Christmas 1982
(Photo to come later)
(Imagine a photograph of a little girl, no more than two years old, in a yellow one-piece pajama sprawled in a doll’s cradle in front of a Christmas tree, a big grin on her face)
Hard times. Two words that my parents know the meaning of, in many ways. They both grew up in families that were by no means well-off: my father grew up on a Nova Scotia fishing town whose industry was diminishing year by year, and my mother grew up in a small, rural area known as Upper Musquodoboit, (which is almost in the exact geographic center of Nova Scotia), with 11 other siblings.
My mother has worked various jobs, and my father is a sheet-metal worker by trade. His trade is a sketchy one- sometimes the work is more plentiful in the summer, when new buildings are being built, or in the fall when people need heat. His work has often suffered from the same booms and periods of stagnation as construction, and as such I have seen him laid off many times.
One of these times was when I was only a year old. My parents hit harder times than usual; my father couldn’t find more work, so they decided to live with my mother’s parents for while.
Obviously I don’t remember much, given my age, but when Christmas came, it was tough. My mother’s only consolation was that we were in the house she had grown up in, and hence she had the luxury of pillaging the attic for relic toys.
One of these was an old doll cradle and a doll. The doll wasn’t much- soft body with a plastic head, and blonde hair that stuck out in every direction (my mother nicknamed her “Phyllis” because she looked like Phyllis Diller), but the cradle was in good shape.
So my father painted it up and gave it to me for Christmas- and lo and behold, like I hadn’t outgrown my infant years, and tried to sit in it. I broke the bottom out of it, of course (a cradle that had survived possibly 30 years up until this moment) and my father had to mend it again later. I cannot remember how many times I broke the bottom of that cradle, only that eventually my mother cleverly threaded it tightly with yarn instead, so that only the dolls could lay in it.
The point, of course, is not that I broke the cradle (although I’m sure that can have some sort of weird metaphorical meaning), the point is that this is a photo of a happy child. I don’t remember much about that year, or that Christmas, so I can’t vouch for how ‘hard’ that time was on me, but I do have a photograph to verify the fact that I was enjoying myself. I loved that cradle, and I did like the doll, THAT I can remember.
Both of my parents grew up poor, but neither of them really felt it- at least not the way some families do. My mother can remember homeless neighbours that used to camp on her family’s property, and hence she cannot recall as a child ever feeling ‘poor’, because she realized that she had more than they did. She had a house, she had food, and she had a family to love, and a mother that could make-due.
Consequently, even at points when my parents had practically nothing- and looking back now, I know there were a couple of times they were in real financial trouble- they always had something to give. It was never empty under the Christmas tree, even if the gifts came from the local dime store, and there was always food on the table, and heat in the house. I never felt as though my childhood was lacking. And most importantly- they have made family togetherness essential, which is the greatest thing they have brought out of their childhood and into mine.
This is a picture of a happy child.
(Imagine a photograph of a little girl, no more than two years old, in a yellow one-piece pajama sprawled in a doll’s cradle in front of a Christmas tree, a big grin on her face)
Hard times. Two words that my parents know the meaning of, in many ways. They both grew up in families that were by no means well-off: my father grew up on a Nova Scotia fishing town whose industry was diminishing year by year, and my mother grew up in a small, rural area known as Upper Musquodoboit, (which is almost in the exact geographic center of Nova Scotia), with 11 other siblings.
My mother has worked various jobs, and my father is a sheet-metal worker by trade. His trade is a sketchy one- sometimes the work is more plentiful in the summer, when new buildings are being built, or in the fall when people need heat. His work has often suffered from the same booms and periods of stagnation as construction, and as such I have seen him laid off many times.
One of these times was when I was only a year old. My parents hit harder times than usual; my father couldn’t find more work, so they decided to live with my mother’s parents for while.
Obviously I don’t remember much, given my age, but when Christmas came, it was tough. My mother’s only consolation was that we were in the house she had grown up in, and hence she had the luxury of pillaging the attic for relic toys.
One of these was an old doll cradle and a doll. The doll wasn’t much- soft body with a plastic head, and blonde hair that stuck out in every direction (my mother nicknamed her “Phyllis” because she looked like Phyllis Diller), but the cradle was in good shape.
So my father painted it up and gave it to me for Christmas- and lo and behold, like I hadn’t outgrown my infant years, and tried to sit in it. I broke the bottom out of it, of course (a cradle that had survived possibly 30 years up until this moment) and my father had to mend it again later. I cannot remember how many times I broke the bottom of that cradle, only that eventually my mother cleverly threaded it tightly with yarn instead, so that only the dolls could lay in it.
The point, of course, is not that I broke the cradle (although I’m sure that can have some sort of weird metaphorical meaning), the point is that this is a photo of a happy child. I don’t remember much about that year, or that Christmas, so I can’t vouch for how ‘hard’ that time was on me, but I do have a photograph to verify the fact that I was enjoying myself. I loved that cradle, and I did like the doll, THAT I can remember.
Both of my parents grew up poor, but neither of them really felt it- at least not the way some families do. My mother can remember homeless neighbours that used to camp on her family’s property, and hence she cannot recall as a child ever feeling ‘poor’, because she realized that she had more than they did. She had a house, she had food, and she had a family to love, and a mother that could make-due.
Consequently, even at points when my parents had practically nothing- and looking back now, I know there were a couple of times they were in real financial trouble- they always had something to give. It was never empty under the Christmas tree, even if the gifts came from the local dime store, and there was always food on the table, and heat in the house. I never felt as though my childhood was lacking. And most importantly- they have made family togetherness essential, which is the greatest thing they have brought out of their childhood and into mine.
This is a picture of a happy child.
posted by Phinux | 10:33 AM
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