Auntie

Auntie

It was around this time when we were living in France that stories started to filter in about an old aunt we had who lived in Paris. She was a recluse, rich and related by marriage to my grandfather, (Dad’s dad), Herbie. Herbie’s mother married General Morrison and Auntie Syble was General Morrison’s sister. Herbie was her only nephew.

Auntie had apparently promised her mother that, even though she lived in Paris, she would marry an American. She had many French suitors but she kept her promise and married an American, Arthur Kemp. He must have been very rich because he left her and her daughter, Elizabeth a very large home in the centre of Paris, full of antiques and collectables. 

I remember Uncle Shaun coming to see us in France with the story that he had gone to Paris to see Auntie.  It was pouring rain when he knocked on the door of her huge house, but he was not allowed in because Auntie had a cold. Because of that, I was left with the impression of her as a hermit and one with rather cold emotions.

Auntie made up for it when she died, because Herbie, being the only nephew, inherited her fortune.  This was a nice little boost to Herbie’s sons, my father and his brothers, Shaun and John. Herbie and John went over to settle her estate.  All the antiques were sold and some jewelry brought back along with some of the things she hoarded, like fine materials and kid skin gloves. I loved the silk slips and camisoles.  Looking back, I think the family would have made different decisions about what to do with all that stuff if it were to happen today.

The Mystery Machine

The Mystery Machine

One day my father came home with a large box with two reels on the side.  He asked us what it might be and we had no idea. As we discussed the possibilities of what it could be, he was taping  us.  When he played it back to us we were gobble smacked.  It was true magic indeed! We could hear our voices speak to us from that box.  I’ll never forget the impression that left on me. I was fascinated!  I remember my father listening to his classical music on that reel to reel for years. It must have been the absolute, very first tape recorder.

Karen Runs Through the Glass

Karen Runs Through the Glass

The PMQ’s had large glass doors in the front and in the back on the ground level.  These doors did not have stoppers on them and they often slammed shut with a huge bang when the wind ripped through the halls from the front of the building to the back.  This would cause the glass to sometimes shatter, leaving the frame empty.  It would take a while for the glass to be replaced. Kids got accustomed to jumping through the large opening, naturally, as that was much easier than opening the door, which the empty hole made unnecessary.  Since those responsible didn’t always get around to painting the pane as quickly as they should have, to indicate there was a window, on unfortunate occasions, the kids would inadvertently jump into the glass.

So it happened one day to Karen.  There was a frantic knock at the door.  A woman was speedily explaining to my mother to come, come quickly, Karen is losing a lot of blood.  I wanted to go with her, but I was cautioned to stay put.

All I got were the stories of what happened to Karen that day.  She ran through the window.  There was so much blood, towels full.  The ambulance couldn’t come.  She went in a car with Mom’s friends. She cut her face badly. Did she lose an eye? Her nose?  What was going on under all that blood?  

She survived to tell the tale.  She had a gash in her face from her tear duct in her eye that went half way down her cheek.  For weeks she had a large dark scab on her face.  She went to London, England for plastic surgery. Over the years the scar faded and I never noticed it anymore.  It just became part of who she was and it never seemed to bother her.

Rosemary

Rosemary

I was ten years old and my mother felt I was too old to keep getting dolls as presents.  I didn’t agree with her at all. Her idea just made her last doll gift to me all the more precious.  It was so beautiful; she was almost like a real baby. She had short curly red hair.  Her arms were just like skin, soft and malleable.  Her little fingers squeezed mine, I’m sure of it.  She’d look at me with those big blue eyes that opened and shut when I tilted her head, and her long lashes went up and down.  I called her  “Rosemary’.  You could say I loved Rosemary. Very much. In my world of aloneness, she was the receiver of my affections.  She was so cuddly.

I lost Rosemary when we moved home from France when I was eleven. My memory is vague as to the exact time, but I know I was longing for her.

It was many years later at the family cottage, that my aunt mentioned she had seen Rosemary at the bottom of the lake.  I was horrified.  But I figured that my cousins, who were young at that time, and mischievous, had taken her from me to play a joke and just pitched her in the lake. 

I grieved my Rosemary for years.  Somehow, knowing where she was offered closure and I lived on with the fond memory of her.  I have tried many times to replace her, but I don’t think they make them like that any more.

Camping

Camping

Even as a kid I appreciated being able to travel the world the way we did. I was so grateful and felt so blessed. Even with a couple of wretchedly wet camping experiences, I could still say this.

When we were camping on the beach at Nice, it was raining.  It was one of the many times my dad had to get out in the rain and put the tent up.  Karen, being pretty solid and strong, would help him.

My parents slept in the tent with Susan, all zipped in nicely, and Karen and I slept in the outer part under the over-hang, on cots.  There was no floor, just the sides of the tent and the canopy. The rain was pouring in one side and flowing out the other. I was freezing.  My mother says from  her cozy sleeping bag, “Put your sox on!”. I replied, “I have my sox on.”  She furthers, “Put on your sweater.”  I answer, “I have on my sweater.” “Put on your coat.”  “I have on my coat.”  At which point she feels she’s done her motherly job and goes to sleep. I eventually slept myself, but I woke up, sleeping bag and all, in a puddle outside the tent. My mother had to get up at this point and fix me up.

When we were on the Italian Riviera, I almost drowned.  We were again camping on the beach. I enthusiastically ran into the sea, straight into a big wave which made its way into my lungs.  It gagged me and I can still remember the strong taste of salt.

Crash of two CF 100's

Two CF 100’s crash on the Base

I was in the PX [that’d be the food store], buying my favourite fries and gravy when all of a sudden there was an impact on the earth and the ground shook under my feet. The lights dimmed and flickered. The only noise, after the ominous thud, was the sound of change raining down on the counters as if someone had hit the jackpot.  Everyone froze for a second or two, expecting someone to explain to them what was going on.  

People took to the streets in panic. I followed the crowds towards the smoke in the sky. That’s where the hospital was.  A fire? An explosion? There? That would be too horrible. What was it?

I found a safe place to witness this horrific scene as it unfolded before me. I sat on the steps of the church across the street from the hospital and watched the fire blaze. 

We were later to learn the tragic news that two CF 100’s had collided in mid air. The pilots ejected and survived, and the planes crashed into the ground.  One landed in a farmer’s field, making sacrifice of a Holstein and the other, on the hospital, which was burning before my eyes.

I will also always remember the stories of heroism of Dr. Chisholm who held up the burning walls of the maternity ward so the mothers could escape.  While he survived, he suffered disfiguring burns.

I took the bus back to the PMQ’s and told Mom what had happened.  Since we didn’t have any telephones, the wives of the pilots had to worry and wait for news if their husbands were alive or not. There was a phone at the office  which was useful if the office were open. I didn’t know if these fretful wives used the phone that day.

The Kid's Club

The Kid’s Club in France

Kids are weird. A bunch of them decided to form a club. If you wanted to be part of it you had to be initiated by holding your foot in a red ant hill and let the ants crawl up your leg.  No thank you. I had a few select friends who liked bunnies and hopscotch.  I didn’t like the kid’s club.