Early Days
Childhood Adventures & Memories
I was born on July 13th, 1944, and was named after my Mom’s only brother, Sandy. He was an Air Force pilot who had been shot down and killed in March of 1943, and I was born on his birthday the following year. My parents, Mom especially, regarded my birth almost as a reincarnation of her lost brother, and I inherited his name of Alexander, and nickname Sandy.
In 1940 my dad had got a job working for the Canadian Government in New York city. He was soon working to help create the “Lend Lease” arrangement through which the American government was able to supply England with war fighting materiel. In 1941 my sister Kathie was born in New York, and she and my parents continued to live there until my mom became pregnant with me. My parents then decided to move back to a house on Hingston Avenue in Montreal for my birth. After my mom gave birth to me, and she and I were both safe and well, Dad joined the navy.
After the war ended, my dad retired from the Navy and joined the Montreal Trust Company. We moved in with my Mom’s father (Daddy Bill) in his house on Somerville Avenue in Westmount. Shortly thereafter, we moved again to an apartment in the newly constructed complex called Benny Farm. This group of apartment buildings was designed and designated as Veteran’s Housing to provide accommodation to military families as they returned to civilian life after serving in World War ll. Our three story apartment building was situated on Cavendish Avenue, which intersected with Sherbrooke Street, the main street leading east into downtown Montreal. Our neighbours were all veteran’s families, who became some of my parents’ lifelong friends.
On the first day of grade three. I discovered that there were two girls named Sandy in my class. I couldn’t handle the prospect that I would therefore be recognized as having a “girl’s name’”, so when the teacher began to register us, I quickly announced that my name was Alex. My concern about the gender of my nickname persisted, so I continued to be known as Alex at school until I graduated from high school eight years later.
Benny Farm provided amazing venues for year-round kids’ activities. The seemingly endless summers allowed for continuing games of cops & robbers, or cowboys & indians. We all had at least one cap gun in a holster. We also all had roller skates – the original type that attached to the shoes, with two foot supports which could be tightened with a square key to lock in the sides of the shoe. On Friday nights we would go up to Monkland Avenue and walk east to the ball field where outdoor movies would be shown as the sun went down. There also was organised summer baseball and fall football at another sports field on Sherbrooke Street. These games were interspersed with numerous adventures in the farmer’s fields surrounding the ball field.
Winter brought skating and hockey. In the late fall a sturdy, illuminated outdoor rink was constructed in the field behind Benny Farm, and the ice would form as the temperature dropped in late November. We learned to skate on “cheese cutters” (four bladed skates tied onto winter boots). We began by first holding onto our parents’ hands, and then moved up to pushing a chair along the ice. Once we became more roficient, we graduated to real single blade skates, and were given the freedom to venture out on our own. Quickly we joined others on hockey teams and learned the fundamentals of the game. Naturally we would stay out on the rink long into the afternoon and evening, even as the penetrating cold seeped into our hands, ears, noses, and especially toes. Once we finally came in, we would suffer the agony of our extremities thawing out. I can still remember crying with the pain as I knelt with my toes underneath my bum, trying to get them warm again.
As a very young child I had my tonsils and adenoids removed. Like most siblings, Kathie and I also contracted measles and chicken pox around the same time. The measles are a distant memory, but I can certainly remember the sores on my back and feet from the chicken pox. We also contacted mumps but I have no memories of the effects.
As Halloween approached we would have to decide on a costume. Mom, who was very creative and a wonderful seamstress, would do her best to fashion a costume that would come close to matching our ideas. We would then go out together and make the rounds of the apartments in the complex, returning with bagfuls of loot to be enjoyed for the next few days.
As Christmas drew near, we would dutifully write our letters to Santa, describing all the toys we were hoping to find under the tree. Sometime in the weeks before Christmas we would be allowed to leave school early, and accompany our parents downtown to shop. We could marvel at the wonderful large storefront Christmas displays at Eaton’s, Morgan’s, Ogilvie’s and the other large department stores. As the big day approached, we would go out and buy a Christmas tree. After what always seemed to be a lengthy, frustrating time, the lights would be in place and decorating could commence. Mom had made a beautiful multi-colored skirt that was placed around the base of the tree, and we could then place wrapped presents under the tree as we bought and wrapped them.
On Christmas Eve we were glued to the radio as the commentator related how Santa had been observed by the Airforce, starting out on his journey. We would then sit in the living room by the tree and Mom or Dad would read “The Night Before Christmas”. We would then light the traditional Bayberry candle, “hang our stockings” by choosing a favourite place on the couch or living room chair, and then put out a glass of milk and some cookies for Santa. Then it was off to bed to try and go to sleep, because Santa wouldn’t come if we were awake. When we woke up, we would find our filled stockings on the foot of the bed. Our parents realized we would be up early, and to allow them time to sleep longer, we were allowed to open our stockings and then play with the toys discovered inside, remaining in our rooms until 7:30 am. At that time we could rush into their bedroom and wake them up (as long as we didn’t go into the living room where the tree was located). Before we were allowed in to see the tree, Mom and Dad had to get their morning coffee. Then we rushed into the living room to discover the wonders that Santa had brought.
The Christmas I was eight, I received my first electric train set. I had asked Santa for the set and waited anxiously for its arrival under the tree. The model that I had dreamed of included an engine that even produced smoke as it chugged along. When I opened the gift, my joy was tempered by the fact that my new engine unfortunately did not produce smoke. I quickly showed my disappointment by bursting into tears and crying over the smokeless engine. I still carry the shame of that selfish display in my memory. If only I had been filled with joy at receiving the wonderful gift, rather than acting out over a minor detail.
We learned to ride bikes in the lane bordering the metal garages. Both parents were very patient in supporting us as we struggled with the balance, until the wonderful moment when we discovered that we were staying upright by ourselves. We could then look back and see them cheering as we left them behind. Occasionally I would lose control and run into a garage door. I quickly realised that dragging my fingernails down the metal door produced a very unpleasant high pitch sound which translated into a most unwanted squeal in my ears and shudder down my back. I later discovered that scraping fingernails down the blackboard at school produced the same uncomfortable sensations, which soon became the subject of a challenging dare between friends.
The December after I turned five, my mom gave birth to my younger brother Doug. Given that he was over five years younger, Doug didn’t play too much of a part in my life until he was able to stand and walk. Looking back, I was not a great older brother, either ignoring Doug or asserting my place as his elder. I wish we had been closer, and that I had been a more positive influence as he was growing up.
While we were living in Benny Farm, we would often visit my dad’s mother, “Gran”, who lived in Lachine to the west of Montreal. Her husband Earnest had died before I was born so I never knew him. My mom’s mother, “Happy”, died when I was three. Unfortunately, in June of 1951 my grandfather died, and I was left with only one live grandparent, until Gran died in 1955.
Prior to her death, Gran and my father came to an arrangement through which ownership of her large house and car would be passed to my father. In exchange he began paying the rent for an apartment for her, two blocks away. That meant we would be relocating to Lachine, and planning soon commenced for the move to our first real house.