Thursday 4 October 2012

memoir writers homework-hand me downs.

I've heard it said that the position of birth within your family has an effect on how your life turns out to be.It was quite an elaborate theory,and,for the most part I don't know if I ever believed in it.Well,I believed in it enough,and for long enough to provide an explanation of it that gained me nearly perfect marks in whatever college class that was teaching such poppycock at the time.

One of the realities of my birth order was that I was more or less at the top of the food chain,being the oldest,and the only male in a family that otherwise had only girls.That meant that hand me downs did not really figure prominently in my life.Most of my clothing was new,so far as I could tell.Moreover,being a boy,I could be rather rough on clothing,so usually my old things didn't get passed down to my younger siblings either.My pants usually ended up kneeless from hours of sliding across the sidewalk,pushing a toy dump truck,or cement mixer.My mother would never really have considered dressing my sister in boys clothing anyway.And by the time my youngest sister would have been able to make use of them,they would have been nothing more than a pile of moth dung anyway,since we were nearly ten years apart in age.

My first bicycle was handed down from someone.I'm just not sure who,so that makes it more of a used bike than a hand me down.When I was too big for it,it was passed down to my sister,who may or may not have felt the same way about such things as I did.There was no stigma in my mind attached to using something that had once belonged to some unknown person.But I'm not sure I would have felt the same way if I'd been at the bottom of the family food chain and had to watch a lot of siblings use something before I did.Maybe I would have had a sense of nothing really being mine.

Down the road,not far away was a family that was very poor.They lived in an old,falling down house surrounded by a mixture of mud and hay,but no real grass.Some of the windows in their house were not glass,but clear,thick plastic.And,there were a lot of children,and seemingly not so many clothes to go around.If you were to see one of the older boys  in a red t-shirt one summer,you were likely to see that same shirt on a younger sibling the next summer.It would be a bit more worn and not quite as clean.The younger children often appeared to be very dirty as old clothing made it's way down through their family.

Some people don't like to buy clothing at places like Value Village.It's likely baggage that they have been carrying around for a lifetime,or,at least that's what most of those people I know tell me.I don't mind,because  that baggage was never an issue with me.That turns out to be a good thing since I've worked in a lot of places where you could easily ruin a shirt in a single shift.So much better to buy a shirt for a couple of dollars when that is part of your daily reality.There are some things in my childhood that have ended up serving me very well later in life.

Wednesday 3 October 2012

memoir chapter II-continued.

Our new house was very different from our old house, aside from the setting of course.By comparison,it was squat and low to the ground,more rectangular than square.It had only one floor,not counting the cellar and the attic.Because it's ceiling was low it did not have an open,windy feeling like the house in Redmondville.Being new it was likely better insulated as well,so it seemed warmer.It's windows were higher from the floor than our old house,where I could look out easily.In the living room,just to the right of the front entrance,there was a large picture window of double paned glass that I could peer out by climbing up onto the back of the couch.But the kitchen windows,and the ones in the bedrooms were far to high for me to reach.The view out that window was very different from the view from our old house.Here,the street-not a road,but a street-was much closer to the house.There were no trees on the other side,and,because our street was paved and finished,there were no ditches.The other side of the street had houses,just like our side,and I could watch the people come and go from those houses.The cars out front seemed to move so much slower than the ones on the road in front of our house in Redmondville.

Dogs often ran about in the neighborhood and once or twice I saw one overturn our trash can at the end of the driveway.That happened quite frequently when we first moved to Moncton.I would watch the dogs come and go,but I wasn't certain I liked dogs,or if they were things I should be afraid of.Mostly they were so much bigger than me,and they could be noisy too.They were not anything like that docile cow that we used to have.Yet they were not quite like the pigs that used to root in our garden either.Mostly,at that time,I just didn't know how to take dogs,since we didn't have one,and neither did any of our nearby neighbors.But I never tired of watching them.

I recall our new kitchen really clearly.It had white walls above the table where we ate.The cabinets were of wood and highly varnished.The floor was of brown and white tiles,in a regularly alternating pattern.One of those tiles was discolored and loose.It was right in front of the refrigerator,four tiles up from the refrigerator door and in the third row of tiles as you entered the kitchen from the hallway.Eventually a man came to fix that tile,but that seemed a long time after we arrived and my parents wondered if he would ever come.When he did,he had a hand held torch,which I was afraid of because it made both noise and fire.The man touched the torch to the floor and I feared he would burn our house down.It also made a bad smell.But in a short time he had pulled up the discolored tile and replaced it with a new one.

Once my mother had arranged her things in the cupboard,the arrangement never changed.Under the sink she kept things like dish soap and ajax and a bunch of other cleaning products.I don't remember ever seeing a lock on those cabinet doors.Beside those doors,to the right,she kept boxes of breakfast cereal and bags of sugar and flour.The two staples inside that cupboard were cornflakes,with a big rooster on the box,and some type of puffed wheat or rice in a bag.Usually there were several other boxes of cereal inside there as well and both shelves were quite full.There was always at least one bag of Robin Hood Flour in a colorful yellow bag,and a device into which my mother would put flour before turning a handle and sifting it into a bowl.In the cabinet above the counter,on that side,she kept cups and glasses,plates and saucers.Forks,spoons,knives and other utensils were kept in a drawer just to the left of the sink.The pots and pans,so many of them,were kept in a cupboard to the left of the sink and near the floor.I discovered that I could crawl in that cupboard and hide,though in doing so I made so much noise that everyone must have known where I was.Above that cupboard,above the counter,my mother kept baking supplies:butter,vanilla,a small bowl of sugar,instant coffee,tea bags,peanut butter,boxes of cake mix,a can of pepper and a box of salt,dried mustard,as well as mustard in a bottle,ans a hundred other things.There were cabinets above the stove and refrigerator as well,and up there they kept boxes of family photos on slides,along with many other things.My parents would bring the photos down from time to time and with a projector,show them on a white sheet that they pinned up to the wall.There were other things on those high shelves as well,but for the most part they remained a mystery.

Down the hallway,to the right as you left the kitchen,were the remaining rooms of the house.Three bedrooms and a bathroom.The bathroom was clean and very ordinary,with white walls,a toilet,sink and a tub.In my mind,the bedrooms were blue,pink and green,but that may have been later,after we had been there for several years.Each room was a different size.Two bedrooms faced the front of the house,while the other,and the bathroom faced the back yard.

There was a set of stairs just beside the back door that led to the basement.The basement was very plain and empty at first,until our living there for a while filled it up with various things.The floors were unpainted concrete and,for as far back as I can remember,water would accumulate on the basement floor.There was another thing in the basement which I did not like too.It was round and green and almost the size of my father.It made strange sounds,and,if you opened a little door in the front of it,you could see fire inside of it.I never wanted to go near it.The furnace.

My mother and father kept things under the basement stairs.As time went on,the basement became more and more cluttered.From my very earliest memory of that house,there was always a tire or too under the stairs.Tires were heavy and had an odor I was not sure I liked,but ,with some difficulty,I could drag one out and roll it from one end of the basement to the other,though it was nearly as large as I was.

We had a cat too,and she liked to stay under the basement steps.She was white and had a blue and a green eye.She slept in a box under the steps,where we would not chase her.

Above the main hallway,just outside the bedrooms,there was a hatch leading up to the attic.The attic was mysterious.Not only could I not reach the hatch,but I had never been in the attic.Every so often,one of my parents would get a ladder and go up there looking for something,but I was never allowed to go up with them.For many years,it remained the one room in the house in which I'd never been.



op/ed-the strange silence of charlene eve davis.

Perhaps you think of this blog as a place to come and read a personal memoir.That is fine-thanks for your interest.Maybe you enjoy a virtual look at a place you may never have been,that being Calgary,Alberta,Canada.Or perhaps you enjoy the odd op/ed piece.Again.I'm flattered that you would take the time to read what I've written.But,if you think for one moment that this blog is only some airy fairy journey down memory lane,or some online walking tour,and that it has no poison pen function,then let me caution you,this entry is not for the faint of heart.In truth,the kananaskistraveler has always been a blog for the asking of difficult questions,when the need arises.And,while I would prefer to deal with more pleasant subject matter,I will not shrink away doing the dirty work that op/ed often demands.

Let me lay down some groundwork here.I'll be as brief as possible.Both me,and my two sisters have training in working with disabled persons,though only my youngest sister is still employed in that capacity.You see,she has superior training to myself,having obtained a university degree.That is to say,she has a full two years more education than my training at community college.I make this point simply to suggest to you that I may well be lacking in comparison to such loft educational accomplishments.Perhaps I should humble myself at her feet.But such concerns have never stopped me before,so I think I'll just stumble ahead instead. 





In 2006,our mother was killed in a tragic car accident.My father was seriously injured in that same accident.At that point in his life,he was dependent on my mother for his care,having suffered a series of strokes over the preceding years.In just a few short moments he lost his primary caregiver and his life's companion,not to mention the various injuries he sustained.

Fortunately,or so it seemed to me at the time,my youngest sister stepped up and said that she would provide for his ongoing care.She packed up her life in a city a few hours away and moved back to our hometown to do just that.In those few months,we talked frequently and I thought we shared the same concerns for my father's well being.We found a decent,competent caregiver to fill in the hours when my sister had to work.This person also happened to be a loyal and longtime friend of the family and was willing to step in and see to my fathers care.I was told that this person was also my fathers choice for his caregiver.It seemed that we were making the best of a tragic situation.During one phone call to my youngest sister,I mentioned the need,in fact,my absolute expectation for complete transparency on her part.She seemingly agreed in principle to this idea.After all,she is a reputable member of the care giving  community in her small city.Would it not be completely to her advantage to be as transparent as possible?

Fast forward three years to February of 2009.Just two days short of three years from the date of my mother's untimely death,our father also passed away.I assume his body simply gave up, and he went on to find in death the peace he always wanted but never found in his life.

Naturally,I had questions as to exactly what happened.The whole problem is,though,that I still have those very same question.Over six years later!You see,my youngest sister,the reputable,responsible,above reproach caregiver,who agreed to be totally transparent when taking on the job of my father's care,has grown strangely silent.Now she certainly has the right to remain that way,if she so chooses,or is so advised.But I must say,if that's her choice,inquiring minds tend to wonder why.

Now to be perfectly clear here,I am not accusing my sister of any abuse,neglect or misuse of power.It is my understanding,however that caregivers are accountable for the care they say they provide.When I worked in that field,we had to maintain records of client contacts,incident reports and comprehensive daily logs,among other things.Now,in my admitted ignorance,as compared to that of my more highly educated sister,I never resented having had to provide that information,either to government,where appropriate,to my employer(obviously),or to the concerned parents,siblings or other family members of my clients.It only seemed natural and appropriate that family members would be concerned about the well being of their loved ones and the quality of care being delivered.I regarded transparency to be in my own best interests,as far as maintaining a good reputation.

But obviously there seems to be a huge difference in point of view in such matters between my sister and myself.After all,she has two more years of education than I,and,naturally,she must be aware of some deeper reality that I have not encountered.

So let me tell you what I do know,just as an aside.It likely has very little to do with matters at hand,but at least it represents facts as I know them to be.One of the very first acts that I saw my youngest sister perform on my father's behalf was that of,to be plain honest about it,kicking both of her siblings to the curb when it came to being able to address their concerns.As soon as my mother was buried,as soon as I went back to my home,the full width of North America away,all the doors and windows of my fathers home were slammed shut and I could not obtain any information as to his well being.Furthermore,I found that his caregiver was making accusations-wholly unfounded ones-against my character.Now this really makes me wonder what was going on here.Would I be presumptuous in suspecting that perhaps there was a move afoot to short circuit the normal channels through which transparency is expressed?I simply ask,because,as ignorant as I am,when my nose smells smoke,I start to look for the fire.I would do what seems natural and simply ask my sister about this,but the problem is,she isn't talking to other family members.You see,she has grown strangely silent.Oh,certain of her friends and allies have been more than willing to speak for her,most notably her children.They always seem to pop up online and make an effort to besmirch my character,just to preserve the idea that their mother is the virtuous one.Most recently,they have indicated that my sister"doesn't want to be involved in a pissing match."Well,fair enough.I wouldn't want to engage either knowing the kinds of questions that are in the field of play,and that they are perfectly reasonable questions.No point to a pissing match if the likely outcome is that you will end up embarrassed and sodden with yellow water.

But silence has it's pitfalls.It's presence begs a lot of questions,and indeed I still have many questions of my father's primary caregiver.Some of them are very pointed,hard questions,but that's part of the burden of being in a position of power.I only wish that these questions could be asked in the context of family concern,but,you see,after over six years,that has come to nothing.Which serves to point out one of the biggest disadvantages of silence.It invites questions that might normally be asked in private to be forced into more public venues.Now I'm sure this does not concern my youngest sister,being,as she is, above reproach and so much more knowledgeable than anyone who might dare to wonder about her integrity.Moreover,I'm certain that all the normal paperwork is,unquestionably in order.Still,questions asked in public can take on an embarrassing tone-just ask any politician.So,Charlene Eve Davis,are you willing to step up and tell us,so to speak,how you didn't inhale?

Not all questions are created equally.Let me explain.There are those questions that can be easily answered,even if the person being asked does not want to answer them.Such questions might take a form similar to this":how many children do you have,and how many have the same father?"It's a simple matter of checking relevant public records.A little homework can often be quite revealing.

Then there are questions to which you already have partial answers.Such as:"How many times and on what occasions did you leave your father in the care of your teen-aged daughter?"The partial answer is based on observations made personally,and those observations bring a myriad of other questions to mind.

Finally,there are the questions that,to date simply do not have an answer,except of course to that above reproach caregiver who has agreed to be wholly transparent,but hasn't said when.I won't provide an example of what those questions might look like,because surely by now you've managed to catch my drift.My point was,that,truthful,candid answers aside,the mere fact that questions are being asked publicly,more or less,can be slightly less than advantageous to someone who is otherwise above reproach and is presumably trying to maintain and advance a career.

There is a saying that says something to the effect that"not only must justice be done,but it must also appear to have been done"(paraphrased).So,Ms.Davis,let me invite you to end your strange silence and provide the appearance of justice.The alternative is that I can draw conclusions based solely on what I see,even though there may be much more to the truth than meets the eye.The problem with that is,of course  that it leaves you with no voice,and me with possibly ill informed or simply wrong opinions,and dozens,if not hundreds of unanswered questions.Questions that I'm growing weary of asking. Surely you could clear up many of these misconceptions by ending your strange silence.

Tuesday 2 October 2012

memoir chapter II-continued.

There is only one thing that I recall seeing in both our old house in Redmondville and our new house in Moncton.In those days my mother used to make,rather than buy butter.Now I don't ever recall her actually making the butter,so I can't say for certain how that was done.As far as I know she never had one of those old fashioned butter churns.I've seen them,I know what they look like,but I can't remember anyone in our house actually using one.So I think she must have somehow made butter in a big bowl,using cream and some salt.But in the refrigerator,there were these small packets of yellow,a sort of amber color,actually,coloring for butter.They came in a sort of a bubble pack with perhaps four to a pack.Butter,you see,in it's natural state is white.But those little packs of coloring I recall from both our refrigerator in the old house,and in our new place.My mother kept them in the place where you normally keep cheese,and I was small enough that I had to stretch to look up to see where it was.Shortly after we moved,my mother must have stopped making butter as I can only recall her having those little yellow packets for a very short time.I suppose it was simpler to go down the street to the store,given that butter could be bought cheaply,and that we no longer had a cow.We were a small enough family that there would likely been a surplus of cow's milk and my mother would likely have needed to find a way to use that surplus.

All that changed when we moved to the city.There you bought milk from a milkman, and you only bought what you needed for the day,because the milkman came everyday.Our milkman worked for a company called Sunrise Dairy and he delivered milk in an old green truck.He was a grumpy looking old man who never said much and looked more like a mechanic dressed in pinstriped grey overalls and a grey pork pie hat.His truck looked old and someone once told me that he had once delivered in our area with a horse and wagon.

Milk was brought to our house in glass bottles in those days.How it worked was that you bought metal tokens in advance for the milk.You then placed the tokens into the tops of the empty bottles and placed the bottles between the screen door and the big wooden door.Sometime in the very early morning, the milkman would arrive and take the tokens and the empty bottles,leaving full bottles behind in their place. Usually we were not up by that time,but the milkman would come back in the day sometimes to leave more milk tokens.When he did that,my mother would usually buy a bottle of chocolate milk.In the winter time,on the coldest of days,my mother would get up very early to retrieve the milk,as it would freeze and could break the glass bottles if you left them out too long.

It amazes me when I think back,but the way we bought milk changed several times over the course of my life,and each change seemed to mark a change in eras in my life.More about that later.But the coming of milk from the milkman,rather than from a cow marked the end of our rural lifestyle.When I was young,if you asked many of the kids in the city where milk came from,they would have told you"the milkman"or maybe"the milk truck." But I knew differently.

Op/Ed-fair is fair



First,let me apologize for the fact that this picture,purloined from Facebook is cut off on the sides.If you want to see the whole thing,try to look it up on Facebook.I'm just going to work around it because I feel that cries out for comment.It is ignorant in it's misconceptions and morally misleading.

Having identified myself as a Christian Liberal I simply must say,fair is fair.I cannot take issue with the likes of the "Reverend"Fred Phelps,who calls himself "Christian"and then remain silent when it comes to this kind of dogma,by someone who calls them self a liberal.They may well be a liberal,but in my humble opinion,they are a damn poor one for posting stuff like this.But first,let me be clear.These people post on Facebook more or less prolifically and I do agree with much of what they post,and I have been known to post their material on my own wall.So long as it is in keeping with the core liberal value of being guided by reason and is not blatantly anti scriptural.

From a Christian perspective my belief is this:God has,is and will continue to judge sin.Sin is defined as defiance of God's law.Not simply abortion,gay marriage,but all of God's law.Have you ever turned your head the other way when you knew a wrong was taking place?You stand judged.Have you ever had an angry thought against your neighbor?You stand judged.Ever cheat on your taxes,mistreat an animal,gossip or had an extra marital affair?You get the picture.

The problem with this particular post is that it seems to hold the view that there is no such thing as judgement.So tell me,why does anyone think the god has never judged America?We tend to look at historical events and not recognize them as judgments against the wrong committed in America,or elsewhere ,for that matter.We may not be able to connect particular events to particular sins in a strictly logical fashion,but did anyone have their eyes open on 9/11.For as many centuries as there has been an America,Americans have,for the most part  been free of foreign attacks on their own soil.That corresponded roughly to an era in which America was pursuing freedom,enlightenment,democracy and respect for the rights of all people.Whenever America took up a cause,it was the right cause,or as right as it could be given that they are governed by fallible humans.That all ended on 9/11.So did it occur to anyone else when they were watching those planes fly into The World Trade Center,that perhaps America was being judged for some past sin?Like,perhaps slavery,or the Jim Crow era?Well,it certainly did to me.That is not to say I condone what happened on 9/11,and I certainly don't suggest that this,or any other evil that befalls America relates to a given event or policy in a one to one fashion.But God allows evil to be judged.One of the ways He does this is by removing His protection from us when our enemies take violent issue with what they see as unfair treatment.In short,he simply allows(human)nature to take it's course.The above post makes reference to a number of issues for which America deserves,and may have already received judgement.But it concludes that God has not judged America,and follows with the supposition that God will not judge America over abortion or gay marriage.What is clear to me,then,is that this particular liberal writer does not believe in God.Enough said.

Rather than focusing on the sins of others,Americans need to be reflective of their own sins,both small and great and then get on their knees before The Lord about those sins.We all need to recognize sin in our own lives,rather than pointing out the sins of others.You see,we are all sinners.We need to constantly pray for one another,rather than condemn our brothers.We each need to pray for our leaders,not that they be judged,but that they,as individuals and as leaders would seek the path to avoiding God's judgement.And while I'm on the subject of prayer,do you really suppose that things are so much better now that America has become less inclined to prayer than it was in it's past?Again,I can't relate this to judgement in a strictly one to one fashion,but are we any safer,more prosperous or more peaceful than we were in the recent past?You know,back when we still prayed in school?

Despite the suppositions put forward by this liberal writer,I believe America has been judged for past wrongs,and will continue to be so judged until they get right with God.That puts us in the same boat with every other person who has ever lived,and every other nation that has ever,or will ever exist.Moreover,the remedy for God's judgement is the same now as it's always been.All we have to do is choose to live under His grace and accept nothing less than leaders who make the same choice.

Monday 1 October 2012

memoir chapter II-continued.

I wish I could remember the whole day that we came to Moncton.But in my mind,it's all in bits and pieces.I don't recall the trip down the coast at all,though I must have awakened in Redmondville,and we must have come down the coast in the family car.There must have been a moving van,but I don't recall seeing it,or any of the men moving our furniture.

We went to a supermarket at some time during the day.Of that I'm sure,because I can recall the huge sign above the plate glass windows.The letters were in red,the kind that light up at night.To me it was an amazing sight.I had never seen such a huge sign,or such large windows before.I could see everything and everyone inside the store as I waited in the car.People were coming and going and it was a bustling place with a lot of cars in the parking lot and carts full of groceries in brown paper bags.All the streets around were busy too.Having only lived in the country,I'd never seen so many buildings and cars and even busses in one place before.all the houses seemed very close together,and there were no barns.I recall wondering where we were going to put the chickens.

In my mind,our house,on the day we moved there looked very much as it does today.Red and white.It had wooden steps leading up to the door then,and a gravel driveway,but otherwise it was pretty much the same as it is now.there were two windows on one side of the steps,and one very large window on the other side.there was a screen door and a heavy wooden door inside of the screen one.The street in front was paved and the lawn was fully grown in with grass,but ours was the only street anywhere about that was paved.There were no willow hedges around the yard then either,nor do I recall a garden.The driveway went clear to the back yard and there was no garage or barns.In the back were three trees that seemed very large to me.Maples,though in reality they were not so large,even years later when they were cut down to make way for a garage.And we were surrounded by houses that looked just like our own,though there were some older houses around too.In those days,I guess,subdivisions were just built around existing houses,so,even though our neighborhood was new,there were some old houses around too.But the only differences between the new houses was the way in which they were placed on the lots.Some had the two bedroom windows on one side of the front entrance,while some had them on the other side.One or two of the houses were even turned end wise on the lot,but essentially,they were all the same.Well,they were different colors of course.There were no uniform builders colors back then.So the house across from us was pea green,and one just up the street was a bright yellow,like a lemon.

The mover must have been busy at our house when we first arrived in town.We were out for most of the day and it must have been to allow them to do their job.I don't recall how much furniture came with us from our old house and how much came from the furniture store,but there was furniture I'd never seen before when we came home that night.

One of the things our new hometown had was a park.A huge park,with swings and see saws and monkey bars and a wading pool.I'd never been to a park before,at least that I remember. Centennial Park(it wasn't called that then) was located in Moncton's west end,across a busy road from a place that sold Volkswagens.

All of that first day we spent in the park,swinging and riding the see saw and just running about.We brought food to eat at the picnic tables,but the pool was not opened that day.The park seemed such a fun place,and I really liked the hundreds of trees.My father would get on the big swing set,under some maples and swing up as high as he could and grab a leaf from the trees between his two feet.I tried to do that too,but it took me a few years before I was able to swing that high.

In one corner of the park there was a ride which everyone called the witches hat.It was called that because that is what it looked like.It was a sort of a carousel that you pushed with your feet while you sat on it's wooden bench.As well as going around it would also move in and out from it's center,so that it was higher on one side as it went around.It was,to a three year old,an exciting ride and perhaps just a bit scary as well.I rode it for what seemed like hours,but,as much fun as it was things  did not end well.Around the post holding it in place was a concrete pad,a few inches high.As I was riding around,my foot slipped into the middle of the witches hat and I scraped my ankle on the cement.There was a lot of blood,or so it seemed to me.The strange thing about the whole incident is the way I remember it.We were going around from left to right.Left to right?That would mean that the inside of my ankle was traveling away from the cement pad.But still I managed to hit it.Well,that's the way I remember it.It was the inside of my left ankle.But that seems to be improbable given the direction the thing was going at the time.In any event,it hurt and I was bleeding all over the place,though the cut could not have been bad.I'm certain it's not the first time I'd hurt myself,but its the first injury I can remember getting.I never forgot that witches hat,and was afraid to go on it for a few years.It was still there a couple of years ago,in pretty much the same place as it was then.That memory always comes back to me,vividly,as skewed as it seems,every time I go to that corner of the park.

Moncton also had another thing I'd never seen before.An ice cream parlor,located,it seemed,not far from the park,among some very large,very old looking buildings.It was in a little shack of a building.There were people lined up at it's windows waiting for the person inside to bring them their ice cream cones.Before we went home to our new house,we all had an ice cream cone.I don't recall what flavor I had,but my father got an orange one.Orange Pineapple,as it turned out.I've never known him to eat any other kind of ice cream.as a very small child,ice cream was more a matter of color than it was flavor.

We must have all been very tired when we got home that night.The day would have began with the eighty mile drive down the coast,then a visit to our new house and a trip to the supermarket,and likely some other errands as well.Then there was the afternoon in the park,which ended with a bloody foot,and the trip to the ice cream shop.It was still light when we came back to the house and I played for a while in the back yard,which was so very different from the driveway I used to play in before.There was a lot of grass,and trees all about.At the back corner of the yard there was a large pole with a clothesline attached.I tried to reach up to the clothesline,but I was too small.Just before we all went inside,I met the neighbors boy.He was much older than me,and I recall being told that his name was Danny.They lived in a green house.He had two older sisters too.

That night I don't recall going to sleep at all.Sleep must have come very suddenly.I don't recall which of the rooms I slept in.For my parents I'm certain it was a monumental day.they were young,with two small children,and about to spend their first night,with their family in their new home.I'm certain they were both proud of their accomplishments and looked forward to their coming life in this new community.

calgary-sunrise,36 street,northeast