Was Aunt Violet highly educated? No.
Did she have degrees behind her name? Again, no.
And yet, to me, she was one of the most creative, resourceful, and responsible people I have ever met.
You’ll never find a rainbow if you’re looking down.
~ Charlie Chaplin
Story #4: A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Words
If the kid version of me saw the adult version of me now, I would not say a word! Nope. Nada. I would have lots to say in my head, though. And what would I be thinking?
She’s nice. I can tell.
I like her laugh. It makes me laugh too.
I like her clothes. She looks comfortable in them.
I love her pretty rugs. They are so warm on a chilly morning.
She’s got lots of books. That must be great.
Her drawings are fun. They make me smile.
Her glasses sure are thick! That must be uncomfortable.
She must be smart! She finished high school and even college.
Her teddy bears are cute. They’re so cuddly too.
I feel sorry for her. She can’t climb trees anymore.
When I grow up, I want to be just like her.
I wonder, would she read me a bedtime story?
Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes.
~ Carl Jung
Story #5: I’m in a Pickle
My early years were lived in the tiny village of Cascades, close to the town of Wakefield where I was born in rural Québec. Our family knew everyone. And everyone knew us.
God forbid, if you dared do anything naughty while away from home. Because in those days, you were sure to get ratted on.
But then again, there wasn’t much I could do that was wicked. Except when I decided to run away from home with my big sister. I must have been three years old and Big Sis was maybe five. My travel companion adorned herself with Mommy’s baubles while I stuffed cookies into a small paper bag.
How did we escape?
We waited for Mom to nap with our baby brother. And when the coast was clear, we slipped out the side door of the house. There we were, partners in crime. Sis glittered in jewels while I licked crumbs off my lips.
Life was good. And we were off on an adventure.
We lived right beside the train tracks in those days. And that’s exactly what we were walking on. The train tracks. An active train track, I might add.
Sadly, our reverie was short-lived. Suddenly, we heard our Mother screaming at the top of her lungs. “Get back here!”
Oops!
I don’t remember what happened next. Likely, we got a good lickin’. So much for our travel plans.
Poor Mom. By that time, she had five children all under ten. She was one very busy lady. Oh, and about my small town? It was more like a village. A village that is now famous. If you have ever seen the movie Grey Owl, starring Pierce Brosnan, you will see where I grew up. The movie was shot approximately six hundred feet away from my childhood home, in what used to be a train station.
So what’s the big deal about the movie Grey Owl? It is based on the true story of Archibald Belaney, an Englishman who, as a young boy, dreamed of living as a North American Indian. And he did just that.
A story, by the way, that I devoured as a teenager.
So there you go. My story of what it was like living in a small village.
When my kids become wild and unruly, I use a nice, safe playpen. When they’re finished, I climb out.
~ Erma Bombeck
Story #6: Don’t Spill the Beans
One hot summer day, I spotted a black phone receiver on the side of the train tracks behind our house. I picked it up and listened with rapt attention.
And there I sat, the gravel burning beneath my bottom, my eyes squinting under a blinding sun. I strained to hear what the lady was saying.
We didn’t have a phone in my first childhood home. And this was the first time I had ever held a receiver in my hand. Don’t ask me what the lady talked about. I do remember feeling as if I was connecting with a land far away. What was I doing sitting on the side of an active train track as a three-or four-year-old?
I was keeping myself company while Mom cared for a deathly ill newborn. My three older siblings were away at school. And as there was no one to play with, I created my own world, a private world only for me.
I never told Mom about listening in on that telephone conversation. I knew better than to say a single word. A child in those days was never permitted to pick up a phone without permission.
I knew I would be in big trouble if I spilled the beans. Best keep the lid on what I’d done. And that is how I lived much of my childhood. Quiet, observant, and all ears. Exploring a world of my own. A land rich with mud pies in the front yard and dancing diamonds on the water.
And sparkling stars in the night sky that bid me goodnight at the close of every day.
Not all those who wander are lost.
~ J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring
Story #7: Man of Few Words
I don’t recall my grandpa ever saying a word to me or anyone else, for that matter.
Grandpa Max was deaf. We’re talking stone deaf. So much so, that he lost a few fingers on the power saw.
Why was that? Grandpa had this habit of forgetting to turn off the saw motor.
He rarely spoke. And he never scribbled his thoughts on paper either. You see, Grandpa was illiterate.
And even if he had written down his thoughts, Grandma would not have understood. That’s because Grandma could not read or write either.
Okay, so we settled that. My Grandpa Max never spoke to me.
And yet, here I am, answering the question, what words of wisdom did your grandfather leave you with?
When you know you are cherished, you don’t need words to tell you that someone cares.
When you feel safe and secure with someone, they don’t have