Sharon Dow

Glimpses into History – The Big Move

I am reluctant to leave our little flat on Guilford Street, but time moves on and we have no choice but to move with it. I was eight years old and knew nothing but this one safe haven. When things were scary out in the world, I always knew that if I could just get home, I would be safe.

But moving day did come. My parents had bought a beautiful home on Rodney Street, only two blocks away from our flat, but eons away in my mind, and in the changes that would come with the move. I can only imagine the excitement my parents must have shared as this house would be the first home they owned. It was large, so much larger than the flat, and it had a nice backyard, a front yard (our flat had no front yard, it opened onto the sidewalk as most of the homes did in our area), and at last we would be living on the main level.

The house had been built for a doctor forty years before and included a waiting room and examination room complete with a sink. It also had access to the one washroom. These rooms were rented when we moved there. The other difference was that although this had been a large home with four bedrooms upstairs, the upstairs had been made into an apartment. So although it was a large house, we only lived in part of it.

The details that set it apart from others still stay in my mind. It was the only time I ever lived in a house with stained glass windows. The living-room had two, one over the large front window, and one set high in another outside wall. The bedrooms had stained glass set in at the top of the windows, as well. What a joy it was to discover what happened when the sun shone through them; we had rainbows on the walls and patterns on the floor. For the years that we lived in that house, I never tired of the stained glass or lost the magical feeling when they shed their beams into our rooms.

There were two mahogany pillars at the entrance to the living-room and the dining-room boasted a fireplace. It was a wonderful house, but in our first years there we were crowded, not as much as in the flat, but crowded because of the rental areas. The house had double parlors, and the second of these became my parents’ bedroom. As it opened out into the living-room, there was a sliding door that covered the large opening. My brother now had the privilege of sleeping in the dining-room. We had a davenport there which my mother would open up and make into his bed each evening.

But where did Sharon sleep? I graduated from the dining-room to one end of the pantry! You laugh, and I am smiling as I write this. The house originally had a large pantry, but the previous owners had reduced the size of the pantry, thus creating a tiny room off the second living-room. There was room for a single bed that took up all the space along one wall, and a small dresser which managed to fit under the window. That was it. But it was a little piece of heaven to me. I finally had my own room. The entrance to it was from my parents’ bedroom, but this only added to the safety I felt at home.

As I look back over my growing up years, this is the place I think of as home. Yes, the flat holds many precious memories, but it was this new location that would forever be etched in my mind as home.

My Tribute to a Friend

It has long disturbed me to sit at funerals and memorial services and listen to the well-deserved eulogies being given to honor the person who has recently passed away. My thoughts always stray to wondering if the persons themselves were ever told how much they meant to the speaker. Should not the dead have heard such words when they were still alive and been encouraged and uplifted by the kind words?

My thinking has led me to ponder how I could change this pattern, at least in the lives of people I love and respect. My decision has not come lightly for I do not want anyone to think that they may not have long for this world, nor do I want to sound as though I am looking for something in return. Neither is the case. I decided it was worth the risk of being misunderstood and consequently I am starting a new blog series called, “My Tribute”. If you are reading this blog, you may one day appear as the topic of the day. And when you do, I trust you will take this as my heartfelt thanks for what you mean to me in my life. I want you to know how knowing you has made a difference to me.

What I would like from you is, if you know the person being honored, and if they have made an impact in your life, leave a positive comment expressing your thoughts and feelings. I think the featured person will come away from the blog uplifted and honored. Let’s make someone’s day!

Gil

Gil is a friend. George and I met Gil and his wife Shirley when we moved to Guelph in 1991. It was almost an instant friendship. Somehow we clicked with each other and so began a special time in our lives. Often while I was sitting at my Principal’s desk, distressed over the latest issue, my receptionist would buzz me and say, “Your friend Shirley is on line 1 for you.” Just hearing the words lifted my heart. When I took the call, she would say, “How about coming for supper tonight?” I never hesitated, we were coming.

What a warm welcome awaited us from both Gil and Shirley. A fabulous dinner (they liked to try new recipes!) and then an evening of games, laughter, and sharing. I soon learned that we could be ourselves and share what was on our hearts.

Shirley has gone to be with her Lord. It was a shock, and a sense of loss still overcomes me at times, even after almost five years. But this was when Gil began to shine. His love and trust in the Lord was obvious and outstanding. We always shared New Years and it was their turn to host. I told Gil that we could switch it to our house, or he might want to spend the time with his daughters. (New Years was only about three weeks away). He made it very plain that he wanted to continue with the plans we had made. In fact, he carried on with his life in a way that was honoring to his wife and honoring to God. I was amazed at the strength he showed through the entire grieving process. What a mature faith he exhibited. It was a lesson for me of what Christ can do when you fully trust Him as Gil does.

What a man of prayer. I know that when I share requests with him, he brings them before his Father every day. He also has a great concern and love for those who don’t know Christ. As a Gideon, I have watched him give out small Bibles. He keeps one on his person at all times so when an opportunity arises, he’s ready. Many waitresses and waiters have been recipients of his Bible giving.

And now he is moving from our area. It’s the right decision for him as he will be close to one daughter and her family, and closer to his other daughter and her family. But I will miss him. I will miss sitting with him each Sunday at church. I will miss the dinners he learned to cook (even to special desserts). But I know that God has gone before Him and planned every step of this move. I know that he will forge new relationships and minister to the people around him.

I will miss you, Gil, but we’ll visit and we’ll never forget you and the special place you have in our hearts. May you feel the leading of Christ as you move into the next chapter of your life. Go with God.

Several times I’ve written about the upstairs flat where I lived until I was eight. It was situated on the same property as a similar house and the two houses shared a backyard. This meant that I always had friends to play with in my own backyard.

When I was very young, my best friends were Judy and Suzanne. Judy lived in the bottom flat next door and Suzanne lived upstairs over her. What good times we had. I remember a big tire that one of our dads had brought to the yard for us to play. Suzanne and I would manage to get into the tire and fill up the empty spaces with toys. Suzanne and I were very much alike – we both liked to be in charge. We played well most of the time, but we were known to disagree just as heartily. I consider that both of us were developing our leadership skills that would be needed in our future careers.

Judy, on the other hand, had the most peaceful disposition I have ever encountered. She was an amazing friend. I believe she was our peacemaker. I remember playing on our swings (ropes with wooden seats erected by our dads). We became expert ‘swingers’. Hours upon hours of our day would be spent in this activity.

In time Suzanne moved away and Carol moved in. She became a close friend as we also attended the same church. Judy was the next to move and then Barbara lived there. We spent many happy hours together as we reached school age.

The shared backyard was also the place where our mothers gathered in the summer afternoons when the housework was done. Our dads had made wooden benches for them and they arrived with their knitting or other needle work and knitted and chatted while we played. It was a time of enchantment.

Judy’s dad liked to hunt and I remember pelts drying on our back fence: lynx and bobcat among other things I no longer remember. I was both fascinated and frightened when I would see them; eyes glassy, teeth gleaming – things of mystery and intrigue.

On tiny plots, our dads also grew vegetables during the warm summer months. My dad was famous for his raspberries that were as big as your thumb and ever so tasty. Kentucky green beans were my favourite. Fresh green and yellow beans continue to be the vegetable of choice for me, but I have never tasted any as good as the long slender ones harvested by my dad. The cream and butter added by my mom made them the best ever.

Dad also grew flowers: dahlias and gladiolas were always in our garden. One summer dad had a dahlia that measured 13 inches across! Many others were in the 10 – 12 inch range. Our home was filled with the fragrance of flowers during those halcyon days of summer.

Roller skates, tricycles, skipping ropes, hide and seek, cowboys and Indians, hop scotch, swings, along with constantly skinned knees spelled the days of our summers. Our moms did not make us work on spelling, arithmetic, printing or other school activities during those warm days – school was over until September. We had time to be children and run and play. It didn’t seem to set us back to have a break from our lessons. I remember being back into the swing of education by the second week of school. I believe our brains needed the break from formal learning, but I know that we learned many things as the days of summer piled up on each other.

There are still certain sounds and smells that bring back memories. The stillness of a hot afternoon brings the sound of insects and the memories of lying on a blanket in shorts and tank top and being read stories by Ruth, my amazing neighbour. She was several years older than I and sometimes would babysit me. I would see her out in her yard (on the other side of my house), sunbathing and dozing under the warm rays. She never turned me away when I would arrive with books. It was no surprise when she decided to be a teacher. I’m sure she was instrumental in my choice of career as well.

It is almost time for me to leave this flat and move to a house on Rodney St. I am reluctant to leave as the memories are warm and inviting. But life moves on whether we are ready or not: but memories live on, ever just below the surface of our minds, rising to our consciousness when called by us or triggered by external stimuli. Then we can go back, walk the paths of our childhood, embrace our friends from the past, and feel the warmth of the summer days.