a reset of my system lost a lot of my work. So, *sigh* I started again. Not really sure what it will be when it is done, other than a look at my life. Maybe a couple chuckles. Anyway, it will take a while to gt it all back, but I thought I would write out the first page and you can all let me know what you think
Be kind.
Where to begin, that is the hardest thing to nail down. I guess if we began at the beginning, well, it would be boring, but maybe all the more understandable. I was born to a working class family in a working class neighborhood. We were surrounded by Italian and Polish, fights were a constant in our neighborhood. Though the people fought between the cultures, anyone who picked on someone from our cluster of homes made a big mistake. The one thing all of us agreed on was that we North End kids stuck together. We were raised tougher, without a doubt. We were given a lot of freedom, yet grew up where you neighbors thought nothing of giving you a clout in the ear for being mouthy, or doing something they knew you weren’t supposed to. We were the last of a dying breed; kids who were raised by the village. We were north end Hamilton. It was a good way to grow up, despite what I hear now about how rough we were. It never occurred to us that we should only hang around with our own age group. Most of us were either the kid sibling who tagged along, or had one or two we had to lug around with us. I was the former. I had a big sister to whom, I am sure; I was the millstone about her neck. By the time I was four I spent most of my time outside. We ran around the neighborhood, terrorized the parks, and tried to freak out cars by darting in front as they went down the street. Yes, we weren’t very bright, but we were a bit wild. There was always someone to play with. When my sister Julie would shake me off I would grab on to someone else who would roll their eyes and give in with a “well, come on then�? It wasn’t that they liked me hanging out, far from it; they just knew she would get grounded for ditching me. She was one of those ultra popular kids who had good looks, a perfect demeanor, and seemed to be exactly what everyone wanted in a friend, daughter, everything but an older sister.
My mother used me as we got older to be a chaperone to her. Sure that so long as we were together nothing could go wrong. Oh, how blind they could be. By the time I was seven I knew enough to hang my sister, and so had the ultimate alibi for anything I wished to do, and by the time I was eight the dirt owning was mutual and locked us into always being behind each other. We got away with so much more than we could have if my mother had trusted us alone a little more or together a little less.
The same people I saw nearly every day of my life. When I went out there was old Mrs. Milano across the way. A kid couldn’t move without seeing those curtains twitch and her peering out in hopes of catching a bit of gossip. She was Richard’s grandmother and lived with him and his parents. She held gossip sessions on her porch every evening, waving at everybody as they passed by, while whispering the latest scandal in their lives as soon as they were out of ear shot. My parents were never part of this community. Being Canadians they were outside the immigrant experience and were looked at with suspicion and at time, disapproval. As the children of Canadians, and worse, non Catholics, we were treated by distain by some of the parents in the area. We were not to be trusted, and could steal the silver if left alone in your house.
In short, it was an odd mixture of life with its good and bad points, like anyplace else I suppose. Yes we were a little wild, but good kids. At times we hated each other, while other times being each others best friends. To this day I have wonderful memories of my childhood. I mostly remember the loneliness of Sundays. Everyone in our area went to church and Sunday school. Although we went to Catholic school, that was more because my mother believed they gave better education, but we were not Catholic, and we would wait, live for that moment when we would see the cars the drive up, home from church. Everyone drove to church. Often the cars would sit Monday to Friday in the driveway or street as the fathers took the bus to work. After all, who can afford to drive a car everyday? But on Sunday, all dressed up in suits and dresses the family would crawl in for them to drive the block and a half to the church, and wait for twenty-five minutes after church to manage to find a way out of the parking lot which was a less than five minute walk from their front doors.
We lived for that moment on sunday. When the jeans replaced the slacks, and lunch was gobbled down, and everyone put aside thier piousness for the week. We again ran wild in the streets, like those 2 hours of church and religious time was nothing but a bad memory.
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