ever. On top of that, she could fix a screen door, build a shed, keep a wood stove burning, and roll a perfectly shaped unfiltered cigarette.
She also knew how to keep an eight-year-old kid happily occupied. I never got bored at Aunt Violet’s. Hours would go by, and she always found a way to keep me busy.
One of my jobs was to play school with my cousin, Barney, her forty-two-year-old son. You see, Barney had the mind of an eight-year-old. One eventful day, many years before, he had made the mistake of walking behind a horse. A big horse that easily startled.
One kick resulted in permanent brain damage and a steel plate for a forehead. Barney’s brain never developed past the age of eight. I felt so grown-up when I hung out with him. My job was to make sure he did not wander off the property.
I also felt really grown up when I joined Aunt Violet and Barney for morning coffee. At the age of eight, I was chugging back cups of the hot brew like nobody’s business.
Years later, I figured out that Aunt Violet had added lots of hot milk to my coffee cup. No matter! I was hooked forever. To this day, I think fondly of my Aunt Violet when I sip my morning coffee with hot foamed milk.
Was Aunt Violet highly educated? No.
Did she have degrees behind her name? Again, no.
And yet, to me, she was one of the most creative, resourceful, and responsible people I have ever met.
You’ll never find a rainbow if you’re looking down.
~ Charlie Chaplin
Story #4: A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Words
If the kid version of me saw the adult version of me now, I would not say a word! Nope. Nada. I would have lots to say in my head, though. And what would I be thinking?
She’s nice. I can tell.
I like her laugh. It makes me laugh too.
I like her clothes. She looks comfortable in them.
I love her pretty rugs. They are so warm on a chilly morning.
She’s got lots of books. That must be great.
Her drawings are fun. They make me smile.
Her glasses sure are thick! That must be uncomfortable.
She must be smart! She finished high school and even college.
Her teddy bears are cute. They’re so cuddly too.
I feel sorry for her. She can’t climb trees anymore.
When I grow up, I want to be just like her.
I wonder, would she read me a bedtime story?
Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes.
~ Carl Jung
Story #5: I’m in a Pickle
My early years were lived in the tiny village of Cascades, close to the town of Wakefield where I was born in rural Québec. Our family knew everyone. And everyone knew us.
God forbid, if you dared do anything naughty while away from home. Because in those days, you were sure to get ratted on.
But then again, there wasn’t much I could do that was wicked. Except when I decided to run away from home with my big sister. I must have been three years old and Big Sis was maybe five. My travel companion adorned herself with Mommy’s baubles while I stuffed cookies into a small paper bag.
How did we escape?
We waited for Mom to nap with our baby brother. And when the coast was clear, we slipped out the side door of the house. There we were, partners in crime. Sis glittered in jewels while I licked crumbs off my lips.
Life was good. And we were off on an adventure.
We lived right beside the train tracks in those days. And that’s exactly what we were walking on. The train tracks. An active train track, I might add.
Sadly, our reverie was short-lived. Suddenly, we heard our Mother screaming at the top of her lungs. “Get back here!”
Oops!
I don’t remember what happened next. Likely, we got a good lickin’. So much for our travel plans.
Poor Mom. By that time, she had five children all under ten. She was one very busy lady. Oh, and about my small town? It was more like a village. A village that is now famous. If you have ever seen the movie Grey Owl, starring Pierce Brosnan, you will see where I grew up. The movie was shot approximately six hundred feet away from my childhood home, in what used to be a train station.
So what’s the big deal about the movie Grey Owl? It is based on the true story of Archibald Belaney, an Englishman who, as a young boy, dreamed of living as a North American Indian. And he did just that.
A story, by the way, that I devoured as a teenager.
So there you go. My story of what it was like living in a small village.
When my kids become wild and unruly, I use a nice, safe playpen. When they’re finished, I climb out.
~ Erma Bombeck
Story #6: Don’t Spill the Beans
One hot summer day, I spotted a black phone receiver on the side of the train tracks behind our house. I picked it up and listened with rapt attention.
And there I sat, the gravel burning beneath my bottom, my eyes squinting under a blinding sun. I strained to hear what the lady was saying.
We didn’t have a phone in my first childhood home. And this was the first time I had ever held a receiver in my hand. Don’t ask me what the lady talked about. I do remember feeling as if I was connecting with a land far away. What was I doing sitting on the side of an active train track as a three-or four-year-old?
I was keeping myself company while Mom cared for a deathly ill newborn. My three older siblings were away at school. And as there was no one to play with, I created my own world, a private world only for me.
I
