Thursday, or Thereabouts - June 1, 2023

 

Summer has jumped the gun this year, rushing her entrance onto my doorstep a full three weeks before the solstice. Her usual entourage of bugs - black flies, mosquitoes, deer flies, and ants - are all present and correct for June 21 too. Even the "Bobbsey Twins", high humidity and poor air quality have shown up this week along with a heat warning in tow. My plants and flowers which last week were dodging frost, are this week crying out for copious drinks and umbrellas. There has been no rain here since May 20th and so the fire danger is high. Please, PLEASE be vigilant.

Watching my grandchildren splashing in their backyard wading pool this past Sunday brought back a flood of memories. 

Hot! Hot! Hot! So hot the tar bubbles up between the pebbles on the road; round, shiny black globs. I can smell the tar - acrid gasoline fumes rise up from the road surface. My flip flops stick haphazardly as I walk; sometimes a step is unhindered, other times the foam sole sticks then releases raising fine black strands of gooeyness. Round flat, black globs decorate the bottom of my favourite summer footwear. I scuff over to the lawn hoping the grass will wipe away the sticky tar. It's futile. Now I have flipflops with green grass clippings stuck to them. 

Happy days with wind in my face bike rides, 5¢ popsicles, 10¢ ice cream cones, Coppertone® sun tan lotion or maybe just a coating of baby oil (there was no sunscreen), big circulating fans swirling in the windows (the only A/C we had), family bbq's, and a backyard pool made summer an absolute delight.

me just chillin', 1972

Freshly filled in the first week of June each year, the water temperature began as a bracing 16°C (61°F) and then crawled it's way up to a blistering 23°C (74°F) by mid-August, aided at least in some small part by my mother and I dumping buckets of hot water to it while Dad was at work!

Dad's idea of chillin' in the pool, 1972

Mom 1971

My version of taking a dive, 1972

Stay cool folks. Be fire smart.

©2023 April Hoeller

Thursday, or Thereabouts - May 12, 2023

 It's a "Thereabouts" day and as Mother's Day weekend sits on the doorstep, I've dusted off a piece I wrote some six years ago about my Mom and our visits to the bookmobile. 

The time is the late 1950's and it's a Bookmobile Day Friday...

Mom and I walked hand-in-hand down to the end of our short street where the big two-toned green bus parked for an hour a few mornings a month from 10:30 to 11:30.  Sometimes we arrived in time to watch this behemoth lumber and creak into place, but most of the time it was there already, with the stairs pulled out waiting for us. In warm weather, the driver lounged outside on the grass smoking a cigarette, but when he saw us coming, he jumped to his feet and with a big smile lifted me up into the library on wheels. Those steps were just too big for my four-year-old legs. Mom always thanked him, and the librarian who greeted us, always smiled.

Inside, both walls were lined with books floor to ceiling and the narrow hallway between them was paved with beige linoleum.  A long thin bank of fluorescent lights that ran down the centre of the bus emitted a comfortable hum.  In the summer, it was hot and airless, so we never stayed very long, but in winter the bookmobile was a cozy refuge from bitter winds, due in no small part to the engine running for the full hour.

About half way down on the driver’s side was a two-foot square window.  This was where the children’s books could be found.  A small kid-sized wooden table with two chairs sat under the window and nestled between two low vertical shelves that displayed the entire children’s collection, perhaps some twenty books in all.  Most of the time I had this special space all to myself -- it seemed not many children got taken to the bookmobile by their mom.

My favourite books were Lois Lenski’s stories about Mr. Small – Cowboy Small, Policeman Small, Papa Small, The Little Sailboat, and The Little Train, to name a few.  My all time favourite book was “Curious George”.  George and I had something in common too.  We were both very curious and that occasionally got us into trouble.

One day, Mom handed me Ludwig Bemelmans’ “Madeline”, even though I really didn’t think a story about pretty little girls in Paris, France was anything I would like.  As the story goes, Madeline is taken ill and has to go to the hospital.  I had just had such an experience, so Madeline and I had something in common.  My mom was very clever!

Sometimes I just liked to watch Mom find her books.  She scanned the shelves carefully, often with her right forefinger tracing along the bottom of the book spines until she found something of interest, at which point she pulled out the book to read the inside flap.  Then one of two things happened – she either put the book back or she went on to read the first page.  If then a smile crept across her face,  she closed the book with a satisfactory snap and added it to her book bag.

We presented our finds to the smiling librarian who great purpose, thumped the due date stamp on the slip in the back of the book and filed the borrower's card in a wooden box. Then out the door we went - with a little help from the driver - and back up the street, walking hand-in-hand.  After a lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches, we spent the afternoon curled up together on the living sofa reading our books. 

Mom and I, 1958

So many memories,
So many stories,
So much love.

To all who mother life -
hoping, fearing, dreaming,
laughing, crying, rejoicing,
nurturing, protecting, loving...

Happy Mother's Day!

©2023 April Hoeller

Thursday, or Thereabouts - April 20, 2023

 

It's a big deal in my homeland. Every town, big and small has at least one hockey rink and scores of recreational and competitive teams. Larger towns and cities support multiple amateur leagues, the scouting grounds for the Olympics and the NHL. There are many hockey dreams in the land...

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who loved to play hockey. She dreamt about stick handling her way down the right wing, closing in on the net, then a quick wrist snap puts the puck in the top left corner It's all one fluid movement and she nails it every time.

That's the way it is with dreams...

As it so often does, reality told a different story. It was the 1960's, the time before helmets and face shields. Little girls were not supposed to like hockey. More than that, girls were not allowed to play hockey. And no wonder - girls skates, those bright white figure skates with the sharp picks at the front, were not made for hockey.

The little girl struggled in too narrow skates, hand-me-downs from a sister who skated perfectly through turns and twists, forward and backward. Though she tried and tried again, the little girl never mastered the task, defeated by those blasted picks that dug into the ice and sent her down too hard, too often. The laughter and taunts from the sidelines didn't help.

The best Christmas ever delivered an official hockey sweater of the Chicago Blackhawks - her favourite NHL team at the time - CCM gloves, and a Titan hockey stick. The dream lived on. Her Dad cutting up the ice with speed and wide turns, encouraged the dream.

The Mom tolerated the dream, taking all this hockey stuff in her stride for the most part, but she drew the line when the father suggested buying boys' tube skates. It was a bridge too far for the mother of the not so girly daughter.

No matter, out on the winter street, hard packed with snow, the neighbourhood boys always needed an extra player and the little girl was always dressed and ready to go in the sweater, gloves, stick, and boots. Living the dream.

The years passed and the girl grew and the boys grew and soon wanted nothing to do with the hockey girl who couldn't skate. She settled for Hockey Night in Canada to satisfy her desire, but mostly the dream fell asleep, and thirty years slipped by...

1998 - The Women broke onto the ice hockey scene at the Olympics in Nagano, Japan.  That little girl's dream tucked into a grown woman, stirred and stretched. Oh to have been born in the 70's instead of the 50's. 

She immersed herself in every game, cheering and jeering, sometimes holding her breath, sometimes sagging with disappointment but throughout it all, thrilled to see other women living her dream and theirs on the ice.

These days, the little girl's dream continues to live on in the Olympics and the IIHF world championships. Her favourite Canadian women's teams don't always have to win gold - that the games exist, that the women are there, and that they are playing at such a high skill level is more than enough fuel to keep the dream alive in this vintage gal!

Not all dreams are meant to be realized. Many are there just to keep me reaching forward, trying new things, and new ways, encouraging possibilities and even some new ones.

©2023 April Hoeller

Thursday, or Thereabouts - March 23, 2023

Most mornings I wake up with a tune playing in my head. It might be an orchestral piece but most often it is a song and barring any upheavals during the day, this music sets the tone for my day. This morning as I walked from bed to bathroom, I did so to the tune of the Banana Boat song bubbling around in my brain.Here's the song made famous by Harry Belafonte in 1956 - have a listen:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DYYkJ0kwNss

It was a regular occurrence in my childhood home for either one of my parents to suddenly break into song and this tune popping into my head this morning took me back to any Saturday morning in that living room. My sisters and I are sitting around quietly doing our own things, my mother in the kitchen clearing away breakfast dishes when Dad ambles into the living room without any apparent purpose, stops then BELLOWS,  "Day-O! Day-ay-ay-o!" 

We all knew the song so well, that once we recovered from the surprise, we jumped to our feet singing along, "Daylight come and me wan' go home..." and forming up a conga line dance behind my Dad, a turn of two around the living room before moving through the hall to the kitchen, through the dining room and back to the living room. Such great fun!

A happy welcome to Puerto Limon, Costa Rica, Feb. 21, 2023

Singing was an integral part of all family gatherings. A lull in the conversation, especially if the subject matter had become controversial or solemn, provided the perfect opportunity for someone one in the clan to break into song, or even just begin humming one. That's all it took. We all joined in, some introducing a little harmony, some inventing new words to throw us off and evoke uproarious laughter. Such great fun. Such joyous memories on this rainy day. 

I'm off to do a few more calypso turns around the kitchen, then on with my day. Cheers!

©2023 April Hoeller

 

Monday Meander - April 12, 2021

Rainy days and Mondays

When I took in the dreary, wet view outside my door this morning, that familiar song by The Carpenter's spun up on the turntable in my head. It was very soothing to my soul and I wanted to listen to the original as only Karen Carpenter could sing it. What was not so soothing was the discovery that Rainy Days and Mondays was released FIFTY (50!) years ago, April 1971. Holy Hannah, how can that be?  I had to do the math twice, on a calculator!

Mom and her girls, Easter - April 11, 1971)

Fifty years ago I was grade 12, the man and I were dating. He had taken a year off between high school and university and was working the computer floor at IBM, two-week cycle of eight-hour shifts (days, afternoons and nights). 

The way we were - 1971

Life was rich. Unless he was working the social graveyard shift (4pm to midnight), we were at my house on Friday evenings watching TV with my folks (remember the days on ONE TV in the house!) or going with them over to Gram and Gramps. I think 1971 was the year we spent god-knows how many hours soldering circuit boards with resisters, integrated circuits, and more to make into a radio/tuner. It was a kit made by Hallicrafters. It looked something like this one. I have a picture somewhere but after half an hour of searching my slide catalogue, I let the internet find this one.

The summer of 1971, my parents, younger sister and I flew to Vancouver on a 747 ("Fat Albert"). It was epic! A fabulous adventure from start to finish. And we still got to make the annual family to Breezy Point, NY afterward. What a summer!

Capilano River Park with "The Lions" mountains

My slide catalogue has 7 lined pages of entries for 1971 and it's been a fabulous trip down memory lane just to read the notes. It has also taken me over three hours to write this post as I keep returning to the catalogue and then the slide cases to view the actual photos. Turns out this rainy day and Monday has given me energy and purpose. It's time to begin the task culling and then digitizing important slides before the colours and the stories fade even more.

What a great job for this stay-at-home gal on blah days when the garden is off limits!  

 Score!

 

©2021 April Hoeller

Thursday, or Thereabouts – February 11, 2021

Train of Thought

While the polar vortex chugs along outside, I’m happy to be stuck at home today letting my mind do the traveling. A little time travel seems right. Back to the early 1960’s…

A blue station wagon pulls in the driveway of my house and out pops a young guy delivering the groceries my Mom bought at the IGA earlier in the day. He plunks the boxes down in the front hall. The deal is that if I help unpack and put away the stuff, I get to spend the rest of the afternoon with the boxes. I eagerly and often way too quickly empty the boxes of tins, jars, cartons, and packages. The magical time is about to begin. No construction, no decoration required, just two empty boxes full of possibility. And two empty grocery boxes become trains. 

I cram myself into the front car. The car behind me might be carrying coal, or gold, or my little sister.  “All Aboard!” I shout then “Wooo! Wooo!”  I lurch my body forward, “ Chuga, chuga, chug, chug.”  And we’re off bouncing and jiggling our way along the rails, steel-on-steel screeching around curves. There is no destination in mind, no amazing scenery to behold, no point to the travel other than just the wonderful imaginary experience of riding the rails, and it was grand!

If my Dad was home, he put on the record of train sounds that he had and turned the volume way up.  Now that just boosted the experience to a whole new level of reality. Have a listen: here. The album cover pictured in the link is different but this is the cover we had.

Not only were the sound effects unique (the recording was made in the rain along the tracks of the New York Central Railway in 1952), but the record itself was a deep cranberry colour vinyl not the usual black. Very special to my primary school self.

Ah well, time to return to the here and now. A truck pulled into the driveway earlier and my grocery order now sits in the kitchen awaiting sorting.

Can you hear the train whistle?

All Aboard!

 

©2021 April Hoeller

Monday Meander – October 26, 2020

The Time Between…

The gardens have been put to bed, the lawnmower and weed whacker silenced.
The forest floor is a carpet of fallen leaves.

Though there were no Fall Fairs this year of the pandemic, still we have paid homage to the plentiful gifts from the farms – apples, pumpkins, carrots, squashes, potatoes and more.

We have celebrated and given thanks for all the blessings of life.

The air outside my house pulses with Autumn's incense as smoke rises from a lazy fire in the woodstove within, murmuring about warmth.

I love this time between - a gracious respite after the September start-ups and October gatherings, after the harvests, bottling, and canning; before the Christmas machine roars to life, whatever form that may take this year.

It is a time of tender reflection, a time to look behind me and around me, within me and beyond me, where I've been and where I now am.  It's a bit like a meander through a fine old bookshop…

My fingertips brush across the bindings of the stories of my life as I stroll the along the years. A few tales linger on my heart, a few bring a tear, a few tease out a giggle or three, and of course, there are a couple of mysteries to ponder.

Every story is important.
Life is still good even the midst of the second wave of  a pandemic.

 

 

©2020 April Hoeller

Monday Moanings - April 1, 2019

April Fools' Day




I loathed this day when I was a child. There was no fun in having my name, April and therefore me, connected with 'fool'. No matter how hard I tried, how brave a face I began the day with, I always ended up feeling every bit a despicable fool.

Every year in primary school this day reduced me to tears which then evoked more teasing - "Cry baby!"

The only escape from this annual day of humiliation came when April 1st fell on the weekend and those even less frequent years when the date was eclipsed by Good Friday or Easter Monday.




I survived of course. I'm happy to report that except for the briefest of stings in my depths, gone is the great anxiety that used to accompany the day. Now when April Fools' Day comes around, a smile creases my face and my heart warms to thoughts of that most wonderful of Springtime delights - the spaghetti harvest.

The BBC meticulously covered the harvest in the Ticino region of southern Switzerland and presented it to viewers on this day in 1957. Click here for the link.

Following the broadcast, the network was flooded with inquiries about where one might find spaghetti seeds, cuttings, and bushes. Some folks were quite irate to discover that they had been pranked by none other than the BBC.

I recall watching the clip with my folks and my Dad becoming almost apoplectic with laughter. For years afterward, there were frequent references in our house to spaghetti trees always accompanied by great chortling. God bless the BBC!

Another harvest of delight blossoms up from my memory garden...April Fools Day 1965. At the supper table that night my younger sister, a chirpy five-year-old, regaled the family with jokes half-remembered from her kindergarten class. Grinning from ear to ear, eager anticipation bouncing through her body, she asked, "When is Cathy Fools' Day?"

There was silence for a moment before barely concealed snorts of derision erupted around the table. Her little face went blank then a giggle emerged, but only because we were laughing.




I recall Mom was the exception to the laughter.  A smile creased her face but it was quickly covered by a paper napkin into which she coughed.  Composure regained, she put her hand on Cathy's, "You know dear, April Fool's Day is not about your sister at all."

All the gentleness and sincerity was lost on Cathy. Seriously, how could it not be about her sister April? No amount of explanation satisfied the little one. And so it came to pass that the First Monday in May 1965 was proclaimed "Cathy Fools' Day" by Mom's authority. Cathy skipped off to school that day full of tricks, homemade jokes - as only a five-year-old can make them - and a note from Mom explaining the holiday.

Giggles trump tears.

Happy memories soothe bruises.

Love conquers all.

I'm heading out in the snow to check on my spaghetti trees...

©2019 April Hoeller

Thursday, or Thereabouts - October 25, 2018

The Time Between...

The gardens have been put to bed, the lawnmower and weed whacker silenced.
The forest floor is a carpet of fallen leaves.

We have paid homage to giant pumpkins and shiny farm tractors at Fall Fairs.

We have celebrated and given thanks for all the blessings of life.

The air outside my house pulses with Autumn's incense as smoke rises from a lazy fire in the woodstove within, murmuring about warmth.

I love this time between - a gracious respite after the September start-ups and October gatherings, after the harvests, bottling, and canning; before the Christmas machine roars to life.

It is a time of tender reflection, a time to look behind me and around me, within me and beyond me, where I've been and where I now am.  It's a bit like a meander through a fine old bookshop...

Barter Books, Alnwick Station, Northumberland

My fingertips brush across the bindings of the stories of my life as I stroll the along the years. A few tales linger on my heart, a few bring a tear, a few tease out a giggle or three, and of course, there are a couple of mysteries to ponder.

All of the stories are important.
Life is good.





©2018 April Hoeller