A piece of my childhood

While I gear up to edit, I scratched this down. It rough and isn't finished, but thought I'd share anyway...

My father left first; we would follow at the end of June. Follow on what would surely be an adventure to the Great White North. The Great White French North.

My parents spoke once a week when dad called from the rooming house he lived in while he waited for a home to become available for us. The long, white structure was more of a bunk house and was were all the men stayed while pre-fab homes were being hurriedly constructed. Blue collar, white collar. It didn't matter what your job was. It was the only accommodation in town. When dad called, my sister and I would say our hellos and I love you's and then turn the phone over to mother. I could hear her sexy whispers to him and their adult code words. I may not have understood the specifics, but the generalities were clear enough.

She must have been lonely without him for those months. Lonely, but something else too. Something my young self couldn't define.

My mother was a homebody. She had no girlfriends, no one to share her worries or stories with. She cooked and cleaned, sewed our clothes and read books. That was it. Her life in a nutshell. A small space, but it all would have fit there. I didn't notice anything strange about this, not being a close observer of the comings and goings of other mothers. As for mine, with the exception of a jaunt to the library or to pick up a treat at the bakery or sliced meat from the butcher, she stayed home. Even the weekly groceries were purchased under my father's watchful eye. He being the driver, she being the drivee.

What she did for company once my father left to start his new job was nothing. There were no ladies in for tea or bridge, no nights out to the cinema. Our small town didn't even have one of those. The local Anglican Church brought in family movies once a month. That's where I saw Ol' Yeller for the first time and cried my eyes out till they were dry. The first time I ever saw a real, feature movie at a real theatre with a balcony and plush, velour seats was Snow White on my eighth birthday. I can still recall how scared the wicked queen made me feel. Just thinking about her, even years later, could cause my heart to race...


Ah, the old days! And now on to real work...

Have a great writing day!
Colleen