tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33721242637697587932024-03-20T08:10:53.542-04:00Little Monik Memories of growing up a middle child in a large family in the 1960's and 70's in rural Northwestern Ontario.Monique Charltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06100883447520795047noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372124263769758793.post-61061106544701755132016-06-19T21:53:00.000-04:002016-06-20T19:39:44.769-04:00Remembering Dad (1925 - 1985) - Happy Fathers' DayIt is Sunday and I am almost four years old. Mom has gone to the hospital and in a few days she will be coming home with our new brother, Jean. With Mom away, I've been feeling lonely and so, when I can, I attach myself to my father. A short shadow, I hold tightly to one of his pant legs with one hand while the other is clenched into a fist, thumb firmly in my mouth. I don't care that my brothers tease me, my thumb brings me comfort that they cannot.<br />
<br />
This morning the house is a flurry of activity as Dad lets everyone know that the car will be leaving for mass in 10 minutes and we are all expected to be in it. I am alone in my room, a room I will soon be sharing with my new little brother. I've already started dressing myself, and have found some tights to wear. Pulling them on, I navigate my toes down to the reinforced toe of the tights - first one foot, then the next. It's only once both legs are in that I can tell I've got them on backwards - no matter how I try to unwind them on my little stick legs, the heels bump out over the tops of my feet like little flattened marshmallows. I know I should fix them but I don't want to be late... I start to cry. Quietly the tears spring to my eyes and I blink them back, and I'm hot and as I put my dress on it feels hot and itchy, and now my nose is running. I wipe a sleeve across my eyes, leave the stockings and finish buttoning up my dress. The little white buttons are lined up down the front of my blue dress like the stones beside the garden. Quickly combing through my hair with my fingers, I run to join the stragglers at the kitchen closet and reach up, pulling my coat off the hanger. The wire hanger bounces from the coat's release and falls into the boots below. Ignoring it, I find my rubber boots and slide my feet in, the heels from my stockings pushing into the tops of my feet and my ankles. My boots feel like they are on the wrong feet.<br />
<br />
Not quite last out the front door to the car, I am too late for the front seat so I go into the back and climb over the seat to go into the very back of the station wagon, where the groceries go on Saturday. I lean in, back to back with my older brothers and sister who have filled the back seat, each in their own quiet on this early Sunday morning. When the last car door slams closed, the quiet feels heavy on me. I'm relieved to have this space for myself though, and I watch out through the streaks of dirt on the back window as we pull away, our house and then Tetroe Road getting smaller until it disappears around a bend.<br />
<br />
Checking the pockets of my coat, I find a button, a small white die, and a dime. The button is a beautiful, small white plastic flower with five petals, and two holes cut through the center where the thread will go. I bite it, just to see how hard the plastic is - my teeth make no dent. The die is white also, and the dots are each filled with black, except for one of the dots on the sixth side, so it's more like a second 5. I think this is the missing die from the Snakes and Ladders game. I had meant to return it to the game but must have forgotten it in my pocket. It's the dime that takes most of my attention on the ride though. The boat is so pretty, sailing away, I wonder where to? I hold the dime out between my thumb and forefinger, framed by the diffuse light through the filmy back window of the car. I am on the boat, and the boat is in a storm that pitches it back and forth, through seawater and rain, dark and storms and lightening, pitching and rolling each time the car goes over a rough patch on the pavement.<br />
<br />
Finally the car slows and I know we've arrived at Church. Tucking my treasures back into my pocket, I duck a little more behind the seat and hope no one will notice that I don't go in with the rest. My feet still feel like they've been squished into someone else's boots, and I just don't want to go in. With a sick feeling I realized that I've not even washed my face or brushed my teeth this morning. How am I ever going to learn to be a big sister if I can't even do that? My head gets hot again as tears spring back into my eyes, and I let out a sob.<br />
<br />
Suddenly, the motor for the back window of the car groans as the window squeaks and lowers, and I jump. I see my dad there, peering in at me, as he lowers the window.<br />
<br />
"Hey little Monik, why are you still in here?"<br />
<br />
I scrunch back against the seat, trying to disappear right into it, feeling badly now that my Dad has had to come back to find me.<br />
<br />
"I... I don't want to go in," I stammer, unable to really say why although this feeling I know has taken over me and I am lost in it.<br />
<br />
"What's wrong?" He persists, his dark eyes narrowing as he looks to see signs of any obvious wound.<br />
<br />
"I... I'm sad..." I manage, through a fresh stream of tears.<br />
<br />
He reaches his arms out for me, in through the back window, and with no hesitation I crawl across the clutter in the back of the car into his waiting arms and out the window.<br />
<br />
My Dad's arms. The safest, warmest place in the world. Strength, calm and gentleness. Smelling of tobacco smoke and Old Spice aftershave, his calm seeps into me and comforts me almost immediately.<br />
<br />
"Daddy," I hiccup into the collar of his white shirt and blue jacket, "I don't want to go to mass today... I'm too sad..."<br />
<br />
"Hmmh. Well..." he pauses as he shifts me into his left arm, and puts keys back into lock to raise the rear window back up with his right hand. The window, screeching all the way, salt and sand gritting into the glass as it slowly returns back into place like fingernails on a chalkboard, making me put my fists over my ears.<br />
<br />
Then, it happens.<br />
<br />
Rather than walking over the to the side door of the Church with me in his arms, Dad takes the three steps over to the drivers door of the car, opens it, and puts me on the seat. Stunned, I look up at him, wide-eyed.<br />
<br />
"Slide over," he gestures with jingling keys, and I slide across the bench seat. He gets in beside me, and slams the heavy door closed. Pausing, he reaches into his jacket pocket for the small blue and white cardboard package of Players Plain. I quickly lean forward and push in the cigarette lighter, then glance up at him. A smile, and slight nod, and he starts the car, unlit cigarette perched between his lips. The lighter pops out just as the car turns on to the main street of town, and I watch as he holds it up to the cigarette in his mouth until it glows and smokes. He puts the lighter back into place and rolls the window down a few inches, blowing smoke towards the windshield.<br />
<br />
"Warm enough?" he asks as I hold my hands together in the sleeves of my coat. I nod and look down at my boots, tops against the edge of the seat as my little legs stick straight out. My feet still hurt. I am still staring at my boots as the car pulls into the A&W drive in restaurant.<br />
<br />
"Oh!" escapes my lips as I clap and hold both hands together as if in a prayer of thanks for this sudden miracle of time with my father AND the possibility of a Root Beer.<br />
<br />
Dad pulls up to one of the machines and I watch as he pushes a button. The button makes one of the lights on top of the machine light up. Sure enough, after a moment, the speaker crackles and a voice asks what we'd like. I hold my breath.<br />
<br />
"Pappa Root Beer, Baby Root Beer, and French Fries please."<br />
<br />
It seems like forever but finally the lady comes out with our tray, along the covered sidewalk between the cars. Dad rolls down the window until there's just about 4 inches sticking up, and the lady puts the tray on our window, giving Dad a slip of paper.<br />
<br />
"Thanks," Dad says and the woman smiles, waiting. Dad takes a bill from his wallet and gives it to her, and I watch as she gives back change from silver tubes attached to a belt on her waist. She has pushed a quarter, nickle and a dime out, one at a time, from different tubes. She leaves the coins on the tray and returns to the building, stopping along the way at another car to pick up their empty tray.<br />
<br />
"How about a Root Beer?" My Dad smiles as he hands me the small, frosty mug with foam on top. I reach for it with both hands. It's just my size, my little fingers fit in the mug handle and although its full, its not too heavy. It's cold - no, it's frosty. And it tastes like nothing else in this world.<br />
<br />
"Mmmm," I say, after my first sip, foam still on my lip as I look over at my Dad. He smiles at me, and takes a tiny little plastic bright red pitch fork from its paper wrapping and hands it to me.<br />
<br />
"For the French Fries," he explains.<br />
<br />
We sit quietly together, sharing this treat, this time. We eat the French Fries so slowly, one at a time, savoring every salty bite. Dad dips his into ketchup but I like mine right out of the bag. He lets me have the last one, and I take care to stab it with the little fork so it won't fall off.<br />
<br />
He lets me push the button on the machine that puts another light on, and the lady comes back out to pick up the tray. I notice that Dad has left some of the change on the tray, and that the lady smiles when she takes the tray away.<br />
<br />
On the ride back to Church to pick up my brothers and sister, I feel so lucky. Not just for the treat of Root Beer and French Fries, but for this time with my Dad. Somehow he knew just what to do for me today. I feel the dime in my pocket, and think of sailing again, only this time the water is calm and the sun is shining. And my Dad is right there beside me, steering the boat.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Happy Father's Day, Dad. Thanks for everything. Love you always.Monique Charltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06100883447520795047noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372124263769758793.post-52828657694337655852016-03-10T20:59:00.001-05:002016-03-10T20:59:48.385-05:00Minew<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">We buried her beside the garden, at the end of a row of green beans.
It was October and the beans were done, stalks and stems all brown and crispy,
knocked over likely in our hurry to harvest the last of them earlier in the
season. I'd eaten more than my fair share right off the plant. Mom was there, holding Minew in a well-worn towel. Tom was there too, and me. Minew had been hit by a car on Tetroe Road,
proving to us little ones that, yes, cars were dangerous, even the ones on
Tetroe Road.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Mom passed her bundle to Tom, and started in with the shovel. It was a heavy, pointed shovel with a long, straight wooden handle. Taller than me, and heavy. I wondered how deep the hole would have to be. We stood, staring down past our rubber boots, watching the shovel pierce the earth as the hole grew. Tom held Minew close to his chest, as if worried she would jump from his arms and escape.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">"Will the beans still grow here next year?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">"Yes."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">"Will they taste different?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">"No."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Thomas glanced over at me, eyes a little watery behind his dark rimmed
glasses, then looked back down at Minew in his arms. She looked to me like she was sleeping, only... stiffer, somehow. Like
that fox that was attached to my grandma’s coat – kind of stiff and krinkly, not
fluid and sleek. I remember the fox's nose was bent oddly, and the bead eyes sparked strangely from the fur. It would have made a neat puppet, only we weren't allowed to play. It was hard to believe the fox had been alive once; it was nothing like any foxes I had seen. Minew's fur was now matted although she had
been so good at keeping it clean; her eyes were closed. I touched a paw and flinched as I felt cold, stiff skin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I wasn't too attached to Minew; certainly not nearly as much as Tom.
I squirmed too much for her I supposed; she didn't like to come to me at
all. It had eventually occurred to me that chasing her, or dreaming up ways to trick her somehow into
sitting with me for just one moment just wasn't worth my effort - I always wanted more. Besides, when I was too
persistent, she would bite.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">When my Grandmother had</span><span style="font-size: 18px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">died, I hadn't </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">wanted to go to her funeral. It was going to be
uncomfortable, I thought, and sad, with people crying and stuff. Awkward. What if I cried? Paul told me later about the sandwiches and squares that he'd had, and juice. Coffee and tea for grownups. I did feel then like I’d missed out, but not much. I didn’t ask him about the crying.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 18px;">I remember that after she died, our living room got filled up with flowers. Carnations mostly. At first I thought they were beautiful, but then as the room slowly filled with them their scent started to bother me until I couldn’t stand it. The smell of the carnations still make me think of dead people, of death, and of missing Grandma. All those flowers sacrificed too – all picked to eventually wither, brown and die in the living room. It didn’t seem right.</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">There was a prayer service before the funeral, and everyone was there.
All of my Dad's brothers, my uncles, had come from out of town; all the adults were busy, talking. I wove through the black
pant legs and draped black fabric and saw the coffin up at the front of the
room where my Grandma lay. They said it was a chance to say goodbye, but for me she was already gone. Her body was there but my Grandma wasn’t. <o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-size: 18px;">Like the fox, like the flowers, like Minew. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Death is a curious thing. I had so many questions, and many unsatisfying answers. My Grandma had died while she was away at California, and had come home in a box on a plane. I wondered about that. I thought at first she would have to stay forever in California, but Dad had said no, she would come home on a plane. I pictured her in a bed on the plane, but was corrected. Not in a bed, in a box. I don’t know where they put her when she got home. I was wondering if she’d stay for a while in our house but that didn't happen. I don't know where she went. I do know that after the funeral, she was buried in the cemetery, beside my Grandpa that I'd never met.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">“If people go to heaven, and cats go to cat heaven, where do dead flowers and plants go?”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">My question hung in the air over us for a second, then my words were caught by the breeze and scattered like the falling leaves – also dead, I realized. I loved <i>that</i> smell. The smell of leaves returning back to the earth, the smell of snow on the air, of winter and endings and hibernation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">“Just back into the ground.”</span></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The hole wasn’t that big, or deep, but it was enough. At Mom’s gesture, Tom placed Minew carefully in the hole and adjusted the towel over her lovingly. I was more sad for Tom than for Minew. She was already gone, already in heaven, but he was here with me in the garden, missing her. He wiped away a tear while Mom covered the hole back in with dirt. I looked at Tom standing there, arms hanging by his sides empty now, and I reached for his arm to hold. He looked at me again and smiled briefly, then looked back at the place in the garden that now contained Minew. I wanted to cry too but couldn't; felt guilty instead for not being able to cry for this little creature.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">When the pussy willows came out along the garden the next spring, I touched them with my fingers. Cool and soft, certainly not cold. I could feel life in them, could see life in the willow bark, red and warm. I smiled, remembering Minew. Then I thought of my Grandma - I took a breath and closed my eyes. I could feel the warmth of her generous hug in the spring sunshine, hear her sweet whispers in the breeze and I felt in my heart that she was close. Death may mean I won't see her anymore, but it doesn't mean I won't think of her, or hear her voice on a warm spring breeze, when life is bursting out from the death and decay of winter. Its simply how things work...</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></div>
</div>
Monique Charltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06100883447520795047noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372124263769758793.post-32804249873456033462015-04-11T18:30:00.002-04:002015-10-27T21:36:53.596-04:00Call To DinnerI am sitting on the floor in the living room leaning back against the couch, hugging a pillow against my chest. We are wrapped up in the latest Get Smart TV episode, watching Agent 86 and Agent 99 trying to capture the bad guy in many shades of black and white TV grey.<br />
<br />
"Monik, come and set the table!"<br />
<br />
I am summoned into the kitchen and do as I'm told, sliding around the kitchen table in sock feet. Our kitchen barely fits the table, brought home from the Credit Union boardroom when it was cast off. I set a place for each of us. Little ones along the wall on the bench, Mom at the end by the kitchen stove, bigger kids along the outside where they can swoop in and out again. An easy exit. A quick escape.<br />
<br />
On evenings when Dad is home from work, the big kids side of the table is split and Dad has his place in the middle, just like Jesus' seat at the table at the Last Supper; otherwise, the order is the same.<br />
<br />
I climb up onto the kitchen counter to get my supplies - cups, plates. Into the big, heavy drawer for the cutlery, I try to select ones that match. Back over to the table, hurrying in order to get back to the TV, I set carefully. I want to do it right. I take care to make sure the blade of the knife faces in, towards the plate. The spoon to the right of the knife, fork away over to the left of the knife with room for the plate in the middle. The cup above the knife. Where possible, cutlery matching for that place setting. Big brothers get the settings that don't match - they won't notice, or care, anyway. Little spoons for the bench side of the table, big spoons for the other side.<br />
<br />
Checking on the progress of the meal, I can tell it's not ready yet so I race back into the living room to join my brothers. Finding my spot has been taken, I don't push it this time and just slide down in the closest spot. John wiggles over a little, but doesn't say anything; Paul is oblivious. Agent 86 is on his shoe phone and we don't want to miss anything.<br />
<br />
"Boys, come for dinner!"<br />
<br />
There it is, the call to the evening meal. Our family dinner. This is the call for dinner that I have heard almost every single day of all 12 years that I have been on this earth. If I am in the kitchen, I might be asked to call the boys for dinner. If one of the boys is in the kitchen, he is asked to call the boys for dinner. And when my Mother calls, it is always the same - "Boys, come for dinner!"<br />
<br />
Today, I think to myself, I will wait. I will wait until she calls for the girls. Oh, hang on, there's only me... well, still. I will wait until she calls for me, or for girls, or even just girl. I am angry. Angry at my Mother for not calling me, for not calling girls. For NEVER calling girls - or even what about calling 'kids' or 'children' (we're not goats either, after all). A self-professed tom-boy, it shouldn't bother me that I'm included with the boys, but somehow it does. By this time I've worked myself up into a lather. I don't want to go, but I'm hungry too - it's been a long time since lunch - and at the same time I don't really want to get into trouble. This might not be worth getting the wooden spoon.<br />
<br />
Finally I stomp into the kitchen, knowing that my call for dinner will never come and that there's a fine line before I am officially LATE for dinner. I get a glare from my Mother from across the kitchen table. Now I see, I have crossed the line and I am in trouble after all.<br />
<br />
"Why do always call just the boys? You never call girls, or me!" I challenge, cringing a little inside as I worry what my defiant display will create in my Mother. My cheeks are hot and I can feel the heat in them, my armpits prickly as the "fight or flight" response is kicking in. I slide in to the vacant seat at the end of the bench, on the little kids side of the table. My older brothers look up, amused, wondering what my fuss is about. My younger brothers either haven't noticed yet, because there is no fireworks, or if they do notice they are quiet so as not to attract any attention to themselves. I notice I'm still holding my breath as I'm uncertain what response I will get.<br />
<br />
Today, I am lucky. She sighs and shakes her head slowly, exasperated with me. As usual.<br />
<br />
"What do you want me to say," she demands suddenly, chin jutting forward, eyes like dark beads, pausing in the middle of passing the salad bowl. Suddenly I'm on the spot - all eyes at the table are on me and I feel so small.<br />
<br />
Like a deer in the headlights, my eyes are wide and I feel my mouth open and close as I grasp at words. Like a goldfish, my mouth is moving but there's no sound. I know I won't be able to make her understand how I feel, how the call to dinner makes me feel, how it is to be not even recognized as a girl growing up in a house of boys, long deserted by older sisters who got out when the getting was good. I don't blame them.<br />
<br />
"Nothing," I stammer, hoping that will do and knowing it doesn't make any sense. I just need to get the heat away from me. I don't want the wooden spoon, not with everyone here, all the boys watching; I don't want to be humiliated and hurt like that. Not even for my own principles, what few I know of.<br />
<br />
"Okay, then," she softens, placing the bowl back on the table and my crisis has been averted.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
I spoke with my sister Anne after I posted this story.<br />
<br />
"You didn't finish it," she said.<br />
<br />
At the time, I said that yes I had, it was just a short vignette, it was finished. That's all there was. But on further reflection, I realize that I DO have more to add to this story, to finish it. So, here it is.<br />
<br />
My Mom is 86 now, going on 87, and over this last Christmas I had the opportunity to spend two weeks with her. It had been many years since I had been home at Christmas, and I was looking forward to spending some quiet time with her - knitting, reading, that sort of thing. I was also hoping to "help out" a little. She was recently put on some new medication and had just given up her drivers license, and I was glad to do a little bit to ease the holiday pressure on my siblings.<br />
<br />
After cleaning and, mostly, organizing the kitchen cupboards, I had my eye on clearing out the back bedroom. The Boys Room, as some of you might recognize from an earlier Little Monik story. It has long ago been emptied of its built in closets and bunk beds, but the wall-to-wall desk and drawers are still there and they have become great for stashing things. Mom is still knitting and sewing, so the room also contains her ironing board and sewing machine. I asked if she'd mind if I just got it all organized - basically re-purpose it into a big Craft Room. She thought that sounded okay.<br />
<br />
I warned her that it would start to look worse before it got better, but she was alright with that and in I went. There were many plastic bins that had been brought in for me, expressly for sorting. So I sorted - paper in this pile, material in this bin, wool in this bin, patterns in these boxes... and oh my goodness, what an amazing button collection!<br />
<br />
"Take it," Mom offered when I told her I was jealous of her button tin, but I declined.<br />
<br />
"You're still using them! You never know when a button will make just the right nose for a stuffed doll or for a new little girls dress or boys sweater! You still need them."<br />
<br />
"That's true," she acknowledged.<br />
<br />
It gets dark early in winter, but the overhead fluorescent bulbs kept the room bright and I could have been on another planet. I do like to sort, and to organize. And I sorted. And I organized.<br />
<br />
Mom came into the room often, checking on my progress. Sometimes she left me a snack.<br />
<br />
"Hard to believe there's so much in here," she said, walking back into the room once, and I wasn't sure if she said it to herself or to me.<br />
<br />
"Yes," I agreed. "Lots of memories, I bet."<br />
<br />
"Yes," she answered. We both stood for a moment, then. This was the house I grew up in and although I had left it for the past 35 years, she had remained and had seen the rest of her sons through this room. Had said goodbye to her husband, my Dad, who had lay dying in the room just opposite, about 30 years ago. I knew that I could hear all their voices echoing, the laughter, the tears... I could only imagine what she was hearing and feeling.<br />
<br />
Then, looking up at me with a smile she reached out for my hand.<br />
<br />
"Let's go have dinner."<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
I love you, Mom.Monique Charltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06100883447520795047noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372124263769758793.post-88981353972926029812014-05-18T22:12:00.001-04:002014-05-18T22:30:35.678-04:00Lions DockIt's so HOT! I've been weeding in the garden for so long, I feel like I was planted there myself. Mom says we have to each weed a row of the garden before we can go swimming, which doesn't seem right since it's only Paul and John and Francis and me here in the garden. I just KNOW that the other boys have already gone swimming, gotten away free without having to do any weeding. It's not fair, but there's no use whining about it now. We're stuck here among the beans and carrot tops, the peas and radishes.<br />
<br />
I've got a row of carrots to weed, and its hard to tell the weeds from the carrots till I pull some out and see if there's a small orange bit of carrot or not. If I do, with a quick scrub on my shorts to get the dirt off I have a nice little snack. Paul has a row of beans, and since they're already good sized plants, he's just zooming through his row. You'd think that would encourage me to go faster, to keep up with him, but somehow it doesn't - probably because of the way he is teasing me.<br />
<br />
"Oh, the lake is going to feel so GOOD, so nice and COOL," Paul says loudly, eyes closed and smiling to himself for our benefit as he reaches the last few plants in his row.<br />
<br />
John and Frances are sharing a row of radishes, which I have to admit are at least as hard to weed as my row of carrots. But their little fingers are making short work of it, and they're just ahead of me. I think I must be paying too much attention as I try to separate carrots from weeds.<br />
<br />
Paul finishes first and makes a mad dash away from the garden, calling over to the house,"Mom! I'm done! Going swimming!"<br />
<br />
He snaps a towel from the clothesline, pins popping up like popcorn with no lid into the air after him. He slings the towel around his neck like a scarf and hops on his bike. He's doing loops in the yard though, so I suppose that Mom has called to him to wait for the rest of us so that we can all go together.<br />
<br />
Finally, John, Frances and I finish our rows. Racing to the house, we pause briefly at the garden hose and take a long, cool drink. Some days we'll play with the cool water for a while, turning it on and off while another is trying to take a drink, to see if we can make the water go up their nose, but not today. The beach is waiting!<br />
<br />
Although Paul is on his bike, the rest of us are walking. We don't all have working bikes, it depends on what Peter, Pat or Phil have been able to fix up. We're like a mini parade on the way to the beach: John is wearing his towel like a swami's hat, Francis has his towel tied around his neck like a cape, and I've chosen to wear mine the same as Paul's - like a hot scarf.<br />
<br />
We walk down the road towards town and the beach, following Paul. I can feel the heat of the pavement through my flip flops. We can smell the tar as the heat waves the scent up from the pavement. The tar is hot enough in some patches that we leave a print. Watching the melting tar on the road reminds us to walk carefully; usually at least one of us stubs a toe on this walk. Once I even stubbed my toe right through my running shoe!<br />
<br />
"When I get there, I'm going to run right in without stopping!" says Francis.<br />
<br />
"I'm going to run right up the Lions Dock and jump in at the first ladder!" says John.<br />
<br />
"Yeah," I say, "And I'm going to run up the dock too, and jump in at the second ladder!"<br />
<br />
We've been to the Lions Dock so many times, we know how deep it is at each ladder and where it's over our heads. We have all taken some swimming lessons, but I'm only at "advanced dog paddle" as my brother Pat would say. I won't jump in from any ladder past the second one, because beyond there the water is way over my head.<br />
<br />
We leave the heat of the road for a trail through the bush. Paul has waited for us there, in the shade with his bike. The bush trail is a great shortcut that will take us the rest of the way - it comes out at the Trailer Park, right across from the beach. The shade is so much more comfortable than the bright, hot sunshine and we slow down a little, to cool off. On the path along the way we see big splats of blueberries that Paul tells us is bear poop! After first checking the nearby bushes for bears, we laugh and laugh, joking about the poor bear with his watery blue poop problem.<br />
<br />
We finally arrive at the beach, hot, dry and even more dusty, a quick look both ways before we cross the road then throw our towels down on the sand, kick off flip flops and launch into the water. Each of us enters the water as planned, with plenty of whooping and laughing along the way - the relief of the cool water evident in our increase of activity. <br />
<br />
Lions Dock looks like a big, flat lollypop on the water, with a big diving tower at the end. The big boys like to stand at the end of Lions Dock and wrestle, pushing or pulling each other in, or running and sliding off the slippery boards right into the water, or daring each other to do a flip or dive or something from the top of the big tower. One time I even saw a kid ride his bike right from the beach to the end of the dock and into the lake! I don't know if he ever got it out. <br />
<br />
I once asked my mom why it was called Lions Dock and she said it was named after the group of men who built it, the Lions Club. I don't really understand why a group of men is called a Lions Club, but it's a neat name for our dock. I think there should be a sculpture of a Lion at the dock, a Fierce Lion, fierce like the boys that climb up the tower at the end of the dock and are the King of the Dock until they get pushed off by a new King.<br />
<br />
I'll go to the end of the dock to watch if my older brothers are there, Pete and Pat usually in the crowd of boys. Philip sometimes, too. Paul goes too, but like me is always watching to be sure he has an escape route back down the dock. We don't want to "accidentally" get pushed in! I like to think that my brothers wouldn't let that happen, but I know that I'd better take care of myself. We don't acknowledge each other - there at the end of the dock everyone is on their own.<br />
<br />
Once the initial cooling-down period is complete, we settle in to beach activities. Frank and John do some beachcombing. I like to do that too, especially if they find anything good, like money. Most of the time though, they are just chasing minnows, or searching for neat rocks. I do the same, but don't last as long before I have to dive into the water again, then back on to the towel to recharge with the heat from the sunshine. Tom is here too; he's got his towel spread out and he's busy reading a book. He is prepared for an afternoon.<br />
<br />
Across the road from the beach, there's a little concession stand. At the concession you can watch as the lady behind the counter makes cotton candy! It's magical. As we hang over the counter to watch, we can hear a snapping sound as the candy starts to build on the paper spool. We love the sweet smell of the sugar, the bright pink colour of the candy as she waves the paper spool around and around in the big spinning bowl, slowly building a sticky spider web globe of cotton candy. That wonderful, sweet taste as the spidery threads melt in your mouth. We don't get it often, but if we are lucky enough to find some change on the beach or along the roadside that's how we'll spend it. <br />
<br />
As the sun drops a little, my dad arrives there at the beach on Rabbit Lake. We are all as brown as golden marshmallows from being in the sun all day - in the garden, laughing and playing in the water, and running up and down the Lions Dock. We run over to see him and try to get him to come in for a swim, but he never does. He watches as we show off for him, calling out for him to <i>watch this, Dad!</i> as we practice some of our better moves from dock into water.<br />
<br />
"Your mother has supper ready," he finally tells us, "Go and let your brothers know it's time to come home."<br />
<br />
Paul takes the job as it gives him a chance for one last jump in the water. I take my dad's hand and we cross the road together, back over to the parking lot near the concession stand and to our big green station wagon. In no time all of us walkers are in the car, windows rolled down in the hot still air of late afternoon, damp towels spread over sticky hot car seats. Paul, Pat and Peter have picked up their bicycles and started a race back through the trail to see if they can get home before the rest of us in the car.<br />
<br />
They do.Monique Charltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06100883447520795047noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372124263769758793.post-79475316997131974742014-03-29T21:50:00.001-04:002014-03-29T21:50:32.679-04:00LostInto the kitchen and there's Philip, making something to eat.<br />
<br />
"What 'cha doin'?"<br />
<br />
"Making a sandwich."<br />
<br />
Well, I could tell that much, but he's got other stuff out on the counter like he's making a bag lunch and it's Saturday. So there must be more to it than that. It's frustrating when you know you aren't getting the whole story.<br />
<br />
"Are you going somewhere?"<br />
<br />
"Maybe."<br />
<br />
Hmm, I won't get any satisfaction here. I stand there in the kitchen a minute longer, just watching. Mom and Dad have gone to town with the little ones, to do groceries and probably to get some stuff for the boys. I didn't ask to go this time because it's so nice out and I feel like doing something Fun, but there's no one around. My neighbourhood is full of mostly boys and older girls - which works out great if someone (usually the Wilkers) organize a baseball game or something in the field, but not so great (for me) if they don't. No one for me to play with.<br />
<br />
I go outside, letting the screen door slam behind me since mom and dad aren't home and stand, squinting, on the front step. The sun is bright on this warm spring morning and I feel like doing Something. I hop off the front step and walk over towards the swingset, taking big giant steps. With each step, I imagine all the blades of grass squishing under my giant foot; any unlucky bug or ant seeing my shadow running off in another direction. As I pick up my back foot and twist to look back over my shoulder, foot in the air, I can almost see the footprint I left in the grass... but it quickly disappears as the grass perks up again, drawn to the sunshine. I stand on one foot for a minute longer, lift my arms out like wings and dip forward, my other foot extending back like an airplane. I dip around a bit, eyes closed and feeling the sunshine and warm breeze along my body, then open my eyes and attempt a mid-air foot-switch. I land it but don't have the interest in continuing the game on my own, instead bursting into a run across the grass, along the garden and past the lilacs, towards the chicken coop.<br />
<br />
I stand at the chicken-wire fence, watching the chickens as they scratch in the dirt and chase each other around. Hmph, even they have others to play with. I rip a small branch off a pin cherry tree close by, and throw little bits of stick and leaves into the pen. Each new thing I throw draws the chickens closer, and each time one of them picks up the leaf or stick I've thrown and runs madly away from the others, being chased as they fight for the little bit of green. My little brothers and I like to watch this sometimes and call it "chicken football", but today on my own I lose interest quickly. I stay standing at the fence though, with my fingers through the round wire holes and my running shoes up against the bottom of the fence. The chickens get used to my standing there and come over to peck through the fence at my shoes and knotted laces.<br />
<br />
Standing there quietly, I hear the kitchen door slam again, and, fingers still through the fence, I glance over to see what's happening at the house. Philip is heading this way with Paul following close behind. I wonder what they're up to and watch as they walk across the grass, along the garden and right past me, towards the swamp at the back of the yard. Where could they be going? <br />
<br />
My hands drop from the fence, fingers red now from holding on the wire too long. I know they won't want me along, but maybe I can follow and see where they are going? After all, I can't stand here and play with the chickens all day.<br />
<br />
Leaving the fence, I run on tip-toes over to the chicken coop and peek around the corner. Philip is carrying a small pack - a lunch pack I guess, with Paul following closely behind. I can tell that they're not just out for a walk, they are walking with purpose, like they have a job to do, like they are going somewhere Important, or Interesting, or Fun. As they walk down the small hill leading towards the swamp, I suddenly re-consider my stealth and call out.<br />
<br />
"Paul! Philip! Where are you going? Can I come, too?"<br />
<br />
Philip doesn't even pause or turn, he just keeps walking, still heading towards the swamp, their lunch in a small pack over his shoulder. Paul, however, turns and as he sees me, his face darkens into a scowl. I can tell that he's been invited and won't let me spoil it, but I ache to go too.<br />
<br />
"You can't come," he shouts back at me, adding, "Don't follow us!"<br />
<br />
But how can I resist - I break into a run, through the tall grass of the field down towards the swamp. Paul, seeing me, stops and, turned towards me, waits with his hands on his hips. <br />
<br />
"Aww, can't I come along? I promise to be quiet," I add, as I pull up to a tentative stop in front of him on the trail.<br />
<br />
"No," he says, face still dark. "You'll wreck everything."<br />
<br />
"I promise I won't!"<br />
<br />
"No, you don't even know the secret knock. Besides," he says, his body turning away from me, but his face still watching me, his face changing from a dark scowl into a nasty grin, "it's only for BOYS."<br />
<br />
With that, he turns away and bolts down the trail, catching up with Philip and I watch as the two of them disappear into the darkness of the trail into the swamp.<br />
<br />
It's not fair, I think to myself. Why did I have to be Just a girl? The boys have way more fun. I decide to follow anyway, but think I'll wait a bit so they can't see me following them. <br />
<br />
I approach the swamp with not a little trepidation. My parents have warned all of us of the dangers of going into the swamp, not to mention Francis almost drowning that time he fell into the swamp behind the neighbours' house. By trying to follow Philip and Paul, I know that I am breaking at least one rule. But I just can't bear to be left behind again. And besides, it's a beautiful, sunny day, what could possibly go wrong?<br />
<br />
I start down the trail; at least I think this is where Paul and Philip went in. The scraggly balsams grow close together and the further down the trail I go, the darker it becomes. The moss along the path looks pretty and so soft; I notice some lady slippers growing all together. I know I can't pick them but I do stop to have a look. I marvel at them, and think about how they're not like a regular flower at all. I caress the moss with my hand, it really is so soft, light green and spongy. It would make a wonderfully soft chair or bed if it weren't so damp. I stand again and walk farther along, following where the balsams and moss seems to be lightest. My runners are starting to get wet; each step I take leaves a very soggy footprint behind.<br />
<br />
I stop under a larger balsam and look down the trail... only it doesn't seem like there's any particular trail here. I can see deer poop along some of the moss and wonder which is the people trail and which is the deer trail... it's like I am in a swampy maze. Standing under the tree now, on the roots of the balsam, every direction seems wet. The sunshine doesn't reach this far into the swamp, and I'm feeling a little cool in my t-shirt and shorts. Where did they go? How far could it be? Like in my back yard when I was on the grass, footprints disappear in this damp landscape. There's no hint to which direction they might be. I don't even know how long I've been following them, or how far back into the swamp I've gone. I take a tentative step out towards one trail, and immediately the water surrounds my shoe. I pull my wet foot back quickly and my footprint fills with water, disappearing. I try another direction and actually feel the moss give way as my foot drops below the roots of the balsam - I pull my wet foot back again, panicked. I'm stuck here. I think of Francis and how mom said that when she jumped in, everything was black - she couldn't see him, but she felt him. I don't want to be taken by the swamp, with no one here to find me!<br />
<br />
I lean back against the trunk of the balsam, not caring that the sap is sticking right through my shirt to me. Maybe the balsam will help keep me from the murky swamp water. How am I going to get out of here? Any tentative step away from the balsam sinks my foot deeply into the moss. I decide to try calling on my brothers.<br />
<br />
"Paul! Philip! Paul!..... Philip!.....Paul!....PAUL!.... PAUL!!"<br />
<br />
Shouting into the darkness of the swamp isn't like calling off the front step of the house. Rather than having my words echo along on the breeze around the house and across the field, my words are cut short and absorbed into the swamp itself. There's no chance of them being heard. My brothers are long gone, I think to myself, my cheeks getting hot as tears begin. They don't want me around, anyway. Maybe there isn't even a fort, maybe they just brought me out here, knowing I'd try to follow, to lose me.<br />
<br />
I imagine my family at the dinner table, not missing me. I think of Mom calling the Boys for dinner (she never calls Girls). Someone might wonder why its more quiet than usual and they'd just pass the potatoes and shrug, not noticing that I'm not there. I think of the room that I share with my sister, and how happy she'd be, not having a little sister poking into her stuff all the time. Tears flowing freely, I sob as my knees give out and I slowly sink to a squat against the tree, smearing sap and tearing my t-shirt along the way but I don't care. No one loves me, anyway.<br />
<br />
I cry for awhile, feeling sorry for myself, sobbing alone there in the dark swamp, trapped with the balsam trees in the middle of the moss that stretches across and between the trees, covering a deep, dark, mucky lake. A lake that eats children, one that almost had my little brother Frances. <br />
<br />
Geez, why would anyone live here, anyway, I wonder, as I mop my face with my shirt, tired out by all my fuss. I realize that I'm starting to feel hungry and wonder how long I've been stuck here. I hadn't planned ahead, like Philip had, with a lunch. I tentatively take a step and again I'm forced back to the tree by the threat of the water. I decide there's only one thing left to try, and so I start again, this time shouting for HELP just as loudly as I can. I am determined that I'm not going to be lost forever in this swamp. I pace myself and just keep yelling HELP... count to 25... HELP... count again... HELP... hEEEllllppppp... hhhhEEEELLLLLppppp..... HHHEEEEllllpppp.... hheeellllPPPP....<br />
<br />
Suddenly a man appears in the swamp and I stop shouting and stare at him as he approaches, a big man with a dirty white t-shirt, jeans, and big black rubber boots.<br />
<br />
"Is that you making all that racket out here?" he asks me as he approaches, "You're scaring my kids!"<br />
<br />
"I'm stuck here," I manage, as he comes closer, stepping along the moss, water up to the boot tops.<br />
<br />
"I figured that," he says, and holds out his arms.<br />
<br />
Tentatively, I grab on to him as he hoists me up along his side and turns to slog back through the swamp towards where he came from. He's not familiar to me, but that's not surprising since most of the dads in the neighbourhood work, like mine, and mostly you only see kids and moms.<br />
<br />
Embarrassed, I don't say a word as he carries me back through the swamp. It's a surprisingly short walk before we get to where the swamp ends and a back yard starts. Waiting and watching in the back yard are a woman and three small children, the Bannisters, about 4 doors down from my house. Mr. Bannister puts me down and I can barely look up at him as I say, "Thank you".<br />
<br />
It's all I can do to not bolt away up the hill, wishing I could just disappear as the little kids are looking at me with their big eyes and mouths open, like I had three heads. Even Mrs. Bannister is still just standing there, looking at me. Only Mr. Bannister has the decency to ignore me and has gone back to his gardening.<br />
<br />
"Are you okay, dear?" Mrs. Bannister asks, finally breaking the silence.<br />
<br />
"Yes, thanks," I say, with a short glance up at her. I guess I don't look that great with my streaky tear-stained red face, and ripped and sticky t-shirt. I am SO embarrassed about having to be rescued; I also can't imagine the trouble I will get into at home if my parents find out I was in the swamp and had to be rescued by one of the neighbours - I'll get the wooden spoon, for sure.<br />
<br />
I dash the rest of the way up the hill, past their house, along their driveway and back to Tetroe Road. I slow to a walk and mop my face again, trying to clean up the tears. The hotness in my face is cooling down, I don't want to get home and have everyone asking questions. I reach our yard and see that my dad's car is back in the yard again, that means they're all back from town. I can see John, Francis and Scott in the front yard, playing in the sand, and I've never been so happy to see them. <br />
<br />
Running up to them, I shout out, "Hey, want to play a game?"<br />
<br />
"What game?" asks John, and Francis looks up too, interested. <br />
<br />
"How about Store? I can make pies and Francis can be the storekeeper and you can be the Dad who comes to buy the pies?"<br />
<br />
"I want to make pies!" says Francis, engaged at once.<br />
<br />
"Okay, you make pies and I can be the Storekeeper..."<br />
<br />
"I want to be the Storekeeper!" says John, now buying in, too.<br />
<br />
"Okay great, and Scott can be the Dad and I'll help him to pick out the pies!" <br />
<br />
Scott smiles, diaper drooping, and says "Pies!"<br />
<br />
And the game begins.Monique Charltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06100883447520795047noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372124263769758793.post-70393166419571417772014-02-25T22:30:00.000-05:002014-02-26T06:29:50.627-05:00Mount EvergreenUsually on a weekend in the winter you can find me at Mount Evergreen Ski Club, my home away from home. I've been skiing here every winter since I was about 4 years old when I learned to ski on the little hill beside the parking lot. Eventually I mastered that little hill, both down and up, and pushed my way across the flats to the t-bar and the Real Ski Hills.<br />
<br />
I usually walk to the hill from my house. It's pretty far; sometimes I am lucky and I get a ride. There's a shortcut to the hill on a skidoo trail through the bush once I get to Skyline store; packed by snowmobiles its easy to walk on. If I haven't gotten a ride by the time I get to the store, then I take the shortcut. I have to carry all of my ski stuff when I go; my arms can get pretty tired. It's better when I can use a boot tree to hold my boots together, although sometimes they pop right out of it. I have a good system to put my skiis and poles together: the skiis through the pole straps, and then wrap the safety strap around tight and clip it. That keeps everything together and I don't drop anything. <br />
<br />
Often I'm one of the first ones at the hill. Mr. and Mrs. Symonds live right at the hill though so I am never there before them. Mrs. Symonds runs the chalet, and Mr. Symonds loves to cross country ski around the property. Not very many people cross country ski at the hill usually, but he always does. He told me one time about Jackrabbit Johannsen, a man who is a hundred years old and STILL loves to ski! I think Mr. Symonds will ski until he is a hundred, too.<br />
<br />
Mrs. Symonds doesn't ski, but she loves to be in the chalet. Mostly she sells the lift tickets. She also works behind the lunch counter. Her granddaughters sometimes work there too - Ivy and Frances. They are really fun girls and sometimes they will give me swampwater for FREE! The swampwater is really good - it's the pop that is left in the tray when they fill a cup and it overflows into the tray. I always bring my lunch with me but sometimes I find a quarter or a dime on the floor to get a hot chocolate.<br />
<br />
Finally arriving at the hill on this sunny cold Saturday, I bring my skiis down to the ski rack in front and head into the chalet. After going upstairs to see who is around (no-one yet), and saying Hi to Mrs. Symonds at the ticket counter, I head back downstairs to get my stuff on. My ski boots are black leather with laces inside and silver buckles outside. I got them this year from the swap shop and they look really great, especially since I blackened them up with shoe polish to look like new. Downstairs is the spot for changing your boots and I usually find a place on the bench where I can tuck my winter boots, my boot rack and my lunch. I take my time to get the boots buckled up just right so my feet won't get cold right away - not too tight or too loose. I do have a couple of pairs of socks on, but some days they get cold really quickly anyway. I wait around but there aren't many people out here yet, although Mr. Myles and his crew already have the t-bar running. If it gets busy enough, and if he has enough help, he'll start the rope tow too, usually around lunch time. You use the rope tow to get up to the Big Hill, Skyline - the rope tow is so fast it just zips you up the hill! It's not for little kids. The sun is warm coming in the window as I put on my boots, although I know from my walk this morning that skiing will be quite frosty.<br />
<br />
Boots buckled and lunch stowed, I head out to the ski rack. I love the way the ski boots make me walk heel-toe, heel-toe, stomp stomp stomp. I push the door open and squint at the sunlight sparkling off the snow. There's a light dusting of new snow this morning, and the sparkling is beautiful. In the quiet, still air, I can hear the t-bar tinkling as a bar goes around the big wheel at the bottom of the hill and heads back up again. Boots squeeking in the snow, I walk over to get my skiis off the rack and use my poles to scrape the snow from the bottom of my boot before stepping into the bindings. With the binding cable around the back of my skiboot, I push the front of the binding down and it snaps into place. Then I carefully wrap the safety strap around my snowpants and clip it. It's hot work, all this fiddling around, bent over and bundled up, but eventually I've got them on. It is easier putting them on, when you're still warm, then taking them off when you are freezing cold! Straightening up, I squint out over to the t-bar. There aren't too many people around yet, but that's because I've come so early. It's the best time to make some nice tracks on the hill, before everyone else arrives. I love skiing in the morning.<br />
<br />
I head away from the chalet, a big pole push to get started and ski-skate across the flats just like I've seen the big kids do it. It took me awhile to learn how, but now I can get going pretty fast and I'm at the t-bar corral in no time. No line ups, so I go right up. Mr. Miles is there today and he smiles at me and we say good morning. I slide into place and Mr. Miles passes the t-bar for me, just right, and away I go up the hill. He never passes the t-bar wrong; I've seen him teach all kinds of people how to get on. He makes it look so easy, even when someone really tall and a really little kid get on together. <br />
<br />
On my way up the hill, I stare at my skiis in the tracks, watching as they slip up and down. Matt is working today, shoveling out the dips in the track so it stays flat and people won't fall off. He moves his shovel at the last minute and we say Hi as I go past. He's a good skier. The t-bar makes a jangling noise as it goes past one of the posts holding the cable; I love that sound - it makes me smile and hum a little song. As I get close to post number five, I make sure my skiis are in the track properly and both hands are holding on - one holding the bar and the other the edge of the crossbar. Sure enough, as I pass by this bar near the top of the hill, I get lifted out of the track - just a little - wheee! It's fun when I'm on by myself. Sometimes I'll even give a little hop so that it lifts me a bit higher! And already now I'm at the top. Jim is up here today with his dog, a red Irish Setter named Red. His dog wears a bandana; I haven't seen dogs with bandanas before Red, except in pictures. I hear the whoosh as I take the bar from behind me and make sure it doesn't swing, even a little bit, so that Jim doesn't have to do a thing. I smile and say hi, and turn right, over to Otter Slide.<br />
<br />
I pause at the top of the hill to pick my line, decide which way I'll go. I love the way there are dips all over the hill, it's not just wide and flat. There are trees to ski around, not too many but just enough. There are bumps too, that if you know how to hit just right you will catch some air. Someone has been out before me, I can see their tracks - the hill has been groomed recently and it's just like corduroy. Perfect. Even here the sun is making the snow all sparkly and I know my eyes will water once I get started, but that's okay. I pull my hat down a little lower and my scarf up a little higher and then I push off. It's just like flying. I'm free, I'm soaring all over the hill, I'm making my own tracks, I'm going fast and my nose is cold and I don't care.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Monique Charltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06100883447520795047noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372124263769758793.post-48614239697408899452013-12-26T17:09:00.001-05:002013-12-26T17:09:51.119-05:00Winter Adventure Part 3 - Home AgainDreaming I'm a mouse under the snow, in my warm little burrow. Adjusting my little nest around me to cover the thin spot at my back so the cold can't come through. Smelling the pine that makes up my cozy space. Hearing the light, happy sounds of birds outside twittering, pots and pans clanging... what?? Wait... where am I? Eyes still closed and my head buried in my sleeping bag, I slowly come back into awareness of myself and my surroundings. I certainly am nice and warm, but I'm not in my bed at home. I stretch my legs right down to the bottom of my sleeping bag and stretch my arms out overhead, and pull back the sleeping bag from over my head so I can have a look around. It's early morning and the white tent is beginning to brighten inside from the daylight outside.<br />
<br />
"Good morning, Monik!" I hear Mrs. Z's voice from the other side of the tent and peek over at her and Scouter Nick. <br />
<br />
"Good morning!" I reply cheerily, "I was just dreaming I was a mouse sleeping in a nest under the snow!"<br />
<br />
Mrs. Z laughs - she's already perched on the side of the sleeping platform, zipping up her jacket.<br />
<br />
"Speaking of a mouse nest, look at Scouter Nick's hair!" she points him out to me. Scouter Nick smiles and then makes a face, rubbing a hand over his whiskers and over his hair - his hair is poking out in all sorts of directions.<br />
<br />
"Haha, good bed head!" I laugh, and we're all laughing together.<br />
<br />
"That's what your hat is for," says Scouter Nick, as he ceremoniously pops his hat on. Then,<br />
<br />
"Can you smell flapjacks?" he asks me, sniffing the air, and gives me a wink.<br />
<br />
Wishful thinking is my guess, but he pops out of the tent in search of breakfast. Mrs. Z and I are close behind, after packing the sleeping bags back up and arranging the rest of the contents in the tent. We'll be leaving today, already.<br />
<br />
Nancy and her mom aren't out quite yet, but the others are out and busy around the fire. I make my first visit to the privy, a little frosty this morning, and wash my hands and face in the snow, drying off with a cold, dry towel. When I get back, Mrs. Z hands me a cup of hot chocolate and has me sit down by the fire. <br />
<br />
"Keep your jacket open," she instructs, "so you don't get too hot now and then too cold later on. There are enough of us here to get breakfast ready, so just sit and watch."<br />
<br />
As I sit, Nancy and her mom join the group, and "good morning!" is cheerily shared around the fire. Just as I am about to take a sip, I hear the 'click' of a camera and look up to see Mr. Simmons who has just managed to take a group photo.<br />
<br />
"Something to remember us all by," he smiles.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwIQFCxSH7cDiRTqJ_-OtMagbEExfCL4LlZ0Mi1TyMEWDxIMvWUae1krB93K-6tJWMfAiQ3PN-vK2cD5_8VG4x66zD-tpHwNxe16GxFy6wApSN5e4OHhaBoyAFZXxTEw9gejQvXj4vzK8D/s1600/Scan+2013-12-08+002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="430" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwIQFCxSH7cDiRTqJ_-OtMagbEExfCL4LlZ0Mi1TyMEWDxIMvWUae1krB93K-6tJWMfAiQ3PN-vK2cD5_8VG4x66zD-tpHwNxe16GxFy6wApSN5e4OHhaBoyAFZXxTEw9gejQvXj4vzK8D/s640/Scan+2013-12-08+002.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguT5D1MAT51HGPs2Jka_9S43V2AfMHwsC1Zpu9lgQTF8KCOzHIgRQSxyXfPwlGVXRX0EdPC6t0a7EW9d4Xu940ruTvtCQj4T4Uehxh8BhmiuEPf-vjbTq2gVXGvpDElFZO8yqcH82xZ51e/s1600/Scan+2013-12-08+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguT5D1MAT51HGPs2Jka_9S43V2AfMHwsC1Zpu9lgQTF8KCOzHIgRQSxyXfPwlGVXRX0EdPC6t0a7EW9d4Xu940ruTvtCQj4T4Uehxh8BhmiuEPf-vjbTq2gVXGvpDElFZO8yqcH82xZ51e/s1600/Scan+2013-12-08+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><br />
Pancakes are indeed made and shared, and are the best one's I've ever had - with chocolate chips and nuts in them. Each bite so nice and warm! Then the Whiskey Jacks come out, begging for a snack. I've never seen the grey jays - I've only ever noticed Blue Jays at my house. Mr. Simmons stands really still, with pancake bits on his hat, and soon has the birds dive-bombing him for a taste.<br />
<br />
With breakfast done and all the gear packed up, we head out on the skidoos to our ice-fishing spot. The men are drilling the holes while Nancy and I do another zip around the lake, looking for a good spot, not too far away, to go sliding. We watch the ice-fishing holes for awhile, and then as we get cold, we zip over to the hill and warm up by climbing up and rolling back down. I feel like I've always known her, we are having so much fun together.<br />
<br />
Then back over to the holes and, just as I'm watching, one of the twigs gives a little bounce and Scouter Nick says to me, "Look Monik, you got one!"<br />
<br />
My eyes are big as I look at the bouncing twig, not sure what I'm supposed to do next, but Scouter Nick is on it. He hauls the line up and sure enough, a nice fish has caught the hook. I'm really quite surprised - even though I know the lake doesn't freeze all the way down to the bottom, I still don't understand how those fish can actually be Swimming down there - surely it's too cold? He takes the hook out and I watch the fish on the ice freeze into a C. <br />
<br />
A few other pickerel have been caught, and everyone seems to be happy with the weekend haul. Before too long though, it's time to go and I have to say goodbye to Nancy and the others. We'll all go in different directions from here, it seems, so I'm back on the skidoo with Mrs. Z. I turn and wave as we pull away, Nancy waving back and Dori barking and bouncing there beside her. I hope I'll see her again.<br />
<br />
*****<br />
<br />
Mrs. Zroback asked me to come up to her desk at lunchtime today, and this time she hands me an envelope. <br />
<br />
"This is for you," she said, her smiling eyes twinkling behind her glasses. "Something to help you to remember our camping trip."<br />
<br />
Pleased and curious, I opened the envelope and pulled out a photograph-card. It was the photo Nancy's dad had taken! On the cardboard beside the photo, something is written... I can read my name, and Mrs. Z's signature, but I can't quite decipher the cursive handwriting...<br />
<br />
"I can't quite read it; I see your signature, but what does it say?" I ask, shyly.<br />
<br />
"It says, 'My kind of girl'."<br />
<br />
I beam up at Mrs. Zroback, and she smiles back. It's our new secret.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguT5D1MAT51HGPs2Jka_9S43V2AfMHwsC1Zpu9lgQTF8KCOzHIgRQSxyXfPwlGVXRX0EdPC6t0a7EW9d4Xu940ruTvtCQj4T4Uehxh8BhmiuEPf-vjbTq2gVXGvpDElFZO8yqcH82xZ51e/s1600/Scan+2013-12-08+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguT5D1MAT51HGPs2Jka_9S43V2AfMHwsC1Zpu9lgQTF8KCOzHIgRQSxyXfPwlGVXRX0EdPC6t0a7EW9d4Xu940ruTvtCQj4T4Uehxh8BhmiuEPf-vjbTq2gVXGvpDElFZO8yqcH82xZ51e/s400/Scan+2013-12-08+001.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*****<br />
Dedicated to Mary and Nick Zroback, who I'm sure have touched many young lives. Thank you, thank you both, so very much.<br />
<br />
Also dedicated to the Simmons Family, wherever you are now. Thank you.Monique Charltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06100883447520795047noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372124263769758793.post-82927579771296533062013-12-25T08:54:00.001-05:002013-12-26T18:44:04.824-05:00Winter Adventure Part 2 - NancyWe've finally arrived at the winter campsite. I am very excited, but also nervous because I haven't yet met Nancy and don't know what she will be like, or if she will like me. Scouter Nick is unpacking the trailer so I go over and get an armful of things to bring over to the campsite. Mrs. Z already has a load and is encouraging me to follow her.<br />
<br />
"Come on, I'll introduce you to the others," she says with a smile, and turns away to follow the trail into the woods.<br />
<br />
I grab my bag and a few other things from the pile and follow Mrs. Z down the trail. It's packed down quite nicely for just a boot trail, but I notice that the snow comes up to just over my knees so it's a good thing there's a trail. Mrs. Z disappears between two pine trees and as I catch up, just ahead I can see the campsite! It's a small opening in the forest, with three big tents already all set up and a nice big fire blazing in the middle of the space, with logs all around for sitting on. There are others already there, tending the fire and organizing, and they appear to be waiting for us - of course, they must have heard our snow machines as we arrived. <br />
<br />
A chubby little brown dog greets us first, with a short bark and an even shorter tail, and lots of wiggling - I think she's wagging her whole body not just her tail! Chubby like a little brown seal, I think as I watch her swim along the snowy path to Mrs. Z. <br />
<br />
"Ah! You made it too, Dori," smiles Mrs. Z as she reaches down to pat the little dog, glancing over at me as she does. "Monik, this is Dori. Dori is Nancy's dog - and this is Nancy," she points out, smiling at the only other person my age who answers with a wave, "and Nancy's parents Mr and Mrs Simmons, and Mr and Mrs Jeffreys, over there."<br />
<br />
She points to each one, and they smile at me in turn, as I manage a small wave with my free hand, "Hi..."<br />
<br />
After all day on the skidoo lost in my own thoughts, this seems a bit of a crowd. My head is still buzzing, and the helmet isn't helping with my transition. Nancy looks kind of bored already, but maybe she's just tired of waiting for me to get here. I notice that the shadows are already growing; there's not much daylight left. I bring my bag and things over to the tent that Mrs. Z has pointed out, and leave everything just inside the door. I take a minute and check out the space while I take off my helmet. Its a pretty small space, although I can stand up straight inside. There are two sleeping platforms along two walls that meet in one corner, both piled with pine boughs. It smells just wonderful. On the opposite wall is a small woodstove, not currently lit. I can see my breath in here but it does seem very cozy. I leave my helmet inside, pull my touque down a little more snugly over my ears and head back outside.<br />
<br />
There doesn't seem to be any more unpacking to do, the adults are all working away at organizing and planning dinner around the fire. First things first though; I haven't had to go for a pee all day but now that I'm finally off the skidoo I realize that I really have to go.<br />
<br />
"Where do you go to the bathroom?" I ask Nancy. She's just a little taller than me, and I already know she's a year older than me, so it's no surprise when Nancy decides this is a good time to give me a tour.<br />
<br />
"Follow me," she says, heading out along one of the paths leading away from the campsite. Dori follows but is having trouble; Nancy looks back at her and tells her to "Stay". I have personally never known that command to work.<br />
<br />
Not very far along is a little privacy fence, and behind that is a log that is about bum high (knee high for an adult probably), with a hole dug out behind it. There's a big coffee can with a lid balancing farther along the log.<br />
<br />
"This is where you can go," Nancy says, "Just make sure you don't fall backwards. Oh, and the TP is in the can." She gives me a little grin, and then walks away, back down the trail and I can hear her talking to Dori who did decide to follow, after all.<br />
<br />
Hmm, okay this is a new experience, but I like the setup. I don't think I needed the warning about falling in, but as I struggle to perch on the log I find it's kind of hard to be far enough out on the log to pee in the hole and NOT think of the possibility. I manage to get the paper out of the coffee can by holding the can between my knees, and putting my mitts carefully off to the other side so that I have both hands free. Whew, thank goodness, relief. I sit a minute to appreciate the stillness and watch the snowflakes slowly drift down, then suddenly wake up as I realize I'm cooling off a bit too much.<br />
<br />
I pop back up off the log, putting the paper back into the can and the lid on tight, tucking everything in and finding my mittens. Nancy appears from behind the fence and smiles.<br />
<br />
"Looks like you made it out okay," she laughs, "Even the paper is cold, eh?"<br />
<br />
"Ya," I agree, "And my bum is Freezing now!"<br />
<br />
"That's okay, the rest of the tour will warm you up! Follow me!"<br />
<br />
Nancy heads off, back down the path a few steps, then turns back to me,<br />
<br />
"Oh yeah, we have to find more dry kindling for the fire, too," and steps grandly off the trail.<br />
<br />
Immediately, she sinks into the snow up to her waist. Laughing, I jump in too, both feet, and like her I'm in snow up to my waist. I swim through it, over to a dead balsam where Nancy is busy snapping off the dead, dry branches. Dori is pretty smart, as she stays over on the trail and just watches us, encouraging us with her barking.<br />
<br />
"What kind of dog is she?" I ask, as we gather armfuls of the dry branches.<br />
<br />
"She's a Welsh Corgi, same kind the Queen has," Nancy explains.<br />
<br />
I can't imagine that the Queen of England has one of those. "I thought the Queen just has hunting dogs," I say, trying to sound like I know something about it.<br />
<br />
"She has those too," Nancy explains, "But only the Corgi's can go in the house."<br />
<br />
"Oh." As if that explained everything... it was enough for me. <br />
<br />
Soon we are giggling and swimming the long way back to the trail, and eventually back to the fire where we drop the kindling into the pile that has already been started. I'm not cold any more; quite warm, actually.<br />
<br />
I wait around the periphery while Nancy tells the parental group we are going down to skidoo on the lake. Nancy's mom says something about being careful and not too long, and then we're running down the trail towards the lake.<br />
<br />
"This is my machine," Nancy says to me, introducing me to a nice, yellow Ski Doo.<br />
<br />
"Nice," I say. "Can I start it?"<br />
<br />
I had watched Mrs. Z start hers a few times, and figured I knew how it was done.<br />
<br />
"No," Nancy says, firmly.<br />
<br />
"You have to do it just right. This machine is a little fussy and so I need to do it."<br />
<br />
I know she is showing off, but that's okay. It IS her machine, after all.<br />
<br />
"You have to pull out the choke, like this," she shows me, and pulls the knob out with her left hand, "And then pump the gas just two times, like this," she demonstrates, her right hand on the gas.<br />
<br />
"Then you pull, and you have to pay attention to what the motor is doing," she instructs. She reminds me a little of my brother, Phillip, who is so good with motors of any kind. It's like another language to him.<br />
<br />
Nancy pulled the cord a few times with both hands and the snow machine coughed, coughed some more, and then roared... and died.<br />
<br />
"Aww, I flooded it," she moaned, frustrated, falling back onto the seat.<br />
<br />
I have no idea what she is talking about, except that the machine isn't going to start that easily.<br />
<br />
We try again, this time with her handling the gas and the choke and me yanking on the cord. After more than a few pulls it roars back to life and stays running.<br />
<br />
"There, see!" she says, victoriously. "You just have to know how to choke it right. Jump on," she instructs, and as she jumps into the drivers seat, I fall in behind her.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
We whip up and down the lake a few times, no other tracks or activity except for the ones we had made earlier. I feel like we're on another planet as we whip around on the lake, no one else around; and as the sun drops and the stars come out, sparkling brightly in the cold, it seems almost magical. We float over the snow in the starlight, making new tracks on the lake, the snow puffing out like waves behind us. The warmth I had from playing in the snow was seeping out of my snow suit and boots now, and my fingers are getting cold. I tap Nancy on the shoulder and point back to the campsite; she nods and we pull back in to park the skidoo just as her mom arrives to meet us. Back just in time for dinner.<br />
<br />
A warm dinner was ready and in no time at all we were full, warm again from the inside. Another trip out to the privy, then a little more chatting around the fire. Feeling tired at this point, I find myself mesmerized by the fire and the sparks shooting up, up through the dark branches until they are lost amid the stars in the sky.<br />
<br />
The chatter around the fire stills as we each are lost in our own thoughts, staring into the fire, enjoying the peace. Then I hear the strangest sound - a deep, low echo and a kind of cracking noise, coming from over by the lake.<br />
<br />
"What was That?" I asked, staring into the darkness, not really afraid but, well, maybe a bit nervous.<br />
<br />
We all listen quietly a bit more, and then the adults start a new conversation explaining all about how the ice grows and the sound it makes, how the ice sounds are different in the winter when the ice is growing from in the spring when it is melting, and the conversation changes into talking things like pressure ridges and how to watch out for them on your skidoo, and stuff like that. Hmm, so it was just the lake making all that noise, neat. Like a living thing, in hibernation mode, the Lake reminds us that even though it's winter, it's still there. I hear a crack much closer this time, and understand that the trees make noise in the cold, too.<br />
<br />
Staring up at the sky now, watching the smoke and few sparks float lazily up in the cold darkness, the stars are bright and twinkly. No northern lights tonight, not yet anyway. Yawning and stretching, Nancy gets up and heads off over to her tent. I get up too, reluctant to leave the fire but not wanting to fall asleep here. I make my way over to my tent and go inside - it's toasty warm in here now, Scouter Nick has had the fire lit and Mrs. Z has set out the sleeping bags. I peel my layers off and climb into my sleeping bag. I drift off to sleep, with the scent of fresh pine and wood smoke, and the low quiet sound of the adults chatting at the fire, the occasional laugh among friends. All is right with the world, everything is as it should be.Monique Charltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06100883447520795047noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372124263769758793.post-64944740483716486032013-12-07T16:07:00.003-05:002013-12-22T19:49:17.039-05:00Winter Adventure Part 1 - Mrs. ZMrs. Zroback is my grade 4 teacher. She used to scare me a little. She spanked Gloria in the back of the classroom one time because Gloria was talking back, and that scared me. I <i>never </i>talk back. Mrs. Z. taught some of my older brothers and sisters, so when it was my turn for grade 4 she already knew what to expect from me.<br />
<br />
Mrs. Zroback is not much taller than me. She always dresses really nice like my Mom in a dress or skirt. She has reddish gray hair and glasses, and sometimes she takes my school bus to get home. She sits by herself on the bus, in the front seat behind the driver. With her school bag on her lap, she looks straight out the window. I wonder what she's thinking of? Maybe the Times Tables. I think she likes to get home to play outside, just like I do, and I'll tell you why. Because her husband is Scouter Nick. He is the leader for the boy scouts and they get to do the Best Things! Like make a campfire and sleep outside in a tent when it's not even Summer and not even in the Back Yard! My older brothers all know Scouter Nick and really like going to scouts. So with somebody like that around, you can't help but like to play outside.<br />
<br />
Mrs. Zroback asked me to come up to her desk at lunchtime one day and I was afraid maybe I did something bad. But instead, she asked me if I would like to go Ice Fishing with her and Scouter Nick! On the Weekend! I said I would have to ask my Mom first but yes, I would really like to go. She said there would be another girl about my age to play with, and we would all be camping! Overnight! In a Tent! In the winter! I was so excited I could hardly wait to get home to ask my mom. <br />
<br />
The weekend is finally here. I have all of my warmest clothes on, and spare ones packed. I have borrowed my brothers warmest sleeping bag, and I am ready to go. My Dad drops me off at my teacher's house up the Airport Road, and they are already outside and ready to go, waiting just for me. Scouter Nick has a big skidoo that pulls a big toboggan behind it, and it is all packed and organized. I wonder for a minute if I'll have to ride in the toboggan too, but after popping my bag in, Scouter Nick covers over the whole thing with a tarp to keep the snow out, and ties it down. <br />
<br />
Mrs. Zroback has her own skidoo. She looks so different from how I know her at school, wearing her skidoo suit, boots and helmet. The front of her skidoo says "The Galloping Grandma", and I realize I didn't know she had kids, never mind grandkids. She gives me a helmet to wear (a little bit too big), and I put it on over my toque and buckle it up. It feels really heavy on my head, but it's nice and warm in here and even a little quiet.<br />
<br />
"Are you ready to go?" she asked me, smiling, her eyes sparkling and crinkling up from behind the helmet visor and her glasses. I smile back, nodding, the helmet slipping down a little over my eyes and almost putting me off-balance.<br />
<br />
"Okay, it will be a really long ride, so you'll have to hang on tight. If you need me to stop, just tap me on the shoulder."<br />
<br />
I stand beside the machine as she kneels on the seat, both hands on the pull cord. She gives a couple of quick, easy pulls and her machine roars to life, the sound muffled by my helmet. Scouter Nick has already started his machine, and is patiently waiting for us just at the edge of the back yard, where the trees fill in thick except for one narrow trail leading into the dark forest. Although it's a beautiful sunny day, it's really cold out and the snow is dry and squeeky. We've had lots of snow this winter, and the trees with their white coats are thick in the woods.<br />
<br />
With a nod from Mrs. Z, I pop on the back of the snow machine. It occurs to me that I've never sat this close to my teacher before, and I'm hoping that I won't be in the way or make it hard for her to steer. As we slowly pull away from the house and yard, I wiggle around a little bit as I search for and find the handles to hang on to. I thread my mitts through and hang on, excited for my adventure to begin.<br />
<br />
As we enter the trail the trees are so close I could just reach out and touch them - but I don't think I should let go. It's kind of hard looking out sideways at everything going by me so fast and so I try peeking over Mrs. Z's shoulder, but it's just too high. I spend some time inspecting the blue material of her skidoo suit, looking at the pattern the threads make, and the way the light blinks on and off as we drive through sunshine and shadows. I'm nice and warm here behind Mrs. Z, she blocks most of the wind from me and my boots are still warm and dry. The noise from the machine makes me want to hum along and so I do. As the trail winds it's way through the trees, the skidoo noise goes up and down as we speed up and slow down, and makes a nice little tune for humming along to. This is perfect for day-dreaming and so I pretend that I am an orphan and I am with my new family who is going to take me into the wilderness to live with them and help them survive.<br />
<br />
We go for what seems like hours through the woods, weaving through the trees, up and over hillsides. When we get to the first lake, Scouter Nick stops his skidoo and we stop behind him. With the skidoos suddenly quiet, the magic of the humming and the daydreaming evaporates. Scouter Nick gets off the skidoo and walks over to talk to us, his beard all frosty. I can't see any other tracks on the lake, and I wonder how he knows where to go.<br />
<br />
"There might be some slush on the lake," he said to Mrs. Z, "so we won't be stopping on the lake at all. Just make sure you don't follow too closely, and stay on my track. How are things back here?"<br />
<br />
Mrs. Z nods and then turns to me with a smile, "I had to reach back a few times to make sure you were still there! Just give me a tap now and then, would you, so I know you haven't fallen off?"<br />
<br />
I nod and smile back, pleased that I wasn't getting in the way, and then look over at Scouter Nick.<br />
<br />
"How do you know which way to go on the lake? It's so big and it all looks the same to me, all that white..."<br />
<br />
Scouter Nick smiles his big smile, tanned leather and wrinkly, and then points just ahead of his skidoo to the lake. I can see a bit of green poking up out of the snow, like a branch or something that had blown onto the lake from the bush.<br />
<br />
"See that evergreen branch? If you look ahead, you'll see more of them. The first people across the lake mark the safe trail so that others can follow. Tracks disappear in the wind and snow, but the green branches show the way."<br />
<br />
Sure enough - as I squint out at the brightness of the sunshine on snow, I can make out a dark dotted trail of branches leading out, away from the shore. So it wasn't a random branch after all, but a path set out by someone who had gone before. What a neat idea!<br />
<br />
"Are you warm enough?" Mrs. Z asks me as Scouter Nick heads back over to his skidoo.<br />
<br />
"Yes," I nod, and she nods back and turns to start the skidoo. I wait for her to get the machine started again, then pop back on behind her. As we head out on the lake I watch for the branches. There aren't that many, just enough to keep you going the right way. We go through a few slushy spots, and I can see why we don't want to stop in them. The machines could get stuck in the slush pretty easily, plus we wouldn't want to get our boots slushy wet.<br />
<br />
We stop a couple of more times - once for Scouter Nick to chainsaw a tree that had fallen and blocked the trail. Just as I was wondering how we were going to get around the fallen tree in the thick bush, Scouter Nick went to the toboggan trailing behind his skidoo and uncovered a chainsaw. He is truly ready for Everything. Mrs. Z and I help by pulling the cut branches off of the trail, and in no time at all we are back on our way. The second stop is at a creek bubbling along beside the trail. It is a good size creek that isn't frozen right over, and the water is moving really quickly over the icy rocks and logs. Scouter Nick got off his skidoo and knelt beside the freezing cold water, working at something there with his hands. I wasn't sure what he was doing, so I asked Mrs. Z.<br />
<br />
"He's checking his traps," she said, simply.<br />
<br />
I wondered about what he was trapping, and why, and with what, and how it all works, but I had no time to ask as, finding them empty, we continued on.<br />
<br />
As much as I love a skidoo ride of any duration, I am starting to wonder if we are EVER going to get there - where ever "there" is. Then, as quickly as the ride started, it is over. We had just crossed another lake and I figured we were starting onto another trail when both skidoos suddenly stopped. As I step off into the snow, I now can see that there are 4 other skidoos already here, and a path leading through the deep snow away from them and into the woods. We're Here!<br />
<br />Monique Charltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06100883447520795047noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372124263769758793.post-6391164170274872972013-11-12T18:26:00.002-05:002013-11-12T18:26:51.613-05:00Snow Fort (Winter Magic)There's been lots of snow this winter. The snow banks in the yard are getting really big, bigger than me, bigger than my dad's car! There are never enough shovels to go around. I like to help to shovel too, but the shovel is really heavy and after I push it down the driveway once and it gets full of snow, then I can't even lift it so my brothers take it away from me again. There's another really great thing about all of that snow and all that shoveling... snow forts!<br />
<br />
Phillip and Paul and Tom built the most amazing snow fort in the yard. They had some friends over and I saw them all working on it from the living room window so I asked my mom if I could go outside to play too. "Of course," she said. "Just be sure you dress up warm, it's 20 below today."<br />
<br />
I already knew it was cold because I had just pulled myself up on the kitchen sink to peek through the window at the thermometer outside to check. Yep, it was 20 below, but it was also nice and sunny outside and the snow was sparkling. I could tell the snow would be crunchy and squeaky. I ran into my room and put on my tights first, so that when the snow got into my boots my ankles wouldn't be too cold. Then pants, sweater, another pair of socks.<br />
<br />
Into the kitchen to dig through all the snowsuits in the closet to find my snowpants and coat. Breadbags to put my sock feet into first (to help keep them dry) before I put on my skidoo boots. Toque next, and scarf, and - "Mom, are there any dry mitts?"<br />
<br />
"Oh yes, I'll get you a pair from the living room, I put a pair on the register from when you were out yesterday."<br />
<br />
Yay! Nice warm mitts, fresh from the heat blowing through the hot air register.<br />
<br />
"Can you tuck them in for me?"<br />
<br />
It's quite a production to get everything on to go outside when it's really cold, to make sure that the warm can't get out and the cold can't get in. It's a delicate balance between being warm enough and not being able to move because of the layers and layers of clothes.<br />
<br />
Finally I'm ready and out I go, ready to have fun in that beautiful snow fort. I stand on the front step and blink while my eyes, peeking out from between my hat and scarf, get used to the sunlight reflecting off the snow.<br />
<br />
"Hey can I come in and see the fort?" I call over to Phillip and Paul as I run over, my pant legs zip-zopping as I go. Tom is nowhere to be seen, I guess that he's inside the fort, doing some inside work. Phil looks at me, sort of shakes his head and goes back to work. It's Paul that stops me in my tracks. He's next older to me, and he's always bossing me around.<br />
<br />
"No, you'll wreck it," he says with a scowl. <br />
<br />
"I'll tell on you!" I say, my favourite retort. <br />
<br />
"Hmph, don't you touch it, or you'll be sorry."<br />
<br />
I go back over to the house, and peek in the door.<br />
<br />
"Mom!" I call, she's not in the kitchen anymore, "MOM!"<br />
<br />
"Close the door, you're letting all the cold in!"<br />
<br />
Back inside I go, making sure I stay on the mat at the door with my wet boots. I explain the last 5 minutes to my mom who appears to be searching for more mittens. John and Francis are getting ready to come outside too, and I know what's coming next...<br />
<br />
"Take John and Francis with you when you go back outside, okay? And tell the other boys that you should all play in the fort."<br />
<br />
I help find all the bits and pieces and wrap them up so they won't get cold. Francis' cheeks are getting redder and redder as he works on getting his boots on, all other layers are already on and he's overheating.<br />
<br />
"C'mon out, let's see what they're doing in the fort," I say, thinking that maybe they will be the tickets that get me in. <br />
<br />
This time, when we go over to the fort the big boys are all inside, and someone is sitting in the door with their back facing out. They are pretending they don't hear us.<br />
<br />
I consider climbing up the outside wall of the fort, but I know that would get me into A Lot of Trouble, and I only just got outside so I don't want that to happen. I take Francis and John on a little hike around the yard; the game is that they have to step in only my tracks so I take REALLY BIG steps and then really small steps. Then I make a snow angel. They're supposed to do a snow angel in my snow angel, but as soon as I hit the snow, they do too. It's a snow angel festival! John looses a boot when we all get back up, so I help him find it and get the snow out, and get it all back on and tucked in again. Then we wander back over to the fort. This time, the big boys are outside again.<br />
<br />
Paul calls over, "Hey John and Francis, want to see the fort?"<br />
<br />
I am so mad I can hardly see straight - this is boys against ME, and I can't win. Francis and John don't need to be asked twice, they are racing over to the fort like two little seals on the ice, diving and disappearing into the fort. I march straight back to the house and go into the kitchen, while John and Francis are welcomed into the beautiful ice cavern in our yard.<br />
<br />
"Mommmm, they won't let me play! The big boys let John and Francis in, but they won't let me in the fort, too!.... hey, what are you making?"<br />
<br />
My mom smiles and passes me a beater full of cookie dough. YUM! Hey... I have an idea...<br />
<br />
A minute later, I'm back outside the snow fort. Just outside the door. And I KNOW that they can hear me. "Yum, yum, there's nothing like a nice warm chocolate chip cookie on a cold and bright sunny day!"<br />
<br />
I was right, Paul pops his head out of the fort, "What are you doing?"<br />
<br />
"Nothing, just having a cookie... mmmmm," I say, my fingers starting to get colder as the cookie gets smaller.<br />
<br />
"Can we have one, too?" he asks.<br />
<br />
"Only if you let me in the fort!"<br />
<br />
Inside the fort is beautiful, just like I imagined. The walls glow a soft light where they are just a bit thinner and the sunshine leaks through. We are all lined up around the inside of the cavern, our boots meeting in the middle, a little cramped but that's okay. Tom has put a candle in a spot on one of the walls, but it's not lit.<br />
<br />
I tell them how great their fort is, and they agree. We all enjoy mom's cookies, and there's not a crumb left over.<br />
<br />Monique Charltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06100883447520795047noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372124263769758793.post-81059688906382169552013-11-03T15:35:00.001-05:002014-03-06T22:11:45.418-05:00Kindergarten at OLVI go to kindergarten in a little orange school bus. It really is just a little bus, especially compared to the big bus that takes me home with all the big kids. The little bus picks me up at the end of Tetroe Road every day after lunch and brings me to school, and the big bus takes me and all the other kids home at the end of the day. I wait for my little bus outside at the big green mailbox at the end of the road. Sometimes my little brother John comes to wait with me; I think he'd like to get on the bus, too. Sometimes the Derouard's dog, Punkin, comes too. There are already other kids on the bus; I am the last stop before we get to school.<br />
<br />
Mr. Stevenson is my little bus driver. If anyone on the bus is sad that day, Mr. Stevenson lets them sit in the front seat. It's special to sit in front, just like the times when I am the only other person in the car with my Dad and I get to sit in the front. It makes me feel very important somehow, and maybe even a little bit special. Mr. Stevenson is always happy to see me and all the kids on the bus. He opens the door for us when we get in, and when we get to the school we wait again for him to open the door for us to get out. He helps us as we jump out of the door, because it's a big step down to the ground.<br />
<br />
The little bus takes us right up through the yard to the school doors. We get there right when lunch recess has finished for all the bigger kids who are at school all day long. Sometimes they are all lined up at the door, waiting for their class to get called in, and sometimes they have already gone into school, back into their classrooms. I like it better when they are already back in school, because there are so many of them and they are all so big and noisy! I don't want to get lost and end up in the wrong classroom.<br />
<br />
Our teacher, Mrs. Tansley, waits for us at the doors if none of the other little buses have arrived at school yet. She says hello to each of us, and smiles and holds the door while we go in. We always have to take our outside shoes off and leave them lined up in the hallway, nice and neat in order along the wall. Then we have to "walk - don't run" into our classroom. It's the first class on the left side of the hall. The floors are always so slippery, that's why we have to walk. If anyone forgets, Mrs. Tansley calls out "Class!" to us and we know to slow down. The custodian, Mr. Bichon, keeps the floors so clean you can almost see your face in them, like a mirror! Slippery and shiny. It's funny - he sprinkles sawdust on the floor that has some smelly stuff on it, and then pushes it along the floor with a big, wide broom. That's what gives the halls the "school smell".<br />
<br />
Once we're in the classroom we go straight to our own hook in the cloakroom. I don't know why it's called "cloakroom" and not "coat room" but that's what they call it. Anyway, my hook is near the front because my last name starts with D. My hook is right between Michelle Chevrefils and Johnny Dufresne. We each have our gym bag hanging on our hook with our inside shoes, and we put those on now. It's funny how clean those inside shoes are even though I've been wearing them for so long! Even if my toes are wearing through, they are still clean!<br />
<br />
Michelle is my new friend. She has pretty long, brown hair that has nice curls in it. My hair is very short, a "pixie" cut my mom says even though I don't think I look much like a pixie. My nose is too big and I look like a boy, I think. And sometimes I cut my bangs myself when my hair is hanging down in my eyes. I practiced first on a doll but somehow I can't seem to cut it straight across - it always ends up crooked and then my mom has to fix it. Michelle is shorter than me and she takes a different bus. At quiet time, we put our mats near each other and make faces at each other and try not to laugh out loud because that would get us into trouble - but it's so hard to stay quiet. I have to look away, although I don't want to. <br />
<br />
When it's time to paint, we try to get a painting easel near each others. Michelle is a good painter, I like her ideas. She likes to use lots of colours and she can paint really Big - all over the whole page. I'm more hesitant and I don't want to make any mistakes on the paper, and it's hard because there are no lines. Even though Mrs. Tansley always says everyone's painting looks wonderful, and hangs all of them up, all of us kids have our favourites and Michelle's is usually my favourite.<br />
<br />
Michelle told me the other day when we were lined up to go outside that she thinks Rheal is cute. I agreed with her that Rheal is cute, but that I think Johnny is cuter. I'd rather not think about that though, because I noticed that girls who think about it too much don't ever play any games with the boys - they just stand and watch. I'd rather play than watch. We have some great games out in the school yard. I notice that when I do play with the girls, they often are mad at me and say I'm too rough. I don't understand that... I can't help where the baseball goes when I hit it. You're supposed to hit the ball hard, that's how to play it. The other person is supposed to put their hands out and catch it. I felt really bad one time when the ball hit one of the girls in the face, but geez, it's baseball! It's not like I did it on purpose. But when I play baseball with the boys, its the girls that tease me. School is so confusing.<br />
<br />
Mrs. Tansley has some rubber stamps that she uses to put on our math worksheets or on our printing work. I really like those stamps - they have a picture of an elf on them, and the elf might be smiling or sad with tears falling from his eyes. She also has stamps with stars on them, but I like the elf stamps best. I asked her once why the elf was crying, and she said, "Because you didn't try your best". I said "oh" but I thought that I DID try my best, and I didn't understand why that would make the elf cry, anyway. If I was a teacher, I would only use the smiling elf stamp, I think, unless the kid was bad and hurt someone on purpose. THAT would be enough to make the elf cry.<br />
<br />
At the end of the school day, we collect all of our art and other work from our hooks, take off our inside shoes and leave them for the next day, and go out into the hall to put our outside shoes on. We usually start before the other classes do, but because it takes us longer to tie up our shoelaces, usually the other classes are in the hall too before we're done. We spill out the side doors into the yard, and line up for the big buses that come from the high school already full of big kids at the back. The first step up the bus is the hardest, and sometimes I need both hands to pull myself up. I don't know how Michelle does it; probably her big sister helps her. I find the first empty spot that I can, and watch out the window all the way home to Tetroe Road. Sometimes, my little brother John is waiting for us. It's nice to get home.Monique Charltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06100883447520795047noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372124263769758793.post-50029158319684132602013-10-19T19:16:00.002-04:002013-10-19T22:42:19.835-04:00Eggs for BreakfastMy dad has chickens. He calls them his "girls". He got a bunch of them this spring when they were really small yellow bundles of fluff. They were so cute! Tom took a picture of them with my baby brother, Greg. Chicken babies and people babies, both are very cute! Those chickens have gotten big much quicker than Greg has though. <br />
<br />
Greg was born last fall, in November. When it was finally time to bring him home, I went in the car for the ride. I couldn't wait to see him. Once we got home I got to hold him, he was so small and helpless and couldn't even hold up his head or keep his eyes open. He is bigger now though, even though he's still a baby. He can't even walk yet, although he is starting to crawl around. It feels so nice when I hold him in my arms, he is so nice and warm and cuddly. My heart feels so big it could burst when I hold him. I had asked my mom for a little sister, but got Greg instead. That's okay, it will be a long time before I can play with him anyway.<br />
<br />
My brothers and I go into the back yard where my dad has built the hen-house and their fenced-in yard. At first, the chicks stayed in the hen-house where there was a very big light that kept them all warm and toasty. Then we watched as they started to get bigger, white feathers. They looked just terrible for a while, kind of like those dinosaur birds, but slowly they have started to look better again. More white feathers have come in and they look much better - round and puffy white. These chickens eat every green thing inside their fence. They eat leaves and even small branches. They've eaten all the grass. They scratch in the dirt and even EAT the dirt. We feed them in the hen-house, and sometimes we throw some feed into their yard, too. It's fun, though, to throw a worm in through the fence and then watch them chase one another to get the worm. It's kind of like watching chickens play football. One of my brothers threw in a frog once, and that really got them going, but somehow it wasn't the same - it seemed mean, to me. I don't mind throwing in a grasshopper, though.<br />
<br />
The chickens have gotten even bigger and some have started to lay eggs. It's fun to go and check for eggs in the hen-house; you never know what you will find. Sometimes the eggs are very small and round, and sometimes we are lucky and get a double yolker! But you never know how many yolks until you crack it open. We wash the eggs carefully in the sink and put them in the fridge. It is hard for me to imagine that one of those eggs, if you let it, will turn into a little yellow chick.<br />
<br />
I walk into the kitchen this Saturday morning after watching cartoons all morning. I don't see Mom or Dad and so I check out the door to the driveway - ah rats - the car is gone. They've already gone into town to do the shopping, and I've missed out. Even though I don't need anything, I like to go for the ride and push the cart in the grocery store, or get dropped off at the library so I can check out new books and talk with Michelle, the librarian. She's so nice.<br />
<br />
Tummy grumbling, I realize that I haven't even had my breakfast yet. Philip is at the stove and he's just finished making some scrambled eggs; they smell really good. I open the cupboard where the cereal is, and there's some puffed rice cereal there but today it just doesn't seem like it will be enough. I check in the fridge and there's no leftover porridge, either. Not that I like leftover porridge, I'm just checking my options.<br />
<br />
"Phillip, will you make me an egg?" I ask suddenly, surprising even myself that I've asked him.<br />
<br />
"I'm just eating now, why don't you make your own?" he answers back, looking up at me in a pause between mouthfuls.<br />
<br />
My brother Phillip is a neat brother. He always has great snack ideas - like putting peanut butter on toast and then sprinkling white sugar on it - not too much, just enough so that it all sticks. Or like toast with butter and then brown sugar and cinnamon - yum. I don't know if he actually invented those or not, but somehow I never remember those things until he does them first. But then, he will also eat leftover porridge COLD, in the bowl right out of the fridge. That's just crazy. But he helps me with homework sometimes, if I ask, and he's patient with all of my questions. That's pretty neat.<br />
<br />
"I've never used the stove," I answer back, wondering if I'm allowed to use the stove, if I'm old enough, and how old is old enough?<br />
<br />
"Okay, I can tell you how and you can do it, okay?" he offers. <br />
<br />
I jump at the chance, and go to the fridge to get an egg out. I see the big double yolker that I just found that morning, and can't believe that no-one else has used it yet. I pick that one and carry it carefully back over to the stove, and place it gently against the pot lid that is on the counter so that it won't roll away.<br />
<br />
"Okay, you need to put some butter into the pan, and then turn the stove on - turn it to the 4. Make sure the handle is pointing to the side so you don't knock it over," he instructs me from his place at the table, between mouthfuls.<br />
<br />
"Then, crack the egg on something hard and try not to get any eggshells in there. If you get some, you can fish them out after your egg is cooked. Then just stir up the egg with a fork until it's done."<br />
<br />
It seems so easy; even though I'm wondering how much butter to use, and how hard to crack it. I'm not asking yet, though - I'm just trying to do it. It is harder than I thought it would be to crack the egg open, but it's pretty neat. Feels like an experiment. I pour the egg into the pan and - yay! Double yolks! I check for shells - can't see any! Well, not too many... I use my fork and stir it all up. Those yellow yolks are just like sunshine, and I use the fork and mash them like potatoes. So much fun! Some of the egg has already started to cook and it is so neat to watch it go from clear to white, I just have to keep stirring.<br />
<br />
Soon, the egg is done and I turn the stove off.<br />
<br />
"Good job," Phillip says, "that's the most important part - remembering to turn the stove off when you're done."<br />
<br />
Proud of myself, I go and get a plate for my egg. I'm wishing that I had made some toast, but don't want to take time now to do that. I carefully scoop the scrambled egg out of the pan and onto my plate, not wanting to leave even a little bit.<br />
<br />
"Thanks, Phillip!" I say to him, as I go over to the table with my breakfast plate, feeling all grown up.<br />
<br />
"Yeah, okay," he says, "Make sure you put everything away when you're done."<br />
<br />
As I sit at the table, eating what might just be the Best Scrambled Eggs Ever, I'm thinking about those chickens and about my little brother, Greg. These chickens, they have such a quick life. We are so lucky to have them for their eggs and then later, for roast chicken dinners. In the amount of time it has taken them to grow from an egg to being dinner, my baby brother is still just a baby and still needs all of us. Even I still need help from my big brother, and I'm Twelve. It's pretty neat how that works for people, for my family, for me. I'm so lucky. I hardly had any eggshells in my breakfast, and I made it all myself.Monique Charltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06100883447520795047noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372124263769758793.post-74233105651015880722013-10-04T21:33:00.000-04:002013-10-04T22:08:57.034-04:00Road TripSummertime and dad finally has some days off, so we're going to visit my cousins. The house is full of action this Saturday morning as Dad gets the car ready, Mom gets the food and little ones ready, and they both direct all the rest of us kids to get ready. I am so excited, I already have my bag packed with my bathing suit, pj's, toothbrush, and a change of clothes. I swing it around over my head as I run through the house, excited to be on the move, and accidentally smack Paul with it. <br />
<br />
"Hey, smarten up!" he says, irritated, and tries to grab my bag out of my hands.<br />
<br />
"Stop it! Leave my bag alone!"<br />
<br />
Taller and faster than me, he grabs the bag out of my hands and swings it around, holding it just out of reach over my waving arms.<br />
<br />
"Give it back! Mom, Paul's got my bag!" I cry, clearly the injured party now.<br />
<br />
"Go outside and run around, both of you! Right NOW!"<br />
<br />
Mom has stopped what she's doing to glare at us both. She is clearly exasperated with us; we don't have to be told twice. Paul tosses my bag back over, actually past me, muttering something under his breath, and I pick it up from the floor and check that things are okay. Hmmph, everything's all scrunched up now. Brothers can be such a pain.<br />
<br />
I head outside to where Dad is busy loading up the station wagon. I love this car because it has a third row seat that looks out the back window. I don't usually get to sit back there though, unless not everyone is going - my older brothers take that seat. Just like the school bus, the big kids get to sit in the back - it's an unwritten rule. I give Dad my bag and he puts it on the pile with the rest of the stuff we are bringing. It looks like we're not ready to go quite yet.<br />
<br />
Its still early on Saturday morning, the sky is blue and it's a wonderful day with a road trip to look forward to. The drive to our cousins in Minaki is a few hours along a windy road, and there's lots to look at out the window, if you get a window seat. If you're the one in the middle then you'd better have a good book. I look for something to do while I'm waiting, and see Phillip and Paul over on the swing set doing chin ups. That looks like fun! I run over to join them, and stand there watching.<br />
<br />
"Can I have a turn?" I ask, as Phillip drops to the ground.<br />
<br />
"No, Paul was here first," he says, as Paul reaches up and Phillip hoists him up to the bar.<br />
<br />
Paul's arms are stretched all the way out as he makes a big face and grunts his way up to the bar, feet dangling below.<br />
<br />
"One...twwwoo...thrrreee..ugh..ffffour...argh..fiiiiive..." Paul counts out as his skinny arms manage to hoist his body up and down and up again and again. He's so skinny, I can't imagine it could be THAT hard.<br />
<br />
"Can I try, can I go next?" I ask again, now that it looks like Paul's fading. I move closer and start reaching up to the bar, jumping to see if my hands even get close to it, but Paul's not ready to stop yet.<br />
<br />
"Get out of the way! You're bothering my chin-ups! Stop bugging me and wait your turn!"<br />
<br />
Paul is frustrated with me and he lets me know it, trying to scissor kick over to me and I back away, just out of reach. He drops to the ground as his hands give out from all that extra movement, and as he gets up from the ground, I can tell I'm in trouble. I head off running over to the car, screeching all the way as he gains on me. I make it once around the car with Paul roaring after. Just as he's closing in on me, Dad straightens up. Somehow we both missed seeing him there amid all the stuff. He's got a look on his face that says he means business. I screech to a stop, ready to defend my position if I need to.<br />
<br />
"Paul! Leave your sister alone!"<br />
<br />
"But she was bugging me on the swings! I didn't do anything!"<br />
<br />
"That's enough now! Go into the house and into your room; we'll come and get you when it's time to go!"<br />
<br />
Paul shoots me an angry look, and I'm relieved he's going into the house. I know I'm going to be in trouble for that later though.<br />
<br />
I go back over to the swings, but there's no-one else there now and I can't reach all the way up to the bar on my own. I settle for sitting on the swing, and it feels like someone's just let the air out of a tire; things are a little bit flat. It's not as much fun by yourself. <br />
<br />
Soon the car is packed and ready. I find a spot in the middle seat beside Thomas, and mom calls back over to us to make sure we've all remembered to pack toothbrushes. Then, out the driveway and we're on the road! Thomas has let me sit beside the door this time, so the window is down and I'm resting on my elbow, watching my town go by, looking for my friends houses. Soon we're through town, through the train underpass and driving along Lake of the Woods. There are lots of boats out on the water already. <br />
<br />
Every once and a while I can sneak a look at Tom's book and read over his shoulder, but he turns the pages too quickly for me. It's hard to read Tintin from too far away because the speech bubbles are so small, and some of the words are so big, but it's fun to look at the pictures. I like his Asterix comics the best, although those are hard to read, too. We're on the Minaki highway now, away from the big lake and winding through many smaller ones. We go past fields of horses and cows, past lakes and through forests. It's a great day for a car ride. I can really smell the pine trees as the air heats them up. The wind is warm and I close my eyes.<br />
<br />
Mom and Dad are chatting in the front seat and I hear Mom say with a laugh, "It's awfully quiet in here, are we missing someone?"<br />
<br />
Just like a deer in the headlights, my eyes pop open and my head swings around, taking in everyone in the car in one movement. I know right away what's wrong.<br />
<br />
"Paul! It's Paul! We forgot him at home!"<br />
<br />
In all the hullabaloo of packing up and getting ready and, finally, leaving, we had forgotten to go and get Paul when we left. I can hardly believe it. What will we do now? Will we turn around and go home? This is worse than the time when no-one came to pick me up after Brownies in the church basement and I had to wait outside in the dark for hours until they missed me at dinner and Dad had to drive all the way back into town to get me.<br />
<br />
"We're almost there," Dad calms Mom, "We can phone from Con and Marg's place and make sure he's okay. Claudette can watch him until tomorrow when we're home."<br />
<br />
Poor Paul. I feel so bad that I got him into trouble, and now he's stuck at home all by himself. I can't think of anything worse than that. Still, I can't help but feel a little happy that he won't be around to get me back for getting him in trouble. And, I'm sure he'll be able to find something to do... !Monique Charltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06100883447520795047noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372124263769758793.post-87317361011601162372013-09-21T10:29:00.002-04:002014-04-06T20:05:02.060-04:00Trailer LadiesIn the summertime, it's pretty nice at our house on Tetroe Road. There's lots of sunshine and shade, and there's a big field out behind the house where a bunch of us can play baseball. But there's no lake right here. Instead, we have to walk all the way to Rabbit Lake or Round Lake for swimming. Usually I end up with a stubbed big toe before we're very far down the road, and I hobble all the rest of the way to the beach in my flip-flops. We love going to our Grandparent's camp on Lost Island, or to our cousins' on Gun Lake, because then we don't have to walk to the beach, it's right there. To me, that's what going to camp is all about - being just a jump away from the water. But that's not everyone's idea of going to camp.<br />
<br />
It's funny but as you go down Tetroe Road from our house, after McInnesses, Derouards, and Guerettes, there's a trailer parked in the trees. Actually, it's not really a trailer at all but an old streetcar from the city that has been parked there - that's what my brother said. I've never actually seen a streetcar. This one has shutters on the windows and a regular door to go in. There's a big chain fence all the way around the yard, and all winter long it's locked up tight. We don't even notice it, in the winter, because nothing is shoveled and the trees are so heavy with snow that they almost block the trailer from sight. But in the summertime, eventually there's a day when we head down Tetroe Road and that gate is open. On those days, it's like summer has come and the magic is back. The Trailer Ladies have returned to their summer camp.<br />
<br />
The streetcar (or trailer, as we call it), is a nice green colour that makes it blend in with all the pine trees around it. If you didn't know to look there for it, it wouldn't catch your eye. Usually there's a puff of smoke coming out of the chimney from the kitchen, and it smells so good - it's a signal to us if we haven't noticed the open gate. On that day, the day of the Trailer Ladies' arrival, my first few steps between the gate at the top of the driveway are tentative. Will they recognize me? Will they be as nice as I remember them to be? Maybe they won't want me to bother them? But it doesn't take long before my curiosity gets the best of me and I walk down the drive. <br />
<br />
The Trailer Ladies are two sisters, Hilda and Irene. My favourite is Hilda because she seems to have an extra sparkle in her eye, but they are both very nice. They always wear dresses with little flowers on them, and sometimes they also have an apron on, over top. They call the trailer their "cottage" and I think that is so neat because I've never heard that word used before, except in books - like in fairy tales. Around here, people have "camps", which sounds so boring - especially compared to my Trailer Ladies and their cottage.<br />
<br />
Hilda has short, wavy gray and brown hair, while Irene's hair is a little longer but it's WHITE. I don't know who is older; they both seem Very, Very Old. Hilda has a cane and walks kind of hunched over which maybe sounds scary but it isn't - in a way it's really nice because when I go to see her, she always takes one hand from her cane to hold my hand, and her smiling eyes look right into mine even though she's probably taller than me. Usually, when she takes my hand, she puts a candy into it.<br />
<br />
Although I love to run down Tetroe Road, when I get to their place I slow right down and walk down the driveway to the trailer, taking in the trees and smell of pine needles, and then the trailer, the shutters now open after the long winter. Placed there, the trailer looks kind of like an old dragon slowly waking up, a nice dragon, a quiet dragon, one that no longer cares to fly but instead happy to lie in the shade and dream about flying, the smoke puffing slowly out of the chimney like thought bubbles. I get to the front door and give a quiet knock, the kind of knock that means I'd like to see you, if its okay... I hear some shuffling around behind the door, and then...<br />
<br />
"Well, hello, little Monik! My, how you've grown! It's wonderful to see you, come in! Come in!"<br />
<br />
And in that quick moment, Hilda welcomes me back into her wonderful cottage. She holds the door open and I step over the sill, the wood stove in front of me, a small fire already crackling away with newspaper and small twigs. They've only just arrived. I step up the one small step from the front door into the kitchen, and sit down at the table, where I know I'm allowed. <br />
<br />
In spite of the heat of the summer day, inside the trailer it's quite cool. It also smells wonderful - kind of a mix of moth balls and fresh wood smoke, pie and pine needles. Like how a cottage is supposed to smell. From the chair in the kitchen, I can see all the way down the hall to the end of the trailer, although there are three other rooms down that way. The rooms are divided by curtains that the ladies have made, long curtains that right now have all been swept aside to open everything up. They made the curtains for all of the other windows, too. Sewing is what they do - they work in the city, sewing for Eatons'. That just adds to their magic - not only have I never been to the city, but Eatons' is the same place that sends the Eatons' catalog in the mail in time for Christmas each year; maybe my Ladies are elves in disguise?<br />
<br />
"How did you get here? Did you drive... where is your car?" I ask my questions as I think of them, with Hilda smiling at me and answering, asking her own questions in return.<br />
<br />
"We got here this morning. Our brother brought us in his car, and he's gone back to the city. How are your mum and dad? ... Did you have a good winter? ... How was school? .... Would you like a candy - I think I have some here somewhere... ah yes, here they are!"<br />
<br />
"Yes, thank you!"<br />
<br />
I love Hilda. Who else would offer a candy in the first breath, not even considering the time of day, or whether it was just before or just after lunch, or anytime.<br />
<br />
I'm quiet for a moment as Hilda finishes stoking the wood stove and getting the kettle going. I hear some rustling down the hall and Irene joins us in the kitchen.<br />
<br />
"Hello Monik, how are you? Can you come and help me back here for a moment? I've dropped something behind the dresser and it would be much easier for you to reach it ..."<br />
<br />
I'm up in a flash, following Irene down the hall. I try to take everything in - I don't get to go back here very often, these are their bedrooms. There are needlepoint pictures, books, blankets, pillows. You walk through these two bedrooms to get to the "sitting room" at the back. They have an old record player there - they call it a phonograph player - it has a funny speaker on it and a really heavy needle, and the records are heavy and thick. Irene is showing me where she dropped her watch, and I scramble underneath. She's right, there's not much room under here and it's very dark, but she's shining a flashlight to help me to see and I have no trouble.<br />
<br />
"Oh, thank you dear, that's much easier for you than for me!"<br />
<br />
I'm so glad to be useful to the Ladies, they are always so kind to me. <br />
<br />
I don't want to overstay my welcome, they are still moving in and have boxes and things to unpack and I don't want to get in the way.<br />
<br />
"How long will you stay?" I ask, already thinking about my next visit.<br />
<br />
"We'll be here for the month of July," Hilda says. "We want to pick some mushrooms, and also blueberries when they come out."<br />
<br />
Wow, I think, mushrooms! Who picks mushrooms? I don't even like mushrooms much. I see them in the forest and think they all must be poison, their colours are so bright. Maybe I'll be able to go with them to see, when they go.<br />
<br />
"Well, I have to go now," I decide, and move towards the door, navigating around the small space in the kitchen.<br />
<br />
"Come to see us again soon," Hilda smiles as she opens the door for me. "Let your brothers know to come over for a candy!"<br />
<br />
I smile a big smile and say thanks! and bye! and then I run all the way home, fast as I can, somehow excited and happy by my visit, and run just to do something with all of that energy. Frank and John are playing in the yard, and they glance over at me as I run up.<br />
<br />
"The Trailer Ladies are back!" I announce, glad somehow that I was the one who saw them first.<br />
<br />
John and Frank look at each other, eyes wide open, and both say, "Trailer Ladies!" with smiles, drop everything and take off running down the road, back the way I've just come. <br />
<br />
I wonder what the Ladies lives must be like, living in the big city, and what a change it must be for them here, at their cottage. I guess they don't need a lake to have a cottage, instead here they have the Forest. In the city they don't have a forest. I think maybe that's right, that maybe all you need for a cottage or a camp is to have some quiet space in nature where you have time to read a book or not even do THAT much. Maybe to just sit and watch the birds and plants and be with yourself. And maybe that is enough.Monique Charltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06100883447520795047noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372124263769758793.post-76565735017260153432013-09-08T19:13:00.000-04:002013-09-08T19:13:03.296-04:00Silver AnniversaryThere always seems to be stuff going on at my house. Sometimes I know what it is, and sometimes I don't. Either way though, I can feel it. It's kind of a buzzy feeling in my tummy, not exactly like butterflies, maybe more like caterpillars. Those black and brown ones that are really fuzzy and look soft but are actually kind of prickly if you touch them. Better to just watch them there, munching on leaves like they've got nothing else to do but eat.<br />
<br />
My sister Anne and I share a room. It's a funny kind of room because it's got a triple kind of bunkbed - a regular bunkbed against the wall, and half-way up, where your feet go, there's another bed that sticks out into the middle of the room. My dad made this bed when he made the house bigger for us so the room would fit three girls, but Claudie doesn't live at home anymore and Reine is married and lives far away. I don't even remember when they both lived at home. As it is, Anne is nine years older than me, and soon she will be moving away too - she is graduating from Grade 13 this month.<br />
<br />
Anne is pretty much everything I'd like to be. She's really smart at school; she does great at a bunch of different sports; she's got a really nice boyfriend; she doesn't chew her fingernails; she's got pretty, long hair. She sits up straight. Me, I'm pretty smart at school; I like sports too (but we don't have any teams yet at school); I don't think I'll ever have a boyfriend; I chew my fingernails until my fingers hurt; I've always had a pixie cut. I slouch. But my dad said to me the other day, when I was complaining about having to do the dishes AGAIN, that one day I'll just do them, just like Anne does. I don't know if THAT's true, but at least dad thinks so, and that's something to keep me hoping.<br />
<br />
Mom and Dad are going to Anne's Grade 13 graduation ceremony. They even got an invitation in the mail from the school. Anne's boyfriend, Dan, is graduating from Grade 13 too. I'm not allowed to go. Even though Paul says it would be Boring, I'd kind of like to go, just to see. It just sounds so neat. But THEN I found out a Secret. My sister Claudie has planned a PARTY for my parent's anniversary, on the same night as the Graduation. This year is their 25th anniversary, they call it a "silver" one. I am so impressed by this - I can't believe it. My parents NEVER have parties - they often have people over for coffee, neighbours or friends, but never a Party. And even better, it's a SECRET. I hope I'm not the one to ruin the surprise.<br />
<br />
"I'm going to have you take care of the guest book, okay?" Claudie tells me one day when she is visiting at home, and mom and dad aren't close by.<br />
<br />
"Sure," I say, although I'm not even sure what that means, "What do I have to do?"<br />
<br />
"Well, you'll say 'hi' to everyone when they come to the house, and ask them to sign the guest book. Do you think you can do that?"<br />
<br />
"Yeah," I say, feeling kind of nervous and excited both at the same time. I don't think I can do too much wrong with that job, it sounds pretty straightforward. I am just wondering what the catch is, when Claudie says -<br />
<br />
"Do you have anything nice to wear?"<br />
<br />
Well, there it is. You have to understand, I'm feeling all out of sorts these days, a feeling which seems to be lasting a very long time. My huge feet seem all out of proportion to the rest of my body; I'm pretty much just a tall, skinny beanpole; I've lost all my baby teeth and these new adult ones seem way too huge for my mouth, all crowding their way in; and my short hair makes me look more like a boy than ever - which usually is just fine with me for playing and running around, but doesn't seem to "match" if I have to dress up. Not to mention that something "nice" that fit last week, won't fit this week. Oh - and I don't even LIKE to wear dresses, anyway. Or anything that's pink or with bows or frilly bits.<br />
<br />
"Not really," I mumble, wondering what will come next.<br />
<br />
"Okay then, hmm, well, I guess I can make you something," Claudie says, brows furrowed and eyeing me up and down critically. <br />
<br />
I shrink inside, and feel that caterpillar working away. Somewhere in my head I know she's trying to do something nice for me, but all my tummy says is that I'm not okay as I am, that I'll just never measure up. As she measures me and writes down all the numbers, I am embarrassed and flushed. Somehow I'm no longer worried about being able to keep the secret; instead I'm dreading messing up the event.<br />
<br />
The afternoon of the Graduation, mom and dad get ready to go out. Before they go, they give Anne her graduation present - all nicely wrapped with a bow and everything! It is a really cool clock-radio! As Anne pulls it out of the box, I think that it looks all shiny and silver like it's from outer space, like something they might have on a Rocket. They all look just wonderful and smell really good. I get nice big hugs from them as they leave, so nice and warm and comforting. They are both so pleased about going to Annes' graduation, so proud of her. I am proud of her, too and think that maybe one day they'll go to mine. It helps me to feel better about the party coming up. <br />
<br />
With them out of the way, my brothers and Claudie get into gear. Christopher is nervously thinking about a speech, and Claudie is in her element seeing to all of the little details. She's brought my dress in, it turned out nice. It's yellow with flowers and some red stuff on it that looks nice. I'm not crazy about the puffy short sleeves, but she insists that it looks cute... I'm not a good judge of cute so I figure I'll take her word for it. Luckily for me, I actually have some sandals that will match the dress! For my birthday in May, I was allowed to invite a bunch of girls from school to a birthday party. One of my friends, Sandra, gave me a pair of red sandals. She tried to make me guess what the present was - ("it starts the same way as my name!" she said), but I had no idea ("sandbox? sandpiper?"). I was so surprised - I had never been given sandals for a present before! Anyway, it makes me feel better that I actually have shoes that match the dress - usually I've got my sneakers on, or clunky winter boots in winter, with my dress sticking out from underneath a coat that's too short.<br />
<br />
The people start arriving at our house before my parents get home. Some of my brothers are outside in the yard helping people find place to park their cars, others are in the house helping Claudie and chatting with people already here. I hold my post at the Guestbook, glad to have a job to do that I can't mess up too much. It gets pretty busy, and I can't believe all of the people that come. Not only my grandma and our neighbours on Tetroe Road, but also our priest Father Denis and some other people from church like Ratchfords and Swirns. It's funny to see them all mixed together in our house, and how some sit quietly, almost like they are nervous, and how others seem to know everyone and are all smiles and hugs. I kind of thought all adults were the same - all confident and comfortable, but it seems like that's not true when you put them all together. I'm doing okay getting people to sign the book - some people just put their name and others want to put in a little message, which is kind of nice, I think.<br />
<br />
Just as I think I'm not sure how much longer I can sit here, my restless legs bouncing all over from under my dress in those red sandals, my parents pull up in the car. I can see them through the kitchen door and they are all smiles. As they come in I yell out "Surprise!" even though I know the surprise was up before they even pulled into the driveway - there are so many cars. They are swept away into the living room with all the guests. Some have even brought presents! My brother Chris is about to say his speech so things get quiet and I can't make my escape quite yet. It is short and sweet, and everyone lifts their glass to "toast" my mom and dad. In the noise that follows, I figure my job is done and I head outside.<br />
<br />
Now that I'm away from the crowd and the noise, I feel so much better, lighter. Frank and John are outside running around the cars, and I join in - although I can't run as fast with sandals and a dress on. I return to the front step and kick off my sandals, hike up my dress a bit, and tear around the back yard around to the front of the house. As I round the corner to the front where the living room window is, I slow down and stop in the pine trees. It's almost like watching tv - I can see everyone in the living room all laughing and talking. I take it all in - the cars, the people, my brothers and sisters, my mom and dad. Twenty five years ago, they got married and all these years later, here we all are. What if they had never met? Who would I be, then? Who will I be twenty five years from now? <br />
<br />
I look up at the sky; dusk is just starting to fall and there's still a glow where the sun is going down. The air is warm and smells like pine needles - clean and good. My caterpillars are gone, and tonight it feels like everything is good in the world, and that I'm going to be okay. If Anne can do so well, maybe I can too. I might even grow into my feet.Monique Charltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06100883447520795047noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372124263769758793.post-19229103402061926272013-06-18T22:51:00.000-04:002013-06-22T20:41:07.079-04:00CJ School Part IIOn a beautiful June day, the sunshine just seems to last forever. I'm not sure how we knew it was time; maybe it was just a pause between games when we finally heard the rumblings from our stomachs. In any case, suddenly the spell was broken and I knew that my amazing afternoon was over. I walked with all the girls to the edge of the pit where the gravel road leads back up to the main road, and got ready to say my goodbyes. As I drifted over to the side, waiting to break away and follow the narrow path leading back to my home, one of the leaders called out to me.<br />
<br />
"Hey Monik, do you want to check with your parents and see if you can come back with us? There's a barbecue for all the kids back at school, and you're welcome to join us if you'd like..."<br />
<br />
I can't believe my ears - I look over in astonishment at Dorothy, and she and some other girls are laughing at me - again.<br />
<br />
"So go ask!" she tells me.<br />
<br />
"Yes!!" I answer back, "Do you want to come with me and see my house?"<br />
<br />
Dorothy nods and, suddenly re-energized, we break into a run - this time with me in the lead. We zip along the trail and across Tetroe Road right into my driveway.<br />
<br />
"This is my house," I explain, "Oh, and those are some of my brothers. I'll just find my mom - be right back!"<br />
<br />
I leave Dorothy standing awkwardly in the yard. My brothers glance up briefly from the game they are playing but quickly lose interest. I'm only gone a second or two and come running back out, the kitchen screen door slamming behind me. I'm not sure if Mom already knew what was coming, but obtaining approval was quick.<br />
<br />
I'm still in running mode, and Dorothy jumps into step beside me. I'm feeling shy and nervous the farther away we move from the house. Dorothy hasn't said much and I wonder what its going to be like over at the school.<br />
<br />
"What's it like?" I suddenly ask her, "The school, I mean, is it fun? My older sisters got to go to boarding school in Winnipeg when they were little, I wish I got to do that, too. There would be so many girls to play with all the time, and a uniform to wear so you didn't have to worry about clothes..."<br />
<br />
My voice trails off as I realize she hasn't said anything. She's just kind of looking at me, like something hurts her somewhere, but then it's gone and she's laughing at me again.<br />
<br />
"All those brothers, no wonder!" she says.<br />
<br />
By this time, we've caught up with the rest of the girls and we walk in little bunches along the road, laughing and talking, all the way back to their school, back to CJ School.<br />
<br />
This is the first time I've been so close to the school, walking up the driveway and past the big chain fence. There's a bustle of activity today, I don't remember ever seeing so many people out in the yard. I have about a million questions, but we've been out playing in the pit all day and running around, and now the lake beckons - a lake with a Jumping Rock. I have truly died and gone to heaven.<br />
<br />
We kick off shoes and socks, but into the lake we go with everything else on. The water is beautiful - although its a small lake, it's very deep and stays refreshing on a hot day. There's a small jackpine beside the rock with the ragged end of a rope still attached, and I try to jump up and catch it for a bit of a swing.<br />
<br />
"That tree would be perfect for a rope swing," I announce, like no-one has ever thought of THAT before, and Dorothy suddenly just pushes me into the water. I come up laughing and she's in right beside me, frowning.<br />
<br />
"We're not allowed to have a rope swing," she explains, but it's lost on me somehow.<br />
<br />
Glancing around, I notice one of the older girls glaring at me and I swim unceremoniously back over to the rock. I climb out and find myself a space on the warm rock where we've lined up like a catch of trout.<br />
<br />
"Sorry," I say, not looking anywhere now, not sure where I've found myself. I realize there's something else going on here, although I'm still not really sure what. Dorothy looks over at me and she can see now it's my time to feel awkward.<br />
<br />
"C'mon," she says finally, "Let's go find out what's to eat."<br />
<br />
We peel ourselves off of the rock and as we walk away, I can feel those eyes in my back but when I turn around, I see that those eyes are not angry but sad. I want to ask what's the trouble, but something inside just stops me.<br />
<br />
Back up at the school the barbecues are blazing outside but the food is all inside, in the gym. Dorothy leads me into the gym and what I notice most is that there isn't much colour around, for a school, and its dark and cool inside. I realize that there are boys around here too, not just girls at this school. The boys are ignoring me for the most part, which is just fine with me; I have enough trouble with brothers at home. I also realize that this isn't just a barbecue, this is their dinner - this is the weekend, but all of these kids are here, living here, like I guess they have all year. I see groups of girls giggling and teasing with some of the boys, and I see some other kids, like the older girl at the lake, just kind of on their own and looking sad. Not a fresh kind of sad, like something just happened, but more like a worn out kind of sad - the kind of sad that lasts too long and makes your heart hurt. Dorothy is watching me take it all in, watching me watch everyone.<br />
<br />
"Are you sad, too?" I ask her, but maybe it's because I say it too softly or maybe it's because right then, a boy has come over to laugh at us in our wet clothes, but now she's busy laughing with the boy and she doesn't answer and my question is gone, it's floating up over everyone like a cloud, a big, puffy question mark and it's dissolving into the air above our heads in the gym. Something happens in me then, I don't know what it is, but it feels kind of like a little sliver of something in my heart, and I Know. <br />
<br />
We fill our plates and I remember to say Yes Please and No Thanks and we take our dinner outside. We find a spot along the wall of the school in the sunshine, the rays slanting now through the trees. The food is good, but not like my mom makes. <br />
<br />
Dorothy and one of the leaders walk me back home, and then it's time to say goodbye. I want to say, thanks for the great day, and thanks for the swim, and thanks for being my friend; but even more I want to ask my Mom if Dorothy can come and stay with us. Even that's no good though, because I know this is not where she needs to be, she already has a home - somewhere.<br />
<br />
"Bye," I say, "And, thanks..."<br />
<br />
As they start walking back towards the road, I lift a hand to wave. Dorothy slowly waves back, and then she laughs!<br />
<br />
*********<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.kenoradailyminerandnews.com/2011/01/19/residential-schools-exhibit-nominated-for-awards">http://www.kenoradailyminerandnews.com/2011/01/19/residential-schools-exhibit-nominated-for-awards</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.cbc.ca/thunderbay/interactives/dyingforaneducation/">http://www.cbc.ca/thunderbay/interactives/dyingforaneducation/</a><br />
<br />
The Cecilia Jeffrey Indian Residential School closed in 1974, when I was 12. I never saw Dorothy or any of the other girls or boys again. I still think of them, and when I do I can still feel that little sliver in my heart.<br />
<br />Monique Charltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06100883447520795047noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372124263769758793.post-86854212117188403962013-06-01T10:18:00.001-04:002013-06-01T10:19:55.069-04:00CJ School - Part ISaturday afternoon, lunchtime. Chicken noodle soup, with crackers and cheese and pickles. What could be better? Breaking off little bits of cheese and plopping them into my soup to melt and stick to my spoon. Putting some margarine between two crackers and squeezing them together so the margarine comes like worms out of the holes, but don't use "too much". I know I don't really NEED that much margarine, but the worms work so much better with just a little bit more. Its serious work, and once Paul has shown us how it's done, John, Francis and I are willing students. Peanut butter is good too, but the crackers break too quickly because the peanut butter is too thick. If we're still hungry, mom might pull out some bread and molasses - yum! Although that is more of a winter treat and right now it is June, and there's rhubarb out in the garden. We go out and pick out our own pink stalk, wash them off with the garden hose, and dip into white sugar before taking a sweet/sour bite. We sit outside on the step, sharing the cup of sugar as we each nibble on our own rhubarb stalk, checking each others pink tongues along the way.<br />
<br />
Pat comes running towards the house; he has been out playing with some of the other big kids down the road.<br />
<br />
"Hey, Monik," he calls to me, "There's a bunch of girls playing over in the pit - you should go see!"<br />
<br />
"What? Who?" I don't understand, there aren't many girls in my neighbourhood, at least not ones that like to play outside with me. Sometimes I play with Barb and Shirley Peterson, when my sister Anne is babysitting them, but they don't like to climb trees and stuff. Other times I might play with one of the Derouard girls from across the field, but they aren't really my age and we don't seem to have much in common, either.<br />
<br />
Pat goes past me, into the house for his lunch, and laughs at me, "You'll fit right in, they are a bunch of Indians from CJ School! Wooo - wooo!" He pats his hand over his mouth, as if he's on the warpath like in the cowboy movies I'm not allowed to watch. That's not real, it's just like Tarzan - isn't it?<br />
<br />
Across the road from my house is a big gravel pit. I guess there used to be lots of trucks going in and out of the pit, taking out gravel to places, but ever since I can remember there has been nothing happening there. Mom always tell us to stay away, but we can't help ourselves. We love to go and explore in the pit and see what we can find - in the middle, there is a big old rusty machine we call "the crusher" because we think it was used to crush up rocks. We climb in it and all over it - it is our fort, our rocket ship... you name it. So I totally understand that there might be a bunch of kids playing over in the pit. And if they are all girls... well, I wouldn't care if they are from Venus and have Two Heads, I'm going to check things out.<br />
<br />
I run into the house to tell my Mom where I'm going, and without waiting for an answer I'm back out of the house with the screen door slamming behind me. I run across the road, along the path that takes me to a little road that leads right into the pit. I'm not sure where to find them, or what I'll say when I do, but I'll worry about that later.<br />
<br />
As I reach the bottom of the road where the pit widens, I'm suddenly aware of the inviting sound of kids playing. I slow down just a little and follow the sounds, and I see them all playing along the edge of the pit, up in and around the bushes where my brothers and I found some clay once. I slow to a stop and just watch them, nervous and self-conscious now. They are obviously having a great time; there are about a dozen or so girls, all my age it seems like, and they have dark hair like me. There are a couple of older girls who are obviously "in charge" and remind me of my big sister, Anne. They are leading the way; not taking over but making sure that everyone is safe.<br />
<br />
I keep standing there, stuck to a spot on the road, waiting for someone to notice me and then I'll know what to do. It doesn't take too long before one of the girls calls out to me, "Hi!"<br />
<br />
"Hi!" I call back, "Can I play, too?"<br />
<br />
A few other girls stop, to watch. They laugh and look at the first girl, who called me - she is laughing too, but I'm not sure... are they are laughing AT me?<br />
<br />
"Can you climb up?" she calls back.<br />
<br />
"Yep," I answer, and I am already half way up the side before she changes her mind.<br />
<br />
It's hard running up the side of the pit; the gravel is loose and fills up your shoes pretty quick if you're not careful. But I have lots of practice and I know that if I run on my toes, the gravel doesn't have a chance to get into the back of my shoes. I go right up to the girl who first called out to me. She's maybe a little bigger than me, but that's hard to tell because she's up higher on the side of the pit.<br />
<br />
"Hi, I'm Monik," I say. "What's your name?"<br />
<br />
She smiles, and twists her long dark hair in her fingers. "Dorothy," she says.<br />
<br />
"Can I play too?" I say again, just to be sure it's okay.<br />
<br />
"Sure!" she says, and with another laugh, she breaks away from us and runs straight down the hill, back down the way I had just come up, her legs moving like windmills around and around so fast it's amazing she doesn't fall right over. I hesitate only a second before I follow her, shrieking all the way down, like everyone is now. <br />
<br />
Up and down we go - laughing and panting all the way up, and shrieking all the way down. Sometimes someone will fall, and whoever is close will reach down and pull them back up with no big deal and the game carries on. I take them to the edge of the pit and show them where some birds are nesting - up too high for us to get to, although we'd like to try, just for a better look. I show them the spot where my brothers and me found some clay that one time, enough to make a little clay bowl and dry it in the sun, but today there is no clay. They don't seem to mind.<br />
<br />
On and on it goes, one game changing into the next without pause; I never knew it could be this easy to play. <br />
All these girls, going to school just up the road from me and I never knew, never even saw them before. We're not really even talking, just laughing and running, running and laughing. These girls are truly amazing, they are a gift to me. I don't ever want this afternoon to end.<br />
<br />
<br />Monique Charltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06100883447520795047noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372124263769758793.post-80615075443074441132013-05-20T10:25:00.000-04:002013-05-20T12:14:17.866-04:00PetuniaMy brother Thomas is older than me; he fits between Patrick and Phillip. He plays the piano almost as good as Mom does, and he's an amazing artist. He's kind of quiet, and doesn't like it when I bug him too much; but he makes me laugh and will always walk to the beach with me if I ask him to. We are the only ones in the family with a May birthday - he teases me on <em>my</em> birthday to remind me of <em>his</em> birthday. It always works!<br />
<br />
Spring has slowly blossomed into early summer, and the poplar trees finally have shaken off their fuzzy tails and replaced them with light green leaves. Dad has been busy rototilling the garden, waking up all of the blackflies in the process. Mom has taken the blankets off the beds and they are out on the clothesline, snapping in the quick, warm wind. It's hard for us to stay out of the blankets when they are on the line - we like to wrap ourselves up in them like caterpillars in a warm cocoon, smelling a bit of dusty bedroom and a bit of warm green spring. If Mom catches us though, we know we're in trouble - so it's just a quick in and out kind of game. You lose a point if a clothespeg pops off.<br />
<br />
I had just gotten a popsicle from the freezer and I was sitting outside on the front step, enjoying it before it melted. You know the kind where you make a big jug of kool-aid and then pour it into a plastic mould, put the little plastic handles in, and then freeze it to make a whole batch. Some of the plastic handles are missing, so we use spoons or re-use wooden popsicle sticks for those. It's NOT the same as having a cup of kool-aid, it lasts much longer and your lips can get even MORE pink or purple or blue, depending on the flavour, which I like. I look out over the back yard and the garden, and I can see Tom walking towards the house. He looks like he's holding something, but it's too small for me to see what it is. It might be one of the bunnies - my brother Pat has some rabbits that he keeps out in a hutch in the back yard, but they're not usually very friendly. They scratch and don't like to be held very much, but it is fun to poke clover into their pen and watch them nibble all the way up the stem to the flower!<br />
<br />
I leave my spoon on the step and run out to meet Tom, too curious to wait for him to reach me.<br />
<br />
"What ya got, Tom?" I call before I reach him. I can tell its something alive, he's holding it so carefully, and I think maybe it's a little black and white kitten! <br />
<br />
"Aww, can I hold her?" I ask, stopping beside Tom, and reaching out to accept a transfer.<br />
<br />
Tom is smiling at me, and I can tell that there's something else going on, I haven't quite caught on yet. He's not passing the kitten over, and as I look closer at the kitten...<br />
<br />
"It's a baby skunk!" Tom finally explains, "We found it on the trail coming home from Rabbit Lake; the mother was killed and this little guy was left behind."<br />
<br />
By this time, we've been joined by Paul, Phillip, John, Frances and Scott. We're all wondering what it will eat, where it will sleep, and how it will do without it's mother. It seems so small and helpless, and it doesn't even smell! I run back to the house to tell my mom. She will know what to do!<br />
<br />
We find a little box from the basement and put an old towel in it. We try to decide on a name - the twins next door, Lorne and Leslie, are calling her Petunia and my brothers are calling her Skunky. I think I prefer Petunia, because that reminds me of the Bambi movie and the little skunk named Flower. I still haven't had my turn to hold her, but that's okay - I don't want to do anything that will make her upset! Eventually I get my chance with her. It's so strange; she's kind of like a kitten, but not as... fluffy, or something. She's not exactly smelly, but she does have that special skunky scent if you are close enough to smell her.<br />
<br />
Although we have "adopted" Petunia, mom hasn't allowed her to stay in the house at night. Tom has worked out a spot for her outside. He puts Petunia in the box with her towel in the window-well just outside the front door; its safe and warm enough for her. I go with him one morning when he goes to check on Petunia. <br />
<br />
"She's still wild," he explains, "Watch what she does."<br />
<br />
As Tom slowly opens the cover, Petunia is startled. She starts to stamp her little back feet like she is having a tantrum! I laugh because it seems like she's really mad that we woke her up! Then suddenly, she swings around and her tail goes Straight UP! Uhoh - my laughing stops suddenly as I back away from the window well, concerned about what's going to happen next, and now it's Tom's turn to laugh at me.<br />
<br />
"Haha! Don't worry, she's too little to spray yet, she's just practicing! You should see your face!"<br />
<br />
Practicing or not, I don't want to be in the line of fire when she finally figures out how it all works.<br />
<br />
Petunia becomes part of the family for a while. Tom takes her for walks down to the swamp behind the house. Petunia stops along the way to dig up food for herself, and the boys catch frogs for her. They catch them and then give them a "twack" so they stop jumping and Petunia can catch them herself for a little snack. It's pretty neat. We even take her on a car trip with us to visit our grandparents camp! In the car on the way there, Tom had her on his lap and the guy pumping the gas was looking in the window at us with a really strange look on his face... we laughed and laughed at what he must have thought!<br />
<br />
<br />
Even though we look after her, mom insists that we can't keep wild animals forever, and that the best place for Petunia is back out in the forest. It happens much quicker for animals than for people, I guess, and it kind of makes me sad for Petunia. I'm already 10 whole years old, and I can't imagine being on my own without my family.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<br />
Back at home one morning as I'm having my breakfast, I can hear Paul and Tom outside. I can tell that something is wrong, but mom makes me stay at the table until I'm finished. By the time I finally get outside in my pj's, I know that Petunia is missing.<br />
<br />
"She must have climbed out," says Paul, who is thinking that is what he would have done if he were stuck in a window-well.<br />
<br />
"Or else something came and got her for their dinner," says Tom. "She was still pretty small."<br />
<br />
We searched and searched for her, but we never did find her again. I like to think that she made her way down to the swamp, snacking all the way, and eventually met up with another skunk family and found some friends. I suppose we will never know what happened to her, but I think we all feel good about helping her, even if just a little, along her journey.<br />
<br />
*****<br />
<br />
Dedicated to my generous and caring brother Thomas, on his 57th birthday!<br />
and<br />
In memory of my Dad, who died 28 years ago, and who had a pretty high tolerance for strays of every kind.Monique Charltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06100883447520795047noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372124263769758793.post-87231998660636888632013-05-05T14:14:00.000-04:002013-05-05T14:14:05.697-04:00Red Running ShoesIt's almost the end of the school year. My inside shoes for school have been in and out of my gym bag every school day, and although they are still wonderfully clean, my big toes are starting to poke out. The rubber on the bottom of my shoes have worn smooth; they leave no footprint when I walk. The laces have each broken a few times, and are much shorter now than when I first got them. I like my runners though, and hate that I have to grow so much and burst right through them. They are a nice blue colour, with white bottoms. Where the holes are, little white threads are poking out from the canvas, just like petals opening on a flower; blue on the outside and white on the inside.<br />
<br />
I bring them home from school finally, to show Mom. She has been upset that my socks are starting to appear in the laundry with holes at the toe; I blame it on my shoes. My feet seem to be outgrowing my body, and I'm feeling very self-conscious about it. My Mom tells me this means that one day I will be tall, but I don't care about that. My brother Pat teases me and calls my feet "snowshoes". I laugh with him but wonder, what good are snowshoes in the summer?<br />
<br />
Mom and Dad finally decide that I need a new pair, so on Saturday I get to go into town with them to shop for some new shoes. My younger brothers will stay home with the older kids this time, because its too hard to have all of us in the shoe store at once. They are too small to leave by themselves in the Children's section at the town Library, which we do on times that me or someone else can stay with them. <br />
<br />
The Eatons' store doesn't have much of a kids shoe selection this time, so we head across the street to Robinsons' store. I like the man that works there - I call him "Mr. Robinsons" but really his name is Mr. Boatman. It's hard for me to remember his real name though, and he doesn't mind that I call him Mr. Robinsons. On times when we are in his store for something and I have to go to the bathroom, he lets us use the one in the store basement. I think it's the neatest bathroom in town - you have to go down into the dark basement, between all the boxes piled way up high, and then you go back up some steps into a bathroom! It's a small room with a little light; it feels almost like it's up in a tree fort! Mom says I know where to find every bathroom in town. I probably can, and this one is my favourite.<br />
<br />
Mr. Robinsons helps my Mom and me as we look at the shoes on the wall. I see what I want almost right away - a beautiful pair of red canvas runners, just like my old ones! I keep my fingers crossed that they will be okay - my Mom picks those from the wall to try first. Mr. Robinsons gets me to stand up on the ruler to see how much my feet have grown.<br />
<br />
"My goodness, little Lady! You will sure keep me in business if you keep growing like that!" he says with a laugh. <br />
<br />
He brings the box over for me to try on the red running shoes. I kick off my holey blue shoes, and suddenly I'm somehow embarrassed about my socks, even though my mom made sure I put on clean ones, with no holes in them. I hold my breath as Mr. Robinsons puts the laces on the shoes to get them ready. He uses the shoehorn to put my feet into the new shoes, and then he ties them up for me. It seems so strange to have an adult helping me out like that, since I already know how to tie my shoes, but he is so nice about it. All the while he is doing this for me, my Dad and Mr. Robinsons are having a conversation about something to do with the School Board. My Mom is watching me, and my big feet. I'm not sure if she will think these shoes are okay or not, so I don't want to get too excited about them.<br />
<br />
I stand up to try them out, and they are the most beautiful shoes I have ever seen. I walk towards the little shoe mirror they keep on the floor, and somehow, magically, my feet don't seem to be as big as they were in the blue shoes. I wonder how I could have loved the blue ones so much, these red ones are so wonderful!<br />
<br />
I look over at my mom, questioning her with my eyes.<br />
<br />
"Go on, walk around the store a little," she encourages me. I half walk, half skip around the store. They are perfect. I can already feel that these shoes have a nice skip in them, and they also feel very fast.<br />
<br />
"What do you think?" she asks.<br />
<br />
"They are good," I say, still holding my breath, not sure if that's right.<br />
<br />
"Okay, then," she says, turning to Mr. Robinsons, "It looks like we've found a pair, we'll take them."<br />
<br />
Still chatting, Dad and Mr. Robinsons head over to the desk to finish buying the shoes. Mom tells me that I might as well keep them on and wear them home, since the other ones are obviously way too small. I have gone up 2 sizes, she tells me with a slight shake of her head.<br />
<br />
I stare at my new, red running shoes on my feet the whole way back in the car. I can't wait to get home to really try them out!<br />
<br />
As the car pulls in to the driveway, I can see that Paul and Philip are heading down Tetroe Road, probably going to check out a new fort or a trail. As soon as the car comes to a stop in the yard I am out the door, running to catch up with Philip and Paul. It's perfect, they can't even hear me coming. As I run past them, I turn my head and say, "Race ya!"<br />
<br />
Automatically, my older brothers burst into a run. By this time I am already a few steps ahead, and I savour the moment when we are all running, all three of us, and I am ahead. I can see my shadow jumping ahead of me on the gravel road and theirs catching up, I can hear our feet on the gravel, and I can feel the warm wind in my hair as we race together down the road. This moment is magic, it is perfection. All thanks to my new, red running shoes.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Dedicated to all those who run, and to those who lost their lives at the Boston Marathon on April 15th, 2013.Monique Charltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06100883447520795047noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372124263769758793.post-56361429093985085892013-04-20T08:22:00.000-04:002014-04-06T19:56:37.058-04:00John & Francis Part IIIt will be the first time I've seen Francis since he fell into the pond, and I'm worried about what he will look like, how he might have changed. Everyone says he "almost drowned", and that's scary because I don't really know what that Means. So far, it feels to me like when you first lose a tooth... the tooth isn't in my mouth anymore but my tongue misses it and keeps going to check to see if it's really gone. I know that my tooth is still around, it's just that I put it somewhere else (it's under my pillow until the tooth fairy finds it), but I have to keep going back to check under my pillow to make sure it's still there. That's Francis - he's not at home and I keep noticing he's missing - from beside me on the bench at the kitchen table, when we're playing outside, at bedtime - only I can't go and check to make sure he's over there at the hospital. I'm worried that God will go and get him, like the tooth fairy takes my tooth from under my pillow, but I won't know for SURE until I can go to check. I know it must be even harder for John, so I try to play with him and keep him company when I'm not at school. He's pretty quiet about it all and hasn't said much about it; I don't ask him because I don't want to make him sad.<br />
<br />
Francis almost drowned. At school, I repeat it often as I try to make sense of it. "My little brother almost drowned," I say to my teacher, to my friends, in the hope of getting an answer back that somehow explains it all. My teacher, Mrs. Crewe, is extra nice to me and lets me erase the blackboards and clean the chalk brushes, a job that everyone wants because you get to leave the class early and go outside to do it. That's nice, but it doesn't really help. My friends want to know more about what it was like, but I wasn't there and I don't know. "Did he turn blue?" "Was he all heavy and waterlogged like a stick?" Not hearing anything from me, some of the kids tell me what they know about it, which is far worse than I could ever have imagined on my own. I pretend it is helping but it doesn't, it just makes me even more worried.<br />
<br />
At home Saturday morning, we're all dressing up like we're going to church. Mom inspects us as we head outside to the station wagon to make sure faces are washed and teeth are brushed. We all tumble into the car and settle in - John's on Mom's knee; Paul beat me into the front seat between Mom and Dad, so I'm on Tom's knee in the back seat with everyone else. As we pull out of the driveway, I look back through the car window at the house and wonder if the house misses us when we're not there? Can it tell that someone is missing? I think it does because there has been a different feeling in the house lately.<br />
<br />
In the car on the long ride to the hospital, Mom and Dad tell us all that the hospital is full of very sick people and we must do our best to be very quiet as we go to see Francis. I've never been in there as far as I can remember. Hospitals are for bringing babies home from, and when that happens, we kids just wait in the car; its a happy time. Mom and Dad say that we're not going to be able to bring Francis home with us this time, we're just going for a visit. Now my tummy is really full of butterflies and I don't feel very good.<br />
<br />
Dad parks the car and we all pile out. I hold tight to my Dad's hand as we cross the parking lot. Mom is carrying John who is quiet, but Paul and Philip have raced ahead to the big hospital doors. The doors here are like the new doors at the grocery store - you step on the mat and they open! That is just the greatest thing, and I let go of my Dad's hand to try them out with Paul and Phil. The older kids are rolling their eyes at us, but that's okay, I can tell we're not doing anything bad, and we're still being very quiet.<br />
<br />
As they go in through the doors, I notice Mom's purse as it bumps against her hip, the straps looping around her elbow and both hands holding John on her other hip. I've peeked into her purse before and it's full of kleenex. Mom and Dad go over and stand in front of some doors - can it really be an Elevator? I've only seen those on TV - the Get Smart show, where there are so many elevator doors and at the end the doors close on Agent 99's nose! Sure enough, a little bell rings and the doors open, and we all get inside. Dad presses the 4 and as the doors close, everyone is quiet; I look up at everyone, and I think it's not just me with a butterfly tummy.<br />
<br />
When the doors open, we follow closely behind Mom and Dad, the older kids farther behind. It's all very bright, and white, and clean, and it smells funny. Then, suddenly, in a room with a glass wall and a television and toys, there is Francis! In his pajamas! He sees us and breaks into his big smile and dimples, and in a second he's up in Dad's arms, then in Mom's along with John. I am so happy to see him too, but I wonder, why is he still in his pajamas? Don't they know it's almost lunchtime? We're not allowed to keep them on at home... oh right, unless we're sick. Now that I've figured THAT out, I notice that the boys have found some good stuff in the play room so in I go to join them.<br />
<br />
We are having a great time at the hospital, there are so many toys, and big windows to see the lake and trees and the parking lot from so high up. Our car looks like a big bug on the pavement. We forget where we are a little and a nurse tells Paul and me to stop running in the hallway, which makes me feel Very Embarrassed. We give up that game and head back into the playroom where my family has taken over - not that anyone else is around. I think to myself that Francis is SO LUCKY to have this big, beautiful playroom all to himself! I bet the television in here has even more channels than just CBC, and no-one to tell you to turn it off and go play outside.<br />
<br />
The next thing I know, it's time for us to go. The big kids are already waiting over by the elevators, and Paul has pushed the button. But it's not good, Francis is crying, really crying, and we have to leave him there. I see him in the doorway; a nurse is holding him now, but he's holding his arms out to all of us as he sobs. I look up at Mom and Dad and they are smiling, saying "We'll see you again, soon! Be Good!" as they slowly walk away, and I'm holding my Dad's hand again but I can't take my eyes off of Francis. I don't understand why he has to stay "just a little bit longer". In the elevator, John is crying too and I'm staring at the floor. I feel like we are so MEAN to visit him and leave again. When I look up, everyone else has tears in their eyes too. Mom pulls a kleenex from her purse.<br />
<br />
As we cross the parking lot the sun is really shining and I skip a little. I can see some dandelions coming out between the cracks in the pavement and that makes me feel a little better. I suppose that "almost drowned" is like being sick, really, really sick so you have to go somewhere else to get taken care of. Dad tells us that it will just be a few more days and then Francis will be well enough to come back home. I look back up at the hospital, at those big windows that look out over the lake, and wonder if Francis can see us. I give a little wave, just in case, and then race to get a spot in the front seat.<br />
<br />
It's a funny thing, being in a big family. I never get to be alone but I want to be; I feel lonely when everyone is around but I don't want to be. I think about my tooth back at home, under my pillow, and I know that Francis is NOT like a tooth. I've already started feeling my newer, bigger tooth coming in, but there's no-one that could EVER replace Francis. I think that maybe mom can help me and John to make some cookies for when Francis comes home, or maybe even some cinnamon rolls. Something Special, just for Francis.Monique Charltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06100883447520795047noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372124263769758793.post-78318964736148482502013-04-05T07:06:00.000-04:002014-04-06T19:55:46.499-04:00John & Francis - Part IIt's spring and we can finally put away our skidoo boots. The closet at the front door, so packed all winter of coats, mitts, boots, hats and scarves that we can hardly get inside the house sometimes, seems to breathe a little easier now that Mom has gone through everything and stashed things away, after a good washing and airing on the clothesline. We're encouraged to spend more time outside again; not that we need the encouragement - it is so amazing to watch the earth wake up again after a long winter. The days are getting longer and there is a smell in the air that promises warmer weather.<br />
<br />
When I get home from school, John and Francis are playing outside in the yard. They are busy making little dams with the water as it flows all around the driveway and the yard. I stop to watch them and see what the game is. They've already got a system worked out and have connected all of the puddles so that quite a lot of water is being held, and they are busy repairing dams to see how long they can keep the water there. Even though they aren't talking much, I can see that they are working together and have a system worked out. I know I need to be careful and not just jump in to "help", because they have already worked out the "rules" and I need to watch for a while in order to learn what they are.<br />
<br />
John and Francis are just a year apart, and I am a little jealous of them. They always have each other around to play with. They don't always get along (who does?) but they seem to have a kind of understanding that I can't explain. If I approach them right then I can usually work my way into their game, or start a new one, but I know that sometimes they just won't let me in. <br />
<br />
Mom steps outside the house to throw some crumbs for the birds.<br />
<br />
"Monik, come into the house and put your play clothes on!"<br />
<br />
I leave them to their work and go inside to change.<br />
<br />
Today when I come home from school, the yard is empty. The puddles are drier today, but this morning when I went to catch the bus I stepped on the ice in each one just to hear the ice crunch under my feet. It's still cold at night, but there is no snow left anywhere and there is heat in the sunshine. The birds are back and the tree branches are changing colour as they start to breathe in the spring air.<br />
<br />
I go straight into the house to find everyone.<br />
<br />
"Mom! Mom?" <br />
<br />
There is no answer. This is not right - there is ALWAYS someone home. The kitchen seems so empty, although it looks like it usually does - clean and cluttered - lived in. I walk through the house to see if Mom and the boys are resting - mom is expecting a new baby this summer (I hope she's a girl!) so maybe that's it, but I can't find anyone - not even John and Francis.<br />
<br />
My big brothers come in from the bus too and don't seem very concerned. I am worried though - it has been a long day at school for me and I need my mom's presence.... I decide to go to see if she is visiting at the neighbours.<br />
<br />
"I'm going to check at McInnes's," I announce, and head out the door.<br />
<br />
I arrive at the house next door, go through their dark porch and knock on the big wooden door. As soon as Mrs. McInnes answers the door, I know that my Mom isn't there.<br />
<br />
"Do you know where my Mom is?" I ask her.<br />
<br />
Mrs. McInnes invites me in and I take off my boots and go into the house. The house is very different than ours; I notice it is darker inside, probably because of all the trees around and close to the house, but it is very cozy. Mrs. McInnes gives me a cookie and asks if I'd like some juice, too. "Yes, please," I say, remembering my manners. <br />
<br />
I eat my cookie and drink my juice quietly, while my mind is wandering, wondering, what happened? Mrs. McInnes assures me that my parents must have been "out" and been "delayed" somewhere, but it just doesn't sound right to me. It seems to me that Mrs. McInnes looks worried, too.<br />
<br />
I thank her for the cookie and juice, and run back home to my brothers. By this time, the high-school bus has dropped off all the big kids and my older brothers and sister are home now, too. Just then my Dad's car pulls up to the house, and he gets out, carrying John in his arms, with a look on his face that I've not seen before. <br />
<br />
"Francis is in the hospital, and your mom is with him," he announces to all of us. I am feeling very small as I sit there in the kitchen listening to this news; I don't really understand, and there's so much going on that I can't take it all in. Everyone is asking questions, and Dad is answering, and all I know is that Something Very Bad has happened, something is wrong with Francis, and Mom isn't home.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Two doors down the road from our house, our neighbours have a fish pond way at the back of their yard. John and Francis had wandered over there as they were playing, probably following the neighbour's dog "Punkin" - a black and orange dog that always seems so full of woodticks that we don't really want to pat him too much, but friendly enough. They must have been playing too close to the edge of the pond; Francis had slipped right in and disappeared under the mucky water. John had wasted no time at all in running back home, as fast as his little legs could carry him, to tell mom what had happened... mom ran back following John while Dad got the car. Mom didn't even hesitate but jumped right into the freezing cold water and felt for Francis. She had to try more than once because the water was dark and thick, but finally, the second time, she felt him. She pulled him out and jumped into the car, and they sped away to a neighbour's house, Mrs. Penner, a nurse, before continuing on to the hospital. Mrs. Penner gave Francis mouth-to-mouth all the way to Alkay's store before Francis started breathing on his own. Dr. King met them at the hospital.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
That night as we say the rosary after dinner I know that everyone is thinking about Francis. We don't know what will happen next, but we know that there is nothing that any of us can do now. John has done all that could have been done, and Dad says a special prayer of thanks, just for John - "p'tit Jean".<br />
<br />
As far as I am concerned, John is a Hero. At the tender age of 3, he saved his little brother's life. He was so brave; I can imagine him in his bare feet running all that way and being so worried... yes, he is a Hero. I am so proud of him, mon petit frere Jean. <br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M4FAz16x8Us">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M4FAz16x8Us</a></div>
Monique Charltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06100883447520795047noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372124263769758793.post-58831238901943861882013-03-23T16:11:00.000-04:002013-06-11T18:48:07.463-04:00The Easter BunnyIt's getting close to Easter and I have one of my favorite Easter books in my fort, "The Country Bunny and the Little Gold Shoes". I read it slowly, and look at all of the pictures closely, and think about how the little Cottontail bunny did what she did. She was small, like me, and from the country, like me, and had lots of kids - well, I have lots of brothers and sisters - and she did Great Things. Maybe that means one day, I can do Great Things, too? I promise myself that I will help my mom more, and not complain. <br />
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It's a Wednesday night, and that means my Dad is home for supper. I go into the kitchen to ask my mom if I can help with dinner. "You can peel some potatoes," she suggests. So I go to the cupboard under the sink and count out some potatoes. She keeps them there, mom told me, because it's cooler there and they won't grow their eyes so fast. I count 10 big fat ones and dump them into the sink, and look for the peeler that works. There are two, but one doesn't peel as good as the other one and if someone else comes to help, I don't want to get stuck using THAT one!<br />
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Sure enough, just after I get started, Francis comes into the kitchen so I get him to help. He brings in the stool from the bathroom so he can reach up to the sink, and I give him the other peeler. "You won't cut yourself with this one," I say. We peel the potatoes, and I show Francis how I can make one big long peel, but I'm not able to do the whole potato without the peel breaking at least once. (It works better with oranges.) Francis is having a harder time; I tell him it's because his hands are small and we compare our palms. We hang the twisty potato peels on our ears, like earrings, and laugh! He reminds me of a little elf when he laughs. Mom helps us finish the potatoes and puts them on the stove, and then Francis is gone, called back into a game in the living room.<br />
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Paul helps me set the table because I go too slow, he says, and because he is STARVING. Starving to DEATH. Things get really busy in the kitchen - mom is finishing cooking and getting the high chair set up for Scott; Peter is just coming into the house from somewhere; Philip is looking to see if dinner's ready yet; the phone starts ringing for someone. Then Dad comes in and suddenly everything settles down. After a mad dash for a "good spot", everyone moves in around the table and it's time to say Grace. <br />
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We always say Grace together, but we don't hold hands or anything too weird like that. Imagine Paul and I holding hands - ha! That'll be the day. Then everything gets passed around and we all dig in. Well, some of us dig in more than others; Peter and Pat have "hollow legs" my mom says. We all think Peter uses a shovel instead of a fork or spoon; at least his food disappears as though he's using one. <br />
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It's quiet for a bit on the bench where I'm sitting, and I look over at little Scottie on the highchair beside mom. He must have had a busy day, because as I'm watching him his eyes are rolling and his head is nodding and I stop and watch. I give John, beside me, an elbow, "Look!" I whisper.<br />
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"Ouch, what do you want, geez," says John, complaining about my sharp elbows.<br />
<br />
"Look at Scott, he's falling asleep!"<br />
<br />
Francis has been watching John and I, and we all turn at the same time to watch Scott's head slowly nod down into his mashed potatoes. The three of us burst out laughing, and Scott's long eyelashes, now full of potatoes, bat open and he looks at us, surprised. His little lip starts to quiver, but Mom - who really does have eyes in the back of her head! - saves the day and scoops Scott up into her arms and, I guess, into bed.<br />
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The rest of dinner passes uneventfully, and Dad asks us kids to do the dishes... that starts some action. Peter jumps up and says something about "homework" and heads down into the basement. Anne starts gathering the plates, Francis and John disappear into the living room (but I hear them being round up to go into the bath tub), so that leaves Pat and Tom and Phil and Paul and me to help Anne. The clean-up crew.<br />
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In our kitchen there are two sinks side-by-side - one is for washing, the other is for rinsing. I know that Anne will wash - I like to wash and play in the bubbles but it takes me too long. Plus, I like to be the Rinser. I get the clean dishes from Anne, inspect them and if they are clean, give them a rinse and then put them on the dish rack for the dryers. If they are NOT clean, back they go! That's fun when you're the Rinser, but not when you're the Washer. Usually, there are two Driers because Anne is so fast, and not many have to go back in. Then somebody to bring the dishes over TO the Washer, and someone else to put the dishes away. This makes me think again of "The Country Bunny and the Little Gold Shoes". We're just like those good little bunnies in the book, everyone with a job to do.<br />
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That's when Paul decides that HE wants to be the Rinser, and he pushes me off the stool. I push him back, and then we're into it. Anne keeps her head down at the sink (she's probably got better things to do and just wants to get this over with), but Pat gets into the spirit and starts to flick his damp dish-drying cloth at me and Paul. We dance around the kitchen trying to evade the "SNAP!" of the cloth. Philip is cleaning up - his version - he's eating the leftovers so that they don't have to be put away in the fridge. Tom is rolling his eyes at us as he dries the dishes, and then of course, just as it's getting fun, I get snapped really hard.<br />
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"Ouch!" I cry, and, still surprised, just stand there, crying, "That really hurt, you know! It's not funny!"<br />
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They are all laughing at me. Paul laughs too, "Cry-Baby!" he says to me.<br />
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I stomp out of the kitchen, my leg still smarting from the snap, and my feelings hurt by the laughing and name-calling. My tears feel hot on my cheeks.<br />
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"Fine," I say, over my shoulder, "You finish the dishes on your OWN then!" and I march right back to my room and into my fort.<br />
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I lay on my bed and squeeze my eyes closed, wiping them with the sheets. As I calm down, I listen to the house sounds - Pat is still snapping in the kitchen but it sounds like someone else has joined in and is snapping him back; Francis and John are making whale-noises in the tub. I look over at my book and the Country Bunny is looking back at me with her perfect line-up of little bunny children. She makes it look so easy. Why does it always seem so much harder in Real Life? Well, I guess maybe I won't be an Easter Bunny after all... but who knows, maybe I can still do Great Things one day!<br />
<br />
(<u><a href="http://www.chapters.indigo.ca/books/Country-Bunny-Little-Gold-Shoes-Flack-Heyward-Benet/9780395185575-item.html?ikwid=the+country+bunny+and+the+little+gold+shoes&ikwsec=Home" target="_blank">The Country Bunny and the Little Gold Shoes</a></u>, by Du Bose Heyward)Monique Charltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06100883447520795047noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372124263769758793.post-49387164213317966022013-03-10T12:27:00.000-04:002013-06-11T18:47:06.640-04:00Mom & Dad<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">When my parents had me, they already
had lots of kids. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But they like kids and
wanted more. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was born on a beautiful day
in May. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mom sat on the front step in the
sunshine, waiting for my dad to get home from work so he could drive her to the
hospital. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was born at supper time; I wonder
who made supper that night for the rest of my brothers and sisters? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">In my family, first came 2 girls,
then 1boy, then1 girl, then 5 boys, then me, and then four boys after me. I had
mostly my brothers around to play with. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
suppose that's why people call me a "tom-boy". <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It can be hard for me to play with girls because
I don't play the games right, or I hit the ball too hard, or something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked my mom to get a sister for me next
time, and she tried but I only got brothers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That’s okay.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">My dad is the oldest of 7 brothers.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is the handsomest of all of them! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He's a hard worker at the Railway Station and starts
work before I get home from school at 4, until midnight every day - except Wednesday
and Thursday which is like his weekend. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When
he's home, he likes to work in his garden, or read the Sunday papers. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is really good at playing chess.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> In the War he was a sailor; I saw his hat and his nametag in the basement. </span>He smokes, but I wish he didn't. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">His mom, my grandma, lives in the next town from
ours. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She has a huge old house with rooms
in the upstairs! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She calls all of us "my
pet" and gives big hugs, and puts drops of perfume into the ashtrays so that
they aren't stinky. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She doesn't smoke, but
maybe she used to. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My grandpa died a month
before I was born, so I never got a chance to see him. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think I would have liked him, although I think
he was quiet. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He worked on building roads.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My dad’s brothers all live far away, like in
California or Sudbury or Montreal, so we don’t see them or our cousins very
much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">My mom is the oldest of 5 girls
and 2 boys. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She likes to bake and to
read, and to sew.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s always home for
us, and the best is when we come in after school and she has been busy baking
buns or cinnamon rolls and lets us have one when it is still warm!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She used to be a Figure Skater when she was
young, and she would travel around to skate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She met my dad that way – a lady told me that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Her mom and dad, my grandma and grandpa, live
in Fort Frances and have a camp up the lake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I just LOVE going up the lake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You have to take a boat to get there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My mom’s brothers and sisters also live far away so we don’t see them or
our cousins very much, either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of my
mom’s sisters was sick and died before I was born, so I never met her, but she's in heaven now. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">My mom's youngest sister, Louise-Anne, is about
my oldest sisters age. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is so fun; when
she comes for a visit she always has a new joke for me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When she visits, she sleeps on the couch that pulls
out into a bed in the living room. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sneak
in, in the morning, and she tells me stories and more jokes! I always like when she visits.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">It’s nice to have a big family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even if they are mad at you, even if they go
away, they are still your family and they will help you if they can.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Monique Charltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06100883447520795047noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372124263769758793.post-62914703540911219662013-02-23T17:14:00.002-05:002013-06-11T18:45:43.382-04:00The House on Tetro Road<!--StartFragment-->
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">My name is Monik. I have 10 brothers and 3 sisters. I'm the 10th kid, the youngest girl. We live in the second house on Tetro Road. It never used to have a number (that was just for
houses in town), but now it does and it is #4. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">We have 4 bedrooms in our house.
There's my mom and dads room, the boys room,
the girls room, and the baby's room. I used
to be in the baby's room, but since two of my oldest sisters are gone, now I'm in
the girls room with my big sister, Anne. I'm in the bottom bunk because I'm little, but
it's okay because I can hang a blanket down and then it's not just a bed, it's a
fort! My sister is too old to play with me,
so it's just me and sometimes the hamster in my fort. And books! Always lots of books.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The boys room is really cool.
There's a bunkbed and a closet, and another
bunkbed and a closet, and another bunkbed. Along the front is a big, long desk so they can
do their homework... But usually I see it piled up with laundry and books and stuff.
I'm not really allowed in the boys room,
but sometimes I have to go in to bring in their clean laundry for my Mom. Then I take my time to see what I might be missing.
I think they must have lots of fun with pillow
fights and stuff, more fun than just me in my fort. Sometimes my brothers will shout, "Get out
of our room!" and I will race out as fast as I can. It smells funny in there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The little kids room has the baby's
crib in it and since it is across the hall from the laundry, it usually has a lot
of stuff piled in it. There's a spot to change
the baby, and a chair to hold him and rock him to sleep. I like to tiptoe in to see if the baby is sleeping
- sometimes he's not and will give me a big smile! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">My Mom and Dad's room has a nice
big bed that I can snuggle in with them if I have a bad dream. They have a big dresser that has so many neat things
that I'm not allowed to touch, and books that I'm too small to read yet. If I go into the room, my Mom always knows and
calls, "What are you doing in there?" and I answer, "Nothing!",
and scurry out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">We have two bathrooms in our house,
which is good because when you have to go, you don't have to wait for too long.
Except if someone brings a book in there,
or a Readers Digest to read the jokes. The
one by the kitchen is bigger and also has a bathtub.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Our kitchen has a great, big table
with a chair on each end, a bench along one side, and more chairs along the other
side. My usual spot is on the bench with my little brothers. The bench is sort of like a stage; there's enough
room to march back and forth behind whoever is sitting there, and the others can't
help but watch. We always have meals together,
especially dinner. There's a radio in the
kitchen that sometimes plays CBC, or my dad will switch it to play a Canadian Brass
tape. I love the sound of that, and of hearing
my Dad or Mom humming along to the music.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The living room is nice and cosy.
It's got carpet on all the floor so you can
sit anywhere, like if there's not enough room on the couch or the chair. Mom has
lots of plants in the window, and she is good at getting them to have flowers on
them. We're not allowed to rough house in
the living room because we might break a lamp or knock over the plants. My Mom always says, "Go outside if you want
to rough-house!" so we do. Like on a
Saturday morning if we have just finished watching Tarzan and we are pretending
to be Cheeta or Tarzan, it's best to do that outside before we get in trouble. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Our house also has a basement,
but it's kind of scary and dark. I keep my
skiis down there if they are not outside in the snowbank, or if it's summer. My big brothers have a room down there that they
keep locked so the little kids can't get in and wreck their stuff. I have peeked in and they have about a hundred
records down there, and a nice record player, but they mostly use headphones so
no one else can hear. The rest of the basement
has basement stuff like the water pump and chimney, Moms preserves, and other mostly
boring stuff. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">It's a nice house and it has a
nice, big yard. It's my home and there is
always someone there. In the summer or the
winter, I can find lots of stuff to do, and usually someone to play with, too. I like my house; it's my home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />Monique Charltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06100883447520795047noreply@blogger.com4