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.

Photographs and Memories

Since the invention of the digital camera, there are seldom any occasions that are not recorded in photographs. This past Christmas gathering I took over 200 hundred photographs. I always plan to go through them, pick the best and delete the rest. This is a very difficult task because when it comes to photos of children, are there any bad ones? I do have one rule which helps me, and that being if even one person in the photo has his/her eyes closed or some weird look his/her face, off to the trash can it goes. My daughter, without fail, goes through the photos while they are still on the camera and deletes the ones she does not like of herself. I am okay with that because I do the same thing. These days it is harder and harder to not delete all photos with me in them. When did I get all those chins?

In my early teens, my brother who was a teacher, brought home a camera, taught me how to use it and gave it to me. I think it was called a Brownie, but I could be wrong. Somehow I managed to find money to buy film and pay for mail away developing. I loved it! Christmas followed with a photo album from the same brother. Now, I understand why he became a teacher.

I would like to say that all the photographs I took where amazing and that I showed some artistic brilliance, but that would be untrue. I remember taking a photo of one of my brothers, shirtless and flexing his muscles. I have one of another brother looking pretty dapper, grinning, and swinging an axe. Why, I am not sure. Nonetheless, they are amazing in that they instantly recall the occasion.

Five years ago I went to my parents' homeland, the "old country", Poland. To fully describe how incredible the experience was is impossible. I met relatives whom I had only seen in photographs. With every letter that my parents got over the years, there were photos included. I had brought many of these photographs with me and shared them with my relatives and found out who was who. Many people in the photographs were no longer alive, but their children and grandchildren were.

I have one photograph which had a particular importance to me. It was a professionally done photograph of three beautiful girls, sisters. One of the sisters, was wearing a dress which was once mine which my mother had sent in a parcel to them. I remember the dress as it was a little frillier than what I usually wore. I got it as a hand-me-down, and then we passed it on. I met that girl who is now a grown woman, a little younger than myself. Together we sat and looked at the old photograph and I took a new one. This one had only two sisters as sadly, the oldest one had just recently died of cancer.

In a small village, I visited several homes of relatives. In one of these homes lives a young woman and her family. It was here that I was once again reminded of the importance of photographs. This young woman, my aunt's granddaughter, brought out some photographs. I could not believe my eyes! They were photographs sent by father circa 1953. I could barely believe my eyes - there were photographs of tractors, harvest, a variety of brothers and, me! I was three. The most amazing thing of all was that each photograph had a short description on the back, in my father's handwriting. Through tear blurred eyes I read what he wrote, and the one which sticks out the most in my mind is: "This is our first Canadian born son." I could feel the pride in my father's note. And then I thought, how excited he would have been to know that I was there, in Poland, visiting with his family and looking at these photographs with them.

Of course, I took photographs. Hundreds of them.

Button on a String Whirligig

Today I was amused and surprised. A teenager playing a very simple game on an Ipod asked me to come see the game he was playing. The game itself was not complicated, but certainly the electronics to make it happen are. He then asked me if this was the kind of game I played as a kid. I could not help but laugh out loud. Did this kid not realize he was talking to a woman who was old enough to be his grandmother?


I took this opportunity to share with him what it was that I played with when I was a child. It was a button on a string, a whirligig. I googled this and found an article that says children in the Ozarks used this "toy" to amuse themselves. Well, children in northern Manitoba also amused themselves with this simple toy and I was one of them.


Easy enough to make, all you need is a good sized button and some yarn or string. I won't bore you with the instructions. Wikipedia has good ones. The coolest part of this toy was the neat humming noise you got when you did things right.


When I was five, it was my only toy. One of my memories regarding this toy involves one of my many brothers. This particular brother, was so blond that he was referred to as "bialy glowa" which means white head. He was proud of his abundant blond hair. This particular morning he was still sleeping when he should have been getting ready for school. My mother asked me to go and wake him. I decided that it would be cool to wake him with my whirligig's humming sound. I got the toy humming and bent over close to my brother's ear with it. I overlooked the small detail that things spinning should not be brought close to hair. I was successful in waking my brother but he was not a happy guy, and I think he may have received an impromptu hair cut.

I think the next time I visit with my grandsons, maybe I will make a whirligig and show them how it works. I will be sure to warn them to keep it away from hair.

Tar Paper Shack

I think we are a pampered generation. We have it all and we want more. When did our expectations became so grandiose? I see houses that are so large that I feel that it is pure decadence. Who needs to have 6000 square feet of living space? As we drive past these opulent homes I usually growl and mutter something, and then I think: Am I just plain jealous? I hope that is not the case.
I don't live in a mansion now and my life did not start in one. The first house I lived in, the one I was born in, was a one room tar-papered building, the "black house", as we fondly call it. When I was five, we changed residences. We rented a farmstead nearby and moved to a much grander house. This one was covered with some type of tar paper that looked like brickwork. A much more modern house, this one even had bedrooms! Of course, there was still no electricity or indoor plumbing, but I seem to remember being excited to move.
Would I have been a different person if I had grown up in a comfortable stylish manor? Or did my poor beginnings teach me humbleness and appreciation for what I do have now?

Old Country Ways

As a child, I was always around when my parents had visitors or when they were visiting. I thought it was because I was so mature and wise that adults enjoyed having me around. It was later in life that I realized that the reason I got so many opportunities to spend with my parents and their friends is that, well, where else would I be? There were no babysitters so if my parents went out, I went out as well. And if they were at our home, I think that perhaps I may have just refused to go to bed on my own and rather than argue with me, they just let me stay up.

As I reflect on those times, and I do often, I realize how much I loved those times. My parents' friends were all from the "old country" as they would say, and conversations were in Polish, Ukranian, Russian or Czeck. I listened to all the stories about survival despite countless hardships. As a young girl of ten, I remember having a dream about war that was so vivid that I was baffled. I had seen no photographs or movies so I wondered how I knew what war would look like. In was several years later I decided it was because the stories were so descriptive that I needed no photographs.

Of course, food was another perk of these evenings. There was always delcious food. It seemed if you came from the "old country", you were a good cook. There was always baked goods or canned fruit, and if the timing was right, home made sausage! Some of the recipes I have been able to recreate but the stories are getting dimmer and dimmer every year. Oh, how I wish that someone would have recorded these stories. What a great book that would have been!

Birth Daze

When my daughter-in-law and son told me that she would be having their baby at their own home with a midwife, I have to admit I was uneasy. All the "what-ifs" ran uninvited through my mind. Silently, I questioned their decision. While I was so busy fretting, I seemed to have forgotten where it was that I was born.

In 1949, it was common to give birth in one's home. The reasons differ from those of today. Then it was a matter of no transportation, no money and no choice. Today, women want "natural" childbirth and choose to be in their own homes away from prying fingers, eager interns and modern medication. I was born at home, and our neighbour a mile away was the midwife. She was not trained as a midwife. Her qualifications were she was willing and available, and she had done it before when my brothers were born. There were no warm blankets or hot water from a tap. The males were all sent out of the house and the women did their thing. The nearest hospital was twenty miles away and there was no doctor on standby waiting for a call just in case there were complications. There was no telephone.

My grandson came into the world where his mother felt most comfortable - her home. Her husband and first son were with her all along. It was a wonderful experience for all. Now, my daughter-in-law is a trained doula and works with women who want to have the optimum birthing experience.

Marvels of Motherhood

I am a grandmother of three beautiful children. I just spent 3 days with all three: oldest almost seven and his brother of one and half years, and their cousin who is six months old. Each one of them at a different stages of growth, yet all so similar. Each child ready for the adventure of life. I love the warmth of their bodies when they allow those hugs that Gramma craves and needs. I look at their perfect little hands and feet and my heart grows with love and my throat goes lumpy and my eyes mist up. I remember all these same emotions when my 3 children were babies. I love all that mushy stuff, but I also love the fun that children provide. Kids love silliness and I am more than happy to provide that.

It is those times when I am looking at my grandchildren and being totally blown away with their amazingness, that my mother comes to mind. Did she have those same feelings of wonder and awe when she first beheld me? Did she love snuggling with me, cooing or singing or making me laugh? Or was I just another mouth to feed; another person dependant on her for clothing and shelter and love?

I was the last child born to my mother and father, and the only girl. Yep, I had eight brothers, and nope, I wasn't spoiled. That is often the first comment that people make when they learn I was the youngest and the only girl. Regrettably, I would have to say that the opposite was true. My mother and father had no experience raising girls so I was the practice run. My brothers, who I believe were happy to have a sister, knew nothing about helping her be a girl. I remember often wishing I was a boy. Sadly, I also remembering my parents commenting that raising boys was much easier. Maybe, that was why I wished I was a boy so I could make their lives easier. They had enough hardships without this extra one thrown in. Yet, there was love; of that I am sure.

Blog Novice

After watching the movie Julia and Julie, I became intrigued with the idea of blogging. I recently purchased a laptop with the hope that it would encourage me to write a book. Yep, I want to write a book. I have a few started and have completed none. Maybe blogging will get the creative juices flowing.
I am not a young woman and when I talk about my childhood, people often confuse my stories with the ones from Little House on the Prairie. I set them straight and tell them those kids had it good. My life was a little tougher. Nonetheless, my 8 brothers and I made it to adulthood and have all lead relatively successful lives. Maybe the old adage, "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger", has some merit.
So perhaps in this blog, I shall relive my childhood and record in writing, some details that my children and grandchildren may, someday, find interesting. Or maybe I will write about whatever pops into my head. I hope that the year 2010 will be a writing adventure.