Red Shoes

It occurred to me, that all my childhood I was striving to be worthy of red, pointy-toed velvet shoes with the sparkling diamond clasp that remained on the top shelf of my mother's linen closet, destined for my sister's four year old feet, feet that refused to wear shoes. When the store master at the Dog Patch corner store determined my feet were squishy when seen in flip-flops one prairie summer, I longed for the power of those alluring shoes, still waiting for my sister's submission. I cradled my dripping orange Crush. It didn't matter that the impossibility of August heat kept those shoes in the dark, cool cupboard . Or that my feet were four years bigger than the shoes. My round toed brown leather Buster Brown's did not defend my honour in September, and the red tempting prize continued to perch where they would live forever. In my memory, I still climb up to touch velvet expectation. And orange Crush still comforts.

Belief in Magic

Frogs dominated a creek near my childhood home. Constantly handling these creatures, I believed the myth that my countless warts resulted from this activity. My grandfather explained that wrapping a hand-spun strand of wool around the warts, and burying the fibre on the south side of the house under my bedroom window would remove the unsightly bumps. I allowed his patient hands to circle each bulge, and caringly plant the contaminated strand in a soft earth mound as I watched. Waking the next morning to wart-free hands, my wonder at the results superseded rational nay saying. My appreciation for the magical power of belief in acts of kindness prevails.

Some things that influence me during my formative years...

Formative Years

Birth – Born 5 August after 6 extra weeks gestation, with umbilical cord wrapped around my neck, by Cesarean section; bottle fed with Carnation evaporated milk.

Age 1– Father, aged 32, decapitated when exiting vehicle in a snowstorm at a railway crossing, when confronted by an oncoming train; played in playpen made from wood planks, large enough for an adult to recline in.

Age 2– Daycare provided by grandparents, Icelandic settlers to the Interlake that did not speak English; became bilingual, learned to write with pen and ink – first letter: T.

Age 3 – Companion to my grandfather while planting the garden with potato pieces, sharpening tools in barn, drinking with buddies – was the camouflage to prevent discourse/reprimand on evils of drink by grandmother, singer of sagas; mother remarried.

Age 4 – Moved to small village of 600 people into a white, rented house; played in coal bin – fuel for house. Sister born prematurely; we started being cared for by a Polish nanny. Went to kindergarten, learnt about and delighted in using hands in flour paste to make art. Friends with first love, Ernie.

Age 5 – Moved to newly built house on river in same village; boated in container for mixing plaster on flooded fields. Saw Rodin at Winnipeg Art Gallery, and escorted from premises when found stroking statue’s penis; started making forts in river willows. Fed my sister black chalk, to see what would happen, and waited.

Age 6 – Witnessed step-father, planner, (vodka) and grandfather, builder, (rum) reciting poetry while playing chess, each intoxicated; observer of project development and completion: landscaping, breezeway, interior waterfall, plant conservatory. Saw first movie – ‘Swiss Family Robinson’, with mother - cost: 25 cents; started piano lessons. Constantly ill with 'childhood diseases - mumps, measles, rubella, whooping cough; read Nancy Drew books and learned to love to colour with Crayola crayons.

Age 7 – Spent school year with teacher that was cruel; spent many hours at principal’s office after being ‘strapped’. Grandparents were care givers during holidays when parents went on exotic holidays; given loose change to placate spirit. Learned to skate, and participated in winter carnivals with hair coiffed with rags into ringlets – got first ‘Barbie’, a clone – Oleg Cassini doll. Witnessed mother’s desolation after after death of 4th child, a brother who died hours after birth – saved from immediate death by breathing device designed and employed by step-father.

Age 8 – Was tortured in school with yardstick smacks, writing ‘lines’ and holding encyclopedias with arms outstretched - always had name in ‘black book’; “Strapping” was abolished; watched grandfather save house during brush fire. Played in mountain of sand dropped on neighbour’s yard. Watched mother ‘Roto-till’ and plant garden, feed it fertilizer; watched kingfishers and sandpipers on the riverbed flats; crossed footbridge over river. Drew murals of the Amazon.

Age 9 – Grandfather died of tetanus after amputating toe in lawnmower (he laughed walking to the hospital across the lawn for treatment) – nurse did not administer tetanus shot; grandmother sold house and moved to apartment above a store; started organ and ballet lessons; saved from step-father’s belt beatings at home by dog, an overweight golden lab named Bunsy; started to be administered Dial soap after swearing at parents.

Aged 10 – Learned to love science. Wanted to be a nuclear physicist; bought taxidermy animals from teacher. Won public speaking prize; won 4-H photography demonstration prize. Learned to volunteer through mother’s activities – Women’s Hospital Auxiliary, School Board trustee. Caught on fire while burning garbage in the incinerator – rolled to stifle fire. Began to cut grass for 3 hours a day every summer on a Toro sit-down mower.

Age 11 – Suffered loss of hearing from multiple ear infections while learning to swim off docks where boats dumped raw sewage. Wrote poems on top of parents’ roof, at the riverside while sitting on concrete slaps that were dumped to prevent flooding of the river – trees along the embankment had been removed to ‘beautify’ the village. Wrote a poem for the teacher at the end of school – he cried.

Icelandic

Once, bilingual, I was the family translator, I am told. Our multi-cultured Canadian family needed me to relate the meanings of the words uttered by Ingebjorg and Thorvalder to those who spoke only English. Apparently, from the time I could talk until the age of 9 I was called upon for this role. As Ingebjorg became more articulate in English, my Icelandic waned. Thorvalder suddenly died, and my Icelandic grew less dominant, and eventually faded by lack of use. I am sorry that I cannot remember much of this beautiful, poetic language. The sagas Ingebjorg sang, the verses a-plenty are now only sounds of comfort. Yet, I did spend a few hours with her about eight years ago, a few years before she died and within those hours, I was nearly able to comprehend her scolding!!

However distant that usage is, the power of Icelandic still dominates my soul. I speak with a slight accent, I am told. The poetic sensibility of the language has never left me, and the harsh guttural contrasted with smooth, silky vowels twistable with the tongue drives my English pronunciation into foreign realms unknown to native speakers. I wish I could deliver more vocabulary without having to think. I need to visit Iceland, my heritage to revive this gift of my youth.

Early Memories

I cannot remember the beginning of my life. I do not remember birth.

I remember a blue greyed fence placed in our living room, although at the time I could not differentiate the name of any rooms. It was the faded wood that surrounded my square playpen, apparently built by Avi, my grandfather, for my protection and freedom. All wood used was recycled from a farm house that used to stand where my parents' house now occupied. The house was built from this wood too. The boarder occupied enough space to allow an adult sized lounge position in the confines of this restrictive area. I remember my Avi, Thorvalder, leaning against the wooden wall beside me, his bristling, tobacco stained moustache forming a smile. I assume this memory was lodged in my brain before I could steadily walk.

Another of my early memories was in an October morning, hoisted skyward by my mother. She allowed me to view the golden and crispy leaves she was raking from the fork of a dark, damp oak. I felt the smack of autumn's brilliance enveloping me, the scent of yearning upon me that still wafts in my soul to this day. I can't have been more than 3, as we were still residing at my first residence.

I have held this image as being my earliest memory for some time, until I remembered the coarse boards of my playpen. Memory can be odd. It can dodge, avoiding placement, until suddenly images place themselves conspicuously in the mind of the rememberer. A memory game.

Some flower memories

Hollyhocks in my grandmother's garden wave in silence as their long stamens bob in the quiet afternoon oblivious to noisy bees darting, foraging in yellow stamens weighted for their benefit - my namesakes.

I remember the stupefying scent of lilacs in mid July, shrouding my mother's tears, as incense will penetrate, preserve thoughts in a church during a mass.

Nighttime nicotine, white star shapes, scenting the heavens, heralding the nightlights above.

Spring plenty, daffodils bursting through March grasses; park of child-pickers, armloads of pale yellow heads bobbing as they stooped for more, gleeful.

Yellow lilies, mournful blooms marking my inability to continue to conceive.

Red, the loving rose - a full dozen, baby's breath contrasting the abundance, and a smile of happiness for the unexpected thoughtfulness.

Play

Play was serious. "Let's play," was necessary to survival.

Jump. Hop. Skip. I was never very limber. Do the airplane. No.


Colour. Yes, Crayolas. The pack of 64 were the best. It had gold and silver. Bronze. Magenta. Crimson. So many greens. Hours and days and crayons. Sometimes when I was sick, my mother would buy a set of Paint by Numbers. I met those lines with trepidation. I could not easily follow the recommended colours. I tried. Jon Nagy showed my how to draw. His TV show was my favourite program. I ordered his drawing package, and it arrived, not like the free treasure chest I ordered with coupons from the Captain Crunch cereal boxtops. It arrived without disappointment at its contents.

Then there's blocks. Sometimes just tongue and groove wood scraps are a world of possibilities. Fitting, piling, criss-crossing; right angles rising to towers. I built cities and a giant fort to house my little sister. But she moved and the fort tumbled. She cried because the edges of wood scratched her as she climbed out of the wreck. I was angry because she ruined my efforts. I should have nailed her in.

And sand. A pile dumped from a half-ton, centered in a grove of venerable oak. From sand there's roads, and architecture. Winding treads where 'Dinky Toys' plough through to newly furrowed, honed to perfect depths and widths, made smooth with puddle water, creasing the sand with wheel turns, curving to the monoliths, stones piled to mark a destination between the lengths of road. Sticks stuck upright, devoid of leaves, and some with hunks of foliage for trees to shade the highways. As summers passed, the sand pile flattened. The country of origin simply changed.

Indoors, there was 'Post Office'. Deliberating over the plethora of junk mail my father received was a great incentive to engage in this occupation. The game was one of several played in sequence in our playroom, the kid's side of the basement. Dolls, School, complete with a real green chalk board and rows of desks purchased from a catholic school that transformed into a seniors' home allowed a surreal world to be investigated with abandon, spontaneously.

The play room was large, for a child. Approximately 10' by 20', we could enter from the left of the wrought iron stairwell, and enclose ourselves by the sliding mahogany doors. A double bed, and various doll beds were the features of the entrance; wooden table, chairs and dishes for dolls' entertainment completed the first play area. Next was the school area, where Post Office often took place in the north west corner atop a large square storage box covered in black and white plaid vinyl. Somehow, the opening lid for 'posting' made this furniture especially attractive.

We did not play 'House' in the basement. This activity was saved for summer, when we could use the playhouse our grandfather built, first for me, and eventually for my sister. It was a real house, complete with glass panes and a window box, a door that latched, and wooden furniture he had constructed that a 3-8 year old could utilize. The roof was peaked; my grandfather's bald head just fit inside. Every spring the entire house was given a coat of white paint with chocolate trim. Pink honeysuckles graced the doorway, sweeter than honey begun from this bush.

At one point, a swing was installed in the rafters, rope separated by a solid board strung through each side. This was a remarkable swing. Such boundaries were broken. Swinging INSIDE!!! I remember swinging high. How small was I?! Thin hemp ropes, pink dress, my grandfathers hands around my waist. Months, years, passed. Eventually, swinging would encourage kicking of the door, and the swing disappeared; furniture miraculously appeared. Everything was exactly my size.

Different swings. Swinging beside the sand pile in the neighbours yard, swings held by planks supported between the giant oaks made swinging a joy. I was old enough to hold on by myself. I loved smell and prickly stoutness of the rope, the speed and flaying sky as the wind pressed on my cheeks, my flapping skirt, free. Wheee.


Later, when neighbours - kids, congregated, we played more complex games. The Beatles, Ponderosa. I was either George or Hoss. I never liked these characters, but I was not assertive enough to be anyone else. But I got to play guitar and ride a horse. We flew all around the world as rock stars, and stabled our horses between the poplar rows. The neighbour kids got to camp out at night in the poplar wood. The imagination of childeren become especially involved when there is only imagination to play with. I was never allowed to stay out past 10. Who knew what may happen? Especially because there were no guitars or horses. Play may become reality. Innocence would be lost. 'They' were right.