Tales of my unfettered youth
When I was 3, I was allowed to ride my tricycle as far as the Webb’s house; three glorious doors down from the left. And my little feet were allowed to peddle as far as the hydrant; three doors to the right – one door short of Estelle the Witch’s house. The neighbourhood kids called Estelle “Estelle the Witch” when she shooed us away from stealing her chestnuts.
From age 4-8, when we were still too small to go to the park without our folks and still too annoying for the big kids to drag us along… so the little kids on the street were allowed to play in the street. Along with fierce street hockey battles we skipped, played Spud, and showed off our dangerous bike stunts that included Pop-a-wheelies and leaping off homemade ramps built from bits of wood we had scavenged from somebody’s backyard.
Somebody’s mom or dad always lingered on a veranda, watching us bounce in and out of each of the neighbour’s hedges to elude our captures in Hide-and-Seek. We called our friends’ parents “Auntie Linda and Uncle Jim”, and “Auntie Heather and Uncle John.” And when all of the parents were squirreled away cooking dinner, old Mr. Burns kept an eye out for us. We loved old Mr. Burns best because he made us jelly sandwiches at the first sight of a split knee, a bumped noggin’, or a hurt feeling. Mom said she thought old Mr. Burns had been a medic in the war. Dad confirmed it was the war of 1812. We adored Mr. Burns but we loved his slobbering orange spaniel Rusty that much more and slipped Rusty our crusts as we recovered.
We had the run of the town.
Well, actually it was only the run of Holley Avenue in what is now known as Toronto, and to be honest, it was only a swath of about 10 working-class houses in a row. While I’m confessing I had better admit that we had to come in when the lights came on… so we didn’t actually do much run’n. Still, it felt like we had the run of the town.
We were free.
This youthful freedom has been beautifully captured in Terrence Rundles West’s Run of the Town–Stories of an unfettered youth.
Moreover, West reminds us what it is like growing up as a “typical” Canadian boy, regardless of the decade of your unfettered youth, regarless of your gender.
After reading these stories, I think readers will agree that their own youth was the Golden Age for growing up.
http://terrencerundlewest.com/home.php
Notes from the website:
The two pictures on the jacket of Run of the Town - a little boy playing hockey on a street (front cover) and a young adult holding a stubby beer (back cover) - represent R.J. Martin and the twenty-year time frame in which the 17 short-stories take place. It’s 1940-65 and R.J. happens to be growing up in Hearst, Northern Ontario, although it could be any of hundreds of small communities across the country. Canada in the mid-twentieth century was neither better nor worse than the Canada of today. But it certainly was different - mothers stayed home, few people had cars, radio was king, a holiday meant a couple of weeks at the lake, childhood diseases could be fatal, teachers gave the strap, condoms were hard to obtain (only at the local poolroom in Hearst, because the druggist was Catholic). It was a time when families were large and kids expected to do chores. Children were loved but unencumbered by parents micro-managing their lives or hovering over them every minute of their waking day. Result? Kids had the run of the town. In short, it was as golden age for growing up.
Unlike protagonist R.J. Martin, the town of my unfettered youth was not a small post-war northern Ontario community where Anglophone and Francophone boys designed ball-breaking insults for each other, each insult worse than the first until an interned Japanese family showed up in town and then the boys had to ban together to invent slanderous racial names to add to the mix.
I grew up a tomboy in Weston Ontario in the 70s, in a racial mixed working class neighbourhood. Alongside Dalbir (Sikh), Anson (Black), Richard (Korean), the Morel brothers (Dad Dany still had a bit of a French accent), and Timmy and the rest of the pale-faced kids I yelled “car” when our street hockey matches were interrupted. Our gang didn’t call each other names based on skin colour or maternal tongue; we called each other “fag”. It was “fag” when someone missed a goal or when a check hurt too much, or when one of the boys got distracted by jiggling boobs walking by. We wore Pepsi shoes, exchanged hockey cards, and counted the Summers until we could go to the park unsupervised. At the park we played tackling tag, tackle football and tackle baseball; fell out of trees; and blew things up.
We were loved but unencumbered by parents micro-managing our lives or hovering over us every minute of our waking days. This became a blessing in Grade 5 when girls started sniffing around the periphery of our circle after Timmy instituted Kissing Tag.
Any one of us could have been R.J. Martin, some 30 some years later.
Like R.J., I hope we all turn out alright in the end.
Run of the Town is the 8th book by a west Quebec author that I’ve enjoyed for the 2nd Canadian Book Challenge.