Stoney Creek Memories

To help me grow in my writing,  I study the work of others and often find a line or a poem which resonates deep within me.  

The line "Only a picture from a blue tin box" and the poem it begins are such inspirations.  The poem is "Cape Enrage"  by Lynn Davies, from her first collection of poems, The Bridge that Carries the Road, published by Brick Books in 1999.

This photo of me and two of my younger sisters was taken during a stay at our grandparents' home in Stoney Creek in 1954.  They looked after us while our parents were moving our household to another city.  

Lynn's poem evoked this memory.  I appreciate Lynn Davies for the beauty, inspiration, education and challenge her work offers.  I learn much about how to write better, examining the way a poem is created by another person.  In this instance, her first line brings a memory and her poem gives me a guide, by which to write this prose remembrance. 

This is my memory-

Stoney Creek

"Only a picture from a blue tin box." The week we stayed while our parents moved to Belle River. My grandfather steadied a brownie camera, told us, "Hold still." The July sun warmed water in the steel tubs, heated the galvanized walls which held us. My little sisters splashed and jumped; drops flew to my grandfather's trousers, 'til he shook with laughter.

In the picture, I wear a red bathing suit, my grandmother found in the attic, a gaudy orange flower sewed to the strap. This tub held Peggy's drinking water when she was alive, whinnying, running the pastures. Grandfather told me she had been a handful. After a drink, she'd hold water in her mouth. When he turned, she'd dribble a shock of cold down his back.

In the slow afternoon, soaked in water and laughter, we worked wonders: raindrops on the stiff gladiolas behind us; magic liniment on bites from black flies; wet-ghost hand prints on grey cedar shingles. We were water sprites spitting water onto a gravel driveway, watching it dry, disappear, dreaming of that horse full of tricks, all mischief gone.


Words in coloured ink will take you to another site with additional information, if you click on them.  I continue to grow in my writing, am aware that I have much to learn, and am grateful to work which shines a light for me.

Foxgloves in my Garden

Whenever foxgloves grow in my garden,

I think of my childhood.

They were fairy hats,

or dresses for tiny folk.

They were signs of magic, 

always a surprise,

always welcome.

Mysterious.

Memories of Playing in Mud

Memories of Playing in Mud

What is it makes me smile at seeing three children stamping in the mud?  Perhaps it is this memory from my childhood of a heat-held day in August and the five of us pleading to go to the river to play. 

Five faces under twelve nagging in unison are hard to resist.  We pack our jam sandwiches and oatmeal cookies and endure the usual warnings.  “Watch out for the changing tide, don't play in the main part of the river, stay away from the quicksand behind the fence on the marsh, don’t play with skates—just leave them alone, make lots of noise to warn bears you are near and come home when you hear the whistle.”

We nod, yes, yes, and scamper off.  We walk the mile and a half to the river in the company of black flies who are happy to see us.  Fingers of alder and needles of spruce scratch at our arms and legs, but we are cooler now walking under a canopy of oak, maple and birch, as we chatter our way to the water.

We strip to our bathing suits and throw ourselves screaming down the sluices of mud.  Soon we wear sleek new skins, as we slide down and down the troughs, shrieking when our legs slip into the frothy brown river.  We scramble back up the banks grabbing toe holds in the muck, giving ourselves to the lure of the squelchy sludge, to the call of the syrupy ooze.

We are sun-warmed and wet with soft, heavy clay squishing from our feet, clinging to our fingers and clumping in our hair.  We slide and play.  We are brown shining creatures, wild and exuberant under resinous pelts.  For hours, we slide and tumble; we become river otters. 

Yet eyeing the tide, we know we soon need to leave and begin the chore of washing ourselves in the freshwater brook that spills into the river.  We try (as much as any child tries) to get clean, but the brook water is so cold it bites into our bones.  Unable to remove all the clay, we sit on the banks sunning ourselves, flaking off dried chunks and flicking them at each other, teasing and eating our lunch.  In our teeth, we catch sunlight and laughter.  The summer heat dries us like creations kilned after the potter’s wheel.

Then far away, a signal sounds.  Our grandfather’s two-fingered whistle calls us back up the wooded hill, “Come home.”  We carry our clothes.  We are still so encrusted we can’t put them over our bathing suits, now dyed the colour of dirt.

When we arrive in the yard, too bespattered to go indoors, we wait.  We know the routine.  Our grandmother sprays us with the hose, the water from the gravity-fed spring as cold as the winds of December.

We shiver as bits of mud and clay slip and plop to the ground.  Cuffing at them with our feet, we make mud mounds.  Later, we gather these globs of damp clay and create pinch pots that will bake in the sun, to hold the dandelions we love.

Bits of my childhood are preserved in mud, like the red pottery made from Petitcodiac River clay.   Memories of being river otters, enchanted with the magic of mud chutes, of splashing into the river, scrabbling up slippery banks and coming home caked with clay and laughter; these memories whistle me back to my childhood home, whenever I see children stamping their feet in the mud.

Photo and words are ©copyright 2011-2013 Carol Steel.  These are three of our grandchildren walking in the mud at The Rocks in Hopewell Cape, supervised by both their grandfather and their mother.  They were not in any danger.

If you would like more information about the Petitcodiac River, click here. 

WARNING:  The Petitcodiac River is not a safe place to play.  It has strong tides and undercurrents, quicksand and mud so sticky you can get stuck and can't get out.  This memory is from 50 years ago and involves a small tributary of the river that entered our property and provided the safer banks and slower waters in which to play.  Do not slide into the banks of the main Petitcodiac or you may not get out.  It can be dangerous and deceptive and often is.

Playing in Puddles

Playing in Puddles

Saturday

Trees, distressed by rainfall shortage, are losing leaves, stripping themselves.  Leaves fall crisp and dry; skip chattering down the asphalt driveway.  The ornamental grasses at the edge of the garden are bronze, weary of searching for water.

All of nature aches for rain, wants to squeeze water from the grey sponge sky.  The soil is parched after weeks of inadequate rainfall.  A breeze shakes the leaves on the hedge; they make sounds like sheets of paper sliding to the floor.  A crow complains atop the neighbour’s poplars.

I close my eyes.  This heat-held air carries memories of Windsor, Ontario.  The fat damp air here is nothing compared to the suffocating humidity of Windsor in summers of my childhood.  I remember weeks upon weeks of stifling heat and humidity.  We played in the cool cement basement and sucked on pieces of ice to survive the heat.   And, waited for rain.

Rain.  The rain would come, heavy fat drops, a downpour, a deluge, complete with thunder and lightning.  After the storms, there were deep steaming puddles of water, warm as the bath on sidewalks and in yards.  My mother would put us outside to play; we, three small girls aged 2 to 5, dressed only in our underwear.  Our back yard would be full of screams and laughter of three little girls running, jumping and splashing in every puddle.  We played until the sun would return to dry the delight-filled puddles, and to begin again the work of building humidity.  We would return to days of playing in the cool basement.   And, to waiting for the next rain storm.



Sunday

This morning, I woke early.  Even before I was out of bed, I felt it.  Rain.  I opened the curtains and smiled to myself as the first sun peeked through the clouds; clouds spilling welcome rain.

I saw puddles in the driveway and on the street and remembered dancing in the warm rainwater as a child. 

Now, robins are here in the puddles, splashing and singing.

I remember how good it feels.

Red text includes hyperlinks that take you to other web pages where you can find out more.  All words and photos are © copyright Carol Steel.

Daisies Grow

Daisies Grow


As a child, I chanted,
"He loves me, he loves me not,"
yet wondered
what the dropping petals
had to do
with love.

I pluck a daisy still,
but no more wonder
what it means
or if...
I am
my Love's love.

For his love choruses
its own ripe song,
round all the circles
of my daisy chain.
As each white petal falls,
"He loves me, yes,
he loves me,
yes."


And fields
once rough and raw,
now full
of daisies grow.
On bright breeze,
the pale and golden songs caress,
"He loves me, yes,
he loves me,
yes." 

Photos are mine.

Tree Moss Magic

Tree Moss Magic

Fairies weave tree moss at night.

I knew that when I was six.  I knew that fairy-folk knit threads of green felt into webs of tree moss, while I slept.  The fairies made lace and nests and cradle-swings and fastened them to trees.   Glittering, dew-covered, delicate, pale green…obviously these were created by the fairies, these were magic.

Some say that tree moss results from the damp and shady conditions found in coastal forests like those on the eastern shore of New Brunswick.  They claim moss requires dampness, a high level of moisture for the vascular system to survive and requires liquid to complete fertilisation.  Tree moss shows appreciation for wetness by growing best on the north side of tree trunks, the upper parts of branches and in the shadier crotches of trees.  That is what we think when we lose imagination. 

But when the sight of wobbly green draping from trees draws me back to childhood, I remember that this is where I found magic.  There is magic in maple blossoms, in the curve of an acorn, in the new green at the tips of conifers, in the mushroomed decay of stumps and in the spongy clumps of ground moss sprouting spring violets.  Children know what adults have forgotten.

Cross the driveway, jump over the ditch, scramble through the alders that clutch like witches’ fingers and escape deep into the forest of birch and maple and evergreens.   Search for the place of winter deadfall, a clearing, an open space.  Here it is.  Leaves become dishes.  Twigs and branches become utensils and brooms.  Rocks and logs are seats and tables.  And moss, moss can be anything—cushions, decorations, food, stuffing for cracks in tables; moss can be fairy magic.

To play in a secluded wood, with sunlight slanting through the canopy of trees, to hear birdsong and the burbling ditch, to breathe balsam and damp earth, to gaze in wonder at pale moss dangling from trees, that is mystery, full of possibility and magic. 

A child of six no more, at ten times six, l still smile when I discover tree moss. 

I smile and a thought flickers, “Ah, the fairy-folk were weaving cradles and nests, while I slept.”

Photos and words are mine.

Cast Iron Griddle

Cast iron griddles and memories

last a lifetime; sometimes longer,

if passed down.

Heat griddle on burner,

acrid metallic smell, dollop of grease,

sudden sputter of shortening and steam.

Pancake batter plops circles spreading,

fragrant, bubble and coffee-colour,

crock of dark beans bakes slowly.

Brown bread cools, yeasty aromas,

frying pork chops sizzle and snap,

spatula scrapes across cast iron.

Flip pancakes and chops, add

seasonings, create pan gravy

and the Saturday nights of childhood.

Photo and words are mine.

A Teenager Now

He turns 13 today; a teenager now.  What adventures and challenges lie ahead of him in adolescence?  What peer pressure and family support will he experience as he changes from a boy to a man?  As he matures, where will he belong, how will he blossom into his potential?  What unique joys and healthy upheaval will he experience as he grows?   Who will love him?  Whom will he love?

David Suzuki in his book The Sacred Balance quotes Montagu, saying a healthy human requires more than satisfaction of psychological needs in childhood.  Montagu lists the following psychic needs of a growing child that must be fulfilled to ensure full development of a child’s potential:

1. The need for love
2. Friendship
3. Sensitivity
4. The need to think soundly
5. The need to know
6. The need to learn
7. The need to work
8. The need to organize
9. Curiosity
10. The sense of wonder
11. Playfulness
12. Imagination
13. Creativity
14. Openmindedness
15. Flexibility
16. Experimental mindedness
17. Explorativeness
18. Resiliency
19. The sense of humour
20. Joyfulness
21. Laughter and tears
22. Optimism
23. Honesty and trust
24. Compassionate intelligence
25. Dance
26. Song

He turns 13 today.

I wish for him, and indeed for each of my 10 grandchildren, the full list. 

I send love.

Ashley Montagu, The Direction of Human Development (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1995)

                                                                                                   

David Suzuki, The Sacred Balance, Rediscovering Our Place in Nature (British Columbia: Greystone Books, 1997)