This is the big, black sedan Mustard fell out of as a child, thanks to the dreaded suicide doors.
Guess I haven’t been down in my basement in the daytime recently, because earlier this week, I ventured down to have a look through some old family albums, and it was pitch black down there.
Huh?
So I looked at the windows that normally allow lots of light to stream in, and they are completely covered in snow. Buried. Can’t remember that happening here before.
However, it does remind me of growing up in Friendly Manitoba back in the 50’s and 60’s. Seems to me I remember winters being a lot more like this back then.
And because a snowblower was a rich man’s toy, we never had one. I remember shovelling. Lots of shovelling.
So I went digging through some old family albums to see if I could find any evidence to back that up, and I found pictures from the 20’s on up to the 70’s showing lots, and lots, of snow.
I found one picture from the mid 60’s showing the sidewalk at our 192 Library Place home in St. James with not only a whack of snow on either side, but also decorated with Christmas trees my Dad used to gather from around the neighbourhood to make the yard look a little greener til spring thaw. He was no fan of winter.
Built a lot of great snow forts in that backyard over the years. It was just so much fun to dig one out, big enough for two or three kids to sit in comfortably, put some carpet or cardboard on the “floor”, and at night, light a few candles in there and feel all grown up in our own “house”. It was particularly enjoyable if there was a storm howling outside. Do kids do that anymore? I think not.
Too bad.
I also remember, one spring, a tunnel my buddy Hugh Kessler and I had built in his backyard, reinforced with chicken wire and iced for strength, collapsing on me and being trapped under the snow, ice, and wire until Hugh dug me out. Ah well, live and learn. Winter was so much of an outdoor thing for kids back then. Always off tobogganing and sliding somewhere. So much fun.
I also found a winter pic from my very young childhood days in Killarney, unkindly reminding me how old I actually am. It’s taken from out front of our house, and includes a pic of our 1930s car. The same car I fell out of on a gravel highway in Saskatchewan, by opening the back door when we were doing 100 km/h or so (summer, coming home from Kenosee Lake), the wind catching the suicide door — so called because they opened into the wind — and dumping me on the highway to tumble along until I finally stopped.
I was two. It took 60-some stitches to sew up the wounds on my head in a hospital in Carlyle, Saskatchewan, where the doctor told my parents they got me there just in time. “A few more minutes and this little guy would have bled to death.” I still have some of the scars, don’t remember any of it, which is probably a good thing.
I really love being the repository for those family photo albums, a couple of stacks of them, because every once in a while it’s really nice (especially on a cold snowy day like this) to sit at the table, coffee in hand, and browse back through the years. A heartwarming escape.
I’ll end today’s column by reminding those of you who have your family’s history in pictures, to label as many as you can, and tell the kids and grandkids that after you croak, anyone who sends the pics off to the dump, will be haunted mercilessly. They are such a treasure. Happy weekend.
Comments and column ideas welcome!
lmustard1948@gmail.com
