CHILDHOOD MEMORIES II – CATCHING MORE FIREFLIES (dad top row, left end WWII)

In this post, I will continue from where I left off yesterday. I will dredge up a few more pieces of incidents I remember from childhood. Wherever possible, I try to filter out parts of these memories that I am not sure are real. Much of what I remember comes from sitting around the dining room table at mom and dad’s after a Sunday (or other family occasion) dinner, listening to my dad bring out tales from the family folklore archives. This was one of his favorite pastimes. He loved to dredge up things that each of us had done in the past. Much of it was very good, up to the point where he arrived at me personally and it was my turn “in the pail”.

I would start squirming in my chair and try to change the subject, but invariably each and every one of us was going to be subjected to a story of his telling. He spared no one nor any feelings, no matter how tender. The funny thing is that I, in my turn, now love the very exact same “storytelling time” during our family get togethers. After many of our “big table” dinners, I have taken great pleasure in baring family secrets, weaknesses, or life’s most embarrassing moments. I also try to spare no one and watch with great delight as one of my choice subjects squirms in their chair awaiting what is to come from my mouth. All the while anticipating one of their most funny or embarrassing moments being trotted out in front of everyone.

Going down the list of family, who were usually present for these meals, their stance on my storytelling time is something like this; Ron absolutely hates it and sees nothing funny in my storytelling, Ange loves it and encourages me to get deep into the most sensitive topics, D2 hates it and feels that he must shield my grandkids from what he sees as “excessive teasing”. My grandson Benhameen loves it except for the parts where it gets to him and one of his stories (he is now starting to recite some of these family pearls and looks to be the one to carry on the tradition in the future), granddaughter M loves the times where I really dredge up something juicy on someone other than her, “A” my daughter in law and JMW my son in law both are relaxed during this time knowing that I have no stories from their youth to spring on them (however as they grow into the family unit, you gotta know that their time is also coming), and finally ol’ Bubbaloo who enjoys the stories that involve peace and love, but sides with D2 when it comes to throwing anyone into an embarrassing moment. She is very protective of her brood and also a little sensitive about my use of stories that make someone squirm. I must remain aware of her current mood before flopping her pet name out there, in a story about her. She is now 40 years into the family unit and has a fair amount of stories that I can recount of her exploits since our meeting (the most famous ones being of her, as a new arrival to Canada 40 years hence).

As I write this, one of my stories flits by and I grasp it before it too fades into vaporland. This one is more contemporary and is one that my grandson Benhameen used to hate. Every time I think of it, I laugh out loud. He used to hate this story, but over the years his skin has grown thicker and he can now ignore me when I am recanting it. It occurred on a Halloween’s Eve when he was about 5 years old, maybe 10 or 11 years ago and took place at our home. He had arrived with D2, A and M too “shop” our neighbourhood for Halloween treats. He was so excited. His mom had a “ninja” costume ready for him and all of the appropriate black clothes, mask and makeup in order to present the image of a dangerous assassin.

She carefully dressed him downstairs and finally announced that he was ready to scare the world. Benhameen, now a full on “ninja warrior” started upstairs to show us his getup. In doing so he had to pass our full length wall mirror and as he did this, he got his first glimpse of what he truly looked like. He jumped about a foot into the air and let out a blood curdling scream. He had just been scared near to death by a “ninja” attack. Everyone raced to see what had happened and there stood ol’ Benhameen pulling off his costume.

I like to have peed in my pants. A and Bubbaloo did not see anything funny in this and rushed to his aid. M, our granddaughter was like me and could see the raw humour in this act. D2 stood very solemn, but deep down I think he also wanted to pee himself. He just knew better than to let his emotions run free. After this major heart stopping scare poor Benhameen was not having any part of wearing his costume again. Try as we might, he would not let his mom and grandma dress him again. I laughed for an hour and Bubbaloo called me an insensitive pig, or something of that nature. He did his “trick or treating” that year as a “half ninja”. I must say this one incident has been the lead in too many of our family story telling episodes.

Another of my favorite memories, this time from a distant past, was of my dad after we had been in Red Deer for a few years. I was probably about 12 at that time, so let’s say 60 years ago. My dad was in his prime and a tougher piece of rawhide you never met. He could “whup” anyone who crossed him, (but never did, I might add) or could pull out his guitar and sing you a cowboy song to melt your heart. This one particular time we were gathered for supper around the dinner table. As usual mom had dinner ready shortly after dad arrived home from the shop where he worked. He was a man of all trades, welder, mechanic, inventor and storyteller. He used to regale mom with daily stories of his exploits at work.

Tonight it went something like this. Just prior to serving dinner, mom notices that dad’s finger is wrapped in a kind of dirty white cloth. She says “Slim what happened to your finger?” Dad says “well I hurt it in the overhead door at work”. Mom counters, “well take that rag off and let me have a look”, Slim (so named because he had not one gram of fat on him) protests, “aww Ma it’s ok don’t worry”? Now the rag’s coming off for sure, “Slim don’t make me come over there, ya hear”? So dad slowly unwinds this dirty cloth and on the final turn his finger falls off onto the table and just lays there. Well it wasn’t his complete finger, but was enough of it to make my mother let out a major shriek and grab for her heart. She came near to scaring me into a “jammer” also. I had not yet seen his finger lying there on the table like a piece of uncooked chicken wing.

Mom then springs into action. She grabs the piece of digit and lays it on a clean wet cloth, she quickly whips a wrap around the wound tying the piece of finger back in place, then she gets my dad out to the car, where he then drives himself to the hospital, all the while being “nurtured” by my mom. She was not so calmly inquiring as to his mental abilities, thought processes and other such, positive observations of his handling of this latest incident. Once at the hospital, this is now in the 1960 or ’61 time period, (there had not yet been any strides made with micro surgery or the reattaching of limbs) they did what they could. What that consisted of, was to sew the end of his finger back on, as best they knew how. Somehow, whoever was doing the alignment prior to the sewing got it lined up a little crooked.

Forever from that day, my dad’s index finger had a 30 degree angle off to the side near the top joint. The top joint of his finger never worked again, but he never seemed to mind. At least he still had all of his fingers, something that not many of his colleagues, in similar businesses, could claim in that day and age. Did he miss a day of work? Not bloody likely! Next morning, sporting a clean white bandage, off he went to do battle once again. I remember my mom standing at the door and wishing him goodbye with “you be careful you old fool, try not to get your head cut off today, ya hear?” This is the honest truth as I remember it. Had mom not asked him to show her his injury, I am quite sure, he would have just thrown the piece in the garbage in the next day or two and never mentioned another word of it.

Ahhh, here we are once again, today I had promised myself to get a few memories down and to limit my verbal diarrhoea to shorter posts. Alas I have failed, so at the risk of losing my few remaining readers to boredom, I will stop here for the day.