Warm Hands

I try to walk daily. My one big deterrent is rain. There is nothing at all pleasant about being drenched to the bone while trying to enjoy a walk. Snow falling on me, can be brushed off, or is usually blown off by the accompanying wind. My body and mind have grown accustomed to the routine, and when it doesn't happen, there is a sense of longing.

The other day which was a wintry day, I was walking along the trail with my husband and our dog. It was cold day but as we walked my hands which were in mittens got too warm. I took my mittens off and as I did I had a flashback to my childhood.

In the winter time if we wanted to visit our neighbours on the farm next to us, we either walked or took a horse drawn sleigh. We chose the evenings for our visits carefully - often it would be a moonlit night so we could see where we were going and also when the north winds were not blowing too fiercely. Visiting was always fun. This home in particular had children my own age so I did not just have to sit there and listen to the adults' conversation. The evenings usually involved a light lunch and coffee and then the trip home.

My father was a fast walker. He would be leading us by several yards. My Mother who was short and somewhat chubby, did not move at top speed, and I being the youngest and smallest walked with her. Probably halfway home I would start complaining about being cold. This is when she would take my hands and rub them with her own warm ones. I never knew why her hands were warm as she never had any mittens or gloves on. I don't ever remember my Mother ever wearing anything on her hands, but I do remember the warmth of her hands and to this day it seems rather magical.

Winter's Surprise

It is almost December and winter has arrived in a flurry of white. Its arrival seems to have surprised everyone even though it comes every year without fail. Oh sure, there was talk around the table of the tire changing from"All Season" to "Winter". (I think that the term "All Season" should be changed to "Three Season" to be fair with the advertising.) Some people started wearing their winter parkas and boots. My husband had already bought the bird seed and filled the feeders. The geese were flying overhead daily, looking uncertain about whether they should stay or go south. The human Snowbirds all left for their southern hot spots. We all knew it was coming; we just were not ready to welcome it.

As I sit and gaze onto the back yard and see the heaps of snow I realize that some things never change. Despite all the talk of global warming, winter comes in the same fashion every year. Every year we complain about it but manage to struggle through it. I do realize that life has gotten easier in this modern day as compared to when I was a child. Nowadays, most of our vehicles that we drive come equipped with heaters.

Winter travel was limited to us, but we did go places. Someone would go to the small store a few miles aways to buy the things that we did not grow on the farm. We would visit nearby neighbours. My brothers and my father would go to the bush camp to cut lumber. When the winter got especially nippy we would get a ride to school. What did we travel in? We used a variety of sleigh vehicles. Anyway, I digress. What I am saying is life was like this for all our northern Manitoba neighbours.

However, there was something I did not know about our area. I was very surprised when I was sent a news clip about an old neighbour who just came forward to report that he had an encounter with a Sasquatch in his late teens, circa 1960. When I listened to his interview on a radio station, it was like he was talking about my family. Except, of course, for the sighting of the Sasquatch.

He was visiting his family after being away from the farm for a year while attending school. They were low on firewood so his job was to go 3 or 4 miles into the bush to get some. He hitched up the team of horses and off he went. What I found amusing and interesting is that he says his mother insisted he take a rifle (303) and a bundle of hay for the horses. It was while he cutting up some downfall that he looked up to see a creature watching him. He says it was female Sasquatch. There was no animosity and the horses were okay with the visitor although they may not have noticed it. He continued to load up the firewood and upon returning home, drew a rough sketch of the creature. He shared this sighting with no one other than his mother. He says his mother was a well read woman who knew about these creatures.

So 50 years later he comes forward with his story and his drawing. Both the drawing and the story were a little sketchy. The radio guys interviewed him but I was sure I could detect a little humor in their tones. They gave the guy his 15 seconds of fame. Not bad for a small town boy from a small town in northern Manitoba.

His story seemed unbelievable and I don't know why he decided to share it in his golden years. What I found most interesting about his interview was not that he saw a Sasquatch, but that he had such admiration and respect for his mother. She seemed tohave been such an prominent person in his life. I hope she knew how much he respected her.

Toys Were Not Us

The wee grandkids came to visit the other weekend. I am convinced that these young ones have magical powers that raise spirits and energy levels. They are so full of innocence and mischief all at the same time, and so easy to entertain. The seven year old boy enjoyed some old toys that his father played with; the toddler was very happy playing with a little box I placed on his hand and the baby liked the game peek-a-boo. All in all, there was a lot of laughter - most of it coming from me.

I have noticed that children have far too many toys these days. I was once in a house where three little girls live and was shocked when I saw their playroom. The room was so full of toys that there was hardly any room to play. I am sure when adults bought these toys for the children, they did so with the best of intentions. It seems wasteful because the children usually choose one or two favorites, and leave the others to gather dust.

When my first son was a toddler, a friend who was a kindergarten teacher told me that it was important to buy toys that would have the child participating, not just observing. Children love to create things, solve problems and try to figure out how things work. I tried to stick to that rule but have to admit I bought stuff cause it was just plain cute or cuddly.

As a small child I did not have a playroom, much less one filled with toys. For the most part, my playroom was the yard. It was there that I dug small holes in the ground which I made into little wells. I used spools for pulleys and yarn for rope. There was no shortage of twigs and these were used to construct upper structure. I cannot remember what I would have used for a pail, perhaps a thimble. The spools were also used to make little vehicles of some sort. Luckily for us kids, my mother did a lot of sewing so empty spools were plentiful. If the youngest brother was not busy playing with the older boys, he would play with me. I am sure it was from him that I learned how to build and design a small well. We had a well in the yard from which we drew water and in which we stored our perishable items in the summer time. Ours always looked very similar.

I was five years old when I received my first and only childhood doll. Our school board always gave gifts to all the children in the local families. Along with a small gift, one received a bag of mixed nuts in their shells, peanuts, some assorted hard candy (the twirly peppermints were everyone`s favorite!) and an apple and a mandarin orange. This all came in a paper bag. It was an exciting time for all children, rich and poor. This particular year, I also got a doll. From what I can remember, it was an ordinary doll, but a doll nonetheless. I remember being very happy.

I do not know how long this doll remained intact, but my next memory of this doll was its head flying through the air as my brothers played catch with it. To give them some credit, they let me the `Pig in the Middle` as I tried to catch the head. I was so thrilled to included in this game that I did not mind that my doll was disassembled. This game took place in our big room which had a pot bellied stove in the middle. During the course of the game the doll`s head hit the chimney pipes so often it was all smudged with soot. That is the memory that I have of my first doll and only doll.

Many years later when I was working in a bank, I shared this story with my work friends. They were not sure that I didn`t just make up this sad tale, but that Christmas they all chipped in and bought me my second doll. Needless to say, I cried.

For the Love of Books

The other evening when I answered the phone, I was greeted with a little giggle. The giggle belonged to my six month old granddaughter. My son came on the line to explain. He had just been reading a book to her, and at certain points of the story she broke into giggles. She obviously found the book amusing. He had us on speaker phone so we could talk and listen to her at the same time. I discovered that every time I said "Boo! , she giggled. This went on for a few minutes until she got the hiccups.

My children all enjoyed books from a very young age. When their favorite auntie came to visit, they would all snuggle around while she read to them. When Gramma came to visit she would often bring a new book. She loved reading to them and they loved being read to. Bedtimes were always a time to read together. Sometimes the children would read to one another.

I have loved reading since I first saw a book. The schools I attended had very small libraries and it did not take me long to read all the books in it. I would often read the next grade readers just so I would have something to read. I do not remember ever having my parents read any books to me, but I do remember the story telling. Many of the tales were told in rhyme and were easy to repeat. My brother, sixty years since he first heard a Polish verse about a bird flying to Warsaw for a wedding, can still repeat it in clear Polish. I remember one exercise in Polish in which you would say one word over and over quickly, and when you were finished you had another word. The first word was sloma and you said it over and over and you ended with maslo. The joke was that you had just turned sloma (straw)into maslo (butter).

Another little story was one which never really had an end. It goes like this: It was a hot evening and my family and I had nothing to do so we decided to sit on the window ledge and eat potatoes, when along comes a policeman and asks, "What are you doing?"
The man responds by saying, "Well, it was a hot evening and family and I had nothing to do so we decided to sit on the window ledge and eat potatoes, when along comes a policeman and asks, "What are doing?" ................ You get the idea. It does not have the same sound to in English, as Polish is a much gentler language. Also, the story has more meaning if you knew that it was illegal to sit in your window ledge after dark in Poland and that all the poor Polish people had to eat was potatoes.

I do have one book which was my mother's which she brought with her from the Ukraine. It was her beginner reading and writing book in school. Since I can not find a publishing date I can only guess that it is at least one hundred years old. The book starts with letters and sounds, pictures, and then progresses to stories. It is in Ukranian so I am unable to read it, but I remember having a friend who was fluent in Ukranian, read it to me many years ago. The stories are not that much different than the ones our children read. As a matter of fact, one of the stories in the book is the one about the lost mitten. I remember buying the new modern artsy version as a gift for a child. I don't think people realize how old the story is. I know I didn't until I saw it in this book.

The big difference in the modern version as compared to the original is that the ending has been made less violent. In the old version all the animals nestled in the mitten get shot by a hunter, and in the modern version the animals overcrowd the mitten and it flies apart. The gentler version would make it more bedtime friendly, that is for certain. I laughed out loud when I saw the little black and white drawing of the hunter with the gun. I did not need know how to read Ukranian to understand the outcome of that story. I guess it could be deemed a happy ending as the hunter now had lots of food for his family.

I know that my parents enjoyed reading. I close my eyes, I can come up with a picture of my mother and father sitting near the coal oil lamp, reading. I think that my mother spent a lot of time reading the Bible. My father, who also read the Bible, read other books and even subsribed to a newspaper from Poland. It was called Czas, which means Time. It was an exciting time when the newspaper arrived - it was if we were touched by Poland.

My father, like myself, wanted to be a writer. He read many pooks of poetry either in Ukrainian, Polish and even Russian. He did not have much schooling, perhaps a grade six equivalent, but somehow mangaged to teach himself all these languages. I can say with all honesty, however, he never did master the English language. If he were around, he would beg to differ. Nonetheless, he wrote many songs and poetry. He would recite his poetry and sing his songs, and I often was his solo captive audience. Perhaps it was he who fired up my interest in reading and writing. I remember that he had the Polish version of the book called Pilgrim's Progress and I did muddle through a few pages so that I could impress him. I then went to the library and got the book written in English.

Thanks to reading many incredible books, I have been able to travel to many countries, my passport being a library card.

Dining Out

Today is Saturday and both my husband and I did not feel like doing the normal tasks of the day. We wanted an adventure! It was lunch time and we decided we would go travelling and see if we could find a cafe or restaurant that might hold the promise of some tasty food. We are surrounded by several towns, all within a half hour's drive. We chose a town that we had not been to in a long time but knew of it. I seemed to have a dim memory of having lunch there once, at a rather quaint tea house. So, off we drove.
When we reached the city limits we began looking for a suitable establishment. We saw the usual fast food places but those were not for us today. We were looking for a "Mom and Pop" operation that would be cozy and filled with aromas that would make our mouths water. We turned on to what we thought was Main Street and searched, saw only one which promised the best Chinese food in town. Not a difficult promise to keep if you are the only restaurant in town.
We were slightly discouraged but not ready to give up. We drove further along the highway, still hoping for that tea house. Nothing. We turned around and decided we would go to the next community a few miles away. We had never been there but were hopeful we would stumble on to that eatery we were imagining.
This new town immediately looked more promising, but sadly the few restaurants that had the look we wanted, were no longer in business. We were left with Lee's Chinese Food. It did not promise the best food, but it looked clean. We sat down and ordered. The gentleman who took out order had dabbed on way too much shaving lotion, so the cooking aromas we had hoped for, were overpowered by his fragrance.
My husband and I could not help but laugh about our adventure which brought us to this small town. It was as unglamourous as it could get, the menu held no promise of haute cuisine, but we were still having fun. As we sat sipping our green tea, we looked around the dining area. On one wall we noticed large family photos of our server and his family. We decided that we did indeed find a "Mom and Pop" business. We enjoyed our meal. It wasn't the best Chinese food we had ever had, but it was good.
I can not remember how old I was when I first ate in a restaurant. Our family's idea of eating out was having our meals in the summer kitchen. Our summer kitchen was a granary, with a wood burning stove and tables and chairs. There was a real need for a summer kitchen as the summers in Manitoba were very hot and you did not want to cook, bake or can in the same house that you would later try sleeping in.
That summer kitchen holds a special place in my memories. I remember the times in it to be very warm and special. Meals were of great importance to our family. My mother was super cook and I believe she loved to cook. In this summer kitchen she would can the produce from the garden: peas, corn, carrots and beets. She would also can the fruits that we grew on the farm, strawberries and raspberries, and the wild ones the family would pick, blueberries, saskatoon berries, and cranberries. We were never lacking for cranberry jam. It was the last to go. My mother also canned chicken and freshly caught fish. Suckers, we called them. She also picked wild mushrooms and canned them. She would fry these mushrooms in butter and make a creamy sauce and I just loved them.
At harvest time, the summer kitchen was were all the workers ate. We called the crew the "Threshing Gang". This crew was made up of my father and brothers and neighbours, and sometimes even hired help. The two things I remember that we served were creamed tomato soup and corn on the cob. The soup was Campbell's but with some extra stuff thrown in, including elbow macaroni. It was mmmm-mmmm good! The hired men were always complimentary to my mother and I know she liked that. Sometimes family members take good food for granted.
I don't remember my mother ever sitting down to eat. I like to think that after the men left, she and I sat and enjoyed our meal together.

Lonely Farm Girl

Today a student asked me if I liked Jello. She was surprised when I said no. She asked me why and I tried to explain. I am not sure if this is really why I don't like Jello but the reason I gave was that it reminded me of the poverty in my childhood. Jello was a treat we could afford on occasion and maybe we overdid it. I am not sure. Since I had this student's attention I gave her another example of how our likes change over years. As a teenager we had lilac bushes growing around our house. I loved the smell of them and the colour of them. Each spring I made sure every room had a bouquet of lilacs in it. I found them so beautiful I even took a photograph but the beauty was lost because it was in black and white. Today, I cannot stand the fragrance of the flower nor the colour lilac. Lilacs, I explained, might be reminders of a part of my life that I may want to forget. I think the poor girl wished she never asked me about Jello.

I found farm life very lonely. When I was four all of my brothers were attending school and that meant I was the lone child at home with my parents, the farmers. I am not sure what my father did during the day, but I know my mother worked hard all day. My mother did everything a man could do except wear pants. (In her entire life, she never donned a pair of pants.) The morning chores consisted of milking the cows, feeding the pigs, gathering the eggs, seperating the milk and cleaning the barn at least once a week. While she did all the chores, I was her constant companion, helping if I was able.

Today we would call the time my mother and I spent together as `bonding`. At the tender age of four, I became my mother`s confidant. My parents`marriage was not a happy one and my mother shared her misery with me. I had no choice but to listen to her and often cry with her. I wish we would have laughed and played together instead.

I missed my brothers and often I would wait by the driveway for their return from school. I wanted to play. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to learn English! The brothers spoke to each other in English but still spoke Polish to me. I would hang around and listen to them speaking this new language, wonder what it was they were saying, and long for the day when I,too, could go to school.

Happiest of Times

My most satisfying moments in life are those when all my children are together under one roof. These events happen with less frequency as all three live in different parts of the country and all are busy with their lives. So when we do gather, I am filled with many emotions. Pride is probably the first ranking emotion. I am very proud of my kids. I like that my kids like each other. Each one has a great sense of humour so when we gather we do a lot of laughing.

I am glad to say that I have a very good relationship with all my children and we talk often. If I was granted any do-overs in my life, my one wish would be that I could have been closer with my parents and my many brothers and their families. I have the opportunity to try for that with some of my brothers, but it is too late for my parents and three brothers. I realize that there are very few people who are fortunate enough to have a close relationship with their entire family; usually, some are closer than others, very much like friendships. What I had working against me was the great difference in ages.

Sadly, there was not even one occasion when all my Mother's children were together under one roof. Due to the age spread, the oldest boys were grown and gone by the time the last of us came along. I am guessing, but I think that the largest number of children under one roof at one time may have been five.

After the oldest left and went to cities to establish careers, they did return home for visits; some with new wives. Now, those were happy times. I remember helping my Mother prepare for those visits. There was cleaning and cooking and baking; everyone had his favorite food and my Mother would be sure there was some of that on hand. Of course, it was great for us still at home because we too would get to eat this special food. I remember home made sausage, cabbage rolls, perogies, crab apple fruit, roast chicken with that very yummy stuffing, poppy seed buns, and much more. I remember being so excited about my brothers coming that sometimes I would get sick and spend an evening throwing up. The visits were not that frequent as distance and expense of travel were always factors, but when they did happen they were celebrated.

My parents did not travel often. My mother once did go to a city in another province. I am not sure how she travelled and even why she went, but I do remember missing her a lot while she was gone. It was her first absence and it seemed to be a very long one. Besides remembering how much I missed her, I remember we had potato pancakes for supper one night. My father made them, and he was not noted for his kitchen skills but these pancakes were delicious. To this day, I still love potato pancakes as do most of my family.

Another trip my Mother took was to visit me after I had my first baby. It was a wonderful visit. She came with two other lady friends and they seemed to have the time of their lives. I remember them giggling, something I had never heard my mother do. She also gave me all kinds of advice about babies. The one that sticks in my mind is after giving baby my bath, I should take him out of the water and just wrap him up in the towel and feed him and put him to bed like that. She worried that he would get chilled in between the bath, drying off and being clothed. Although I did not agree with this procedure, I tried it. We both laughed when in mere minutes the baby had kicked off the bindings of the towel and was free. My Mother said that babies were different than when her children were babies. I explained to her that we lived in a warm draft-free house and did not have to worry about getting chilled. She admitted that perhaps I was right in what I had been doing all along.

Although it had been many years since she held a baby, she had not lost her touch. After supper was the traditional fuss time for baby and she looked after him, while we cleaned up after supper. It was a good time for each of us. Sometimes a baby needs a Grandmother's touch.