RETURNING TO MY CHILDHOOD HOME
There
are people who like to leave their past behind them, rather than breathe some
life back into it, every now and then. I am the latter.
When
my kids were younger, I made sure to take them to see where I grew up, the
apartment building, the neighbourhood.
I
wanted them to visualize, not just hear from stories, where I came from and how
that shaped me. I wanted them to understand that in comparison to mine, they
were living a privileged childhood. I wanted them to fully appreciate it.
There
are many senses, that bring you back in time, such as the smell of a homecooked
meal, the sound of a song that served as a soundtrack for your youth, the face
you see, when you close your eyes; hoping to remember a loved one, who has long
departed.
When
I was a kid, I lived in the Plateau, on Du Bullion street, three streets east
of St. Lawrence. Back then, it was home to poor Jewish immigrants. Now, the
Plateau, is more of a trendy area, revitalized, yet still surrounded by
landmarked eateries and buildings.
I
walk up and down St. Lawrence, and I am reminded of eating hot dogs and fries
at Bierbrier’s (and always leaving with a bag of licorice). There was Nathan’s
and Schwartz’s, then there were the restaurants out of my snack bracket, such
as Moishe’s.
My
favourite park was gigantic, and none other than Mount Royal. I used to spend
hour upon hour at Fletcher’s Field, usually by myself, tossing a ball in the
air and watching other kids play together.
Returning
to the apartment building serves as a reminder where I came from and how far I
have come.
Just
standing there, in front of the building, the memories shout out to me from
every angle, every shadow, that crept down the long dark hall, splitting the
apartment in half, like a crevice in a glacier.
It
really was a glacier in a sense, as it was cold, lacking emotion, laughter, fun
and hope. It was a place where I watched my parents slowly, break down, lose
themselves, in the struggle against poverty, that eventually swallowed them
whole.
My
kids grew up in a bright, happy, home in a safe, upper class,
neighbourhood. They have memories of
sitting at the kitchen table, talking things out with their parents. There were
birthday parties, cakes, presents and family and friends surrounding them with
love.
There
were BBQs in the backyard, always with a dog running around and music playing.
Their friends were welcome in our home and there was never a lack of food,
clothing, heat, air conditioning; none of which had a steady flow throughout my
childhood.
They
lived at home until their mid-twenties and thankfully, they can look back at
the time they spent there, as something to cherish.
We
are still in the same home and when our grandchildren visit, they are welcomed
into a nice, clean, happy place. They too, enjoy Ruth’s homecooked meals, relaxing at the kitchen table, laughing, delving into various
discussions and recognizing the house as an anchor, that will always provide
steadiness and safety.
They
chase the dog up and down in the backyard and play basketball in the driveway.
When they were little, they would sleep over. That provided their parents for a night out and for me and Ruth, a full 24 hours of love, of joy.
I
remember our first grandchild, our eldest granddaughter, as a baby, sleeping in
her mother’s old room. Ruth and I could not get enough of her. We would put her
to sleep and then just watch her in the crib, her tiny fingers, and her
beautiful little face. She would fall asleep, gently, safely, under our watch.
I
find comfort in knowing that she will never have to look back at her youth,
lacking in anything; most especially, love and acceptance.
I
pray that all my grandchildren, possess the sweetest of childhood memories,
enriched with opportunities, inspiration, guidance and support.
I
am proud of my kids for providing their children with the comfort of a fine
home, with good bones, and not a crevice to be found.
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