Sharon Dow

Glimpses into History – Part 12: ‘Tudy’

Once the big move was accomplished (from the flat on Guilford Street to the house on Rodney Street), I waited for the next day and then I reminded my mother that she had promised we could get a cat once we had a house of our own. Now to be fair to my mother, I had not mentioned in for quite some time. I was biding my time. She hesitated, not quite sure if she remembered promising any such thing, but I was persistent and finally wore her down.

My friend Judy’s cat had kittens, so I became the proud owner of a cat named Mittens. This cat was quite non-descript, but I loved him anyway. Alas for Mittens, things were about to get complicated. My aunt and uncle arrived for a visit and knowing my desire for a kitten, came complete with a small orange fluffy ball of pure delight. Now I had two cats! What more could I ask for? I loved both my cats and they seemed to get along well.

My mother was not so easily convinced. She had been talked into one cat; two was not going to happen. I must choose. I remember this being the first time I had to make a heart-rending decision. Do I keep the old (I had only had Mittens a month or so), or should I embrace the new and keep the adorable ball of fluff?

I finally decided to keep the new kitten, and my brother found a friend who was looking for a cat (or who agreed to take it) and Mittens moved to a new home. I felt like a traitor. How could I let him go? But the little orange kitty had won my heart and I soon forgot the old (but never completely).

I named the new addition Tudy. Don’t ask me where I got the name; it just came out of my imagination. I went on to add names until he became Tudy Tiger Tinker Galbraith! However, it was just Tudy for short.

Tudy grew quickly, becoming a large, still fluffy, orange cat. He was beautiful. I insisted he was a female, but several years proved me wrong – no kittens (much to my mother’s relief). He was a family cat, even winning over my mother who came to really love him. He would lounge around the house, finding the spots of sunshine to stretch out his long frame and just enjoy life. He was often relegated to the kitchen as he had a habit of shedding that beautiful fur on anything he touched, but whenever he could, he escaped to the other areas of the house, his domain.

On Friday nights, my mom, dad, and I would go shopping for groceries. When we would arrive home, there was Tudy waiting for us in the driveway. He purred, rubbed up against our legs, meowed and generally made himself agreeable. He knew what was coming! Dad would take out the fresh meat and package it for the fridge or freezer. He always cut off little pieces to give to Tudy. I think Tudy lived for those moments. How he knew it was Friday, I don’t know. But we could come home any other night of the week and there would be no sign of the cat. He only met us on Fridays.

He loved being outdoors at night. Day was for lounging; night was for prowling, at least the early part of the night. He came in most nights at bedtime, but he certainly did stay out all night on occasion. When my brother was out for the evening, Tudy would wait on the front gate for him and they would come in together, probably both jumping over the gate and missing most of the stairs to the front door.

I knew when his birthday was as my aunt Verda had told me when he was born. I always celebrated his special day. One year I talked my mother into letting me have a birthday party for him. I invited the dog from upstairs, and Judy’s cat from down the street. They both agreed to come. I set up my little table and chairs out in the backyard, put treats on the table for the animals and generally made it as nice as I could. The dog arrived first. I forget her name (it might have been Sookie), but she was a beautiful golden spaniel, very quiet and gentle. Judy arrived next with her cat in her arms and a leash and collar on the cat. She had borrowed the leash and collar from a friend. The cat took one look at the dog, got a frantic look on her face, jumped from Judy’s arms and bolted from our yard with the leash trailing behind her. Judy went into a panic because the leash didn’t belong to her and so we spent the rest of the party looking for her cat all over the neighbourhood! Sorry Tudy – that was his first and last party!

I’m afraid I treated Tudy like a doll. I would dress him up in my doll clothes complete with bonnet, put him in my doll carriage, cover him with a doll blanket, and go for a walk around the neighbourhood. The looks on the faces of little old ladies out for a stroll when they would ask to see my doll was priceless. Tudy, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy the whole event, simply going to sleep for the extent of the ride.

I don’t think he was supposed to be on my bed at night, but he often managed to make his way to my bedroom, hop on the bed, and snuggle down with the stuffed animals (of which there were many). He stayed until some inner voice called him away on a cat errand, or my mother caught him. I loved having him on my bed as he purred contentedly and lulled me to sleep.

In the last blog, I mentioned the roomers we had on the main level. At one time, a couple lived there who loved the cat and he would sometimes sneak in with them. They treated him like their own, often saving him little scraps of food. The way to Tudy’s heart was certainly through his stomach. When we would be going away for a couple of days, they always volunteered to look after him. One time when we got back, they told us a funny story. They had fish chowder for supper and gave him a bowl. He went at it greedily and licked the bowl clean. When he moved away from the bowl, everything was gone except a ring of onions around the edge. Apparently he didn’t like onions and picked them out as he was eating!

Being an outdoor cat, he got dirty. So, we decided to give him a bath. We put a tub on the table and popped him in. It is a gross understatement to say he was not impressed. It took two of us to hold him and another to wash him. I was appalled to see how little cat there was under all that gorgeous fluff. I think his dignity was offended as the water washed over him. We lifted him out, amid cat yowls which had started with the first drop of water and did not cease, and wrapped him in a towel to dry him. He fought every step of the way. I’m sure I was covered with scratches when we were done. We had to go out for the evening, so we left him in the kitchen to finish drying, with the doors closed to the other parts of the house. The sights and smells that met us when we came home was just punishment for daring to give him a bath! He had his revenge. First bath = last bath!

One morning Tudy came home with a broken tail. The end was just hanging. His beautiful tail was disfigured. The wound healed, but the end piece had died and would never again stand tall like the rest of the tail. We soon discovered that he had no feeling in it. Sometimes we would accidently step on it but Tudy never flinched. My dad was in the basement one day and Tudy was with him, lying in a beam of sunlight. Dad grabbed a small ax and cut off the end of the tail. Tudy continued to sunbathe, completely unaware of the surgery. From then on, he had a shortened tail, but he would walk around with it in the air as though there was no change in it.

Then Tudy got sick, really sick. My mom and dad called the Animal Rescue League and they came and got him. They said he would be put to sleep and be out of his misery. I was filled with grief for my beautiful cat. I knew he was better off not having to suffer, but I missed him so much. Gradually other things filled my mind and I put my grieving aside. There was no moving my mother: no more cats.

About a year later, I was having breakfast one morning and looked out the kitchen window. A large orange cat was sitting in our yard. I told my mom that Tudy was back. She did not believe me, but one of us tapped on the window and pointed to the door, which was always our signal to Tudy, and he looked up at the window then quickly ran to the back door. I frantically ran to meet him along with the family. When we opened the door, he came running in, ran right to where we always kept his dish, turned around and meowed as if to say, “Where is my food.”

It was him, cropped tail and all. We never did find out what had happened to him. Did he escape on the ride to the shelter, did they see he was a beautiful cat and nurse him back to health, then maybe put him up for adoption and he ran away? It didn’t matter, he was home. We had several more years with him and his wonderful personality and antics.

He was my friend and he ruled our house for the years he was with us.  He captivated the hearts of all four of us and we all missed him when he finally left us. He left us with memories to recount through the years.

My mind is wandering through the rooms of our new home. So many memories here; my growing up years. I would live here through grade school, high school, Teachers’ College, and my first year of teaching. I would laugh, cry, argue, study, practice piano, sing, entertain, fall in love, have my first date, make many new  friends, talk hours on our phone and all the other things to be experienced while growing up.

My mother had the gift of hospitality and our rooms were filled with guests; family, friends, visiting missionaries, church meetings, showers. I’m sure that not a week passed that we did not entertain at least one group of people. Sunday night after church was a favourite time to either have guests, or be a guest at someone else’s home. That was a part of our culture; friendly people who enjoyed being together, sometimes with just toast and tea! Many other occasions brought forth my mother’s talent for baking and fancy sandwiches.

Both of my parents would be involved in preparing for company and I would be conscripted also, sometimes happily, sometimes under duress. First was the planning session. Mom would find a scrap piece of paper and the plans would begin. Dad’s part would be to retrieve the meat grinder from its place of concealment, set it up on the edge of the table and grind the meat for the sandwiches. No one made better sandwiches than my mom. I’ll never forget the ground roast beef with pickles and mayo; ground ham or chicken; tuna or salmon; egg salad or ribbon sandwiches with layers of egg salad and a layer of sliced tomatoes; cream cheese with cherry (these would be made from unsliced bread, but in lengths and rolled, then cut in pieces – round with a cherry in the middle; and my favourite – asparagus in the same rolled form cut in small bite-sized pieces; and of course peanut butter and banana. On very special occasions like a wedding shower; the bread would be tinted pink or green making them even more appealing to the eye and open faced sandwiches would join the others. With all the crusts sliced off, it was a delectable feast. (The crusts would often later be turned into bread pudding.)

The sweet breads came next; cinnamon, lemon, pineapple with cherry and others. But the desserts: this is where my mom shone. Scotch cookies were her crowning glory, with a swirl of butter icing and a piece of cherry, they looked great and tasted even better with that melt-in-your mouth kind of appeal. Squares of every description came from our oven as well as cakes of all flavours. No one ever left our house hungry except by choice.

Tea and coffee flowed with the conversation. I learned so much about life and living in our world from listening in on all the conversations. Back in those times, children were not sent off to play in another room; we were a part of the whole and as such were expected to be with the group. The topics ranged from comments on Bible lessons, babies, trips, missionary stories, world events, politics – it was a virtual classroom of learning. Laughter was a big part of each event and I remember the happiness and excitement of company. I’ve never lost the excitement and love hosting company myself but I’m afraid the lunches are simpler and sometimes the goodies come in boxes from the local supermarket, but the happiness and topics of conversation remain the same.

We had groups of people from a couple to 40 or more, all crowding into our rooms and happy to be there. The stained glass windows beamed down on our guests and we were content.

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.

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.

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.

Christmas is over for another year: decorations are all packed away; new toys have joined the old; new books have been read, their pages crinkled and turned; new clothes have been washed and worn; and now winter sets in.

Winter in Saint John as I remember it, was a joyful season. For many years I stated emphatically that winter was my favourite season; and I still love it, but I also see the beauty in each season as it unfolds.

I look out the kitchen window of our Guilford Street flat and watch the wet flakes pile up in the yard. Can anything be more beautiful? Once the storm has passed; out come the snowsuits, warm hats, knitted mittens, boots, and scarves. Once I’m inside all of this, I can hardly move but with great determination, I make my way down the back stairs and into the wonderland that awaits me.

Fresh snow, not a footprint in the yard. I make the first set of prints and wait for my friends to emerge from their homes. Once we’ve gathered, the fun begins. By supper time, there will not be a spot in the yard that has not been visited by us. We flop down on our backs and make a multitude of ‘snow angels’. When we tire of that; a big snowman is built. We roll the big junks of snow into snowballs so huge it takes all of us to lift them into place. We bang on our backdoors demanding carrots, coal, a scarf; all accessories for our snowman.

When he is complete, it’s time to build our forts. We separate into two opposing teams and quickly make and stack snowballs to be the walls of our fort. We then make another set to store in our fort for ammunition. When both teams are ready, snowballs begin to fly. We do have rules; no junks of ice or rocks can be in a snowball. That was perhaps the only rule. If we didn’t like getting hit, we could stay behind the fort, or worst case scenario; go home! Rarely did anyone go home.

Just down the street and around the corner, was an amazing outdoor ice rink. There were actually two rinks, one for hockey and one for skating. ‘Pop’ looked after the rink and we could always expect a good surface. The ‘shack’ where we put on our skates and where we went when we were cold, was always kept warm for us. I learned to skate there and spent many wonderful hours each winter, skating with my friends.

Sliding was another popular activity. On our block of Guilford Street, right at the top of the hill at the intersection of Ludlow Street, was the best sliding hill. I didn’t even have to go out on the street to get there. As there were no fences, I went straight there from my back yard. Those were the days of the wooden sleds with runners. My favourite way to slide was flat on the sled going downhill headfirst. That way I could see what was up ahead, steer better, and get the greatest speed. The only tricky part was that the best run went between two trees at the bottom of the hill. I only hit the trees once – never to be forgotten!

I remember how cold and raw our wrists would get, the ice that would form on our scarves from our warm breath, mittens so stiff with ice that they would stand up by themselves, chunks of ice slipping down into our boots; but oh, it was so worth it! A winter day: a thing of beauty. Enjoy God’s creation under a mantle of white. What could be more beautiful?

My childhood memories of Christmas are still vivid in my mind. The excitement would build through the month of December, peaking the week just before Christmas. I could hardly sleep at night as visions of dolls and toys circled through my head. My mom and dad created special memories for my brother and I.

The tree brings back warm feelings. My parents always had a fir tree. Apparently the first year they were married they had a spruce and told us the story of hearing the needles fall from the branches. A fir keeps its needles and is easy to trim.

Once the tree came home, my dad would remodel it! He would turn it round and round to see where there might be bare spots. Out would come his saw and the lowest branches fell to the ground. These would be shaped and then wired into the tree where needed. We always had a beautifully shaped tree when he was finished.

The lights and ornaments went on next; beautiful, thin glass ornaments. I remember how fascinated I was with the bubble lights. They added so much life to the tree. But the icicles! This was dad’s domain. We were only allowed to help if we did it exactly right. Each tinsel icicle was hung individually and only by the top which was carefully bent over a branch. I seem to recall that only my dad and I did this job. He would spend hours getting it just right and the result was spectacular. The icicles looked like waterfalls dropping down from each branch. When the lights were on, our tree was amazing.

From the kitchen came fragrant aromas. Mom excelled at Christmas cooking. The fruit cakes were made earlier in the fall and carefully stored for the season. She made three kinds; dark, light, and sultana. Scotch cookies were one of her trademarks, along with almond crescents, cherry balls, date balls, and a multitude of fancy squares. Many well-deserved compliments came her way.

On Christmas Eve, we were allowed to open one gift, but it must be from someone outside the immediate family. I remember some of those special gifts. One of my friends, Judy Garland, gave me a small hymnbook (words only), like the ones we used at our church. It was such a thoughtful gift as I loved to sing. I treasured that gift for many years. She went to a different church so I’m sure her mom had to do some research to find this. Another gift was a cut-out nativity scene, I loved it. Funny the things one remembers.

We awoke early Christmas morning (probably around 6:00) and greeted each other with “Merry Christmas”. Mom had to make herself a cup of tea, and then we were ready. Dad turned on the Christmas tree lights and we gathered around the tree. Everyone seems to have a different way of handling the opening of gifts. Our way was to have one person open all their gifts while the rest of us watched. I loved this method. Once I was married, I had to compromise, but still always insisted that only one person open a gift at a time. It worked for us. I think it is important for the others to watch the one opening the gift and share in the pleasure. I also like to watch the little faces as they see what is inside. Of course, I now watch big faces as well as little ones, but I have never lost the excitement of watching.

Christmas Dinner – what an event! We always had a large turkey, usually 20 pounds. This was placed in the oven before my parents went to bed on Christmas Eve. We would awaken to the aroma of turkey. I still do this today.

We had what I consider to be, a traditional meal: turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, dressing balls, butter-cup squash, carrots, peas, cranberry sauce, pickles, and mincemeat pie – incredible. There were only the four of us as grandparents, aunts, and uncles lived too far away to travel on Christmas Day. The afternoon was spent reading a new book, playing with new toys, perhaps a visit with a friend and entertaining any friends who dropped in.

In the evening we always had company. My mother was the champion of entertainment. We would have upwards of twenty people filling our living-room. It was a festive time. Once we had a piano, a sing-song was inevitable. After the cooking of a huge meal during the day, she would serve refreshments that were outstanding. All of the wonderful Christmas cooking, plus fancy sandwiches: egg salad, tuna salad, ground ham or roast beef, cheese and cherry, long rolls of peanut butter and banana cut into rounds, asparagus done the same way (my personal favourite), and open faced sandwiches. She wouldn’t serve all of these on one night, but probably 4 or 5 kinds. Lots of talk and laughter took place.

Church always was a big part of Christmas (as it was during the rest of the year), as we remembered that the celebration was all about the arrival of God, in the form of a tiny baby. Amidst the busyness of Christmas, my parents always made sure we paused to thank Jesus for coming to us.

I hope this stirred memories in your heart and took you back along the path of your remembrance. May God truly bless you this season as you look to Him to direct your days.

‘All aboard’ for the next segment of our journey into the past. Transportation and travel have been on my mind this week.

My dad worked for the CPR (Canadian Pacific Railway) loading and unloading the boats that slipped into the harbour during the winter months. Goods would arrive by train to be loaded onto the boats that were destined for ports around the world. The boats brought a variety of things from far away places that would then travel through our country by train to be distributed to many locations across our land. For example, lumber went out: bananas came in.

After the war years, Japan struggled to regain her footing on the world stage and in foreign markets. Soon our stores were flooded with items bearing the stamp, ‘Made in Japan.’ These items arrived in our port and were unloaded and loaded by my father and many other fathers who gained their livelihood from this transfer of goods worldwide.

The CPR was a wonderful company to work for in my eyes, because my dad had a pass on the trains going anywhere in Canada. Once a year, he was entitled to a travel pass permitting us to travel into the States. Without these passes, I would not have seen as much of the country as I did. I remember several times boarding the train on a Friday night, renting a pillow, sleeping reclined in the seats, and arriving in Montreal in the morning. We would then shop all day, board the train again that night, and arrive back in Saint John on Sunday morning. All on our free pass. We traveled to Chipman, Harvey, Fredericton, Woodstock, Bangor Maine, Dover New Hampshire, Boston Massachusetts, Montreal, Toronto, Niagara Falls, and New York City. All memorable trips.

We didn’t have a car when I was very young. But it didn’t seem to matter because most of my friends didn’t have one either. I remember riding on the last of the streetcars in Saint John. When I was four or five, they were replaced with buses. I still maintain that Saint John had the best bus service available. We could board the bus at the top of our block, but if we missed it, in a few minutes it would be passing the bottom of the block. It would take us right into the centre of the city for shopping. Like the mailman, we soon got to know the bus drivers. One of our favourites was Abe Goss, a fellow West-sider. I went to school with his sons, and later taught his daughter.

A little side note here: one of my dear cousins, Vesta, lived a few blocks from us. I boarded the bus two stops before her (this was when we were much older and attending high school). Often when we would get to her stop she was not there, but we would look up the street to see her flying down. Abe always waited for her but teased her when she arrived, often keeping the door closed at first.

Also in those early days, a ferry made the trip across the harbour on a regular schedule. It was within walking distance of our house and was a short trip to the foot of King Street in the city centre. Very convenient! It, too, was phased out about the same time as the streetcars.

I remember our first car, an old Mercury. I couldn’t remember the model year, so emailed my brother and asked him if he remembered. This is his reply.

“I sure do. It was a 1948 Mercury V8 and would do over 80 mph. I had it over 80 once on Pennfield Ridge until Mom looked over to see how fast I was driving when we were coming back from Jo & Punky's late one night. Dad was sleeping.

It was hard to start in the winter. Sometimes Dad couldn't get it started on Friday night to go get groceries. I would wait till they got on the bus, then call Don Thorne to bring their 51 Dodge and a tow rope. He would tow me along Carleton Place till we got the Mercury started by popping the clutch.”

In the hilly Westside, we biked, we walked, we roller skated, and we always got where we were going. So, this is the end of our journey for this trip. It’s been great to hear from so many of you with snippets of your memories!

So many memories. My mind is swimming in the flood. In my mind’s eye, I look around our flat and see and feel warm, intimate things.

I see our supper table, set before my father arrives home from work. My mother taught me that the table should be set even if supper isn’t quite ready so when my brother and father arrive home, they will know that the meal will soon be served. My mother always changed into a fresh housedress and combed her hair before dad came home. I’m afraid my husband has to take me just as I was when he left in the morning! That may have come from many years of working outside the home and arriving at the same time.

Our pantry was a wonderful place. The shelves were lined with everything that was needed for baking and preparing meals. It was not a place I was encouraged to be unless I was sent there to gather ingredients. Cleanliness and tidiness were two of my mother’s strengths. My mom was famous for her cooking. Her scotch cookies were beyond compare. She was often asked to bring them to meetings and family gatherings. Mom would save tea boxes because they were the right size to hold two layers of the cookies, nestled between sheets of waxed paper. Many of these boxes were delivered to the sick, the grieving, the lonely, and anyone else who might need encouragement.

There are so many things that are common today that just did not exist during those early years: televisions (they were soon to come on the scene but only in black and white), microwaves, digital cameras (we did have a camera which took doubtful pictures – in black and white, of course), slow cookers, video games, computers, email, facebook, and a host of other things. But we did have many things that my parents did not have when they were children.

We had a little blue radio which sat on a shelf over the kitchen table. During our evening meal, the news came on. The radio was turned on just before the hour and we were sentenced to silence until it was over. Many times I broke the rule only to hear, ‘shhh’. I think this obsession with the news came from the recent war years when families were intent on any news of battles and loss of life. I must admit that I am addicted to news as well (and I don’t like it when anyone talks during it!!) Must be a left-over from those early days.

The kitchen contained a couch as was so common in homes. My dad was the master of the power nap. He would arrive home from work at noon, eat, then grab a 15 minute nap, arise refreshed, pop in one piece of hard candy from the bowl, and be on his way back to work. He did the same thing after supper. I have never mastered the technique. I rarely nap during the day, and when I do I feel drained after.

Behind the kitchen door was a chalkboard. I spent many happy hours drawing and printing on it. I think this is where I first developed my desire to be a teacher. I would often line up my dolls and stuffed animals and ‘teach’ them. I’m not sure how much they learned, but I learned how to stand in front of a group and dispense information!

Books were very important in those early years. I was read to every day until I could read for myself and then I read every day. I would sit in my little rocking chair with a favourite book and be lost for a time. I still read every day. Early influences are powerful. I find myself still clinging to things I learned in those first eight years.

For those of you with young children, take heart. The things you are teaching them are not being lost. They will remember them forever. If you aren’t teaching them, it’s time to start. You have the opportunity to change the world through the mind of your child.