Today is my mother's 71st birthday.
When I was really young, I used to think that my mother's birthday was so important that everyone was given a day off.
Ah, the adoration of children who have just completed kindergarten.
So, to honour my mother's birthday, I am going to share some of her favourite Dawne and Jerry stories from our youth.
Favourite only because she's still uncertain how we survived them.
I have some very vivid memories of kindergarten.
In 1972, my kindergarten was held in the back of the Oromocto Fire Station.
I know. . .I know. . . .weird.
Several of the kids who were in my kindergarten class ended up in my high school graduation class.
Even with living in a military community.
I took a cab to kindergarten.
I don't know if this was part of the program, or, an extra my parents paid for.
I'll ask today.
There have been times in my life where I did things with no real understanding of my motivation for doing such things.
Marriage is usually at the top of that list.
But this kink in my makeup has been around for a long time, long before I was married.
Either time.
One lovely sunny day, in the front seat of a cab with a cab driver who regularly gave us peices of Doublemint gum. . .
Now that I think about it, it may have been a service, because I remember there were other kids in the backseat.
. . .just as we were pulling into the backdoor of the firehouse cum kindergarten, I jumped out of the still moving vehicle.
I have no idea what prompted such a bold, carefree, reckless, insane, dangerous and completely stupid move.
And I wonder how Meredyth acquired her propensity for asinine activities.
While I completely remember the actual event, I don't recall what happened afterwards.
Selective memory.
Or, I just blocked out the ensuing shit storm that followed.
And there was a shit storm, believe me.
Involving such characters as my kindergarten teacher, my mother, my father, and of course, the beleagured and permanently scarred cab driver.
From that moment on, I was never allowed to sit in the front seat again.
I was always in the back, between other children, and buckled in.
Because at this time in our vehicular history, seat belts were not manadatory.
Had then been, it would have taken me longer to jump out.
But I bet I still would have done it.
My brother, and I hope he will forgive me for sharing his stories, had a propensity for science and creativity at a very young age.
While sitting in the kitchen of our PMQ on St. John Avenue, my father quizzing me about spelling, and my mother drying dishes, me wearing my plaid jumper with the navy blue fringe running the length of the jumper, we were interrupted in our afterdinner activites by the smell of smoke.
Followed by pounding on the bathroom door.
From the inside.
My brother, probably around 4 or 5 years old, had decided, since everyone else was busy doing something, that he would engage in a little science experiment.
Involving toilet paper and a match.
His research questions: How does toilet paper respond to fire? How long does toilet paper take to burn?
My father dashes from the kitchen table to the bathroom, kicks the door open, releasing my scared and bawling little brother, and gazing on the inferno engulfing our bathroom.
Because, as my already intellectual brother found out, toilet paper burns VERY quickly, and when it does, it will take with it hostages.
Face cloths.
Over the toilet bathroom shelving units, in pink no less.
Towels.
Sections of wall.
So, he had an answer for his questions.
And he scared the beejezus out of my father and mother.
Me, I was wondering how I was supposed to know these spelling words without my father's help.
Again, shades of Meredyth.
There were several incidents where my brother and I coluded to create chaos.
My mother worked shift work, so, if she was home during the day, or had the day off, she spent it at home doing what women do when they're home with a day off.
Clean.
Cook.
Child care.
And because this was the early 70s and day care didn't seem to exist, my mother did what all women on our court, because at this time we lived on Victoria Court.
She put us outside.
But I was probably three and a half, Jerry was two so we weren't running around the neighbourhood creating chaos.
That came later.
We were in the backyard creating chaos.
Today, many people will dog leases affixed to their clothes line.
My mother had one of those.
For Jerry.
Along with a harness.
Dogs and children.
And strikingly similar methods for social control.
Jerry would be harnessed and attached to the clothes line.
Me, I was allowed to run free in the yard.
Mistake number one.
Because as soon as she turned her back from the kitchen window, I would unleash Jerry.
Then, I would take him out of his harnass.
And then, I would unlatch the backyard gate, and Jerry and I would wander through Victoria Court.
Were we destroying private property?
No.
Were we running on the streets?
No.
Were we terrorizing other children, teasing them as they were leashed and harnessed in their backyard cages lacking the intestinal fortitude and wherewithall to execute their own escape?
Maybe.
But the reason for our desire to escape the confines of my mother's watchful eye and our backyard prison was cookies.
We spent our on-the-lam-time going door to door begging the neighbourhood mothers for cookies.
We were not interested in destroying private property or running the wild and crazy streets of Oromocto in the early 70s.
We wanted to see what cookies other mothers possessed and if they were better than the cookies our mother had.
This activity not only landed us in a pile of it when my mother caught up to us,
Or when one of the neighbour mothers called her to tell us what we were doing,
It also spoiled lunch.
And made for an obscenely early nap time.
Looking back, its no wonder my mother smoked.
My brother quickly learned how to escape all on his own.
And he was particularly fond of wandering off in public places.
I don't remember this incident very well.
But my mother does.
As if it happened yesterday.
We were in the Oromocto Mall, which at that time, was more like a strip mall than an enclosed mall.
Meaning you had to go outside of one store to get to another.
There was a Reitman's in the mall.
Still is.
But it looked very different then.
It had two windowcases on either side of the front door, where the women Reitman's employees would dress mannequins in the latest styles trying to entice female buyers to spend their money.
Oh, those wacky seventies!
My brother wandered off, probably while my mother was trying to deal with me.
My father never joined us on these shopping junkets.
Leaving my mother to wrangle two toddlers on her own.
I remember my brother was frantically looking for my brother.
Wandering up and down the mall, eyes peeled for the tow head with the sparkling eyes.
On our third trek, her dragging me along behind her, she spotted something literally out of the corner of her eye.
My brother.
In the almost always locked Reitman's display case.
Frolicking and cavorting amid the naked mannequins.
One little boy displaying to the public how little boys behave when the are making merry with mannequins.
Perhaps it was the crowd beginning to build around the display case that alerted my mother's maternal spidey senses that something was not right and it involved one of her offspring.
The real question here is why?
Why was my brother in the Reitman's display case with naked mannequins?
Because what curious little boy is going to pass up the opportunity to open an almost always locked display case door to see what it looks like from the inside?
Keith probably.
But not my little brother.
Found amid boobies and butt, a big smile on his cherubic little face.
Today, at 43 and almost 42, I am sure my mother remembers all of these nuggets of nonsense my brother and I engaged in.
And many, many more I'm willing to bet.
With time, some of the mental and emotional scarring has faded.
But not the memories.
Definitely not the memories.
And while dining at Swiss Chalet later today (her choice) we will probably revisit some of these stories, she will laugh, and another round of family storytelling will be complete.
Happy Birthday Mum!
Title Lyric: Memories are Made of This by Dean Martin
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