Nanny

Hilda Gauthier, my mother’s mother. My Nanny was a career woman. She had always worked. She didn’t do housework, not really, she puttered on occasion, and straightened papers, but she didn’t have time for such things, so she hired live-in maids when my mother was young, and then housekeepers and cooks later on, the last of which was Mrs. D., who worked for her for years, the only one I’d ever known.

As you might expect, Hilda had not been a hands-on mother. Not that she was distant. She wasn’t. She just didn’t know how to express her love. I think that may be why she was never a tactile grandmother with Karen and I. We knew she loved us, adored us, but she was more comfortable in the company of adults. And yet she was always happy to see us, was always generous and lavished us with gifts, and visited us with regularity in Timmins, usually for a week at a time.

Back in the ‘20s, Hilda had begun working at Bell, the telephone company, when her mother, Susan, took in Mec, my grandfather-to-be, as a boarder, and saw an opportunity for her daughter in him. Mec would be a pharmacist, not a working man living from paycheck to paycheck, but a proper professional. I’m not sure what Hilda thought of Mec in those first years, he was 11 years her senior, but she eventually did marry Mec, despite their age difference. And moved north with him to Matheson. Which must have been a shock. Matheson was not Toronto. Matheson must have seemed the savage frontier, the very edge of habitation and barely civilization. And Matheson was French. There were very few people for her to talk to, I imagine. So, moving to Cochrane was probably a wish come true to her. English. A railroad town. And their own business. Their money. Her own money. While in Toronto, Susan used to meet her at Bell, palm out for her paycheck.

In time, they flourished, prospered, bought and drove a car back up north when the road from the south to the north was completed, and later still, they adopted my mother, raised her, or reared her, in any event. The housekeepers and later Mrs. D. may have had more than a hand in raising my mother.

Hilda may not have been an overtly tactile and lavishly emotionally loving mother, but she was always there for my mother. She and Mec helped my parents when they married; financed a house for them; used their social and political connections to make arrangements for my parents when their first, developmentally challenged child was born. She was a live-in babysitter for my sister and I when needed, no matter how harrowing the experience of dealing with me may have been for her, at times. She was there to listen whenever my mother needed to talk, never judged. She bought my parents a Caribbean vacation for their 30th anniversary.

She may not have lavished us with hugs, she may not have said “I love you” often, but she found her own ways to express it.

School Trips

Memories are a muddle, all twisted up together, at times. Two memories collide in my mind, somewhat similar, but obviously separate upon further exploration: the Grade 6 Midland school trip, and the Grade 8 Toronto school trip. There had actually been two school trips, not just one! I’d suspected that, but couldn’t separate them. The two were similar in only one aspect, the visiting of historic forts, but that was enough to overlay one on top of the other, confusing them in my mind. Middle-age, and the long span of years taking their toll, go figure. Pictures would have helped separate them, but I have none, either never having been taken, or long lost.

The Midland trip. Grade 6. I recall the theft of the ten dollars from my suitcase vividly. That left me with almost no mad money for souvenirs, as I’d mentioned in that earlier memory. Left without the means to buy much, I had to be very careful with what remained. I made one purchase that I remember, a small fur pelt, purchased at the fort from a native display, one about a foot in length, the pelt, not the display. It was soft, the hairs parting and flowing between my fingers. I had to have it, and I did. I remember placing it on the small desk in my bedroom at home, not sure what else to do with it, always wondering as the months and years passed why I did buy it, what use I had for it. My first impulse buy. Not the last.

The Toronto trip. Grade 8. I recall the Pong game and the shoplifting at the end of the trip. I remember who did it, but as with the theft from my bags during the Midland trip, I don’t believe any mention of names would be fair, not after so many years have passed. And what would it serve? One memory is rather vivid from the Toronto trip, however. For whatever reason, our bus had not picked us up at the end of some tour, and our supervising teachers decided that we were not so far away from our hotel that we could not walk back. We were further than they imagined, as we were exhausted by the more than the hour’s walk on concrete. Along the way, a woman stepped away from a building, and through a wicked smile, asked me/us/the cluster of boys I was with if we would like to party. She was dressed as you might imagine. I imagine she was in hot pants and a tube top, her hair flared out, her make-up loud and not particularly subtle. I blushed. I think we all blushed. The woman laughed, so did her “friends.” Embarrassed, we begged off, trying and obviously failing to be cool, and found ourselves walking a little faster, to catch up with the more numerous cluster of kids ahead of us, the one presumably protected by our chaperoning teacher.

That was the first time I’d ever seen a prostitute.

John

A John. Not The John. This distinction will be evident in posts to come.
One of my first friends in St. Theresa in Grade 7 was a Native boy. His name was John. I have no clue what his last name was. I can’t even say that I knew him well. I didn’t know him that long. He was a quiet young man, not terribly scholastic. Maybe that was what drew me to him, his unpresuming quiet. He seemed out of place in all the bluster and activity that surrounded him. If you've ever known a North American Native, you'll know what I mean.
As to his less than scholastic nature, he was not stupid. He was just quiet. That said, he was not particularly interested in his studies. I cannot comment on what is schooling was, or where he went to school before I met him, or even how long he had lived in Timmins. But I remember seeing how he struggled. I wanted to help him. He was kind to me, after all. I lent him the notes he was missing once (he'd been away, and had fallen even further behind than he'd already been), he tried to hand them back, but I insisted. John was too shy to insist I take them back. He had reason to; he was moving back to Moosonee, and I would never see him again.
I had to borrow Garry Martin's notes to copy when I discovered that John had left. Needless to say, I studied how my straight-A friend took notes. They weren’t that different from the notes I took. He just retained the information therein better than I did.

The Transfer

My mother wanted my sister and I to go to O’Gorman High School, part of the English Catholic Separate School Board, so, my sister Karen and I being 23 months apart, I had to transfer to St. Theresa (now O’Gorman Intermediate) when she entered O’Gorman High School (it’s a taxes thing). I was not pleased to leave all my friends behind (I imagine was my sister wasn’t too keen, either), but we weren’t given much of a choice. My mother was also under the impression that O’Gorman gave a better education than the public school, Timmins High; a lot of parents were under that impression, but as all school boards had to teach the same curriculum that was mandated by the Province, I can’t see how going to one school of the other made much of a difference, but hindsight is 20-20. I don’t regret going there. I enjoyed going there, for the most part.

I was nervous that first day; I was going to another new school, after all, and I didn’t know a soul (you’d think I would have this new class/new friends thing down by now, having moved from Cochrane at 4, and then held back in Grade 2; see earlier posted memories).

Karen and I walked together as far as St. Theresa, then she continued on her way to O’Gorman. I didn’t mind the walk; I’ve never taken a school bus (I always lived within the bus limit), and we gave one another moral support. But once she’d left to face her own first day in a new school, I was on my own. I recall milling about, leaning against the school walls, trying to appear cool in such a way as to attract the right new friends, trying not to appear envious that others were already grouped together. They at least, were not alone; they were already friends, having spent the last seven years of school together. The bell rang, teachers emerged to group us by grade, and my new school year amongst strangers began. I expect Karen’s experience was similar.

I met two boys fairly early on. The first was Garry Martin, a largely hyperactive boy who was drafted to take me under his wing, so to speak. Thank God for that, and thank God it was Garry. He and I became close friends and would soon share about a decade’s worth of life experiences together. The second was Gord Disley. We found ourselves at the back of a class together, and we began chatting. It was a comfortable chat. Then came introductions, but there was a sight change to the usual exercise where the teacher would just get each student to stand and tell something about themselves. In this case, we were to write something about ourselves, place the papers in a hat, and then as the teacher read each in turn the rest of the class would try to guess who that person was. I was clueless to all these clues, of course. But the girls were actually giddy about the game. When each was guessed or not, each of us then stood up in turn to introduce ourselves and tell the class what we wanted to do when we grew up. No one guessed mine (understandable, considering no one know who I was); I can’t even remember what I wrote, or what I said. But I’ll always remember what Gord said when his turn came: “I’m Gord Disley, and I want to be a Rock Star!”

True to his word, at 18, Gord packed his bags and moved to Toronto, guitar over his shoulder. He never looked back.

Did he become a rock star? No. But he did become a professional musician for a time, which is very much the same thing, I expect. He worked in restaurants to pay the bills while he waited for the expected to happen, which never did. Did he become famous? He did, somewhat. He became a stand-up comedian. He’s been on TV. He never became famous, but he did something few others ever did: He took a shot at it.

Muskoka

We didn’t venture out on vacations often. My father spent much of his time on the road, such is the life of a salesman, so he wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of spending more time on a highway when he was on vacation. We went on a few, though. I recall Sudbury. I recall Niagara Falls and Clifton Street. And I recall visiting my mother’s cousin in Muskoka.

I was old enough to forge out on a canoe alone with Joe, son of Doreen, a cousin on my mother’s side, which would mean that I was probably 12 or 14, or around there. Joe and I stuck out to explore the lake. It was a sweltering day, the sky was blue, the air calm. Joe knew the lake by heart, whereas I’d never seen it before. I’d also hardly spent any time paddling a canoe. It had been years since we’d moved to Timmins and sold the Rancourt cottage, years since my father had taken up travelling for a living, so travelling while on holiday was not a priority to him. We had that summer, spending a short while at Pat and Doreen’s cottage on a Muskoka peninsula. I was bored. I didn’t really know Joe that well, and he seemed a lot older than me at the time. Our parents were sitting about chatting. That’s when Joe suggested the canoe. I was game, but a little nervous. I told him I had little experience in one, but he set me at ease, saying that he’d do all the steering, and that we’d be fine, so long as I didn’t flip us mid-lake. He laughed. I tried to. We stayed close to shore.
We were some ways out, about a half-hour or so, likely more, when the wind picked up some. Joe looked to the sky. Shrugged. We kept on. But, in no time at all, clouds resolved in an empty sky, grew dark, and piled high, one on top of another, as high as I could see. Joe stopped, surveyed the sky again, and thought it best that we head back. The wind began to whip us. We paddled hard. Rain began to fall, then pummel us. The boat rocked and pitched and I began to get very worried, and tired. My scrawny adolescent arms were spent, but fear kept me keeping on. Owing to Joe’s silence and his laboured breathing behind me, he too was worried. He too was tired.
That was when I saw a motor boat racing towards us. Pat was at the wheel, my father with him. I felt a wave of salvation. They slowed, motored past and swung around alongside. Joe climbed aboard while my father reeled me in. Pat ordered Joe to tie a line to the canoe. And we were off, the storm in our faces, the cottage still some way away despite our speed. The boat bucked and leaped through the chop, landing hard, jarring my jaw and impressing me to hang on with all my worth to my seat. I watched the canoe weave and jump on its line, as though trying to throw its hook. Lightning cut the sky, and I thought on how I’d always been told that one should never be on the water during a thunderstorm. I wondered what would happen if the boat was hit, what would happen if the lightning struck the lake.
Safe back at the cottage, dried off and changed and sipping instant hot chocolate, I watched it lash at the lake. I’ve always loved storms. I’d never once seen a storm rush in that quickly before.

A Beginning, Cochrane

Some time ago, I found myself thinking about those first, largely, emotional snapshots in my head. When I mentioned them to others, I always heard the same surprised response: “You remember that? I can’t remember that far back.” But I could. Although I’m not unique in this, I’ve found it rather rare. Most people can’t remember their earliest years, apparently. Most people seem to have difficulty even remembering high school, let alone their preschool years. Don’t get me wrong, those early memories aren’t that detailed; they’re largely emotional moments, like a memory of me and my cousin Keith being pushed in strollers.

A lot of my earliest memories involve Keith. He and I are only two months apart, and we lived only two doors apart, so he would factor large in them, wouldn’t he? Not all, but most.

I don’t know how many people remember learning to walk, but I do. I’d shuffle along a piece of furniture and when I reached its end, our dog Cookie somehow knew that I needed help and would be by my side. I would take hold of her and catch a ride to the next couch or chair, where I’d take hold of it and shuffle along until I needed her help again.

I remember playing in puddles, all dolled up in a mud suit and rubber boots. I’d jump in, stamping them, watching them spray, spattering my legs, and I’d laugh.

I remember riding a “hobby” horse so hard that the springs should have broken. I’m astonished that I kept my seat.

I remember my mother not wanting to be bothered with putting my boots on when we were on our way to Uncle Jerry’s (Keith’s father), so she zipped my into my one-piece snowsuit, and swaddled me up in a blanket instead, carrying me the short distance down the street and up the single path to the house. My uncle was the most judicious of shovellers, clearing just enough for his car and a footpath up to his house, and he did this every year, because later on, when I was a year older, I remember mounting that slight, but seemingly endlessly steep hill, the banks as high as houses.

Later still, Keith and I decided we were going to Gramma’s house for cookies (she was always Gramma, never Grandma). We jumped on our trikes and ventured out. Cookie followed. Cookie always followed me. I suspect she had it in her mined to keep us safe. It was no simple venture for two three-year olds to go to Gramma’s house; we had to cross one of the busiest streets in Cochrane to do so, and another besides. When we arrived, Gramma met us at the door. “What are you doing here?” she asked, as surprised as can be by our arrival. “We came for cookies,” we said. So, she invited us in, served us our much sought-after milk and cookies...and called our mothers. When our obviously fearful and furious mothers arrived, I found myself hauled to the car by an arm, then hurried on my way by a quick rap to the behind.

Summers were spent on Rancourt Lake, just ten minutes from our driveway. For a child of two or three it was a long haul. I’d grow inpatient, eager to be where we were going, a place of fun and friends, of boats and wading in shallows, of scary fish, and of cousins. I’ve memories of being bathed at water’s edge, of thunderstorms, of my parents playing cards at the dining room table, of board games. There was a woodstove, almost never fired, and a TV, one that played little but snow.

Later still, Keith and I were packed up for school, where there was finger painting and pictures on the wall, A for Apple and B for Bees. Carefully drawn letters, in both capital and lower case topped the blackboard. I remember the first day after Christmas vacation most vividly, though. I arrived wearing new mittens. I was in a panic at day’s end. I couldn’t find them. I searched and shifted the many other mittens, the coats and boots looking for them. I enlisted the aid of the teacher, but my mittens were nowhere to be found. “You lost them,” she said. But I hadn’t lost them. I’d specifically placed them in my coat pocket after showing them off to my classmates. They’d been stolen. But who to blame? To this day I can’t believe that the teacher sent me out into the cold without mittens. The distance could not have been long, five or six blocks, I imagine, from school to home, but it was bitterly cold. My hands were frozen. My cousins came to my aide. “Where are your mitts?” they asked. I don’t know, I said. I couldn’t find them. They waved down more cousins, and one arrived on a snowmobile. He set me in front, facing him. He undid his snowsuit and told me to reach around and hug him. “Hold on,” he said, and raced me home. I’d never travelled so fast. My mother was livid. She tied strings to my mitts for years, and thread them through my sleeves.

Those are my memories of Cochrane. Not all. I remember uncles and aunts and carnivals and the hill behind my house. I remember Christmases, dressed up so smartly in jacket and clip-on tie. I remember my room.

I remember the day we left Cochrane.