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

Every Christmas morning after we left Cochrane for Timmins, we’d wake up to my father rushing about the house, hammering on doors, declaring that Santa had been here! We’d leap or drag ourselves out of bed, depending on the year, leap at young ages, drag later. We’d eat a hasty breakfast, despite our ogling the feast of presents about the tree, open our gifts and be left to play with the toys for a time; not too long though. There was preparations to be made: every year for 10ish years after leaving Cochrane, we were to return to the homeland for celebrations with the family, eat an early lunch, pack up the car with the gifts to be given, and pile in, Cookie at my mothers’ feet in the front. I can’t recall if Piper, our next dog, ever made the pilgrimage with us, if she had, she'd have been in the space at the back window (that’s where she loved to lounge for the hour-long trip).

I recall many such long commutes back to Cochrane, getting car sick, puking into the ditch despite tripping on Gravol. I was not a good traveller then.

We’d arrive at Nanny’s (my mother’s mother’s) house, where we’d open gifts, then be herded back into the car for the short drive to Gramma’s (my father’s mother’s) with Nanny in tow (my mother’s parents were always invited if I recall properly, certainly my Nanny after Poppa passed away), where we opened gifts again. Those gifts were packed away in the trunk of the car before my uncles, aunts, and cousins arrived.

Gramma’s house already smelled like dinner when we arrived. There was a great deal of cooking to be done in such a small galley kitchen. Food was piled high on the dinner table, arranged in depth, buffet style. Only Grandpa sat at the table, holding court on how much anyone might take, even though there was enough food for three times our number (about 30ish people in what I would describe as a wartime house). Turkey, ham, mashed potatoes, pickles and beets and Lord knows what else, my memory fails me. There were six types of pie: apple, cherry, raisin, mince, pecan (?) and sugar (?), one for each son’s preference. They each had to have their favourite. And they’d have been disappointed had their personal favourite not been there. Family politics. Enough said.

Grandpa would always call me over, draw me in and hug me, and slip a two-dollar bill into my pocket.

There wasn’t enough room at the table for everyone. Obviously. And with thirty people in attendance, seating was an issue. Families sort things out, and by the time I came along, a system had long since been adopted. The adults ate in the living room, with paper plates in wicker baskets on their laps. We cousins were arranged on the stairs, each to his own riser, Keith and I sharing a small bi-fold table at the base.

Gramma never ate until everyone else had. And by then the Great Clean-up was in full swing, the food and dishes tackled by the women, teens and adults alike; but not by Gramma, though, she was eating.

The men congregated in the living room, the chairs and stools arranged, years of Daily Press Carol booklets laid out, one to a seat. Once the Great Clean-up was complete, we sang, we soloed. I most certainly soloed. I was expected to sing “Rudolph, The Red-nosed Reindeer” every year. Tradition, you know how it goes. There was no accompaniment though: I don’t know if anyone could play anything portable. Karen could play piano, but there was none present. Gramma played fiddle, but I don’t remember it ever being brought out. I recall French songs being sung after the carols were complete. Beer flowed. There were chips and snacks and such, because that’s what we all needed, more food.

We kids took that as our queue to retreat downstairs where there was tabletop hockey and an absence of adults and alcohol and demands by our elders to bring them more. I think the elder cousins may have played street hockey out front or may have just slipped away to party with friends.
If they did, Keith and I were oblivious to it all, having lost interest in all things adult, even all things teen. Later still, Karen and I were packed up by our parents to go back to Nanny's for the night. Over the next few days, we visited...everyone. It was exhausting, fun, but exhausting. Christmas would never be as exciting as it was then.