“Quick, out of the house,” my mother yelled to her three little girls. There was no argument from any of us, by the tone of her voice she meant business.
It was June, 23 1946 and we were about to experience a 7.3 scale earthquake.*
We owned an old house in which we were presently putting in a basement. In those days, you did the job yourself and Uncle Ernie had dug the dirt out, barrel full by barrel full. At that point the house was sitting on jacks and as I stood in the yard and looked back, I could see it swaying.
Beside me was a pile of stones and rocks that had been removed and I stood on them as I gazed around. They were moving under my feet and it was kind of scary and exciting. My little sister’s doll carriage was rocking back and fro, without any help at all.
There were many others earthquakes through the years, but we got so used to them that when the globe lights in the school room swayed, we scarcely noticed them.
But that old house withstood more than earthquakes. Three little girls scrapped, sang, laughed and cried there through the years.
The back yard was an experience in living…flowers were pretty but watch out for bees.
Holly trees were lovely but look out for the prickles. Even the juicy cherry tree sometimes had ugly worms. We learned early that life wasn’t perfect.
Beside the kitchen was a tiny pantry with a sink and food cupboards. I still can’t figure out how two young girls were able to do the dishes in that tiny space, for you could stretch your arms out and touch both walls.
But the best room in the house was my own private bedroom. When asked what colour I wanted it painted, I said “Green….and the ceiling too” and that’s what I got. I even had a green chenille bedspread. The room was heated by a screened hole in the floor, where downstairs heat escaped and gave only a tiny bit of warmth. It resulted in a lot of shivering before you finally fell into an exhausted sleep.
When I was fifteen, I came home one evening from a dance at the “Teen Town”. There was Mom sitting crying at the table. She looked up and said “Dad has died.”
For a while the whole house wept but not I. It was weeks before I allowed myself that privilege. Somehow being strong for Mom’s sake seemed important. Finally in the privacy of my green bedroom, I sobbed and prayed and my green room seemed to put it arms around me and comfort me.
The old house partly burned down after I left home. My bedroom is gone and is just a memory but the old house will always be in my heart, holding reflections of an almost forgotten but a kind of fascinating childhood.
*www.nrcan.gc.ca/earthquakes/1946
