The New House and The Swing

My parents decided to build a house on the edge of Uxbridge while we were living in the old house I mentioned in my previous post. I don’t know how they came to that decision. It seems like such a daunting thing to do because I think my father actually did a lot of the construction himself and he was not a builder. He had been working as a door-to-door salesman for products like Rawleigh’s, Watkins and Canada Life insurance, and we didn’t have a lot of money.

Construction of the new house on East St. must have started when I was about 5 or 6 years old; I remember visits to the building site and listening to CBC on the radio my mother hooked up as entertainment – the coronation of Queen Elizabeth has stuck in my mind as has “Uncle” Byng Whitteker’s show, Small Types Club.  Do any of you recall singing along to Teddy Bears’ Picnic? Can’t believe I found the original recording on the internet – and a copy of this book on Amazon for $99.95!

We lived on East St. until I was in Grade 5 and it was the scene of many fond memories. The photo above shows the house as it looks now according to Google but my recollection of the house was far different.

In fact, when I first tried to find the house on street view, I couldn’t be sure which one it was. When we lived there, it was the last house on the street with a farm next door and an open field across the road with an electric fence around it to keep the cows in. (Yes, I did try out the electric fence to see what it felt like. Tingling is probably the best description.)

I recalled the house being on a fairly significant rise, but, as the photos show, there is only a slight grade on the property. Given my young age, I imagine my height had something to do with the discrepancy. There was also no garage, no siding on the house and no landscaping.

After a process of deduction, I realized that this really is the house. The entrance we used was on the side of the house; the kitchen window is on the right side with the dining area beside the front door and living room on the left. This is where I had my encounter with the swing.

The Swing

My father erected a swing in the backyard for the entertainment of my sister and I; it was located behind the place where the garage now stands. This wasn’t your ordinary swing, purchased from Sears and bolted together. This was a do-it-yourself swing. He used old logs for the support posts on each side; they still had small knots sticking out where branches used to be. I’m not sure where he got the logs; perhaps they were on the property when we bought the land. My dad came from a Mennonite background and, as a result, was a very practical and frugal man.

I believe the bar across the top was a piece of wood from which the swing was suspended with thick ropes, but the most striking thing for me was how tall the swing was. I’m sure it  soared into the air at least 10 feet! I loved getting on that swing and feeling the rough rope in my hands as I pumped vigorously, going higher and higher.

One sunny day as I glided back and forth, enjoying the air rushing through my hair, I suddenly felt the rope in my right hand give way. It had come loose from its support and I was falling! I panicked and, not sure what to do, kept holding on to the rope as I was dragged along the ground. Bang! My head hit the post and I came to an abrupt stop.

I remember crying, my mother and father rushing out to find out what was happening, then the realization that I had blood flowing from my head. It turns out I had hit a spot on the post right where one of those little knots stuck out. My father lead me into the house, dripping small red dots onto the ground as I went. He washed off my head in the bathroom sink with soap and water, and put a bandage on it. There, I was fine!

Yes, that was my father’s philosophy – no need to go see the doctor. Patch you up and send you on your way. You would be fine. It drove my mother crazy at times, but he would not budge. As it turns out, I was fine. I recall wearing the bandage for quite a while, occasionally with a gauze ribbon in my hair to hold it on. To this day I still have a souvenir from that incident – a small bump in that spot on my scalp. Not sure if anything important leaked out that day, but I can always use it as an excuse if necessary.