Halloween

I ceased trick-or-treating earlier than most, I think. I was twelve when I last got dressed up and begged candy from door to door.

We didn’t vary our costumes much. My mother made ours, a new one every couple of years. It was invariably a clown costume, actually just a shift made big enough to be thrown over a snowsuit. The last was a mustard yellow, almost brown, very ‘70s. I think there was a hat, too; again, something large enough to slip on over a toque. Our bags were pillowcases, doubled up so we could carry more and not need to head home to unload. I don’t remember anyone carrying prefab Halloween bags, although I think toddlers have carried those little plastic jack-o-lantern pails around since before I was born.

Karen and I shelled out together, usually with the Millers, maybe others from around the block, then with some of her friends later. Karen probably didn’t want to babysit me, and I certainly didn’t want to be, maybe she just wanted to hang out with her friends, but my mother would have had none of that, safety in numbers and all that. So off we went after supper, after gathering together for the hunt. There was much planning, discussions with other troupes of kids on where the best houses to hit were. I recall a house at the top of Hart Street that was always considered a must visit: they always handed out cans of pop, an article we were thrilled to get, considering the novelty of receiving it. It was a silly thing to covet. Too big, way too much weight. What weights a pound at the beginning of the trek will weigh a ton an hour later, especially once handfuls of candy were heaped on top.

I remember some kids carrying UNICEF boxes with them, something I never see now.

My last year, it was wet. Most Halloweens were wet in my memory. There was always snow in the yards, damp dripping banks melting out into ruts in the road, and it was always cold, the threat of the coming winter on the wind. This couldn’t have been the case every year, and it wasn’t, there were warm years too; but when I remember Halloween nights, that’s the way I remember them.

Karen and I went from door to door as quickly as our legs would carry us. The night was not particularly inviting, but greed kept us on, it certainly did me. We’d made a wide circuit, had quite a haul by the time it had grown dark, when I felt and heard the bag begin to give. It was a sickening sound, the sound of impending loss. I could sense candy bars beginning to escape, terrifying my avarice. I hoisted the bag up, inspected it, and found a hole in the bag with a searching finger, through one bag, and then the other in the inner sack too, big enough to risk leaving a trail of candy behind me all the way home if I didn’t do something about it. I hugged the sack to my chest, and gripped the tear and held it tight. I thought about setting the bag down and maybe tying a knot where the hole was, but there was slushy snow in all the yards, the road wet and littered with rivulets and puddles. So, I just clutched the hole, hugged it hard, told my sister what was happening, and scurried home. She didn’t follow. The night was young, after all. It seemed such a long way home, but it wasn’t really, just down Patricia and back up Hart, but with the bag failing, it seemed a marathon. Shin splints plagued me towards the end. The weight seemed unbearable as I rounded the block and half ran to and up my driveway and to the door.

I made it, I might have lost a bar or two along the way, but to stop and try to retrieve them would have risked the rest.

I never went out again. I thought myself too old for it the next year. I was thirteen, after all. Trick-or-treating was for kids. I opted to stay home and shell out, instead. It stung that first time. My sister went out with her friends without me, and I felt a slight pang of jealousy watching her go, but it passed. I never felt the urge to head out again. If I wanted some chocolate, I could just reach into the bowl and have some. And we always had extra. Even at the end of the evening.

A House Unfinished

Our house on Hart Street seemed to be in a perpetual state of construction. My father always had the best intention of finishing the work, but there was always another project to consider. He did finish the areas that were actually lived in, but if there was a major project to be done, like when “we” built the addition (cue whatever music you imagine that accompanies the entrance of able-bodied contractors), it was time to call the professionals.

He did complete the rec room, furnished with the most ‘70s fashionable bold floral carpeting, that crawled up the walls of the bar and storage couch—think chocolate brown, orange and yellow, with matching cushions.

The spare bedroom in the basement, with serviceable en suite, was also completed, albeit with similar, and almost matching wood paneling.

So too was the new rec room and sauna under the addition. It was good, even great when it was complete, if you could stand the burnt orange carpeting, again, all the rage in the late ‘70s; my friends and I thought it all very cool there, so that’s where we hung out. The sauna was a thing of beauty, the shower outside the sauna sturdy enough to support the living room fireplace above it, if need be. Sadly, the cast iron tube next to the shower was painted the same colour as the carpet, but that’s just paint. The plumbing was sound, after two or three fits; the lights worked. What else could one ask for?

The utility room, where my mother spent more than enough time doing laundry, was another thing. It was never completed, the walls never dressed with wall board, the electrical wiring exposed for all to see for as long as we lived there.

What can be said about my dad was that he tried. He sometimes succeeded, he mostly succeeded, and the finished work was alright, when he applied himself; but patience was never his strong suit. One cannot spend one’s week on the road, living the life of the travelling Molson Brewery rep, and then spend the night out with one’s friends when one comes home, and be endowed with patience when attempting finished carpentry, electrical work, or plumbing.

Once I was old enough to “help,” I was drafted. You’d think that was a good thing. But I was only used as the jack-of-all-trades helper, useful for fetching, carrying, and holding in place. I was never really instructed in the use of electrical tools, just hand tools, but never actually trusted to do anything with them, not often, anyways. I was to learn through osmosis, I suppose. On more than one occasion, I was instructed to come help, which I always did when asked, but not without trepidation, because whenever I did, somehow, things did not come off right. Depends on what we were doing, though. Some things went swimmingly, others not. Say we'd work on the plumbing for the shower and sauna, and I’d be expected to hold the copper pipe immobile while my father soldered the joints; but I’d have to hold it all in place above my head while he readied the soldering tools, not an easy thing back in those days when my arms could never be mistaken for those of a bodybuilder’s (FYI, they still aren’t, as I’ve not seen the inside of a gym in some years). The soldering complete (but not before I’d heard “hold it straight” a number of times), we’d test the work by turning on the tap. There may or may not be a drip. We’d drain the pipe, and begin again. The joints would be pulled apart, dried, replaced and re-soldered. We’d turn on the tap, and there may or may not be a drip. After a few repetitions of this, my dad’s patience was a thin skin at best. He may or may not yell at me, although the first was more likely than the second. How this was my fault was beyond me, so after a few repetitions, my patience may or may not have been a thin skin, too. After being yelled at three times, I’d drop the pipe and walk away.

As you can imagine, I’ve never developed many home improvement skills. I hate it. The mere thought of doing construction work and repairs sets my teeth on edge. A nervous fear of failure rises up into my chest.

If I have to work on the house, I can feel my father rising up in me. His language, too.

The Red Room

Your room is your first personal space. On occasion, it is also your place of punishment. Time outs were never long, probably no more than five minutes, but to a kid, five minutes can seem an eternity. I suppose I only lasted about two before calling down to my mother, begging for release, promising to be good. That is so odd, when you consider that my room was where all my toys were stored, all neatly stacked on the shelves that climbed the wall opposite the window. You’d think I could spend hours there and never be bored; but I suppose my begging release had more to do with seeking parental approval, and of being forcibly confined.

That said, my room was arguably the perfect space for punishment. It was a fitting colour, thematically red: red hanging lamp shade, red curtains, red bedspread. I have my doubts that I was consulted in the colour scheme. East facing, when the sun rose the room was bathed in a hot red, making the room seem even more close and stifling in the summer months (hardly anyone had air-conditioning then, to say nothing of ceiling fans). At night, when I lay about reading, the hanging lamp projected a single, focused circle of white light onto the bed, and bathed the rest of the room in a layered and faceted glow from the folded red glass. It had a somewhat hellish aspect to it. Oddly cool.

Later, an old, pint-sized school desk was added, set next to the entrance, where I had a full view of the hallway and a bit of the stairs, but nothing of the living room (these were the days before the addition was tacked on to the rear of the house and the living room migrated back there, and the dining room took its place). When I say old, I mean having an inkwell hole in the upper right-hand corner, and an open shelve under the writing surface. I kept a table lamp on it, and a transistor radio to help me pass the time while doing homework. I’m not sure how true that is; I recall stopping all work when Paul Simon’s “Slip Sliding Away” came on.

Later still, a turntable occupied the lower wall shelf, a stack of albums on the floor beneath it. I’d sit in front of it until my back ached, and then for some time more, selecting singles and LPs, lifting and setting the needle, memorizing every lyric, every riff, every nuance of those songs, impressing them on my memory.

Was the room always red? Probably not, but it will always glow red in my memory.

Christmas, Part 3, Sweater Hell!

Skipping forward a bit, and it’s more a snapshot than a tale. After toys, in the era I refer to as sweater hell; you know, that zone where you are too old for childish things like toys, yet not old enough to require those practical gifts that are more for a house than for you. You remember those years in spent in limbo, don’t you? It’s a memory set after the completion of the extension onto the back of the Hart Street house, and many years before Alzheimer’s began to creep into my Nanny’s life. I’m a teen, not a child.

It was Christmas morning. We were opening gifts. Mom wanted Dad and me to open specific gifts together, gifts wrapped in boxes of identical size and shape. I was a little nervous about that, but I opened mine the same time my father opened his. And there it is, the terrycloth robe I’d asked for. I can’t remember if I asked for a specific colour, although I imagine I was thinking white, simple basic white, like in hotels. It was not plain white, it was striped, red and blue on white; the same as the one my Dad was holding up.

We were prompted to put them on and stand together to have our picture taken. Remember, I was a teen. I’d rather die. But of course, I had my picture taken with my Dad.

He was so happy that we had matching robes.

I got over my embarrassment. I got to like my robe, over time. It broke in. It was soft. It was warm. And I got over the fact that my dad had the same robe as I did.

Allergies

I’ve been plagued by allergies for most of my life. Anyone who’s ever seen me suffer through an outbreak of hives, especially in those early ones, understands what I mean when I say plagued.

The first, and the worst, was in Grade 5, in the spring, just before our school celebrated some sort of Chinese festival. We’d spent weeks preparing for it (I have no idea how long we prepared for it, but we’d begun before I was stricken, and I was still stricken when the celebration was complete) when one weekend morning I woke to horrible itching. I scratched to no relief, and when I finally found myself in front of a mirror, was horrified by the angry red welts covering my face, rendering me somewhat unrecognizable. I called out to my mother in a panic, and her reaction to my new look was less than comforting. Further inspection confirmed the presence of hives everywhere, some small and round and only beginning to blossom; others mature, fully grown, and in all manner of shape, soon to be subsumed again within the confines of my skin. About three and a half weeks would pass before I was free of them, but not before my hands had swollen to the point where I could not even bend my fingers, my feet so bloated and sensitive to touch that I could not even walk, reduced to crawling about. Worse still was the blow to my vanity: the hives never left my face, painfully altering my features in some new caricature of self from first to last day. Begging sickness and hiding from view, I missed the entire festival, including the much anticipated Chinese food feast. Mr. Litchfield made a special trip to my house that day, carrying with him enough food for my whole family. I was thrilled, but I also refusing to come to the door until he’d left. My mother would have none of that, coaxing me from hiding to thank Mr. Litchfield for his kindness. Mr. Litchfield treated my fragile vanity with more tact than I thought anyone could muster, and never once showed any of the shock or loathing I’d expected.

Testing was prescribed. I was instructed to abstain from those things I was exposed to most often...to see what might happen, or not. Then the day arrived. The allergist had arrived and inked my arms with numbers, and over each was scratched an oil, an extract of some fruit or vegetable, some dust or dander, some sap or some some-such. I can’t say how many allergens were exposed, but there were certainly enough, including dog dander. I had to abstain from those things, which apparently was to include exposure to dog dander. There was some deliberation about what to do with Cookie, our dog. I would have nothing to do with being rid of her. She was an integral part of my existence.

Monthly shots were prescribed, not that I believe ever had any effect in halting, or even lessening the effects of further outbreaks, whatsoever.

So, further outbreaks followed, and were endured. Once, when renovations were again in full swing at the Hart Street house (still some years before the addition), I was sleeping in the basement, as my bedroom was reeking of paint, the red decorations poised to be put in place. Upon waking, I climbed the stairs to wash my face, which was feeling unusually tight, just then. I gazed down the upstairs hall and wondered, in my morning confusion, who the kid was down the hall. My heart skipped a beat upon recognition. It was me. It was my reflection in a mirror set out and leaning against the far wall. My face was in such a state as to render me unrecognizable, even to myself.

I learned, in time, to take the shock I would see in others’ faces in stride. I had no choice, I could not hide away from the world for a month at a time, two or three times a year.

But it did get better. Years found the outbreaks lesser, and in time infrequent.

I learned an important lesson throughout those ensuing years. Most people have difficulty with deformity, in whatever form it may exhibit itself. They retreat from it. And from the person. Dealing with that hardens one’s soul.

The Field

When we first moved to Timmins, and for years afterwards, the lots across the street, the space between Hart Street and Murray and bounded by Brousseau, were owned by the district school board and remained undeveloped. In various stages of growth, every so often sheared to the nub, it was a spark of imagination and a little space of bush, a couple of blocks from the real thing. It was a wonderful playground for all around.

There were trails of passage, worn down by thousands of footsteps, trails that remained even when it had grown feral. That only happened once, when the shrubs had reached a proper height to create a proper maze. But more often than not, the bushes were no more than ankle height. There were thistles and fungi, blueberry bushes and alders scrub. But when it was a proper maze, it was a brilliant place for hide and seek!

I remember when, in the early/mid ‘70s, my father bought a Skidoo. We didn’t have it for long, a few years at most, I suppose, but when we did we had a caboose trailer too. I recall hours of bone chilling cold back there, despite our being wrapped up in a heavy woolen blanket, when Karen and I were being dragged along behind my parents on the sled. My feet were blocks of numb ice at the end of those family outings. Not fun. But when we weren’t being frozen in the caboose, Karen and I would take the skidoo out onto the barren lot across the street for a ride. That was fun, that was thrilling. There were laps and loops and figure 8s etched all over that field. Karen drove more often than not, but I did too, never at great speed—my mother told us to keep it down, and since we were in plain sight, we did; to do otherwise risked our never being allowed to play on the sled, ever again.

One winter, Keith came to visit for a weekend. We were playing war out in that field, with hockey sticks for rifles. We stormed the banks, and defended them. Then we split apart, adding hide and seek battles to the scope of play. I was left to seek. He was out in the deep, windswept field, and I was sneaking up on him, keeping low, using the high banks for cover. I risked a peak over the bank, expecting to see his toque clearly, an obvious dark spot out in the stretch of snow. But he was nowhere to be seen. I panned left and right. No Keith. So, once I reached where I knew I’d seen him last, I bounded up and over the bank, expecting him to scream BANG, BANG BANG! But all I heard was silence, and the wind. I crawled, my belly sliding over the snow. When I reached where I’d last seen him, there was just an empty foxhole, and a berm neatly piled up around it. I looked over the berm and discovered he'd hollowed a tunnel.

“Keith?” I called.

“Down here,” he answered. Climbing down feet first into the hole, I found he’d been busy. He’s burrowed out a warm cozy tunnel down there. We spent the next hour expanding the space...until it collapsed on our heads.

That began a furious burrowing out of banks by David Miller and me after Keith had gone home. At least until we saw the snowplows and massive city snow blowers pushing back and cutting into those banks, crushing them, chewing them up and spitting them out into trucks. Visions of being caught inside one of them when these monsters passed ended our snow tunneling phase.

Shortly after that, the school board sold off the lots, houses rose up on them, and that short-lived free-for-all playground disappeared for good.

There was disappointment. There was mourning. They’d stolen our domain.

Moving Day

We moved from Cochrane to Timmins in the summer of 1970. It was the most important day of my life, up to then.

I was four and a half, so moving from the only place I’d ever known to some place I'd never heard of seemed like moving to another planet. I was concerned, unsure what to expect. I’d no idea what was going to happen. I was also profoundly sad when the day came. I recall wanting to linger, to play with my friends for just five minutes more when my parents called for me to come, telling me it was time to leave. I kicked stones. I ran. I can’t say for certain what I did because I remember doing both, and both can’t be true. I had nightmares of similar leavings for years afterwards. I’d be told it was time to leave in my dream, and I’d pull at dandelion heads and kick at stones to delay the even. I’d wake in a cold sweat upon the completion of a countdown in my head (probably a side-effect of years of NASA countdowns), just as the moment arrived.

I climbed into the car. I cried a little, chocking back what I could. We were leaving my home, my grandparents, my uncles, aunts, my cousins, my whole life behind forever, as far as I could tell.

The hour it took to travel to Timmins felt like an eternity. The furthest I’d ever travelled was to the cottage, and that was only ten minutes from our house on 16^th Ave. The eternity passed. Probably not well, either. I was prone to car sickness and was usually doped up on Gravol so that I wouldn’t get car sick. They tried rubber strips, too, the theory being that it grounded the static electricity from the car. None of that worked. I’d almost always get sick. Sometimes we’d stop in time and I’d throw up into the ditch. Sometimes I threw up in the car. I have no memory of getting car sick on that ride, even though I probably did.

We arrived.

We pulled onto Hart Street and rolled down the hill towards Brouseau Avenue. There it was, 560 Hart, the new house, a yellow brick split level, two lots up from the Avenue. An empty lot separated us from the tall two-story on the corner. An undeveloped field lay across the street, the brush higher than my head.

Our new home was bigger than our house in Cochrane. Stairs up to the bath and beds. I ran up and down them, then downstairs, discovering that the basement was a work in progress, then back outside.

The movers followed shortly, and that inevitably brought every kid in the neighborhood out to watch. I discovered our new neighborhood was flush with kids my age. We were shy at first, me especially. But we were kids, and I was NEW, so we were playing in no time, before the furniture was even fully unloaded. It was like I’d lived there my whole life. I doubt that Cochrane crossed my mind at all.

That’s what kids do, they meet someone their own age and they’re best friends within ten minutes.

Kids adapt.

It’s so cool how they do that with so little effort.

It can leave a mark, though.