Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul (30 page)

Well, I fell. Not a normal fall but a hard one. The kind that jars you, and not only that—I was embarrassed. I looked up at my coach, and he had the strangest look on his face. Then, instead of just going and skating it off, I tried it again. I landed it, but not well, and then the announcement came to clear the ice. I did—but I left my confidence behind. Doubt had crept in, and for the next fifteen minutes, I guess I let it grow.

My program was going well. My triple-axel combination was perfect, and I was on my way. I really don’t remember what I was thinking going into that triple flip, but I do remember being in the air, and feeling a lean. But instead of doing something about it in the .7 seconds I was up in the jump, I froze. If it had been a practice, I would have just fought for it, but I think I lost it—just for a second. I dropped my right hand, slipped off the edge and all was gone . . . just like that. Did I say I lost it for a second? It wasn’t even a full second, but like so many Olympic stories, within that moment, somewhere, I gave away the gold medal.

Right after the marks—and, oh, they were awful—I did an interview with Rod Black. It was tough, but what can you do, you can’t hide. I held up through it, but I was not expecting to see my parents at that moment. Somebody had got them through security and there they were, right down at ice level. When I looked up and saw them, well, I just lost it. And then, as I blubbered away like a child, my mom hugged me and said something only she could have pulled off.

“Kurt, if you had won that gold medal you would have been so busy. I know you. You never wanted to be that busy in your life anyway.”

I wasn’t sure I had heard her right, but deep inside I knew two things. First, that a smile had already snuck across my face. Second, that as usual, she was right.

My mom passed away during the summer of 2000, and losing her makes me hold onto moments like these even more. She was one of the most loving people I have ever known. Sure, I sometimes miss the fact that I never won that medal, but when you really think about priorities, I miss my mom a lifetime more.

Kurt Browning
Edmonton, Alberta

A Christmas to Remember

O
h child! Never allow your heart to harden.
Welcome the unicorn into your garden.

Phyllis Gottlieb

“Ruth! Are you up?”

“Yes, Momma!”

I slipped from bed and closed my window, shivering from the chill November air. Cold weather would mean a hot breakfast! And Momma had this wonderful way of simmering oatmeal in a double boiler at the back of the stove for the whole night. In a mood of happy anticipation, I quickly washed, dressed and ran downstairs.

I opened the kitchen door and was hit by a blast of cold air. The woodshed door was open, and there was no fire in the stove—something was terribly wrong.

Momma rushed in with a handful of kindling. “You’re up,” she said, and plopped a box of Shredded Wheat on the table. “Here, look after yourself.”

“Where’s Daddy?”

“Daddy’s sick.” She grasped a chair, as if for support. “I’ve sent for Dr. McLay. Eat your breakfast now.”

I picked up my spoon and tried to eat while Momma busied herself at the stove.

Typical of a 1930s rural Ontario home, our wood-fired range was a massive cast-iron and nickel-plated contrivance. It had seven lids in its top and a brick-lined oven that could hold a half-dozen loaves of bread. But Momma had never developed Daddy’s skill with just how to place the slivers of pine kindling or which damper to open. Fifteen exasperating minutes went by before flames crackled in the firebox and the water in the big brass kettle began to simmer.

A knock came at the side door and our neighbour Mr. Fenn stepped inside. “Doc’ll be here as soon as he can,” he said.

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Fenn!” Momma answered. “George warned me that having our phone taken out would be a foolish economy.”

“Would you like me to look after the stock?” Mr. Fenn asked quietly.

Momma’s face registered dismay. “Oh, my goodness, those poor animals!” In her concern over Daddy, she’d forgotten about his “livestock,” as he jokingly called them: Daisy, the jersey; the pigs; the barn cat; and the steers we were raising for meat that Momma refused to give names to because it would be like sending one of our pets off to the butcher. Daddy took care of all these creatures before breakfast and after supper each day. “Oh, yes, please!” Momma exclaimed.

The old man nodded and headed for the barn. He often visited with Daddy at chore time and would know just how much feed to put out and which animal should be let into what enclosure. Besides, when Mr. Fenn had been laid up with gout last winter, Daddy had looked after his homing pigeons, so turnabout was fair play.

When I arrived home from school Momma met me at the door.

“What’s up?” My heart was thumping a mile a minute.

“Daddy has bronchial pneumonia.”

I didn’t know what pneumonia was, but Momma’s fear was evident.

“He’s not going to die, is he?” I asked. “We can do something, can’t we?”

“Doctor says we must keep him warm, see that he gets lots of rest and takes his medicine. After that we can only hope and pray for the best.”

“Oh, Momma!” We enfolded each other in comforting arms.

Aylmer, Ontario, was a small, closely knit farming community a hundred and fifty miles west of Toronto, and when word of Daddy’s illness spread, the men began dropping by to split firewood or do barn chores, and the women took over the housework. Mrs. Peters from up the road scooped our laundry into a butcher’s basket and took it home with her. Mrs. Randall finished Momma’s batch of bread and started yeast for another, and Mrs. Chute marshalled the churchwomen to look after our meals. Momma was left free to care for Daddy.

I was barred from the sickroom altogether. People came and went, but whenever I offered to help, some adult would tell me that I was “too young” or “too little.” I felt isolated, useless. These were the pre-penicillin years, and two weeks passed before something called “the crisis” was over and my father was up to seeing me.

By mid-December Momma had learned how to bank the wood stove to keep the kitchen warm, and Daddy finally began to spend his days sitting up.

One night, when Momma had returned from helping Daddy back upstairs, I kissed her cheek. “Goodnight, Momma.”

“Ruth, wait . . .”

“What is it? You look so solemn!”

“I know Christmas is next week, but . . . between the doctor’s bills and no money coming in, our savings are almost gone. And Daddy won’t be able to work until spring.”

I felt a chill of fear. “Are we gonna lose our house, like Mr. Meeks?”

“Good heavens, no! This place is paid for and we have lots of food in the cellar. It’s just that cash will be short for awhile.” She flushed. “Which means there won’t be any money to buy Christmas presents.”

I hugged her as tightly as I could. “Momma, I don’t care about any old Christmas presents!”

But once alone, I snuggled into my feather tick and tears filled my eyes. I’d lied to Momma. I did care. I cared a whole lot! For months I’d been praying for white figure skates like Sonja Henie’s. Being told I was not going to get them was a terrible disappointment.

Then I felt a rush of shame. Wasn’t I better off than lots of kids my age? One girl in my third-grade class had to wear dresses made from bleached-out flour sacks, and I knew of two boys so fearful of scuffing their only shoes that they walked barefoot to within sight of school.

But I sure had wanted those white skates!

I awoke Christmas morning to see my breath in the air. Momma had started hanging quilts over doorways to direct heat up the back stairs into the room she shared with Daddy, and my room had been getting progressively colder.

I wriggled into my goose feathers and felt sorry for myself. A room with no heat, Christmas with no presents— gee whiz!

Then I thought of Momma. Red-faced with guilt, I dressed and hurried downstairs. A fire crackled in the stove, the big brass kettle was boiling and Daddy was seated in his rocking chair.

“Merry Christmas, punkin’!”

“Merry Christmas, Daddy!” I shifted the kettle to a back lid. “Where’s Momma?”

“Out doing chores.”

Then I turned and saw the tree . . . a lopsided, sparse-limbed little spruce—even the scrawny trunk nailed to crossed boards was slightly askew. But in the eyes of an eight-year-old who had taken a parent’s warning literally and not expected a Christmas tree at all, this tree was extravagantly, unbelievably beautiful! It was decorated with tinsel salvaged from Christmas trees past, along with strings of popcorn, cranberries, crocheted snowflakes of sugar-stiffened lace and gingerbread cookies shaped like tiny stars and elves.

And—although Momma had said there was no money— there were presents, in profusion!

There was a doll, purchased with months of hoarded soap coupons, with a wardrobe that almost took my breath away—an evening gown, a skating outfit, a cape, a kimono, dresses both long and short—each piece hand-sewn, knitted or crocheted with materials from the scrap basket. I recognized the fine silk of Momma’s old blouse and a cotton print that had been a dress of my own. Later I would learn that the shirred velvet of the skating costume came from a muff belonging to my father’s mother, who had died years before I was born.

Speechless with wonder, I turned to my father.

“Your mother did all that by herself.” His voice was soft, reverential. “Sawed that tree herself, hauled it out of the woods, wading hip deep through snowdrifts. And she made those doll clothes after you were in bed asleep.” He brushed a hand across moist eyes. “Child, your mother was bent, bound and determined you would have a proper Christmas, and that’s all there was to it!”

The woodshed door slammed and Momma stood in the doorway.

I rushed to hug her. “Oh, Momma, thank you!” I felt the coldness of her cheek and smelled the delicious odour of soap and wood smoke in her hair.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.” She hugged me back, but only for a moment, and as she backed away her cheeks were flushed. Like many women of her generation, Momma was not comfortable with praise or with overt displays of emotion.

“I just wanted you to have a little something for Christmas,” she continued. “But it’s mostly homemade. Nothing really.”

Then my father made a comment I’ve never forgotten.

“Mable, I think maybe you’ve taught Ruth something— there are times in life when one person’s nothing can be somebody else’s everything!”

He was right.

Ruth Robins-Jeffery
Hampton, Prince Edward Island

A Change of Heart

A
s an additional safeguard against self-pity in
our home, Mama kept several charity boxes that
were marked “For the poor.” We gave regularly.
It made us feel rich.

Sam Levenson, Humorist

It was a cold December, at the tail end of the Great Depression, and things were tough. Mum had a hard time raising us kids on her own in our small community of New Westminster, British Columbia. My father had drowned in Pitt Lake five years earlier—I still remember it like it was yesterday. Because Dad had no pension or benefits, there was not much money; we went on relief, now called social assistance. We relied on the Salvation Army to keep us clothed, and although our clothes were secondhand, we thought they were beautiful.

Looking back, I realize what Mum went through sending us kids to school. Every morning she would tuck a new piece of cardboard in our shoes because our soles were worn out. When we got home, Mum would have French toast ready for us. This was bread deep-fried in lard. Constant moving was typical for my family in those days, and it didn’t look like we’d be in our current house much longer. Rent was $25 a month, but Mum couldn’t pay it, and we knew we would be evicted right after Christmas on the first of January.

The holidays were fast approaching, and we were entitled to $25 for Christmas from social services. An inspector came to our house and searched it from top to bottom to be sure we didn’t have any food hidden away. When he didn’t find any, he issued the cheque to Mum. It was four days before Christmas. Mum said that instead of buying food, she was going to use the money to pay our back rent. That way we’d have a roof over our heads for a little while longer. Then she told us that there would be no Christmas gifts.