A Lost Art?

My little sister Meriel is five years younger than me.  I think she's about 6 months old here.  We are wearing our Big and Little Sister dresses.  They're made (by Mum) of white gauzy material, decorated with rows of pink, blue and pale green smocking.

I wonder if anyone below the age of 50 smocks any more?  Believe it or not, I learned how to smock at Teachers College. 

I also learned how to make Party Sandwiches for 200 people.  They were fancy ones too, pinwheels and checkerboards with all manner of fillings - chicken salad, salmon, deviled ham, or egg.  We certainly didn't mind sampling at the end of the class, which was taught by a dear old soul.

How bizarre, I thought, until it was explained to me that sometimes in the days when dinosaurs roamed the earth, the teachers would provide the tea and delicacies for Parent Teacher evenings.  I never had to put this learning to use, nor did I ever have to smock.  I'm still not sure how smocking fit into the grand scheme of things, but I bet I could smock a mean dress even to this day.

No doubt it's all done by machines now though.
So it goes...

What a doll.

A little girl dressed in her knitted finery, carrying her favorite dolly with its china head stands in front of her house in England.  That's me.  Check out those bony knees, droopy socks held up by elastic 'garters' and very British sandals.  It's around 1949.

I remember the dress.  It was pale green, knitted by my Grandma.  She probably made the cardigan sweater as well but I can't remember the color of that. It's likely a shade of my (still) favorite color - blue.

I only recall two dolls during my childhood.  I was more of a book person than a doll girl.  I remember this one for two reasons.

Stu

Here I am with my little brother Stu, back in our garden in England.  Stu's 21 months younger than I am.  The story goes that when Mum was off giving birth to him, I stayed with my Grandma.  In the olden days, mothers often stayed in the hospital for a week or more, so the big Homecoming Day finally arrived.

I can remember feeling very excited, sitting on the stairs watching for my baby brother's arrival through the little window on the front door.  At last I saw heads coming up the front pathway.  Much to my Grandma's surprise, I jumped up and ran into the kitchen.

I could hear Mum and Dad enter, and Grandma (or, Dar as we affectionately called her) oohing and aahing over the new babe.  After a minute or two, someone asked 'Where's Angela?' and that was my cue.

Out I came with a big lettuce leaf which I proceeded to lay across my new little brother's face.  To this day I have no idea why.

Birds and bullets

I love this old picture of my maternal Grandma.  She was living in the Sudan when it was taken.  The photographer is her husband who took many lovely pictures of his family. 

It's in the form of a postcard.  On the back she writes that the birds are very tame, eating rice right out of her hand, and walking around her feet.

Life for the Colonials in the Sudan often included servants, a cook and a nanny for the children so there was plenty of time to sit in the garden.

Bless you, Mrs. Beeton

Here's a happy little guy advertising Cadbury's Cocoa near the front page of  my great-grandmother’s tattered old copy of Mrs. Beeton’s Book Of Household Management (November, 1888).

It’s minus the front cover but its 1644 pages are still pretty much intact, as are the end pages which advertise products such as Steedman’s Teething Powders, Ambrecht’s Coca Wine and Nerve Tonic, Whelpton’s Vegetable Purifying Pills and Bumsted’s Table Salt. 

I'm not sure why this very old and beat-up book made the trip from Canada to the Pacific Northwest with me ten years ago, but it did, and I still enjoy a look at it now and again, thanking my stars that I don't live in the 1800s. 

I imagine my great-grandma and my grandma leafing through it for ideas and solutions although I'm not sure either of them had a huge household to manage.

Tripping

Here's a jolly crew, off to the English seaside in a charabanc.  This photo was taken in 1925.  My Dad, young Les, is the 11 year old blond chap near the front.  His parents and younger brother are seated near him.

According to Dad charabancs were very popular for large group outings to the seaside and the country.  They were originally made in France.  The name means 'carriage with wooden benches'.  Dad used to tell us stories about charabanc trips.  Most dealt with flat tires, breakdowns in the pouring rain, motor problems and Mrs Poole being accidentally left behind at a Rest Stop.  Racier tales dealt with the annual office party outing but details were sparse on those.

Dot

I doubt that I’ll ever meet anyone as kind as my mother, Dorothy. The epitome of generosity and consideration, she was truly loved by all who knew her. Need an ear? A hug? A meal? A bed for a night or a month? A ride? A babysitter? A laugh? If she heard about it, she’d be there.

On a few occasions, we kids grumbled about the fact that there always seemed to be strangers at our festive celebrations, and asked why we couldn’t just have a family time for once. We were rewarded with her infrequent steely look and the answer “Because they are alone.” I believe that all three of her children inherited a sense of empathy and a desire to help from her.

She was quick to encourage, slow to condemn and could always be counted upon. If she said she would do something, she did it, no matter how difficult it might become, or how time-consuming or strenuous it was.

Les(s) is more.

Here's my Dad Leslie in his British Army uniform.  I believe this was taken in the early 1940s.  Much to his disappointment, he was forced to serve in the Home Guard during World War 2. His poor vision stopped him from being in the Army proper.

My dad. Whatta guy! Look up the words 'rational, fair and non-judgmental' in the dictionary and there's his picture. He attacked a problem meticulously, no matter what its size or scope. He never made you feel that your question was silly or unimportant. He'd present options, and let you make up your own mind, reminding you to "Consider the source." and "Consider the consequences."

He talked with you, not at you, and took pains to explain the reasons for his household rules if they were questioned. Two with which I often took issue were bedtime and curfew. And while I still think they were just too inflexible, I reluctantly admit that I understand the reasoning behind the rules when I became a parent.

Scaramouche, Scaramouche - will you do the Fandango?

I heard it again today, Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody.  Instantly I had a flashback to belting along the 403 highway in Hamilton, Ontario, Canada in my younger sister Meriel's little green car, singing at the tops of our lungs.  'Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?' I think of her every time I hear that song.

I didn't always like having a little sister (five years younger) and I'm sure she wasn't always thrilled with her older sister either.

A link to our past, a bridge to our future.

Here are my maternal grandparents perhaps in the Sahara Desert circa 1916.  How cool is that?  Laura Isabel is a  quiet English girl who liked to play the piano and make Cut-work Lace.

Olé Andrew, a Norwegian soldier fell in love with Laura , married her and spirited her off to live in the Sudan for 8 years or so.  He was stationed there with the Army.  My Mum was born in Khartoum and so was my Uncle Eric.

Eat, drink and be scary.

As I watched the local kids take their parents Trick-or-Treating at the shops along Greenwood Avenue, I thought of days gone by.

More than half a century ago our costumes were home-made.  Mum could do a lot with old sheets and curtains, cardboard and paper, paint and imagination.  We three kids didn't always get it and were sometimes hustled out the door wailing 'But Mum!  Nobody will know what I am supposed to be!'.  Secretly I lusted after a (flimsy, unimaginative) plastic costume from Woolworths or Kresges.

How it all began...

More than twenty years ago my folks began to suffer the ravages and indignities of Old Age.  A move to a Retirement/Nursing home was inevitable.

With Mum in hospital, it was up to Dad to ready the house for sale.  My brother and I helped whenever we had time to spare.   As he usually did, Dad went at a steady pace, emptying room by room in record time.

One weekend I asked where the boxes of family photos were.  'Oh, those?'  he said.  'I tossed them in the garbage a few weeks ago.  I didn't think anyone would want them.'  That was Dad - Mr. Practical.  Sentimentality was not his strong suit. 

My heart sank to the bottom of my chest.  I blinked furiously to keep the tears at bay and clamped my jaw shut to stifle the groans.  There was no point making a fuss.  I knew the pictures were goners. 

Fortunately I found a couple of very old, small albums and a little box of snapshots still on the shelves in Dad's basement.  Luckily my mind's eye still has some pictures and memories.  They're beginning to crack and to blur with age so I'm going to try writing down what I recall.

Here goes.