Selective memory from high in the sky…

I am a mother to my children, a daughter to my parents, so even though I am an adult, as long as my parents remain alive I will be a child. Because of this dual role, I recently became acutely aware of how what we hold close in memory may well depend on how old we were and what emotional significance the initial experience had for us at the time. What memories we hold close to our hearts as parents, may be of little relevance (or reverence) for our children, and vice versa.

I suspect if I asked my Dad what his favourite or most deep-seated memory was of me growing up, he would say my birth first and foremost. I have often heard the story of my arrival repeated by other family members. In his euphoria upon learning he had just become a Dad (remember back in the early sixties the father remained outside the delivery room waiting for the doctor to come out and announce the birth), he immediately called either his parents or my mother’s parents. When they asked: “What did she have?” My Dad’s excited reply was “A BABY!” Of course what they wanted to know was whether the baby was a boy or a girl. His reply affirms my belief that he was just as happy with my arrival as he would have been with a son.

Most parents would say that their most vivid memory was a child’s birth, especially if it is their first born, or in my father’s case, his only child. Then, the next most memorable part of my childhood years I am guessing he would say might be our trips when we spent two entire months of summer camping across Canada, or the two times we drove to California from our home in northern Alberta. Of course I do not remember my birth. I do, however, have many cherished memories from those long distance trips as well as camping trips at lakes a half hour or so drive from home, but one of my most recurring flashback memories of my Dad probably holds little space in his mind.

Not recalling exactly how old I was at the time, I do know this particular memory was definitely from the early 1970s. My Mom was not a morning person, and on weekend mornings she would sleep in as long as possible. When I was still too young to be left at home unsupervised while Mom slept, Dad would take me with him to do errands or I’d have toast and orange juice at the hotel cafe while he had Saturday coffee with other men from town. I still remember watching the advertising signs for local businesses that were attached to the clock on the cafe wall flip over and over. I spent the time mesmerized, predicting which ad would appear and flip over next.

One Sunday, our little municipal airport with its nine private airport hangers hosted a Fly-In breakfast. The event was to welcome pilots from other areas, inviting them to “Fly-In” for camaraderie with fellow pilots, check out the airport, and enjoy a pancake breakfast upon arrival. The event was also open to the general public. I assume it was a sleep in day for Mom having gone to Mass the evening before, so even though by this time I could have stayed at home with Mom, I was looking forward to having pancakes for breakfast with my Dad.

Soon after devouring my pancakes, I discovered one of my best friends arrived at the airport with her family. By this time, I also discovered plane rides could be purchased. Approaching my Dad to ask him if I might be able to go for a ride, he said sure, and did my friend and her older sister want to go too? I was overwhelmed with the possibility of the three of us girls going up for our first plane ride together. He said he would pay for all three of us; they just needed to go ask their parents if it was okay. In what seemed like two minutes flat they found their parents in the crowd and returned with the news it was a go.

My Mom was not there to voice approval or disapproval, and there were no such things as consent forms yet for such excursions, so after Dad paid the fee, all we had to do was wait for the pilot to land back on the runway, and pick our seats in the four seat plane.

The flight did not last long. I am guessing maybe 15 minutes total, including take-off, passing over St. Paul, then turning around to head back to the airport. Usually we were a chatty trio but once in the plane we were quiet, all was silent except for the constant hum of the plane. I loved seeing town from the air, the Catholic Cathedral steeple towering above everything else. The buildings, the vehicles, the streets down below were familiar to us; from above all seemed both minuscule yet magnificent. Each dog in a yard, person on the sidewalk, cow in the field, a tiny part of something bigger. We were excited to see our school, then my house, then my friend’s family farm just past the outskirts of town, as the pilot made a wide turn to return us back to earth. What a thrill it was to see our world from the sky above. On that day I thought my Dad to be generous and extravagant.

(Sadly we have no photos from that day, but here is a recent one of my Dad about 45 years later. Thanks Dad, for that first time in the sky. Love you.)

Disco!

Mirror ball throwing shimmering pieces of light all over the old brick walls. Music echoing, bouncing against the brick, concrete floors and ceiling pipes. Strobe lights flashing bright streaks into the centre of the dance floor. Groups of sweet-sixteen girls, in white jeans and sleeveless t-shirts, dancing, doing the hustle to “Car Wash”. Boys with mullets or “fros”, and platform shoes watching from tiny tables scattered along the perimeter, between slipping outside to have a smoke and a boot-legged beer. This was as exotic an atmosphere as one could hope for in our small rural town on a frigid January night. Some teenage guy had an extensive record collection, a decent stereo system, a few Radio Shack gizmos, and enough cash to rent out the basement of the “Old Brick School” to fulfill his vision of “Saturday Night Fever” with a $3.00 admission we were only too willing to pay.

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After a long summer hiatus I am back with another piece of bite-size memoir. (Memoir in a 150 word “bite”, no more, no less!)

If you would like to know more about the bite-size memoir project, or Lisa Reiter who initiated it, please check out her blog:

http://sharingthestoryblog.wordpress.com/2014/09/08/goals-or-should-that-be-gaols/#more-1640

Bite-Size Memoir Prompt: Childhood Illness

On my toes, a clumsy pyjama clad ballerina, neck stretched back, head tilted with mouth wide open trying to catch my balance and the bright light over the bathroom vanity long enough to see the back of my throat. Scratchy and raw for days I had an urgent need to see what was happening back there.

Finally a glimpse; crimson with tiny thickened white splotches scattered about my throat. I was eleven years old; old enough to know it was not good.

“Dad, look in the back of my throat. I think I have an infection.” I blurt out the diagnosis as I throw my head back to open wide in front of my Dad as he makes his breakfast.

“That’s just bread crumbs.”

“No it’s not. It’s infection.”

I convince my Mom to take me to the doctor, get antibiotics for strep throat, and begin my lifelong health vigilance.

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To learn more about “Bite-Size Memoir” (memoir of no more, no less than 150 words based on a weekly prompt) please visit Lisa Reiter’s blog “Sharing the Story”:

http://sharingthestoryblog.wordpress.com/2014/06/13/bite-size-memoir-no-7-childhood-illness/

 

Big money, little glamour!

Opening up the white business envelope to see my first paycheque nestled inside was a thrill not to be forgotten quickly. Though minimum wage, it was still three times what I was paid for babysitting kids in our neighbourhood, which was one dollar per hour.

I thought the salary was glamorous, but the work was not. I was one of six students hired to do janitorial work after school each day at my high school.

Every day immediately at dismissal bell we headed over to the janitorial room to pick up our heavy industrial vacuums and rolling carts of cleaning products to get busy vacuuming classrooms, emptying wastebaskets, dusting, cleaning blackboards, and worst of all scouring the washrooms.

The only real perk was the privilege of reading the graffiti on the walls of the boys’ washrooms before we had to wash it off, always hoping never to see our own names.

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This was yet again another morsel of “Bite-Size Memoir” initiated by blogger Lisa Reiter.

Each week a prompt is given for a 150 word ( no more, no less) piece of  memoir to be written.

Check out more here: http://sharingthestoryblog.wordpress.com/2014/06/06/bite-size-memoir-no-6-first-jobs/

Once in a Lifetime!

Four 14 year old girls dropped off on their own with an old green canvas tent at a campground thirty miles from home for the weekend. What could possibly go wrong?

Apparently many things. According to my parents who absolutely forbade this camping excursion to happen unless they were to accompany us. My parents agreed they would park their RV several hundred feet away well out of sight.

Dropping us off, we excitedly set up the tent, threw our sleeping bags inside, and opened our cooler to have a wiener roast supper over the campfire. How cool were we?

Not as cool as at four a.m. when we woke in the pouring rain to discover we had set up the tent downhill from an incline, sleeping bag, and pyjamas soaked through.

To their credit my parents never came to rescue us. Forty years have passed; I never tented again, ever.

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This was again a piece of bite-size memoir from Lisa Reiter’s prompts, read more about it here:

http://sharingthestoryblog.wordpress.com/2014/05/30/bite-size-memoir-no-5-camping

“Red Ribbons + Mullets”

Legs moving as fast as possible, like pistons in a luxury sports car, arms pumping alongside. Chest straight and head tall until the very last second lean forward to anticipate the finish. Every boy hoping to be first in the sprints, the senior high elite events.

“GO! GO! GO!” All the girls encouraging their favorites on the sidelines. Important to cheer on your hometown guys during the county track and field meet, but who could resist checking out the boys from all the neighboring towns who came to compete too.

It was the seventies. Short shorts and mullets were everywhere. It was just a matter of deciding who you thought was the cutest guy of all. There were stars, easy to pick out by red first place, and blue second place ribbons pinned on the front of their t-shirts. The losers sat sunning themselves bare-chested, they were definitely noticed too.

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This was yet another piece of “Bite-size Memoir” initiated by blogger Lisa Reiter. Check out her project / more memoir based on her weekly prompts at:

http://sharingthestoryblog.wordpress.com/2014/05/23/bite-size-memoir-no-4-sports-day/#comments

 

“Kaleidoscope” More Bite-size Memoir

Women’s Words writing week has been like looking through a kaleidoscope.

I look in and see so many different pieces of color.

Emerald green, cobalt blue, “yellow like the sun” as my toddler son used to say, scarlet red, a dark purple hue like the shadow of a prairie sunset, the true orange color of a sun ripened mandarin fruit. I do not see black or white, nor any shades of grey in any space, just total vibrant color.

Tiny shards and specks tumble. Chunks of color; blending, falling, rising, moving, changing places. Different permutations and combinations, all coming together in turn after turn of enchanting energy. Gorgeous, vibrant, ever changing patterns.

Captivated by the strong yet gentle, courageous women surrounding me, I am entranced.

I am fascinated by the power in their spoken words, their passionate voices.

I am grateful to be here, to be present, to have heard.

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Note:

Women’s Words was a week long writing workshop initiated by Eunice Scarfe. It was held at the University of Alberta Faculty of Extension in Edmonton for 20 years.

Last year was the 20th anniversary. I was honored to have a piece of writing selected last year for the 20th anniversary anthology published to celebrate women’s writing.

There will be no Women’s Words held this June. I do not know why.

Today, I was thinking about the week I spent there several years ago.

Looking through my old notebook from the workshop, I came across a few sentences I had written in response to a prompt Eunice had given us at the very end of the week – “This week has been…”

This week’s prompt for Bite-size Memoir at Lisa Reiter’s blog was “Magic and Fairies”:

http://sharingthestoryblog.wordpress.com/2014/05/16/bite-size-memoir-no-3-magic-and-fairy-tales/

It inspired me to write about that week as a 150 word (no more, no less) bite-sized memoir.

Women’s Words was pure magic, no fairies required.

 

 

“Jinks & Japes” – No Substitutions Please!

My bite-size memoir for week two prompt “Jinks & Japes” from Lisa Reiter’s blog is “No Substitutions Please!”

For more info about her bite-size memoir project go to: http://sharingthestoryblog.wordpress.com/2014/05/09/bite-size-memoir-no-2-jinks-and-japes/

“No Substitutions Please!”

Although hot summer days were the best for mud cookie baking, they often presented another problem. Water was needed to mix with the dirt, and if it had not rained for awhile there were no puddles available to scoop water out of. My Dad had always strictly forbidden me to touch the outside tap.

I remember being faced with the no water predicament one day. I got the idea that we could pee into the bucket. We’d use pee to mix the cookies. My friends agreed this was a brilliant idea. We hid under the back stairs out of view to empty our bladders into the sand pail. Carrying the half filled pail carefully, we proudly headed to the road to mix in the dirt; then bake on the concrete sidewalk.

When our baking was done, the little brother of Rachelle crossed the street, helping himself to a cookie. “Delicious!”

On a pot hole & a prayer!

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Being an only child, my mother tended to be rather protective of me.

I grew up in an era when people did not wear seatbelts because most vehicles did not even have them. My mother’s rule to keep me safe in a vehicle was that I must always sit in the backseat, even if there was only the driver and myself in the vehicle. I respected the rule. Even if I was going two blocks down the dusty main street with my Grandpa in his Volkswagen Beetle to the Co-op grocery store in our small prairie town, I still had to sit in the backseat as though I had my own personal taxi driver or chauffeur.

So, it came as no surprise to me that the night before, and again on the morning of my departure on an out of town car trip with my piano teacher, my Mom reminded me: “Don’t forget to sit in the backseat.” I assured her I would, as my Dad pulled our car up to the side door of the convent to drop me off at 8:30 a.m.

I was going to the music festival in Lac la Biche, with my piano teacher, a Catholic nun, as well as another nun from the convent and three other girls. We were all from the same school, all in within a grade of each other, and we all took piano lessons once a week from Sister Komery, or Sister Canary as I called her behind her back.

I think as long as I assured my Mom I would sit in the back seat, she had no other worries, being that we were travelling in a bulky, four-door dark blue Buick sedan with a nun at the wheel. How much safer could one possibly be?

All four of us girls, the two German Michelles – Meirer and Schmitt, and the French farm girl Agnes Flaubert, and I were wearing summer dresses, and white knee socks for our debut playing piano solos on the music festival stage. Neither of the nuns wore habits anymore. They were dressed in conservative wool skirts, blazers, polyester blouses with plain, but prominent crosses on chains around their necks. Both Sisters wore wigs on their heads, necessary my mom had told me, after wearing habits for so many years and not having good hair anymore.

Being experts in efficiency, the sisters quickly had us getting in to the car. Immediately I said I was willing to sit in the middle of the backseat, no one disagreed, so in I climbed to my spot. Being a large backseat of a sedan, with just three eleven year old girls in it there was plenty of room for each of us.

The back seat fabric was irritating; scratchy on the back of my legs and knees. I had a sudden longing for the soft fuzzy grey seat covers in my Dad’s car. I guess the nuns felt no need for seat protection since they rarely had children in their vehicle. They did not need to worry about some kid dropping popcorn or pop on it at the drive-in as my Dad seemed to be obsessed with.

The smallest girl, my best friend Michelle M. had been directed to sit in the front between the Sisters. She was short enough that I still had a view out the windshield over the top of her blonde head.
I could also see a small metal statue of Saint Christopher stuck on to the dashboard of the car. Saint Christopher is the saint to keep travellers safe on their journey. Dangling from the rear-view mirror was a blue-grey rosary.

Sister Komery started the motor of the car, but she did not put it in gear.

Before I could even begin to wonder what was possibly wrong, she said: “I will say a prayer for a safe trip.” Quickly but quietly, she mumbled out about a three sentence prayer in ten seconds, the only words I really caught being “Jesus. Please. Safe. Trip. Amen.”

No sooner was the “Amen” out of her mouth, Sister Komery slapped the car into gear, jammed her foot on the gas, the tires spun briefly on the gravel, then as they grabbed hold sent us flying forward in our seats and down the convent driveway towards the highway.

With the car set so quickly into motion, then the thump of it off the driveway curb onto the highway below, the rosary on the rear-view mirror was set swinging. There went the crucified Christ back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

Sister Komery was a very fast aggressive driver, with no apparent reason for being so. We were in no danger of being late, leaving in plenty of time for the hour and half drive on the highway, which started out on pavement then turned to gravel for over half of the trip.

Once we hit the gravel road she steered back and forth attempting to dodge deep pot holes, keeping the same speed up as on the paved road.

Even though all the windows were up in the car, the vents must have been open as the dry smell of dust penetrated the interior of the car, overpowering the scent of the lavender talcum powder I had smelled on the nuns as we got in the car. I could taste dirt on my tongue, my throat was parched.
The lack of fresh air along with the constant rattle and pelt of large stones hitting the undercarriage of the car beneath me were slightly sedating.

When we would hit a pot hole directly I was jolted back to the moment. The crucified Christ dangling in front of me jumped up and down, and then He went back to swinging back and forth until the next unavoidable pot hole.

I sneaked a quick look through the rear window behind me. All I could see was dust. No road, no sky, no scenery whatsoever, just thick brown dust.

This was not how I expected a nun to drive.

In what was probably record time, we arrived at our destination. The ride back home began exactly as we began that morning, and again I watched Jesus bounce and swing all the way.

I never knew a nun could drive like a bat out of Hell. I realized I now knew where my uncle got the expression “Jumpin’ Jesus”. He must have taken piano lessons at the convent too. Amen.