|
Patricia with her parents
Stan and Margaret Blaney
abt. 1945 |
While watching the news after lunch, on a cold grey March Friday
afternoon in Toronto my telephone sounded those three distinct rings that
indicate a long distance call. It is usually a call-centre marketing call but I
was delighted to find that it was my cousin Patricia calling from Vancouver.
We have developed a wonderful caring and sharing
relationship over the past couple of decades even though we are thousands of miles
apart. We love to capture and share our family history stories with each other
and pass them along to other family members.
Her most ambitious published work to date is “Chasing the Comet, A
Scottish-Canadian Life” which was published in 2002 and can be found and purchased online at Wilfrid
Laurier University Press
www.wlupress.wlu.ca.
It is a biography of a family friend’s father, David Caldow. In the
preface Pat says “I fell in love with the story realizing it was not just David’s
story but a distinctly Canadian experience, a humorous adventure and a love
story – not only of a man and a woman but also a story of love for life itself.”
It was a cold and dreary day in Vancouver that day too. Pat
had been tidying up her home office and came across a poem she had written long
ago. She asked if I would like to hear it. Of course I did.
In a quiet voice she began to read her poem. It was
wonderful, I was moved to tears listening to her and speechless when she
finished. I have read it many times since and I love the sound and feel of it
as well as the stories found therein.
With Pat’s permission I am pleased to share it here for our extended families.
An Immigrant’s Child Asks “What if?”
What if my mother had stayed with the Scotsman who
beat her,
the husband and father of her first babies,
both of them “lost” before I came along, she’d told me
years later.
But, what if she’d had two who’d lived, instead of
those two who died?
Would I even be here, in my own home, sitting and
wondering?
But she had waited for me, she said,
This Belfast-born, linen-factory maid-cum-Vancouver
waitress, who’d conceived me,
perhaps on a ground sheet wide-spread on a Canadian prairie
field,
with only one shared blanket for cover. Or ... I
wonder...
perhaps I really began in a freight car she’d hopped,
when dressed as a man,
helped and loved by my English logger-cum-father,
during the Depression.
They shared no honeymoon riding those tracks, rocking
and roaming
the myriad rivers, the towering mountains, those towns
and those cities,
along miles that spanned Canada. No small feat, that.
Searching for safety, scrabbling for work, those two
were,
barely surviving the dust storms and grasshopper
plague.
Freely-given, as a gift, the corn bread became their
long-savoured story -
also freely given – to me, as their proof of their belief
in the kindness of strangers.
In my first bed, a rented bureau drawer in a rented
Toronto room,
I was “wrapped in the warmth of a blanket and loved”
they said,
though they’d starved.
I remember twelve of the times they moved, but there’d
been many,
many times, before my memory came to me.
From “pogey”-funded room to room, they’d moved once
every month,
with meager belongings carefully packed, all tight in
my wicker pram.
“You see, the “pogey” paid for just a month,” she’d
say as she told the tale,
“but with neither a job nor money to stay, we’d move.
We had to”
She’s sigh then and say, “But it isn’t the house that
makes the home.
Its’s the people within it. I’ve always believed that”
So what if my bed had been in a mansion? Would I ever have
heard this simple truth?
And what if Dad’s mouth organ hadn’t played “Turkey in
the Straw”
Or Mother’s Charleston had never been danced in our
rented kitchens?
What if we’d never sung beside the radio, or if I’d
never been urged to sing in a choir?
Would all the sweet music still resound within my
bones?
What if the dictum, day after day, hadn’t been “Go outside
and play?”
Would the woods and the mosses, the natural world,
still so sustain me?
And what if Dad hadn’t honed my awareness, revealing
the flowers of meadow grasses,
The free-to-sniff scents of wild honeysuckle and the strawberries
we picked?
Or, if we’d never marveled at patterns hiding in the
colours on a Painted Turtle’s back?
Would I have found these worldly wonders on my own?
What if I’d slept in a sweet, pink cradle, softly
rocked in an heirloom nursery?
Or if my longed-for grandparents had cooed in
flesh-and-blood beside my parents,
as together they lulled me fast asleep within that
warm Toronto drawer?
What if just one of these truthful answers could flap
like the weatherman’s butterfly wings?
Would the “I” that I now know be lost – blown away in
a resulting hurricane of truth?
Then why/what/where and who would I be? Would I still be me?
By
Patricia Koretchuk 07.02.14