!
He managed to open the little window and crawl out onto the roof of the third floor girls' bedroom and proceed to throw all our clothes out on the lawn! He got stuck in the 'quick sand' mud behind our school and was pulled out by the elderly caretaker Mr Cade, losing his socks, shoes, and boots in the process!
All of these transgressions were laid at my door! Where was I when all of this happened! Excuses were never accepted and I would dart hateful glances at my brother when we were BOTH punished for his crimes! It is with a deep and abiding love that I now admit to having a special bond with this brother - the tie has never been broken! Inspite of all I endured because of him, I see him and in my heart is a maternal connection that pulses strong and real - oh you naughty boy!
Since I was responsible for him, not only did I have to feed, bathe, change and look after him, I was also the 'go to person' if he got in trouble - and the trouble he got into surpassed all others in the family! When the city decided to put up new telephone poles, he managed to fall head first down one of the post holes which was filled with water after a prolonged rainfall! Miraculously (his Guardian Angel no doubt) a neighbour saw what had happened, ran out and was able to grab his legs, but being very slight, she could only lie beside the hole holding him above the water! Another neighbour, Mr Mitchell (big and strong) luckily came home in time to rescue both by hauling my brother out of the hole!
He managed to open the little window and crawl out onto the roof of the third floor girls' bedroom and proceed to throw all our clothes out on the lawn! He got stuck in the 'quick sand' mud behind our school and was pulled out by the elderly caretaker Mr Cade, losing his socks, shoes, and boots in the process!
All of these transgressions were laid at my door! Where was I when all of this happened! Excuses were never accepted and I would dart hateful glances at my brother when we were BOTH punished for his crimes! It is with a deep and abiding love that I now admit to having a special bond with this brother - the tie has never been broken! Inspite of all I endured because of him, I see him and in my heart is a maternal connection that pulses strong and real - oh you naughty boy!
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?
Saturday, January 8, 2011
The Four Humours
My sister says I am archetypal - I choose to see this as a compliment. Her observation resulted from our exchange today when I told her - 'remember the four humours - choleric, sanguine, melancholy, and phelgmatic? Whatever happened to them?'
I see these ancient Greek humours as a key to how we interact and behave. Melancholy is so much nicer than depression. Choleric makes a bad temper so much more acceptable. My older sister (on her deathbed) said to me that she wished she had lived her life with more passion (sanguine) but then she wouldn't have been who she was.
I know I fluctuate between these humours - some days I am sanguine - passionate for some cause. Often phlegmatic - whatever............. Able to conjur up choleric as happened when I took my car in for a simple oil change and they tried to scare me into an expensive repair! And melancholy when I feel sorry for myself and just want to have a good old pity party.
Reducing our emotions to these four simple components allows us to accept the ebb and flow of our volatile natures. I don't think it is a bad thing.
I see these ancient Greek humours as a key to how we interact and behave. Melancholy is so much nicer than depression. Choleric makes a bad temper so much more acceptable. My older sister (on her deathbed) said to me that she wished she had lived her life with more passion (sanguine) but then she wouldn't have been who she was.
I know I fluctuate between these humours - some days I am sanguine - passionate for some cause. Often phlegmatic - whatever............. Able to conjur up choleric as happened when I took my car in for a simple oil change and they tried to scare me into an expensive repair! And melancholy when I feel sorry for myself and just want to have a good old pity party.
Reducing our emotions to these four simple components allows us to accept the ebb and flow of our volatile natures. I don't think it is a bad thing.
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