My dad was a farmer at heart. Every house we lived in had a place for a vegetable garden. Most of the houses we lived in were fixer-uppers. Until I was 14 years old and living on the south shore of Montreal, I don’t think we lived in a house where the bedrooms were heated. In the winter time, the single paned windows would be brushed by Jack Frost’s artistic hand. I can remember taking my thumb nail and pushing it across the window pane. A long curl of ice that had formed on the interior of the window would peel away from the glass.
Some mornings were so cold that I would dash out of bed and grab my clothes then take them back under the covers to dress in the warmth created by my body overnight. We always had flannel sheets and rough wool blankets to keep us warm. The flannel sheets had been washed and dried on the line in the winter cold so they were never soft or fluffy against my cheek. It made no difference though. I would pull the blankets up around my face and cover my ears so that I would be as warm as possible on those cold nights.
After more than fifty years, I still sleep at the bottom of the bed with the sheets and blankets pulled up over my ears. When I glance over at my husband who was born and raised in California, I wonder how he can sleep with the blankets leaving his neck and shoulders bare.



When I was 5 years old, we moved into a house in need of enormous amounts of work. It had no bathroom and only had a pump at the sink. I remember my mother sitting on the floor reading my father the directions as he assembled the plumbing and built a bathroom at the end of the large kitchen. Now when I think about it, I assume that he must have dug a huge hole for a septic tank as well. In any case, Dad and Mum were the ones who turned the small cottage in the country into an inhabitable house.
I know there were not enough bedrooms for all of the family. That first year I slept on a bunk bed that was set up in the kitchen. I have a clear memory of lying on the top bed and looking down upon my mother. She was making cinnamon rolls. She rolled out the dough and sprinkle sugar and ground cinnamon on the flat surface. Next came scattered raisins. Then the magical dough was rolled into a tight tube and cut into individual rolls. I have no memory of eating those rolls. I cherish only the wonderful feeling of being alone with my mother and watching her making this delicious treat.
The small house that we lived in was about a mile from the local elementary school. Grades one through eight were taught there. Four grades to a room. The small village of Lisle, Ontario lay close to one of the gates to Camp Borden where both of my parents worked. Dad was in the Royal Canadian Air Force and Mom worked as a typist for the Army.
One Sunday after attending a conference meeting for the Church, we slowly drove towards home in a snow storm. When we reached Lisle, Mom and Dad decided that they would park the car in a parking lot for a business in Lisle. They knew that the road to our house would not be plowed in the morning and that they would be unable to drive to work unless they left the car close to a road that would be cleared of the heavy snowfall.
We always had blankets in our trunk in case of a winter emergency. The six of us got out of the car and wrapped blankets around us for the long walk home. As a small girl the snow seemed so deep. It came up above the top of my boots. I can remember the snow falling and my eyelashes sticking together as if by glue. My face was so cold, but my small right hand ne

stled in my father’s large one was warm. I asked him how come his hand was warm when mine was so cold even with my mittens on. It was so stormy and cold. I have no memory of his an
swer. I only remember the safety and security I felt with my cold hand resting in the warm hand of my father.