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  • Untitled

You Can’t Go Back

7/18/2022

4 Comments

 
        You can’t go back, murmur the pundits. You can learn from the past but you can’t go back.
        One of my sisters and I don’t follow rules very well. We did go back. To our childhood home in SmallTown, Ontario. Where gossip and wild spaces and fresh garden vegetables and yes, even sexual innuendos, educated us city slickers in a way no other place could.
Picture
sisters in our long-ago bedroom
Chimney Fire
        Like, I still hear the fire sirens in my brain. I was in Grade 5, Marlane in Grade 1. We shared a second-floor bedroom in a heritage brick home on Main Street: complete with a multi-angled ceiling, one small window, and a long no-door closet with steeple-shape interior.
        It was 6 a.m. on a freezing morning. My father was up already, stoking coal into the basement furnace, before heading to his job via commuter car to the Big City.
        Suddenly he burst into our bedroom where we were still sleeping. “Get up! Get out! Chimney fire! Forget dressing! Just get out!” Then he headed for our brother’s bedroom next to us.
        That’s when I realized the fire sirens were heading to our house!
        Marlane and Bro shot out of bed. Disappeared down the stairs.
        But, me, well, I had rollers in my hair. Good grief, I couldn’t go outside with rollers in my hair! What if people saw me like this? I quickly crouched before the mirror whipping out the curling rollers, styling my hair into some sort of presentable shape.
        “Good GAWD!” yelled my father as he tore back into my bedroom. (Fire engines stopped outside now. Sirens still howling. Firefighters scrambling out. Hoses unloaded. Hordes of spectators.)
        “But…!”
        Yanking my arm, he tore me away from the mirror. I stumbled down the stairs with him, out into the cold, onto the street before the searching eyes of curious onlookers.
        Ah, but at least, I sighed within, there were no curlers in my hair.
Picture
our heritage home
PictureOld Town Hall
School Days
        Smalltown introduced me, Marlane, Bro and L’il Bro, to an entirely new world of life experiences.
        Marlane’s blonde hair was fine and wispy when she was in Grade One. Yet she insisted my mother pull her strands into a ponytail. Except by the time we had walked to her Grade One class in the Old Town Hall, her wisps had escaped to fly around her cherub face. She never realized her pony tail had disappeared among dozens of bobby pins and coloured barrettes.
        My Bro and I had to walk 5 km to and from the only elementary school in town on the other side of the railroad tracks. (“You live on the wrong side,” came the taunt). Bro, small for his age, was constantly bullied and taunted by a couple of local boys. He lived in terror each school day. My Bro is a big guy now. No-one would dare assault him.

School discipline
        I distinctly remember our Grade Five teacher. A tall, imposing man. Male teachers were most unusual at that time. His voice boomed like the wrath of God and his eagle eyes scanned the room for truant behaviour.
        During one of our many tests, most of the class -- except for goodie-goodies -- cheated. We wrote the answers on a small piece of paper, placed it beside us on our desk seats, our heads down so we could scan our cheat sheet at the same time we were writing.
        Suddenly there was a mighty whack as Man Teacher smacked his book down atop his desk. We all stopped writing immediately, terrified at the Judgement Day explosion.
        He called up shivering Jamie, a small piglet of a boy who sat behind me. I could hear him whimpering as he slithered to the front of the class.
        “CHEATER!” yelled Man Teacher, pointing to Piggy Jamie.
        At once there was a quiet rustle of cheat sheets shoved into desks. There was also a collective increase in heartbeats.
        Then Man Teacher ordered poor Jamie to open his hands. Each hand quivered.
        Man Teacher whacked Piggy five times on each open palm; with each whack tears sprang into Piggy’s eyes.
        At the expense of this poor kid, we all learned never to cheat again. 
Picture
public school
Little People
        Little Lucy down the street was a child of incest. Her mother was her sister. It took me awhile to figure that one out but my best friend, Gayle, told me this was so.
        Dumb Dougie, as we (cruelly) called him, sat on the front cement steps of his family’s frame home, rocking his body, his arms wrapped around his torso, singing to himself.  Other kids nonchalantly called him ‘strange’ because of family in-breeding.
More than just a cornfield
        The tall cornfield across and behind the street homes was the perfect place to sexually explore yourself or your boyfriend. Deep in the heart of the patch was a flattened area with overhead intertwined cornstalks. The perfect hiding place. All kids knew about it. Today, I wonder whether the farmer suspected any improper shenanigans. He always left that patch fort intact.
A Mill and Blacksmith shop 
        The abandoned old Mill by the river was haunted. No-one dared venture inside this vacant decrepit building. Through its broken windows we could see massive cobwebs connecting strange shapes among abandoned machines. We thought about the serious size of those spiders. And other crimes that must have taken place there.
        At a major corner on our side of the tracks was the blacksmith’s shop. Now long gone, his was the best place to hang around on a cold winter day. Especially when he let you get close to his fire to thaw frozen fingers.
Back to the past         
        On the way back to our past, Marlane and I easily found our Main Street home. It still stood as we remembered it, minus the barn and loft where we often jumped into piles of hay below. My bro’s rabbit hutch, built by my father and located next to the barn, contained one adorable black-spotted rabbit that thrived on excess greens from my mother’s garden.
        My mother’s vegetable garden, once the pride of the neighbourhood, thrived in nutrient-rich soil. Unfortunately – and a sign of today’s world ­-- the present homeowners told us the soil in that spot is ‘absolutely no good’ for growing anything.
Saturday night dinner
        Marlane and I fondly recalled the old wood stove in the large kitchen on which my mother created from scratch her traditional Saturday evening meal: homemade baked beans, homemade brown bread, homemade ice cream whipped with the cream that rose to the top of the bottled milk.
        Fresh milk was delivered each day from neighbouring farms via the milk wagon; the wagon was drawn by an aging nag with bony growths on his joints, his mouth covered with a feed bag of oats so he could munch while lumbering numbly through the same route each day.
And then, there was the DOM with WHT
        No-one warned me. I was the new city slicker girl who had to find out for herself.
        But I quickly learned about the DOM with WHT.
        Subteen girls in our Smalltown avoided this particular shopkeeper of a general store. His reputation had spread. He was the DOM (Dirty Old Man) with WHT (Wandering Hand Trouble)  who was hungry for ‘feeling up’ subteen girls.
DOM with WHT became the mantra among us grade fivers. Our parents could never understand why we refused to go into his store alone.
Picture
Main Street
You can go back
        For Marlane and me, the visit to our past brought back some golden, some haunting, but forever vivid memories.
        We also realized you CAN go back and find the past even more fascinating through adult eyes.
4 Comments
Scott
7/18/2022 05:12:29 pm

Quite a story....was the pic of you and Zlinda taken recently? And was the DOM's ghost eying the two of you? Or is the DOM Barry? ;) Mom's Saturday night dinner sounds delish, with a great ambience....and did you know the small grocery store in Kemptville sells creamy organic milk that also froths up! Also some organic cheese, yogurt and sour cream. It looks like we went back in time by coming out here, which is fine with me...and now I know why Don went to Foymount....and now feels comfortable in a small town. How come you didn't tell the part of the story when the tall male teacher bought you to the back and smacked your butt! Well I guess this is on a public forum. :) You have some fond memories of Almonte I see....I didn't know about the large breasted woman chasing Dad, but then mom had nothing to worry about, she's beautiful and an angel - I'm sure dad knew that, even if that woman's breasts arrived five minutes before she did...did you know Almonte is a Spanish name? The only such name back in the day named after something regarding Mexico....and isn't that where you and Norm like to go? Interesting....

Great article....

Reply
heather link
7/19/2022 10:40:06 am

Scott---Thanks for your comments, littlest bro! Watch for a private email to you from me.

Reply
Dick With
7/23/2022 05:42:52 pm

Your fire story reminded me of a similar one. I was about 11 and recovering from flu one Sunday afternoon reading comicbooks in my bed in the attic of our house in T.O. My older sister, 14, with whom at that age I always disagreed, called up the stairway, "Dick, come down now! The house is on fire!" "Yeah, sure," I replied. "Leave me alone." A couple of minutes passed and then I heard the sirens. A couple more minutes and great thumping on the stairs. Now wearing my bathrobe, I opened the bedroom door and came face-to-face with a huge fireman headed for the door to the eaves. "Roof's on fire. Get downstairs now!." he ordered. Which I did.
Deciding a nice cheery blaze in the fireplace might lift our spirits, Dad had lit one of his doozies. It raised too many live sparks out of the chimney, from which they ignited the cedar shingles, unbeknownst to us all, until a neighbour spotted it and called us and the fire department, who doused it with minimal damage.
My sister had a self-satisfied grin throiughout supper that evening.

Reply
heather link
7/24/2022 08:36:46 am

Oh, Dick...funny, funny! I bet your sister did have a self-satisfied grin that evening! Strange the things we remember from our early years.
Appreciate the comment.

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Photos used under Creative Commons from Bazar del Bizzarro, roland, Mike Kniec