Sharon Dow

The years between 1944 and 1950, in my mind, were transition years. The war was over, yes, but the effects were still felt as the country began to function again as a peacetime nation. Remnants of the past were seen in pockets of daily living.

We did not have a refrigerator until I was four or five; we had an icebox. I remember where it sat in the woodshed, just outside the door into the kitchen. The arrival of the iceman on our block was a major event. The blocks of ice were lifted from the back of his truck with long tongs and carried up our backstairs and deposited into our icebox. As children, we were sometimes treated with slivers from the ice.

The milkman also came to our door each day. Milk came in glass bottles and was not homogenized. It was pasteurized but the cream would rise to the top of the bottle. My mother would often siphon off the cream to use for whipping or cooking. At other times she would gently shake them together. On top of the narrow-necked bottle was a circle of cardboard with a tab. The milk was delivered by horse and wagon in those early days – a remnant from the past. I was frightened and fascinated in equal amounts by the horses.

When I think back, it was amazing to have so many things delivered to our door – many of them daily. Bread arrived fresh and fragrant from a local bakery. The mail was delivered into the slot in our front door and we all knew the mailman as he delivered on our street for many years. I remember one interesting story about the mail delivery. I waited one morning for the mail to arrive and when I heard him come into our vestibule, I hurried down and opened the front door and invited him in for tea! My mother was shocked (I often had that effect on her), so fortunately for me, the mailman thanked me graciously but declined as he had other mail to deliver. I’m sure that was not the last I heard about it.

For the first eight years of my life, we lived in an upstairs flat on Guilford Street in West Saint John. It had two bedrooms, a living room, dining room, eat-in kitchen, one bathroom, a pantry and a woodshed. Our backdoor had a spring-loaded screen door in summer leading to a flight of stairs. My brother would fling open the door and run for all he was worth to try to reach the top before the door slammed shut. He was good at this. I was never able to beat his time.

No central heating folks; our flat was heated with two stoves. The one in the kitchen ran on oil. I remember my dad bringing in a large glass container of oil, turning it upside down into a bracket on the side of the stove that would then feed the oil into the stove. It was an amazing stove with a flat top, an oven, and a warming oven above. My mother turned out wonderful meals which our family enjoyed tremendously.

The other stove, a coal heater, was in the dining-room. The coal was delivered to our house by the coalman. My dad had a coal scuttle and would bring in the coal from where it was stored in that interesting woodshed. He then would shovel it into the front of the heater. Our house was always warm and inviting and on cold winter days, we were comfortable.

I mentioned the flat had two bedrooms; one for my parents and one for my brother. Then, you may ask, where did Sharon sleep? In the dining room, of course! There was a studio couch along one wall and when my bedtime approached, the cushions were removed, the couch pulled out, the bed made up; and there was my bed. How did I sleep with the normal traffic in a home during the evening hours? The kitchen and bathroom were on one side with the two bedrooms and living-room on the other. I was right in the middle of the traffic, but I don’t ever remember this being a problem.

This has been a longer blog than usual, but the memories are flooding my mind and it is hard to stop. But I will stop here and continue next week. I only lived in this small flat for eight years, the first two of which I remember little, but I have rich memories from this time and place.

Today I begin a new blog topic. While awaiting the next step in my writing journey, my mind has been going back to my childhood.

I have long desired to write an historical account of my days. I want to leave an account for my children and grandchildren. Some of you may enjoy the journey into the past as well. You may resonate with parts of it. Join me as we laugh and cry together over the years that will be no more.

For many years I claimed that things aren’t much different today than they were when I was growing up. But lately, I’m beginning to realize that they are incredibly different. I was born into a different age, a different era.

Saint John, New Brunswick: June 16, 1944. The Second World War was raging through Europe and touching the lives of my family, friends of my family, and my neighbours. It didn’t touch me at all. In fact, when I studied about it in school, I did not realize that it was in full swing when I was born.

My only memory is of being held up to our kitchen window by my mother or father and watching a large group of men in the field three properties away from ours, marching back and forth. It was years later before I put the pieces together and realized that the next street held an army barracks and that I was watching troops in training.

By the time I was one, it was almost over. The troops disappeared and the field became one of my play places. My father was not in the war being too old at that time and my brother was too young; the blessings of age.

The only other thing I remember is hearing my mother lament that she could not find white winter boots for me because of the war shortages. I had to wear black boots with my white rabbit fur coat, hat, and muff. For those of you who are younger, a muff was used in place of mittens or gloves to keep the hands warm. Mine was a rectangular tube made of fur and lined with satin and hung over my neck with a cord. I loved it.

My mother and father were a little older when I was born and I already had a brother who was almost nine years older than I. I’ve always thought it must have been a shock to him as he had been an only child for so long. I must say, he never expressed this to me, and always treated me well, often teasing me and making me laugh.

I can see that I will enjoy this trip into the ‘distant past’ and will need to remember to only give it to you in small doses. Stay tuned for the next installment, which will follow in a few days!