Being
middle-aged at the
dawn of the twenty-first century means that we have lived through many
and rapid changes in our lifetimes. I was fortunate enough to
have
been raised on a farm. When my parents moved in, the house had
dirt
floors and no running water. By the time I was born three years
later,
my Dad had added plumbing, flooring, a bigger living room and a new
kitchen;
I never knew the entirely primitive home that my older siblings
remember.
The
eighth of eleven children
from a large rural Ontario Canada family, a Catholic mother and a
Protestant
father made my childhood different from those with two parents of the
same
faith. My Dad showed me early in life that you did not have to go
to church to be a God-fearing and God-loving individual. That God
can exist in a flower, a cloud, a blade of grace, in the early spring
fragrance
the earth gifts us with when the frost is gone.
I just
made a typing error
in the preceding sentence - I said 'a blade of grace' instead of 'a
blade
of grass.' I am going to leave it exactly as is, because I have
always
said to people who profess not to believe in God something to the
effect
of, 'Who else could make a blade of grass?' Something so simple,
that we take totally for granted, even curse when we have to cut or
maintain
it, but a total wonder. No scientist or botanist or multi-faceted
genius who lives could duplicate or replicate a single, simple blade of
grass. How can one not believe in God? A blade of grace…
But I
digress; my intention
was to portray the warm and comforting sounds and smells of that early
home. It changed and evolved as we grew and the family's
circumstances
changed. The wood stove was exchanged for an electric one when I
was perhaps ten years old, the clothes that used to freeze solid on the
outside lines were dried in the new dryer in the kitchen beginning at
about
the same time.
What
wonderful smells come
to mind! Stiff-as-a-board clothes lying on the kitchen table,
fresh
from the sunny-day brilliant blues and whites of a country
winter.
The legs and arms of the family's garments solid and three-dimensional,
blown about by the wind and then frozen. I used to think they
looked
as if a ghost wore them for a time and then jumped out, leaving the
clothes
appearing inhabited. The fresh smell of snow radiated from the
clothes
stacked like cordwood on the huge kitchen table. Little puffs of
steam rose from them like escaping sighs, as the pieces of clothing
dried
and shrunk to their usual dimensions.
For
me, that fresh snow smell
was sometimes an enticement to get outside and enjoy the activities
that
only winter could bring to the farm. I was usually happiest
indoors
in the winter, curled up with a book and a kitten or puppy, but there
were
times when I would venture out with some of my brothers and
sisters.
We were blessed by growing up with about a hundred and eighty acres of
evergreen and cedar woods with rolling hills.
Three
distinct and separate
ponds graced the valleys indented between our hills. The Horse
Pond,
so named because of its proximity to the spooky horse grave
stone-mounded
off to the side of it, took great daring to use at night. I don't
ever recall a moonlight skate that took place close to that
grave.
I do remember skirting the far edge of that pond, the edge closest to
the
familiar and farthest from the dead horse. Casting skittery
little-girl
glances over my shoulder at the mound of rocks. Wondering just
what
dead horses might do in their graves, and if this one might decide to
get
out of it one night…
And
then, with a big breath
of relief, making our way past the Little Pond to the Big Rink.
That's
where we liked skating the best, and when the rink was frozen deeply
enough,
we'd sometimes toboggan off the high hill beside it, and shoot far
across
the ice. We all knew this was only safe in deep winter, and
didn't
take any risks with shallow ice. Thoroughly exhilarating,
shooting
off the lip of the moon-glimmered, silvery hill with a push from a big
brother, into the stars and then across the ice!
How to
portray the absolute
beauty of a deep-winter night filled with grey shadows of black trees,
silhouetted with a glowing outline by the silver-white full moon, or
the
millions of stars flowing across the Milky Way. And the smells,
coming
through nostrils with the hairs frozen solid! Snow, wet wool,
cold
skin, ice, leather skates, skate polish, cold sweet tea in the quart
jar
we'd brought with us, hot when we'd begun the adventure.
The
total silence broken only
by the skate blades of myself and my brothers and sister, once the
initial
playfulness on the ice was over and the sparkling surroundings and
shimmering
surface became whatever arena our separate minds wanted it to
become.
We glided in peaceful bliss over and through the intricate designs of
the
life we painted with blades on an icy pond. The magic of
childhood
and the simplicity of a natural, God-given winter night!
Although
there were eleven
children in my family, five brothers and five sisters, there were four
of us of an age to play and grow and learn together, the two 'little
boys'
and the two 'little girls,' Bill and Bruce, Sheila and Alice. The
times we had! The things we did! I was the 'good' girl, so
they'd make me do things like post me as a lookout to watch and see if
Mom was coming while they raided the kitchen and the basement pantry
for
food. Food that we would take outside to some secret place and
feast
on before coming back inside for our bedtime snack.
As if
Mom wouldn't have known
exactly what was going on at any given moment! The thought of us
now, me being posted to let the others know if Mom was coming - the
horror
if she moved an inch! I likely jumped a mile each time she
shifted
in her chair a slight bit! I so wish everyone could have lived my
childhood, filled with love and intrigue and imagination and learning
and
growing. In short, what real life should be about!
We had
only one TV channel,
and that was kept on a very limited basis, but if you'd asked me at ten
years old what was the best way to grow, cook, bake or preserve any of
a dozen different foodstuffs, I could have easily told you, from
observation
and experience. I'd have likely shown you which bugs to kill and
which to encourage because they were good for the soil or the
particular
plant, and been thrilled to point out a hummingbird alighting on a
raspberry
blossom.
Thirty-five
or forty years
later, I am thrilled to simply have some time with any of my brothers
or
sisters, in our hectic and harried lives. There is nothing in
this
world that I would trade for a single memory of a single moment spent
in
my childhood, before adulthood and the big-city world took over.
Memories of our childhood together are a wonderful retreat for a tired
adult. I hope by sharing them, I have given you a little of the
peace
and joy my heart carries with the smells, sights and sounds of those
long-ago
days.
 
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