Do You Smell Smoke?

My husband is a fireman's son. His father worked in Fort William (now Thunder Bay) during my husband's childhood. I often suggest to him that that is the reason he loves fires today! He can't wait until winter so that he can start a fire in our fireplace in the evening. Not that he is a "firebug" or anything, but he does like to build a nice fire and watch the flames as the fire crackles in the fireplace.

As a child, he and his friends loved to build forts in the piles of evergreen trees that were piled up at the end of the street after Christmas. In Ontario, where he lived it was still very cold in January so he and his friends would sit, scrunched down under the pile pretending that they were in a tent. Someone (and of course my husband won't say who) suggested that they should build a fire and boil some water, the way they did when they were really camping in the summer.

The idea caught fire right away (chuckle) and once the little flames started to warm everybody's hands they decided to put more leaves on the fire. I don't have to tell you what happened next. You can use your imagination and think about how quickly flames would rise to the top of the "tree tent" and spread to the branches above them.

Thinking of it now, I realize how dangerous it could have been but when he tells the story you forget about that and only remember what happened next. The little boys scooted out of the "tree tent" and split up, running home to safety.

While he remembers nothing about the consequences he does remember hearing the local fire engine rushing down the street towards the pile of trees that were now burning very brightly. I asked him what his mother had to say about the whole thing and he says he only remembers taking of all his clothes, putting them in the laundry basket and announcing he was taking a bath!

I can only imagine her thoughts when she watched her small boy, in the middle of the day, stripping naked and dashing to the bathtub to take a bath! He never got into trouble for that little escapade, but he learned a good lesson and never built fires in the discarded Christmas trees again! Maybe she thought that it was a lesson learned without much more ado.

Bite me, Bite me!

In the late 60's and early 70's housewives wanted a new style vacuum. I finally got one! Don't remember what the name of it was but it was a cute little thing. It came in various colors and looked like a little satellite. When you turned it on it glided around the floor on a soft curtain of air.



I provided day care in my home for the children of my working friends. Theirs and mine were my big happy family during the day. I know that day care givers now are expected to have a structured program for children in day care now. Not in the 60's. The children I took care of each day played with each other (and me) while I did my daily housework. One incident will stay in my memory forever.

It included my new vacuum cleaner and a small child named Kevin that I was taking care of. As I said before we had just bought the vacuum so I was not all that familiar with its operation. While I vacuumed, I wasn't picking up any dust or dirt. I realized that the hose was blocked so I removed the hose from the body of the vacuum to shake it out the window. The little boy I was minding was about two and a half and he was very curious about this new "thing" that moved around so easily over the floor. He saw his chance when I had taken the hose to the window and made his way to the vacuum.

The first thing he did was put his little arm into the hole left by the hose I had just removed. The next thing he did was flick the little on/off switch. Suddenly I heard this wail coming from the the middle of the living room floor. I ran over to find him with his little arm trapped in the vacuum, it was being sucked in and he couldn't pull it out. Of course, I quickly turned the vacuum off, removed his arm and saw that he was not injured in any way. It took a few minutes of hugs and soothing words and he was fine. Off he went to play again.

By the time his mother came to pick him up that evening I had forgotten the incident completely and, I thought he had too.

The next morning his mom and he were at my door. he had a big smile on his face but his mom looked very haggard. I remarked that she did not look very good and perhaps she should stay home from work. "I'm very tired," she said, "I did not get any sleep last night. Kevin woke up about 12 o'clock last night crying. I went into his room and he was holding his arm and he was saying 'Bite me. bite me' We looked at his arm but couldn't see any bites, but we were very concerned because we have had spiders in the bedroom before. We thought maybe he had been bitten. We took him into Emergency about one o'clock and by the time they could see us he had fallen back to sleep and it was almost dawn. They couldn't find any thing wrong with his arm at all. We were glad about that, but, by that time it was time to get ready for work!"

You can imagine what was happening to my face as she told me what had happened. It became more and more obvious that I knew something she didn't know!

Oh, no" I exclaimed. "Don't tell me he remembered!"

"What do you mean?" she asked.

So I told her about the incident the day before. If only I had remembered to mention it to her when she came to get him yesterday. Once she knew what the problem had been she laughed and so did I, Keven kept smiling - he was a happy little guy!

I learned two important things that day about taking care of children.

First - never leave the vacuum plugged in and unattended (very important)
Second - remember to tell parents about the events of the day ... you never know what happens when children go home at night!

Innocence

When do words become "suggestive" or "naughty"? It seems only adults decide what words are bad and what words are not bad. Terrible but true, children can suffer because of adults' conception of words that they claim are right and wrong.

Here is a story that will make you chuckle but you must also agree that innocence is sometimes a better state than the state of some adults whose minds go to the suggestive or naughty too quickly.

My last child, Carissa came as the answer to our dreams of having a little girl. She made our family complete. Now she is a mother with two girls of her own. I often wonder how she would handle this memory that I have of her. I'm sure she would remember it completely differently, but this is my memory dammit and I'll stick to it!

My Mother loved my daughter as she had loved me and my sisters and so when we went to visit her in Vancouver, she often gave my daughter special little gifts. Recycling was not yet a word on anyone's tongue but like most people in the 70's, was very good at reusing things. On one visit, she gave my daughter a tee shirt that someone had given her. She was not a tee shirt person and my daughter delighted in having a shirt that looked like the tee shirts her brother's wore. My daughter did not put on the tee shirt right away. She tucked into her little suitcase to bring back home. She said that she wanted to save it and wear it to school.

The morning that she wore the new tee shirt (which was much too big for her, but still very precious) I must have been busy getting the boys ready. I did not really look at what she was wearing that day. That is my excuse and I'm sticking to it!

Off she went to school wearing her new tee shirt under her jacket.

Her teacher phoned me shortly after 9 AM and said, "I am sending your daughter home!"

"Oh dear," I said, " is she sick?"

"No," came a rather frosty reply, "she is coming home to change her tee shirt. Please ensure that she does and send her back to class as soon as possible."

The teacher hung up and I sat there wondering what the problem was. Did she spill something on her tee shirt? I tried hard to remember what she had worn that morning, thinking perhaps she had worn something that needed to go in the rag-bag or the washing machine.

I didn't have long to wait. We were only a block from the school and she ran all the way home. When she burst in the door she was crying. Tears ran down her face. "What happened" I asked gently.

She said, "I don't know! All I know is that the teacher said that my new tee shirt that Nana gave me is very naughty and I had to come home and change it."

With that, she opened her jacket and showed me what all the trouble was about. It was a lovely white tee shirt that came almost down to her knees, and across the front of it, in bright red letters were the words, OLD FISHERMEN NEVER DIE, THEY JUST CAN'T RAISE THEIR RODS! This wording may have not been exact, but you get the picture.

I read it and started to laugh. She looked at me and said, "It is not funny! Nana gave this shirt! Why would Nana give me a shirt that was naughty?"

My mother was from a different era, sho had no idea what that saying could mean! She was as innocent as her granddaughter. When my Mom had bought this tee shirt at a rummage sale she only thought about how much her granddaughter would like it.

I cannot remember how much of an explanation I gave my daughter other than to say that sometimes words can have two different meanings. I also remember having to explain to my mother what the words implied and she got very embarrassed and told my daughter how sorry she was that the whole thing had happened.

Innocence is wonderful ... where does it go.

Talk to the Animals

When our family was young, my husband and I had the great fortune to live in an apartment block in a beautiful part of Victoria BC. The apartments we lived in were built to take in a very natural setting, with water all around, trees every where you looked and feathered friends who were quite tame.

Canadian Geese shared their lives with us on the little penninsula where the apartment block was built. During the summer they feasted on the worms that came up out of the grass after a rainfall and even in the winter we had flocks arrive from up North. I think they called our area their summer resort. Say what you will about geese, they are very peaceful and have a philosophy of "live and let live" with humans.

Our oldest son was about 3. One afternoon, he was playing on the little patio outside our apartment. Close enough to be watched but far enough away from Mom and Dad to enjoy the freedom of doing "stuff" without knowing he was being watched. Children's imaginations are so keen that several little toy cars and a makeshift car garage can hold their interest for a long time.

A good friend of ours lived in the upper apartment, his bedroom overlooked our patio. He was home with a cold that day. He glanced out the window and saw my son at play.

"Ah," he thought, "I'll play a little trick on him". So he called my son by name and when my son looked up, our friend ducked down below the window. My son looked around to see who was calling him. Seeing no one he went back to play. Again our friend leaned out his window and called. "Hi _______," My son looked around again but our friend had disappeared below the window, out of sight.

A third time, our friend called and ducked down. This is where the geese come into the story. There was a group of about 15 or so, eating grass, just across the road from our patio. Our son looked up. In a voice, loud enough for our upstairs friend to hear him, he said, in a very friendly voice, "Oh, hi ducks" and went back to play again.

Our friend was so tickled by this that he came right down to my door to tell me what had happened. Only a child would assume that it was the geese who knew his name and it was they who were saying "Hi".

How sad that, as adults we seem to lose that part of our imagination that allows us to have this magical kind of reasoning. Of course animals can talk ...

Peanuts Anyone?

Sometimes the things my children said were much funnier than any comedian trying to make me laugh.

When my children were young, I was a stay-at-home Mom. it was much easier then, to be one. Because I stayed at home and took care of my children in their early years doesn't mean that I didn't try to make money while I was at home. I was fortunate that other Moms let me take care of their children while they went to work ... and I got paid too!

This is a story that needs some background so that you will understand the simple and yet hilarious conversation that I heard go between my 3 year old son and a young girl that I was taking care of. When my children were young there was a great movement afoot to call body parts what they actually were, but our family had not reached that stage yet. Hence my boys called their penis a ding-dong. The little girls parents, however, were very into being anatomically correct with their children. Also for more background, my younger son was a very active little boy who hated to take time out to go to the bathroom. When he couldn't wait any longer, he would always agree to go but wanted company while he was there so he wouldn't get bored!

One afternoon, my son sat on the toilet making conversation as he loved to do while sitting on the throne. The little girl and I sat on the edge of the bathtub and kept him company. The little girl was a very serious child and studied my son for quite a while before she stated, in a very loud voice ... "______ has a penis. " (I will leave names out to protect the innocent) "What?" my son said curiously. "_______ has a penis" she repeated, nodding wisely. My son thought about that for a while and then said, "Peanuts? I can't eat Peanuts, they may get stuck in my throat."

I, at this point sat astounded, not knowing what it say to these two little 4 year olds having this conversation ... "Oh, " replied the little girl and nodded again. You could see her little mind whirling, but she only nodded again and the conversation went off in another direction.

I wondered for a long time what the conversation was like with the little girl's family at the dinner table that night when they asked her what had happened in her day at the baby-sitter's.

A Hat for First Communion

My husband comes from a very devout Roman Catholic Family. His memories of growing up in his family have very much to do with being the youngest in a family of 9 children. In many ways he was "quite spoiled" as his brothers and sisters told me because he was the last child and his mother doted on him.

One of the events in a young Catholic boy's life is his First Communion. My husband's life was no different. At age 8, he remembers looking forward to going to the church, dressed in a suit and being in a procession with all his friends and school mates to receive his First Communion. Up until now, he could watch his Mother and Father and older brothers and sisters going up for Communion, but he was always left behind - to only watch.

The day before his First Communion his school friends and he were walking home, talking about what was going to happen the next day. They came upon a roofing crew spreading new tar on a roof. Remember that in the days when my husband was 8 - the idea of watching a roof being retarred was as exciting for them as watching a new video is for our grandchildren.

One of his friends (he is not taking the blame) suggested that they grab some of the tar that had cooled and was sitting on a wooden bench by the sidewalk. The tar was warm but pluable and they could roll it around in their hands and it wouldn't stick to them. try to imagine young children of today playing with Playdoh.. One of the boys (again, my husband is not taking any blame here) suggested that they make themselves a hat and wear the hats home. Great idea!

My husband went into the house to show his Mom his play hat. Except ... the hat would not come off his head. It had stuck good and fast to the hair at the top of his head! His Mother tried everything and the little tar hat would not budge. It was completely entwined in his hair and even stuck to his head. As a last resort, after using all sorts of ways to remove the tar hat, she had to cut his hair and he ended up with a rather large round circle on the top of his head that was bald.

You can guess the ending of this story. The pictures taken of his First Communion Class showed my husband (being the devout little child his mother loved) standing with his head bowed - showing the bald spot. His brothers and sisters loved bringing out the picture as often as they could.

My husband says he thinks that is why he went bald later in life - let this be a lesson to other little boys who play with tar!

The Junk Man

Now here is a career that has disappeared! The Junk Man used to travel up and down the lanes of residential neighbourhoods in Vancouver. His loud, gruff voice would bellow over the sound of the bells that jingled on his horse's reins to let people know he was coming. The sound of his horse, clip - clopping along, pulling his old wagon behind is still burned in my brain. JUNK he would call out over and over, and women would rush out with stuff (recycleables today) to hand to him.

As a child I remember being afraid of this scruffy looking person who had every imaginable item hanging from his wagon, things rattled, the old horse whinnied, and he kept coming closer. I would run and hide in case he decided that I would make a perfect piece of junk for him to take with him. Of course, thinking about it now, I realize how silly that was. In the 50's and 60's life was so much simpler and strangers were so much less scary that they seem today.

Neighbourhood women would stand by their back fences and when he stopped they would hand him old lamps, broken wash boards, tin boxes - I don't think he paid anything for the treasures that he received, he just grunted, got back on his wagon and proceeded to the next house - yelling JUNK! I think he must have sold the metal to make a living for himself and/or his family.

As I grew past my early fears, I made sure my younger sister (5 years my junior) suffered the same fear that I did, only I took it a step further ... when she was naughty, according to my judgement anyway, I would tell her that the Junk Man was coming to get her and I would pick up the phone, hold the button down on the phone cradle and talk very sternly into the mouth piece.

"Please Mr Junk Man, come and pick up my little sister - she has been very bad today."

My young sister would run into our dining room and crouch under the table, hiding so the scary Junk Man would not find her. Thinking back, I say to myself, how cruel was that? Fortunately the Junk Man's call never coincided with the threats I laid on my little sister.

Today we are the best of friends and we talk about our shared memories of our childhood. This one always comes up and we can both laugh about it now!

My sister has added some extra information to this story:

There is some more to the story of the junk man. That junk man lived in the neighbourhood and was also My girlfriend's junk man just one street down. Her parents were always giving him “junk”..one year, at Christmas, the junk man gave THEM a gift…a lovely lamp…you know the type that was popular in the 60’s..the ones that were on poles and extended from floor to ceiling.

He lived in a nice house and had money….so you see….there was money in junk then, just as there is now…as you will see today from all the consignment shops, thrift stores and garage sales.

Vancouver Fish Monger

Well he wasn't really our uncle, but this story is really true! We called him Uncle Louie but he was actually one of my Dad's second cousins or something - Italians don't distinguish relationships that much - he was family.


Uncle Louie was a small man with a very imposing wife named Litzie Ann (this name is written the way the name is pronounced - spoken Italian was the only way I ever knew the language). He was a fish monger. As a mater of fact he was Vancouver East's last fish monger and appeared on Front Page Challenge (an old Canadian show from the 60's and 70's) He was the celebrity in our midst!


My Dad told us other important things about Uncle Louie, things that belied the feeling we got whenever he came to visit - he worked with fish all day and we realized that never got the smell of it out of his clothes or skin. His wife was very a fastidious person. Their home was the first one I could remember that had a shower installed in their basement - Louie was not allowed to come up from the basement after a day selling fish to the housewives in Vancouver's suburbs until he had a shower and washed off the smell.


But the Uncle Louie story that my Dad told the best was the one about Uncle Louie and his beloved truck. You see, as a fish monger, Louie would drive down to the wharf in Vancouver every morning in his Model T truck and buy fish from the commercial fish boats. Talk about fresh fish! He would buy the best catch of the day and ,with his vehicle full of ice and fish, he would travel up and down Vancouver's residential streets, yelling "Fish for Sale". His customers ranged from immigrant women living in Vancouver's East End to the paid cooks and housekeepers working for wealthy families in the South End of Vancouver. Uncle Louie developed a long term relationship with his truck - Uncle Louie considered it his best friend.

One Saturday afternoon, there was a knock on our backdoor and it was Uncle Louie. He needed Dad's help. He had just come back from the auto repair shop and they told him that his Model-T was no longer repairable. It had to be retired and he was going to have to buy another one.

Uncle Louie asked my Dad to tow him to the dump ( with the truck no longer running ... in those days the tow was legal ...) with a strong rope between two cars. My Dad was a busy man but never too busy for family. He said that Uncle Louie had tears in his eyes when he talked about taking his truck to the dump but, with a resigned shrug of his shoulders, he said he knew it had to be done. And so the truck was towed to the dump. My Dad sat in his car, driving and pulling the Model T and Uncle Louie steered the old vehicle from behind.

My Dad said that on the way to the dump he watched Uncle Louie in the rear view mirror. He was crying. He was also talking, patting the worn dash of his truck, giving little kisses to the steering wheel. All in all, my Dad understood how attached Louie had gotten to his truck, so, at the dump yard he left Louie alone to give a final goodbye to his best friend. Driving Louie back home was a sad ordeal. Uncle Louie sat quietly, with tears in his eyes, first looking back at the dump yard and then off into the distance of the long road home. When my Dad left Louie at his home, he knew that the first night would be the hardest for Louie. He would have a tough time forgetting about his truck.

The next morning, very early, there was another knock at the backdoor. It was Louie again and .... to Dad's surprise, Louie was beaming. "Dick" he said, "I need your help again. I want to bring my truck back home!". They drove out to the dump yard again, my Dad said he was so curious about why he didn't even question Louie. This time it was a totally different Louie. He was chortling and bouncing up and down on the seat all the way to the dump ... he was excited about seeing his little truck again. When they arrived at the dump yard, Louie jumped out of the car, ran over to the truck and hugged it! He spoke rapidly to it in Italian with little gentle pats and strokes. Out came the rope again and they towed the truck back home. Uncle Louie and his truck in the back, and my Dad in the front driving his car. This time, in his rear view mirror, he saw Uncle Louie talking rapidly, patting the dash board and giving little kisses to the steering wheel. But this time he had a huge smile on his face.

When they arrived at Louie's home, he directed my Dad to tow him around to the backyard of his house. To Dad's surprise, where the vegetable garden had been, was now a gigantic hole. Louie said he had been up all night digging the hole! My Dad helped Louie push the old truck into the hole. They covered the truck and smoothed the ground down so that you almost couldn't tell there had ever been a hole. Louie thanked him, shared a glass of his wine and my Dad went home shaking his head. Uncle Louie could not bear to leave his old friend (the truck) in an unfriendly place. He needed to make a final resting place for it near his family.

From the next growing season on, my Dad used to say the Uncle Louie's garden grew the neighbourhood's prize tomatoes and other vegetables. He said it was because of all the minerals and iron in the soil from the rusting truck. I think it was from all the love radiating out of the old truck and up to its beloved master, Uncle Louie.

Memories are too precious to forget!

As we get older, a lot of what we remember from our childhood gets lost unless we write it down. Remember when we used to all sit at the dinner table at night and Mom and Dad used to pass along stories of things that happened when they were young? We live in such a busy world now with meal times often being a "grab and eat" event so that everyone can go off to "do their thing". Family communication is disappearing (unless you count facebook) and we are not learning enough from our shared pasts. If my stories get forgotten, my grandchildren will miss a big part of what made them what they are today.

So ... I am going to write down the stories of my youth, growing up in an Italian Canadian neighbourhood in Vancouver's East End and also some of the precious memories I have about my children as they grew up. Things that I thought were very normal often turned out to be very funny and unique. I want to make sure that my memories of these things live on far past my time here - I plan to be around for a long time yet, but ... just in case.

I also invite my friends to tell me their stories so I can write them in this blog too. I want to help them be remembered as well. If any of my friends are reading this blog, please send me your stories and I will post them!