Sharon Dow

My Tribute

During the last 5 days, I have lost two special people; one a very close friend, the other a dear cousin. The next two blogs will be my tribute to each of them. This blog will be dedicated to Chris Baker, a friend for more than 40 years.

A Personal Tribute to my Special Friend

Over forty years ago, Chris and I met in a random and serendipitous way. Our families clicked right away, and so began a 40 year friendship that has stood the test of time and now of eternity.

In the beginning, Wilse and I enjoyed a meeting of the minds, having so much in common through our teaching, our strong political views (different parties), competitive at games, a love for debate on almost any issue. Chris was in the background, just being her usual accommodating self.

Over the years, our friendship began to grow and deepen. The city girl and the country girl began to seek out what was in each other’s hearts. We grew together until our relationship was special and solid. We cried together, we shared joys and sorrows; we shared secrets that only we could share. We celebrated our differences and developed our points of similarities.

As I remember Chris today, the outstanding characteristic I see is loyalty. Her family came first in her earthly life and her loyalty to them never failed. She sustained hurts and joys, always remaining constant in her acceptance of them. It was the same with her friendships. I could always count on her to be there when I needed her.

Love loomed large in her personality. So many people benefited from her outpouring of love. It came from her heart and was unconditional, free, without strings, and abundant. My own sons have often remarked on how she made them feel they were a part of her family. That she loved them was evident in all she said and did and was felt and understood by them.

She lived her life for her Saviour. There is no question in my mind that she in now in Heaven. I believe that Christ came for her last Thursday, and said, “Chris, it’s time.” I can visualize him with his hand outstretched to her, beckoning her to come. The world faded for her and she left her final words for us, “I’m gone.” Gone to be with Jesus; gone to her final resting place; gone to receive her eternal reward.

The Bible says, “Absent from the body; present with the Lord.” That’s Chris. She shed her earthly body, and is now present with her Lord.

How could I wish her back? Her pain is gone, her heart is whole again, her balance has been restored, she has no more tears.

But for us who are left behind, she leaves a hole in our lives that can never be filled by anyone else. She was unassuming, never putting herself first; but she carved out places in our hearts that go deep.

Chris, I already miss you. I can’t believe I can never talk to you again until the final call comes for me. But that call will come and I will see her again. Until that time, her memory will remain alive in my heart and I will cherish every memory of her.

Good-bye my friend, I love you.

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.

The past few weeks have been hectic and heady. It has been a fascinating ride since the arrival of the books. I wondered what 1000 books would look like. Would they fill my house, fill every corner and empty space? I was pleasantly surprised to receive a very compact delivery; four layers of boxes loaded on a wooden skid and shrink wrapped in heavy plastic! Very convenient and easy to manage.

The Book Launch was the next big event on the book calendar. It was exhilarating and overwhelming. Many people attended; family, neighbours, friends, reporters, and people from the community. It was a great beginning for Antipas: Martyr.

I’ve spoken to one senior’s group, had a book signing in my church, have been asked to do 5  more book signings, have at least two bookstores that are carrying my book with several others considering it. I’m still waiting to hear back from Chapters’ head office regarding whether their distribution centre will carry the book. I have received information that several distribution centres in the USA are carrying it also. I attended a conference this week and sold a number of books.

The internet has proven to be an amazing vehicle when promoting a book. I have used many aspects of it. My facebook page has 600 friends, so I am able to communicate information quickly to a large number of people. Antipas now has his own facebook page where I can post things about the book. One regular posting I do is a daily total of number of books sold. Since the day of the launch, I have sold at least one book every day, and several days have had multiple sales. To date, I have sold 226 books.

Also on the internet, I’ve been able to access email and postal addresses for churches, libraries, bookstores etc and have been able to promote my book through these channels.

I have some other speaking engagements and opportunities to sell my book which are in the process but not yet finalized. Every day brings forth some new avenue for the book.

It was brought to my attention that there is a writers’ conference here in Guelph in June. I have registered for it and look forward to being able to meet with publishers and other members of the publishing world to promote my book.

But the big news of the week came in the form of an email from my publishing company. I have been asked to attend a conference in Atlanta, Georgia in July. Here are some quotes from the event.

“Special Invitation to Select Deep River Authors to the

International Christian Retailing Show

July 10-13, 2011

Atlanta, Georgia

ICRS is where the Christian resources industry meets. There is no other time or place where so many people, products, services, media, authors, artists, and craftspeople are gathered together in one place. The show incorporates more than 125,000 square feet of exhibit space, 425 exhibits, and nearly 100 meeting rooms. The show brings together more than 10,000 attendees and exhibitor personnel from across the United States and more than 50 other countries. Thousands of book store buyers come, many of them making major year-long buying decisions about which books to stock in their stores.

Deep River has selected you as one of the authors we would like to feature at this year's ICRS.

·    You will be scheduled for Author book signings in the Deep River booth. DRB will furnish 100 copies of your books for these signings.

·    Your book will be displayed at the STL/DRB booth on the convention floor during the entire show where there will be on-hand sales people to take orders for your book.

·    You and one other person of your choosing will receive badges for entry into the show for all 4 days.

·    You will have opportunities to attend various special events at the show at no extra charge to you.

·    Your name will be placed on the media list for possible interviews by Christian radio and TV talk shows broadcasting live from ICRS. You will receive PR services from Bring It On! Communications who will create a media kit, posters, and will assist you in securing interviews.

·    You will receive two passes for a complimentary dinner held exclusively for Deep River Authors on Sunday evening.”

So, we’re going! I don’t know where this will lead; I only know that, at least for now, I will follow. There are exciting possibilities for this book and books to come.

I am almost at the end of the journey; the finished product has cleared Canadian Customs. I should be holding my first copy within the next several hours. All the hours, days, weeks, and months of waiting and work are almost over.

But is it really coming to an end? I don’t think so! My lifelong dream of writing and publishing a book has expanded since the writing journey began. I now have a goal of writing and publishing ten books. Book two is complete and is the sequel to Antipas: Martyr. At present it is entitled, Pergamum: Satan’s Throne. Book three, not in the series but a stand-alone book, has almost 10,000 words already written. It will be called Huldah: Prophetess. I have the ideas for books 4 and 5 and bits and pieces that may make up 6 and 7. It’s possible: it’s doable. If I can maintain my energy level and my brain activity for a few more years, I just may reach this second goal.

When I last wrote a JustWrite blog, I had completed the editing and thought the process was nearly over. I did not realize that typesetting was a long process as well. I’m not sure if the process is long or if my book was in a queue and had to wait. The manuscript was then returned to me twice to check for errors that can occur during typesetting. The back cover had to be proofed and corrected, all before it went to print.

Printing also took longer than I had expected (on book 2, I’ll have a better idea of time frames) and shipping took another few weeks.

But has it been worth the work and effort? You bet!! Absolutely! I can’t wait to start the process again for the next book!

But that will have to wait. Antipas: Martyr is demanding my time and attention for the next several weeks and months. Once my 1000 copies arrive, the sales need to start. My book launch is scheduled for March 12 from 2:00 – 4:00 p.m. at the Optimist Club, 89 Beechwood Ave in Guelph. The book will be launched, copies sold, I’ll be signing books, and light refreshments will be served. If you have not had an invitation to this event – this is yours. Everyone is invited!

Next week I will be speaking to a Seniors’ Group and in a few weeks will be doing a book signing at my church. I’ve also been asked to speak at a few more places but as yet the details are not in place. The books will be available at the launch, at a bookstore near you, on my website, as well as online. I hope you’ll find a copy for yourself and I hope you’ll enjoy the read.

Stay tuned for the next episode in ‘The journey of the dream’.

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.

Helen stood at the bus stop holding her umbrella in one hand and three bags of purchases in the other. She glanced down the street again and although she could see a long line of cars clogging the street, there was no bus in sight.

She shifted the parcels and sighed deeply. Resting her weight on one foot, she eased her other foot out of one of her black shoes with the high slender heels. Why do I wear them? That thought had sliced across her mind more than once today.

More people were crowding the pavement behind her. She frowned as an elbow connected with her back and ignored the quick apology. People are so ignorant.

Rain slanted down all around her and now the wind was coming up as well. What a night. How can it be Christmas Eve? She shivered as rain dripped off her umbrella and found its way onto her neck. As it ran down her back, she ground her teeth to keep from crying out.

“There’s the bus now.” A burly fellow beside her pointed down the street. She followed his hand and saw it through the sheets of rain pelting the street. Bodies began to surge forward. She planted her feet and held her ground but at the last minute her foot slipped on the wet sidewalk. A tight sensation gripped her arm and she was hauled back from the edge just as the bus clattered to a stop before her. She turned her head and came face to face with her rescuer.

“Thank you, oh thank you.” She smiled at the man behind her.

“No thanks necessary; just get on the bus and have a Merry Christmas.” He gave her a slight shove and she mounted the stairs into the crowded bus.

“Mommy’s home, mommy’s home.” The sound of children’s voices touched her ears as she eased open the front door. Two warm bodies rushed at her and flung themselves into her arms. She knelt down and hugged them tightly.

“Were you good girls today?” She kissed each warm cheek, nuzzling her nose into their necks.

“I was, but Sophie hit Anna.” Sophie slid out of Helen’s arms and dropped to the floor. She lay sprawled on the carpet, face down. Helen touched her shoulder and rubbed gently.

“Sophie, sit up and tell me about it.” Sophie bunched her knees up into a sitting position but kept her head down.

“I didn’t do nothing wrong,” big tears were visible sliding down the chubby cheeks. Sophie ran the back of her hand over her face and finally looked at her mother. “It was an accident, honest.”

“No it wasn’t Sophie and you know it.” Ryanne folded her little arms over her chest and glared at her sister.

“Okay, girls, that’s enough. Anna will tell me if there’s something wrong. She gathered both girls into her arms again. How precious they were. Since Marty had disappeared, they were all she had. Marty. Her mind drifted unerringly to him.

Marty with the head of dark curls, cut short to keep them under control. Blue eyes, the colour of icy mountain streams, filled with love. Muscles, hardened with daily training. Missing in action. Cold, cold words on crisp white paper. Missing in action.

That had been six months ago. The longest six months of Helen’s life. All the phone calls, emails, personal visits to the base: nothing. If only she could know for sure.

She came back to the present as Ryanne and Sophie stirred in her arms. The bustle of starched skirt and apron arrived in the form of Anna. Helen set the girls down and stood.

“Hi, Anna. How was your day?” Helen’s eyes rested on this dear lady who made it possible for Helen to work. Gray hair drawn tightly back in a bun, clean housedress and the ever-present apron drawn around an ample waist.

“Good, Helen. These little ones are a joy to keep.” She folded her hands and closed her eyes, a common practice for her. Helen loved her.

“Thanks, Anna. Was there a problem with Sophie today?” Helen kept her eyes from Sophie as she asked the question.

“No, no, no problem. Just a little misunderstanding. All settled now. Not to worry.” She slipped off her house shoes and took her boots from the hall closet. Her warm, sensible coat came out next. Anna always said she had no use for frills, only sensible things for her. She waved to Helen and the girls as she went out the door.

“What’s that nice smell coming from the kitchen?” Helen took each girl by a hand and led them toward the aroma.

“We helped make supper,” Ryanne clapped her hands together and danced on ahead of the others. “Sophie helped too, didn’t you Sophie?”

“I did, Mama. I helped.” Sophie kept her hand in Helen’s and snuggled in close to her side.

“What is it? It smells wonderful.” Helen drew a deep breath and smiled at the girls.

“It’s chicken stew, chicken stew, chicken stew.” Ryanne skipped around the kitchen as she chanted the words.

Anna had set the table before Helen came home and had tried to make it festive. But the Christmas napkins, the red candle, and green bows could not lift the weight that had settled on Helen’s mind while she was still waiting for the bus. 

Christmas Eve, how could it be? With Marty, it was always one of the best nights of the year. But I need to pull myself together for the girls.

“Let’s get your aprons on before we start.” At six years old, Ryanne was able to put her’s on by herself. Helen lifted four year old Sophie into her chair and fixed her apron around her. Anna had done well. She had found the Christmas aprons that Helen had bought for the girls last year.

As she was spooning the food into their dishes, Ryanne looked up at her mother. “Remember mommy, we used to talk to Jesus? Shouldn’t we talk to him tonight? Anna said tomorrow is his birthday.” She wrinkled her nose and grinned, showing the gap where two front teeth were missing.

The words pierced Helen’s heart like a knife. Marty had been the spiritual leader in the home and since he’d been missing, Helen had let it slip. She looked at the little trusting faces before her and knew she had to pray.

“Would you like to pray, Ryanne?” Helen could feel herself squirm in her seat.

“Yes, Mommy, but you’ll have to help me.” Ryanne reached out and grabbed her mother’s hand on one side and Sophie’s on the other. Together they bowed their heads and offered a simple thank-you to God.

The meal was over, the food put away, the kitchen tidied and the children were sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the Christmas tree. Helen, although in no mood for Christmas herself, had determined she would make it special for her girls. They were waiting now for her to light the tree. She leaned over and pushed the switch. A soft glow stole over the room and highlighted the faces staring at the tree in wonder and awe.

“It’s so beautiful, Mommy.” Ryanne’s voice was low and breathless. She pointed to the angel on top. “I like her face, Mommy. She looks so peaceful.”

Helen turned her eyes and gazed at the angel. It brought back so many memories. She and Marty had bought it together the first Christmas they were married. Marty had insisted they have an angel on top. She had pointed out that the stars were cheaper, but he had insisted. Everything about this night brought memories of Marty.

“Where’s the music, Mommy?” Sophie twisted around on the floor, looking at her mother.

“Oh yes, right.” She pressed the button on the player and Silent Night filled the room.

The girls jumped up and danced around the room to the music. They were in their princess nightgowns and as they twirled together, Helen could feel tears gathering in her eyes. She swallowed twice, determined not to cry. When the carol finished, she called the girls to sit with her on the couch.

“I’m going to read the Christmas story to you,” she told them as she lifted the Bible from the coffee table. They snuggled on each side of her, rubbing their hands on the smooth pages of the Bible.

And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to then, “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. Today in the town of David a savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord. This will be a sign to you: you will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger. Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying, glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom his favor rests.”

“And they went to see the baby, didn’t they?” Ryanne had her hands around her mother’s arm as she looked up at her.

“Yes, they did, Ryanne. You remember the story, good for you.”

“And I know that some smart men came to see him, too.”

“You mean the wise men.” Helen gently corrected her daughter.

“Wise men? What are they?” Sophie looked so solemn that Helen and Ryanne couldn’t help smiling at her.

“They’re men who are very smart and they knew about the baby because they saw a big star.” Ryanne was anxious to impart her knowledge.

“I like the story.” Sophie laid her head in her mother’s lap. Helen ran her fingers through the soft hair framing Sophie’s face.

“Would you girls like to play a little game?” Bright smiles and happy laughter greeted her question.

They played their usual Christmas Eve game; the one Marty had introduced when Ryanne was just a baby. A gift was hidden for each one and clues were given to find it. The girls ran from place to place looking for their gift, chasing each other, shrieking with pleasure until the gifts were found. They climbed up, one on each side of Mommy, to open their packages.

“Oh look, mine’s a princess sticker book.” Ryanne held it high, giggling.

Helen helped Sophie with the wrapping on her gift. She pulled out a soft plush dog in a little purse.

“I love him, I love him.” Clutching the dog to her chest, she kissed him over and over. Both girls wrapped their arms around their mother’s neck hugging her closely.

Helen loved the feel of her children’s arms and buried her face in their hair.

“It’s time for bed.” Helen tickled them until they were gasping for breath, still giggling.

“You want to have a good sleep so you’ll be awake early to open your presents.” She lifted Sophie in one arm and put the other one around Ryanne.

The girls were sleeping and Helen was sitting in her favourite rocker, cradling a cup of coffee. Carols were still filling the room with soft music and the lights from the tree gave the room a warm glow.

Oh Marty, if only you were here, Helen mused, how perfect this night would be. Where are you, my love? Thoughts ran wildly through her head. I can’t believe you’re dead. I don’t believe it. You were so alive, so full of life. I have to believe you’re out there somewhere.

O Lord, I know I haven’t kept in touch, but could you look over Marty tonight? I know I have many things to be thankful for; my beautiful children are such a blessing.

She rocked back and forth in her chair. The coffee had cooled so she put her cup on the small table by her chair.

I should go to bed, but I hate to move. She looked at all the festive packages under the tree. The girls will be so excited in the morning.

When the clock chimed eleven, she rose from the chair, turned off the music and leaned down to switch off the tree lights. Car lights flashed across the living room windows. She glanced out and saw a taxi pull up in front of the house.

One of the neighbours must be coming home in a cab tonight. The back door of the taxi opened and a man hopped out. She gasped. Both hands flew over her mouth and her whole body began to shake.

It can’t be! He looks so much like Marty. He’s coming to the door. What will I do?

A soft knock brought her out of the shock she was feeling and she ran to the door. Her hands were trembling so much that at fist she couldn’t get the handle to turn. Then it sprung open and she was in his arms.

He eased her into the room and closed the door with his foot, never letting go of her. They stayed in that position until they were both crying; tears of joy and relief. At last they parted and stared at each other.

“Oh my love, I thought I would never see you or our home again.” He took her hand and together they moved into the living room. “Let’s sit on the couch and we’ll talk.”

“Marty, they told me you were missing in action. They said you were probably dead. I . . .” Her hands were over her face and the tears flowed again.

“I know, dear. It’s such a long story. I’ll tell you all of it but not tonight. Tonight it’s enough to be home, to see you and touch you.” He ran his fingers down over her face.

“What an amazing Christmas present; to have you home. The girls will be so excited in the morning.” Helen’s lips curved up in a smile as she drank in her husband’s face. All the cares of the day fell away and she folded his hands in hers.

“I can’t wait to see them. I’ve pictured them so many times; wondering how they were growing, how they were changing.” He squeezed her hands.

A soft padding sound on the stairs caused them to turn in that direction. Two sets of little eyes were peeking into the room. Round, bright faces looked from Helen to Marty, then Ryanne was running.

“Daddy, daddy, daddy.” With one flying leap she landed in his lap. “Daddy, you’ve come home.”

Sophie came slowly, staring at Marty.

“It’s okay, baby, it’s daddy.” Helen spoke softly to her and picked her up so she could be near him. “See, honey, it’s your daddy.”

She laid her head on her mother’s shoulder but kept her eyes on Marty.

“Daddy?”

He opened his arms to her, smiling. She paused for a moment, then went into his arms. Helen put her arms around all of them.

As the clock chimed midnight, Christmas day entered to beam upon the little family snuggled together on the couch, and the Christmas angel smiled down on them from her perch on top of the tree.

‘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.