Sharon Dow

Time seemed to move so slowly when we were young. I thought I was never going to be old enough to go to school. My neighbourhood friends all seemed to be a little older than I and so arrived at the great day a year in advance. I remember being five and longing to go with the others, but I had to wait.

I remember sitting on our back steps ‘thinking’ while I waited for the school day to end so my friends would be home to play. My mind was just beginning to sort through ‘big’ questions. I would look at the sky and wonder what was out there beyond the clouds. I remember feeling very small as I began to take in just how big the earth and heavens really are.

My sixth birthday did finally arrive one June morning, and I then could barely contain myself as I anticipated Grade 1 in September. Summer fun eased the anticipation as I played long and hard each day. My favourite mud-puddle continued to produce superior mud after the rain; the old apple tree provided an outlet for our climbing aspirations, and the tall grass in the vacant lot gave us places to hide and run.

The sun set a little earlier each evening as we moved into August, and one morning there was frost on the ground. Leaves darkened, flowers bloomed and died, the vegetables in my dad’s garden ripened, new clothes were purchased along with pencils, notebooks, erasers; and I knew it would not be long.

Tuesday, September 5, 1950 dawned at last. My excitement level reached new peaks as the time neared for leaving the house. My mother prepared my breakfast, but I was not able to eat. I managed to nibble on a couple of soda crackers but that was it. I remember I took a banana for recess. My next door neighbour, Ruth, walked me to school that first day. She was in Grade 8 or 9 at the time and took me there safely.

I can still see the classroom and some of the faces that graced the desks that morning. Many years later, I covered a medical leave for my Grade 1 teacher. We had a fun time talking about those early days. But that day, she was queen of my classroom. And so began a life-long learning session for me. Now, over 60 years later, I’m still learning.

The days and weeks piled up as the school year advanced. New friendships were cemented, playground games learned and enjoyed, choirs joined, concerts performed; a whole new world opened that was to consume me for the next six decades.

Do you remember the skipping ropes, marbles, Red Rover, Farmer in the Dell, balls, hop scotch, Bluebird, bluebird through my window, London Bridge, and a host of other memorable games? We had no need for playground equipment; we used our imaginations and played and played. At the first ring of the bell to end recess, we, like obedient sheep, herded to our lines promising ourselves and each other that our games would continue at the next break.

Little glimpses of those early years spark tender memories: notes from the boy in the next grade that I refused to read; talking in line with a friend and being sent back to the classroom and receiving the strap; standing in the corner in grade three because I was talking (again!) My problem was that I always wanted to be the first one to finish my workbook page and to have no mistakes on it. So, once that was done, what else was there for me to do but talk? Miss Mailman did not agree. She was, however, one of my favourite teachers. I loved how she dressed, deep purples and greens; these colours made an impact on me, especially the purple.

Children have funny notions about things (at least I did). I had never seen my teachers outside of school and so it stood to reason, my reason, that they must live in the school. I remember trying to figure out where Miss Mailman kept her bed. I finally concluded that it must be under her desk and brought out at night. When I became a teacher, I was very relieved that I did not need to live at school.

And so began my school years. I now have a grand-daughter who is six. I see the same excitement on her face when she talks about school. I see her developing friendships and learning the same alphabet and system of numbers her grandmother learned so many years ago. She even skips and plays some of the same games. Sometimes the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Music has always played a big part in my life. I remember singing as a young child; all the Sunday School chorus’s, Christmas and Easter songs, and later school songs. Neither my mother nor father were singers or players of instruments (although dad had taken a few piano lessons when he was a boy and could still run his fingers over the keys to play one of the pieces he had learned).

But my mother determined that I would learn to play the piano. Just one problem, we didn’t have a piano. I’m not sure where she found the piano, I only know it was not a new one, but turned out to be a good choice. I was six when the piano arrived in front of our upstairs flat on Guilford St. From the street door, a small vestibule was entered with two inner doors, one for the downstairs flat, and one for ours. Inside our door was a tall, straight staircase.

The men bringing the piano on a truck unloaded it and prepared to bring it to us. Ah, problem; it would not make the transition through the outside door and past our door to enter the stairway. Now what? Not to be deterred, they checked out the front windows (second story remember) and decided it was worth a try. The windows were removed, a sling of sorts put around the piano, and they began hoisting it up toward the windows. I can’t remember the details, or how difficult this impossible job was, but the piano arrived, unharmed, in our living-room. (When we moved two years later, the process had to be reversed.)

The piano was a Mason Risch, Canadian made, right here in Toronto. It was a big upright and took up a lot of space in our tiny living-room, but my mother thought it was worth it. Oh the joy when I was first able to touch the keys and hear the sounds it produced. Years later when I was purchasing a piano for my own home, I searched until I found an apartment sized Mason Risch. I don’t know who got my first piano when my parents sold their home and moved to an apartment. I was living in Ontario by then and had my own piano. I’m guessing that it is still doing faithful service for some small child, setting them on a musical path that will add a dimension to their lives that is different from any other.

My first piano teacher was a retired school teacher, Miss Mabel F. Sharp. How cool is that? What else could a lady do whose name was F. Sharp? She was gentle and encouraging and I took to piano like the proverbial duck to water. My mother decided that I needed to practice an hour each day. Those were the days when moms worked in the home and children walked to and from school. We all lived in the neighbourhood. Lunch was 1 ½ hours long so we could easily go home for lunch. In fact, I don’t recall anyone staying for lunch in those early years. School dismissed at 12:00 noon. I arrived home shortly after, ate my lunch (which was already made and waiting for me), and was at the piano by 12:30. That gave me 30 minutes to practice before heading back to school around 1:00. I remember that some days it was hard to focus as I could hear my friends playing outside and I longed to be with them.

The other half hour would be made up after school and/or after supper. I’m not sure if the hour practice started when I was six, or if I gradually worked into it, but it became standard practice until I completed high school. The only times I was relieved of this duty was Sundays and holidays.

I soon completed book 1 and proceeded into book 2. Now, sixty years later, I can still recall most of the pieces from the first book, in order! I loved to memorize. And so I proceeded to learn from gentle Miss Sharp who did not push me to greater heights, but was satisfied with all my work. My life would change dramatically when my mother heard of another teacher who would come to our house and give lessons there. But that is another story and will come to light when I make the move to Rodney Street.

I was soon singing in Sunday School and church, Christmas Concerts both in school and church, and in school choirs. I loved to sing. I’ve recently had some problems with my voice (due to a food sensitivity) and although I no longer sing solos or in choirs, I still miss singing and am working to regain my singing voice for my own amusement. Progress has been made and I trust I will soon be able to sing as I did before. Music flows through the blood and a happy heart longs to sing.