Village Squire, 1979-03, Page 21No turning bacl€
BY HELENE GATSCHENE
1 had forgotten how hot the Manitoba sun could be. With
merciless intensity it focused its burning rays on my already
tanned skin as 1 stood at my mother's graveside. So our Louisa,
ou'r mother. was gone. She lay. as she would have wanted to,
beside Philippe, her husband, our father, who had preceded her
by seven years.
I had made it known to the rest of the family that I wanted to
stay by my parents' graves for a while and they had understood.
A sad. silent procession, they had filed back to their cars, leaving
me to spend some time alone with my parents' remains. As I now
lived in Stratford. I wouldn't have much chance to visit their
graves in the years to come.
Reluctant to let go of the past, I stood before the twin mounds
of earth as if mesmerized. my mind flicking from scene to scene
like a silent movie of days gone by. Though in sombre academic
dresses, black with white cuffs and collars and with black
stockinged legs. I remembered how carefree we had been years
ago. a group of giggling school girls, stifling our merriment in
the very church I had just left moments ago.
I remembered the school picnics and the taffy pulls.
I remembered the long hikes in the snappy cold Manitoba
winters and my joy at having received permission though only 14
to be part of a mixed group of hikers, a blessing usually not
allowed until at least 18.
1 remembered Mother's good homemade bread and sesame
seed buns.
1 remembered Dad's obvious pride every time he bought a new
car and his eagerness to take us on a family picnic. no doubt to
show off his new possession.
I remembered the wonderful Christmases, New Years,
Halloweens and Easters we enjoyed so much.
I remembered my first job and my joy at receiving my first pay
cheque -a whole 17 cents an hour. a total of 57.00 a week. How
very rich I felt. What would I buy first?
1 remembered shocking everyone by joining the airforce, an
almost unheard of happening in a small narrow-minded town like
St. Boniface. but most of all, I remembered mother and dad's
tears as they saw me off on the train. My own tears flowed now at
the memory; a curious blending of tears, some for the past and
some for the present.
The late afternoon sun had cast a shadow across the graves
and with a start I realized that time had passed quickly. I gave a
last lingering look at the precious mounds at my feet and turned
quickly, decisively toward my brother's home where everyone
had gathered. My brother had taken over our family home where
I had lived all of my childhood and adolescent years. It was only a
10 minute walk from the cemetery to our home but I felt
completely exhausted as one does when sorrow or another
equally draining emotion enters our lives. I had gone to the
service at the church right from the airport so this was the first
time in many years I had seen our old homestead. With a pang I
realized that the white pillars I had loved so much had been
removed and a modern, glassed -in veranda now graced its front.
It was no longer the home I knew and remembered so well.
I looked down the length of the street and with a wrench of my
heart I realized that many of the houses had been altered.
Nothing seemed familiar. The little corner store owned by the
Plotkins, a Jewish family, had been torn down. How I
remembered the row upon row of penny candies from which we
had so loved to choose. Five pennies afforded you a good size
bag filled with a variety of intriguing candies,...honey moons,
round pastel dime size candies stuck on white paper, black balls,
etc. etc. How we loved them!
Where was everyone? Where were the Skibos, an Ukrainian
family whose mother made such good dill pickles and Jenny their
daughter who so loved my mother's hot cross buns? Where were
the Orchardsons, a Scotch family, whose father paid my brothers
a penny for every pail of horse manure they shovelled off the
road after the ice wagon had gone by and which he put on his
strawberry and raspberry plants?
Where was my best friend Shirley Gould, who lived with her
Welsh grandmother and grandfather and with whom I spent
most of my adolescent years? Couldn't I please see a familiar
face or a familiar voice? Wouldn't someone call out to me in
recognition? But no one appeared and no one called out. I was
alone. The past was gone. Only echoes and shadows remained. I
went into the strange looking home I no longer recognized and
which was no longer my real home.
The next day I flew back to Stratford, to my loved ones, to the
present. I would never go back again or delve into the past again.
It was far too painful.
March 1979, Village Squire 19