Showing posts with label #childhoodmemories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label #childhoodmemories. Show all posts

Thursday, 26 July 2018

Thursday, or Thereabouts - July 26, 2018






Hot, Hot, Hot!
So hot that the tar bubbles up between the stones on the road;
round, shiny, black blobs of goo.


I can smell that flip-flop sticking ooze.
     An acrid gasoline smell assaults my nostrils
     and I run away...
...way back in time to childhood summers.





In the heat of July, I envied my pals who spent the summer at cottages by shining lakes in Muskoka or Haliburton. It seemed to me that all the cool kids had places up north, on a lake with tall trees and big rocks, with boats and fishing and all day swimming, and all just two hours away from home. There were enchanting tales, some of them much taller than others I'm sure, of fishing derbies, water skiing, boat races, swimming competitions and campfires that lasted long into the night.


BUT then came August and our annual trip to the beach. Talk about a long commute! This one involved taxis and planes and a foreign country! My mother's family had a cottage on Long Island, New York. Perhaps you've heard of  "The Hampton's" - well not there, but rather a more modest community on the southernmost tip, just east of Manhattan, called Breezy Point. Sadly the Point is now famous for the great fire spawned by Hurricane Sandy in October 2012, which turned to ashes every cottage in the old original Breezy Point, including the cottage of my childhood. But memories are forever and there are photos too!

1970

It was always an adventure every year to make the trek to 147 Oceanside. We always dressed up in our fancy duds (dresses, white gloves, and hats!) because in those days air travel was fancy stuff. From Toronto, we flew TCA (Trans Canada Airlines, later Air Canada) to New York's Idlewild (later JFK) airport on a Vickers Viscount or Vanguard prop job, a flight that took about ninety minutes.

Mom 1963

The cottage was far from grand but I didn't mind. At Breezy we had the Atlantic Ocean, with waves great for body surfing contests. Getting clobbered by a big one was as thrilling as it was humbling. We had the best beach in the world - white sand that stretched for miles.

Mom & Dad, 1957

Me 1961

Me 1970

On a hot day, the walk from the end of the boardwalk to the firm sand near the water's edge was ... well hot, sole burning hot. And it's not easy to walk quickly on shifting sand carrying all the beach gear - big umbrella, chairs, tarp, food basket (containing pop tins wrapped in tin foil, sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper and all full of sand anyway), and towels. Sometimes a hike all the way to the jetty was on the menu.

Mom and I, 1958

Mom and I, 1970

Mom, my older sister & I at the jetty, 1956

My younger sister and I at the jetty, 1970

We had lifeguards on the beach, tall bronzed men in bright red swim trunks who sat atop blue lifeguard stands, or sometimes underneath them in the shade, whistle at the ready.

My older sister and I, 1961

We had parties - fancy hat, and card parties at Christ Community Church (Auntie Lilian always won 'The  Basket of Cheer', the one full of booze), fashion jewelry parties and clothing sales (Aunt Lilian hosted and gave the profits to charity). There were friends and neighbours who were always thrilled to welcome the 'Canadian Invasion' each August. One was president of a large bakery in Brooklyn that catered to the Jewish market. When he came to visit he always brought a huge paper sack, almost as tall as eight-year-old me, filled with bread (pumpernickel and light rye), rolls and chocolate donuts. He was the biggest man I'd ever seen - quite tall but also quite wide - and his shoes were the biggest shoes I'd ever seen - must have been six inches wide and fifteen long. As big as he and they were, his heart was bigger. He spoke slowly, thoughtfully and everybody listened.



We had doctors that made their rounds on motor scooters and delivery boys that rode bikes, front baskets loaded with bottles from the liquor store and prescriptions from the drug store. We had cops who drove around in jeeps equipped with big tires to get through the sand.

1961




AND, we had a volunteer fire department (Point Breeze Volunteer Fire Department), with trucks with names like 'Big Jack' and 'Sand Flea'. When the big air raid type siren went off summoning fire and/or ambulance crews, it also summoned at least half the beach residents including us.


Late one night a fire started in the hardware store off of Market Street, opposite the drug store and we all trooped out to have a look. Dad carried a big red flashlight. He managed to make himself look so official that the fire crew from Brooklyn (they had to cross the Marine Parkway Bridge to get to Breezy) asked Dad,  "Is it all right if we set up over here?" Dad mumbled something and waved his red flashlight around a bit before discreetly disappearing into the crowd.




We had ferries that we could ride from Rockaway Point to Breezy for free, or take to Sheepshead Bay to check out the catch from the fishing fleet.

1958

1967

1967

From there, a subway took us into Manhattan - the United Nations, Times Square, Battery Park, the Staten Island Ferry, and the Statue of Liberty all there to behold. We had fireworks -  actually Coney Island had the fireworks, but we could see them from the bayside.

My older sister on the Staten Island Ferry, 1958

We had the best pizza ever at a real soda fountain store that was just beside the Trunz grocery store. We had Ebinger's crumb cake! The competition for the crumbs is the stuff of family legend.

My version of THE crumb cake

Mom bought real butter and the steak, chicken, and fish (mackerel and flounder fresh from the Sheepshead Bay fleet) all tasted better. We had the best food ever at Breezy Point, or so it seemed.

Maybe it was the sand, maybe it was the salt air,
probably it was the love.



©2018 April Hoeller

Thursday, 31 May 2018

Thursday, or Thereabouts - May 31, 2018


There is nothing like garden dirt -- dark, cool, clumpy yet yielding, earthy. Just add flowers. Planting flowers can turn any frown upside down. Talking to them as they grow brings me smiles and chuckles along with a very special memory.




One day a long time ago when we were children, my Dad was out planting annuals in the back garden. He loved gardening when he had the time to do it, and if he could amuse his three daughters at the same time, well that really was a red letter day. So on this one morning, my sisters and I with noses pressed tight up against the bedroom window screen, watched Dad plant pansies. For our entertainment, he talked to his little plants in a voice, not unlike that of the late Jonathan Winter's character, Maude Frickert.


An old reedy, wheezy voice with a bit of a southern drawl wafted up to the window, "Well aren't you just a little cutie. Let's just get you set up right in here. Oh, such a sweetie. Now, what about your other little friends here? They want a special place just like you. Oops, don't you worry about those little wormies. They're your friends too."







We hung on every word, suppressing giggles and jostling each other. What neither we nor Dad knew was that our neighbour, hidden by the fence, was also crouched down in her garden not two metres away from Dad. Then we saw her face appear as she stood to peer over the fence to investigate the chatter. I well remember her squinty quizzical eyes focussed squarely on her neighbour's back.

Dad kept right on talking to the flowers, "Oh look at you, such a pretty yellow dress."

He must have felt her stare. He oozed his head around to look toward the fence then turned back. His chin dropped to his chest and he hung there shaking his head. He seemed to be muttering something, probably an expletive or three.




Words from the other side of the fence penetrated the air. "Well they are pretty aren't they?" 

We slid from our places at the window, hands clutching our mouths, giggles bubbling up inside us.


So yes, I talk to my plants, and not just the pansies.





They all are good listeners and together we enjoy many a lovely chat come sun or cloud. There are no little faces pressed up against a window screen watching me and no neighbours listening in, but I'm never alone. My Dad is always right there beside me chatting away. It's a family tradition!

Dad & Mom 1971




©2018 April Hoeller

Monday, 5 December 2016

Monday Moanings - December 5, 2016

It's beginning to look a lot like...

The view outside my kitchen this morning

I awoke to a winter wonderland outside my door this morning. I love it! Nothing lifts my spirits quite so high as December snow. I couldn't wait to get out there with my camera.





Oh DEER!



No time for sitting here. Now it was all hands to the shovel and the snow blower. The big machine struggled with the heavy wet snow, lurching, spinning tires on the unfrozen ground. Then there was the shovel work. The walkways, deck and 'trim work' where the snow blower cannot go, require the old fashioned brute force approach. That was some workout, let me tell you. I even logged it in my fitness tracker as "weight training."


So many memories are unlocked by the first good snowfall.
   - the tingle when catching a snowflake on my tongue.
    - flopping down on my back to sweep out my arms and legs to make a snow angel and then struggling to get back up again without messing up the creation.
     - trudging through snow way over my boots, while singing Good King Wenceslas.
     - making snow forts, snowballs, and snowmen complete with a carrot nose and stone eyes, and outfitted with a ragged scarf and an old hat. Yes, they were always 'snowmen' but issues of gender never occurred to me.





How about snow sundaes? Now there was a treat, except in my childhood home, it was Aunt Jemima's syrup that was poured on the snow. We couldn't afford real maple syrup.

Quebec City, March 2008

I recall my mother loved a winter wonderland but only when viewed from inside a cosy house. I never saw a snow shovel in her hands. No sledding for her either. That was Dad's department.

One year I recall he and I even built ski hill in the back yard. We piled snow upon snow, stripping much of the back yard of its white cover (mother was not amused!), until there was a hill - well really more of mound - about a metre high and just as wide. The slope stretched out for something like 4 metres. The first problem was getting on the top without destroying the slope. Dad put his old wooden skis on the 'summit' then hoisted me up.

Yup, that's me all right - uh huh, in my dreams...

I got on the skis then planted the poles and pushed off. The skis inched forward, once. I tried again. Same result. Then Dad got behind the hill and gave the back of the skis a push. Down the hill I went - lurching, squeaking, scrunching the whole way down, inches at a time. No speed records. No wind in my ten year old face. I tried a couple of more 'runs' before abandoning the slope for a cup hot chocolate with mini-marshmallows on top.


Dad may not have known how to build a good ski hill, but he sure knew how to build a great memory!

Winter in Canada - there's no life like it!




©2016 April Hoeller