by N. A. Dalbec
Halcyon Daze
Growing up Canadian
by
N. A. Dalbec
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author.
Making copies of any part of this book for any purpose is not permitted.
For information, contact N. A. Dalbec, Author, Suite 707, 555 Jervis Street., Vancouver, BC, Canada, V6E 4N1
ISBN: 978-0-9730714-4-3, issued by Library and Archives Canada
All characters and situations in this book are fictitious
Tricycle Tribulations
One of the things I remember most about my childhood is that old, big tricycle. To whom it had belonged before, I’m not quite sure, but I certainly thought that it was neat to ride.
As I rode along the sidewalk one day, traveling south, as I can now confirm, I came upon a large garbage can. It was one of those corrugated things, a precursor to the aluminum ones. They didn’t rust, but they weighed as much as anything you would put in them. From my lofty seating position, I peered into the open can. Suddenly, and without warning, a flood of tears came into my eyes, and a level of pain overcame me as I had never felt before.
As it turned out, I had fallen into the garbage can. Actually, my head had made it in, but my left shoulder had caught the rim of the can. The next thing I knew, I was sitting on the examination table at Doctor Morley`s office. He supposedly helped my parents bring me into this world, back near the middle of the century. Anyway, there I was being taped up like a hockey stick. Dr. Morley was making a big X across my shoulders with bandages and gauze. It turns out that I had fractured my collar bone.
On the way back home, my father, also known as Pop, stopped by a corner store to buy me a sucker. It was a big one, I remember. Then he carried me back home. Nothing was really far in the town we lived in, mostly because we lived in a little town, and we happened to live pretty close to the center of it.
I can’t say that I remember how the whole thing turned out, but I do know that my shoulder is okay to this day.
The Right Wagon
Of course, a tricycle is neat, but when you're a kid, there's something special about a wagon. Not just any wagon, but a wooden wagon. I'll tell you, there's something innate, a special knowledge that makes you know what's right about something. For example, a steel wagon just wouldn't do when I was a kid. Had someone bought me a steel wagon, I would have been very disappointed in their lack of knowledge about such things. For example, steel wagons did not have the cargo capacity of a wooden wagon; steel ones also rusted where they were scratched; the wheels were often of inferior quality. However, wooden wagons were often larger, sleeker, faster, and more rugged than their counterparts. They were made of good Canadian hardwood, probably Maple.
One day, when I was no more than four years old, Pop brought me over to my uncle's sporting goods store. I quite frankly can't imagine why all of this was happening, because there was no evidence of the day being of any special significance. What did happen truly thrilled me. I was informed that the reason for our visit to my uncle's store was to pick up a new wagon for yours truly. I didn't know what to think, but I knew what I wanted.
It was beautiful. Long, sleek, smooth, red wheels with gobs of black rubber, a good long handle, and lots of bright red letters and stuff.
There was only one way to ride a wagon when you were alone. You knelt one knee in the wagon, held the handle with one hand, the wagon with the other, and pushed with the outboard leg. It was fantastic. When someone was around, you could take turns pushing, and that was great also. I remember a little hill, just in front of the house where we lived, and I loved being pushed up that little hill, and then zipping back down. Doesn't take much to thrill a four-year-old.
Mrs. Dertrand
I guess I was still too young to go to school, and my parents were sometimes too busy to take care of me. So, they would some-times drop me off at the neighbor's, which happened to be one house down from our place. The woman who lived there was rather old, as I remember, and she wore long skirts with lots of slips. This although quite in vogue in some eras, was certainly out of favor in the place and time that I was growing up in. I was probably three when this incident took place, and the reaction of the adult was, as I would later find out in life, quite typical.
I was playing in the kitchen at Mrs. Dertrand's house, in a typically childlike manner, sometimes walking, other times crawling. As I slid along the floor, on my back, I happened to slide right under Mrs. Dertrand's skirt. Well, this solicited a reaction that I did not understand. Mrs. Bertrand looked at me from what seemed way up, actually peering around her own belly, and exclaimed that I couldn't do that. Why not, I wondered. I was only trying to satisfy my curiosity, and frankly, there was nothing more to see than a lot of ruffled material. My observation at the time was that she must have been very hot with all of that clothing. What I did find out from her that day was that it was not proper to look up a woman's skirt. Okay, I thought, but deep down, I felt that that answer was not satisfactory. I also found out that I would get this type of answer to a multitude of questions in the course of growing up, and again in adulthood.
Crushing Experience
The backyard was really big. There was no lawn to speak of, and most of the space was used to park cars. I don't remember spending much time in the backyard, but I do remember one episode that took place one summer evening.
I'm going to plead innocent on this one, because I just can't remember all the details of the incident. I do however remember the sound of something being violently transformed in the backyard. My uncle was on his way out for the evening. He was backing out of the driveway in his white 50's Chev, when all of a sudden he stopped the car. The noise of crushed metal resounded throughout the neighboring area. It seems that my inherited tricycle had been transformed into a mess of pipes, and broken spokes. Someone had left the tricycle behind my uncle's car.
Well this was rather disturbing, more to my uncle than to me. I sort of thought that the trike looked neat in its transformed shape. My uncle happened to be a plumber, and he volunteered to repair the trike. This I also thought was neat of him.
I guess that was the summer that we moved to the larger city, because it felt like an eternity before I got my trike back. As a matter of fact, my uncle came to visit one day, and I think it was the summer following the incident, and with him he brought the repaired trike. I was very happy to see my transportation back in one piece. Unfortunately, the moment turned out to be short-lived. The welding job was not enough to keep the machine in one piece. If my memory serves me well, my uncle brought the trike back to where we used to live before, and attempt to revive the trike, but to no avail. I understand he was a good plumber, but I guess tricycles aren't exactly plumbing.
A Brush with Death
I can't remember his name, but he was one of my early childhood friends. He lived just down the street from where I lived.
One day he came to me and said that he had discovered something absolutely amazing about cars. I was naturally curious and excited about the whole thing as it had been hinted by my friend that a feeling of magic and power were involved. What could it be that he was talking about. My curiosity was truly piqued.
The front of the house faced a reasonably busy street and actually, there was a traffic light at the corner. What I was about to see truly amazed me. My friend confidently walked into the street, stopped right in the middle. and proceeded to lie down. Cars just stood still. Those that were rolli
ng came to a stop. The world had frozen before our very eyes. A few moments later, my friend got up, and casually returned to the sidewalk. Well, I was amazed.
So my friend suggested that I try the same thing. Why not. Having seen that it was so easy, I just had to try. So I walked into the street, and proceeded to lie down in front of the traffic. Sure enough, the cars stopped, and really, the world felt like it was at my command. I had never felt that before. In retrospect, it is probably one of the most stupid things that I have ever done in my life. But then again, I still have many years to live.
Nonetheless, the experience was an exciting one, and neither of us was run over by a car, bus, or truck. I don't remember ever repeating the experience. Thank goodness for that! But I have to wonder...there must be someone looking out for each and every one of us most of the time. Although, that entity does seem to take the occasional break, as we all seem to have experienced at one time or another. Is it selective saving, or random saving that we are benefiting from?
The Dog I sort of Had
Sometime after I was born, or maybe even before. our family had a beautiful dog. It's name was Milou. It was a Collie, and quite frankly, I remember it more through my brothers' and sister's remembrances than my own. I do however remember that it was not long into my life that the dog disappeared, and I recall missing a dog that I hardly knew. It seems that its fate was directly affected by my presence and that my life was being directly affected by its presence.
I found out later in life that Milou had been given away sometime after my arrival because its long Collie hair caused me to suffer from asthma. Nonetheless, I thought then, when being told this story that asthma was not such a large price to pay in order to have such a wonderful beast in the family. My parents did not agree with this, of course.
As I grew up and learned to read, I remember going through the classified ads in the newspaper, in the DOGS AND PET STOCK section to see what was available. I was astounded to find that many people were ready to actually give away any variety of dog that you could imagine if you promised to give them a good home, the dogs that is. So on occasion I would try my salesmanship, and try to convince my parents to get a dog: “They’re free, and all we have to do is pick one up, and I promise to feed it, and take good care of it, and take it with me wherever I go, and it can sleep with me, so can we get one?"
The answer was the same every time. You guessed it. That didn't stop me from trying though. I did however meet a very sympathetic fellow who owned a Basset Hound pup named Emma. His name was Dieter, and Dieter's wife was about to have a baby when all this was happening, so Dieter was very happy to let me take Emma for walks, and take care of her in general. Dieter himself was a lot of fun. He had a British accent, and spoke to me like an adult. I learned a lot about other parts of the world with Dieter, and I learned a lot about dogs from Emma.
Going for the Ride
This is a late-night story, mostly because it occurred late one night, many, many, years ago. Back then, we lived in a two-storey house that felt pretty big for someone my size. It also had an attic, so that made it even bigger to me.
For some reason, now unknown to me, I woke up one night, and also woke up my father. I probably woke up my mother also, because she had always been a light sleeper. I guess it was my father's turn to get up that night, and so he did. I can only assume that the reason for my waking up was that I had had a nightmare, or something. It was very dark in the house, and all of my brothers and sister were asleep. For some reason, Pop and I had to go downstairs to get something. I was very young then, and very portable. So Pop took me in his arms, and proceeded to head downstairs. We made it to the landing all right, but then something happened. All of a sudden, we were flying through the air. No stairs were touching my father's feet. Thank goodness he was versed in judo, because we were falling at a rapid rate, in the darkest of darknesses. You can believe that this was high adventure for someone my age. But I don't think my mother appreciated what was happening. As you can imagine, all of this activity made quite a racket, and yes, it woke up the entire household.
Well believe it or not, my father and I had managed to cascade down a flight of sixteen or so stairs, in each other's arms, and came out of it unscathed. Let me qualify that. I came out of it okay, but my father got a late night earful from my mother, who understandably was concerned.
After all, we did make it downstairs, and eventually back upstairs. Amazingly enough, even to this day, when I take one of those all too frequent winter spills, I still feel like I'm in my father's arms.
The Discovery
I was still quite young when we moved to the bigger city, and there always seemed to be a lot to do, especially for a kid. Then again, it doesn't take a heck of a lot to entertain a kid.
The new house was a bungalow. It was situated in a newer part of the city. There was lots of room for expansion, and consequently, lots of room to play. There was even a large vegetable garden in the yard. Things seemed to grow quite well in it. One day, in late summer, I found myself standing in the middle of the garden. It was a pretty neat place to be, for a kid. Everything was so large, bigger than life, as they say. If I remember well, my job was to pick out some carrots from the garden. I knew what those were, but to my surprise, when I looked down at my feet, there was a large, very large white rabbit, with big, big red eyes, just sitting there. That's when I discovered that rabbits can be very discrete. I guess I didn't pose much of a threat to the rabbit, because it did not move. I yelled out to my brothers to let them know of my discovery. They came running, and in turn, alerted my parents. This was some big event.
The family proceeded to build a pen for the rabbit, all the while making sure that it had plenty to eat. The pen was fabricated of wood, and chicken wire. I have no idea where the chicken wire came from. The whole experience was so magical. I really felt privileged to have been in the right place at the right time. I also inadvertently discovered one of life's great lessons at an age when I could make very little conscious use of it.
The next morning, I woke up very early. I was excited about the rabbit, and wanted to see how it was doing. Well, I was in for a bit of a disappointment, because when I got to the cage, I noticed that the rabbit was gone. I immediately notified the entire family of the loss. I was informed that rabbits were quite cunning, and that when pressed were very good at running away. I found this to be a good explanation, and sorrowfully admired the rabbit's talent for escape, although I found it hard to believe that the rabbit was not convinced by our hospitality to stay.
Years later I discovered that the big white rabbit had been let out and given its freedom. I was then old enough to agree that the course of action taken at the time was indeed the noblest and most humane, which said a lot for my elders.
Ted
Christmas was rolling around one more time. Now I had not seen too many of them yet, but I knew I liked them. For one thing, it was truly a magical time of year when mysterious and unexplainable things occurred. It was also a time for wishing for things. The one great thing about being a kid, of course, is that what you wanted was usually affordable and, available. Something I grew out of as an adult, unfortunately. Anyway, at the ripe old age of three or four, my wish list was short. As a matter of fact, I was more in the reactive mode, so to speak, in that I gladly took whatever came my way.
I can't recall which Christmas it was exactly, except that it was one of the ones spent in the west end of the city. I think that accounts for one of three spent there. The whole family was up early that morning, but my father was nowhere to be seen. As we stood in the kitchen, it was suggested that I go to the living room fireplace to see if anything was different. So I went, and to my surprise, a beautifully wrapped gift lay there. I picked it up and brought it to the kitchen. The gift was for me, and I was prompted to open it. This was fun, lots of fun, I thought. As I returned to the fireplace, I discovered another gift. I brought it back to the kitchen. This time it was for someone else. Fan
tastic! Well the whole morning seemed to be like that, and everyone was having a lot of fun.
If ever I believed in Santa, it was that year. Of course, all of this had been orchestrated by my parents, probably by my mother, who was a real lover of Christmas. My father had been absent from the scene to play the role of Santa, of course, but a mysterious, and magical Santa who would anonymously leave gifts at the foot of the fireplace.
That was probably the year I received my long-time companion to be. That was when I befriended my teddy bear. Ted was great! He was a beautiful gold color, and his eyes were big and deep, with a knowing look to them. Ted's fur was plush and warm, quite soft to the touch. Ted stayed with me for many, many years, as any of my brothers or sister will tell you. I actually kept him with me until I was relatively old.
Our parting was sudden, but by my choice, and not due to pressure from my parents. I was the youngest in the family, and I think they liked to think that I was going to stay that way longer than would be physically possible.
Ironically, Ted came to me via the chimney, and that's the way he left some eight years later. I still miss him sometimes.
Things that Disappear
Houses are certainly not built like they use to be. Is that an understatement. Yes, I find that the ones they build today just won't cut it as time works on them. The older houses look like they will stand up to just about anything. However, one area that the older places seem to lack in, is their capacity to remain warm in the winter, unless of course, they have been insulated properly.
