Uxbridge Recollections

It’s interesting what memories pop up from our childhood – snapshots of life that emerge in full colour from a gray cloud of time.

The photo above shows what downtown Uxbridge looked like when I lived there in the 1950’s. I used to pass that corner every day as I walked to and from school.  I remember venturing into the library, the building on the right with the tall spire; I was very proud of my first library membership.

On many of those excursions we took along our oven roaster, cosily ensconced in the trunk surrounded by blankets and newspapers to keep the contents warm.

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For those of you who have never seen one of these modern innovations of the 50’s, this is what it looked like. The roaster would be plugged in at home with the meat and/or vegetables placed in a dish which sat inside on the rack in the roaster. There was a thermostat in the front which worked to adjust the temperature like the one on an oven. For travel, you just unplugged the roaster and took the entire contraption with you. Instant lunch! As I recall, it made for some great picnics on our blue and white checkered tablecloth.

An assortment of memories

It’s interesting what memories pop up from our childhood – snapshots of life that emerge in full colour from a gray cloud of time. I have a few random recollections from our time in the house on East St. in Uxbridge that seem to have remained for no particular reason. One that I wish wasn’t so clear is the memory of eating way too many red cinnamon candy hearts, and then spinning round and round and round while playing with my friends. Well, you can imagine what happened next. I’ll spare you the details.

I recall learning how to ride an adult sized bike when I was about 8 or 9 on the dirt road in front of our house. I can still feel the weight of the bike and how awkward it was to try and get on it and get it going down the slight hill. Once I was rolling, I was fine and very proud of my achievement.

I also remember a rather dangerous event that occurred when we were just beginning construction of the new house. I must have been around 6 years old which meant my sister was 4. The basement walls were finished, made of cement blocks, but there was a big chasm between those walls and the ground outside because they hadn’t finished installing drainage. The only way to get into the basement was to walk the gangplank – a 2 x 10 that ran from the ground to top of the basement wall and then another one slanting down to the basement floor.

You guessed it! My sister, Jeannette, was walking down the plank into the basement when she fell and hit her head, narrowly missing a concrete block. I can see her lying on the ground with the block nearby, and I recall my father’s alarmed response. She and I were banished to the car, and I imagine we were not allowed to walk those planks again.

As you may have gathered from the stories of my father, he was a bit of a worrier and rather protective of his children – perhaps rightly so given the previous story. He became quite concerned when I began sleepwalking while we lived in Uxbridge; he was sure that I was going to go out the door some night and walk down the street.

During one episode I remember gradually waking up as I walked down the hall past my parents’ bedroom toward the kitchen. I was holding out my hand as if I was carrying something. My father met me at the door to their room and asked me what I was doing. I tried to find words to explain my mission and haltingly told him that I was going to put “this” (the items I thought I was holding in my hand) in “there”. In my mind, the items were straws and for some reason I had to put them on the kitchen table. Dad let me complete my task and then ushered me back to bed. By that time I was mostly awake and glad to return to sleep. I wonder how many sleepless nights my father had over this penchant of mine. I remember one or two sleepwalking episodes in later years when we moved to Bothwell, but I am happy to report that I never opened a door and went outside.

Comic books and the stolen apple

Speaking of comic books, they made an appearance in a story about my family’s adventure in foster parenting. I was too young to know why my parents decided to take in foster children. Perhaps it was because they were caring Christian people and/or perhaps it would help with the finances. Whatever the reasons, two brothers arrived at our house on East St. one day. I clearly remember that they had previously lived in a large city because they were amazed at the cows that roamed the field across from our house.

To my surprise and my father’s consternation, they brought with them a large pile of comic books. I can still see those books sitting in a cardboard box on the floor of the front hall closet. I may have even taken a peak at the illicit items sometime, when my father wasn’t around, of course!

I think the older brother was about the same age as me and I recall we would walk to school together through the downtown area of Uxbridge. One day after we had just passed a display of fruit and vegetables outside a storefront, the boy showed me an apple as he bit into it. I knew he hadn’t brought it from home and asked him where he got it. He grinned at me slyly as he continued to eat the apple and told me he had picked it up from the display. I was shocked; I couldn’t fathom anyone doing that. I was too dumbfounded to say anything more to him, but I told my parents about it when I got home.

It wasn’t too long after that incident that the boys were sent away and our time as a foster family ended. I don’t think the stolen apple incident was the only episode that led my parents to decide that this wasn’t something they wanted to do. I recall there had been discomfort around the dinner table with the behaviour exhibited by the boys. My parents may not have wanted their behaviour to influence my sister and I. Whatever the reason, it had become clear that being foster parents wasn’t going to work for our family.

This may also have occurred close to the time when my father made a significant career change from being a door to door salesman. He decided to become a minister for the Canadian Baptists of Ontario & Quebec which precipitated our move to Bothwell, Ontario. The story continues.