In Praise of Aunties and Uncles

These long summer days and my ever lengthening years have put me in a somewhat melancholy and introspective mood. I miss my aunties! I suddenly realized I only have one aunt and uncle left and they are becoming increasingly frail and also lives thousands of miles away in England. Once upon a time I not only had several aunts, uncles too of course, but also Great Aunts and Uncles, the siblings of my grandmother. I miss the weekly visits from them at first my grandmothers house (she raised me), then later mine and turn about when we visited them. There was always tea and scones of course and lots of gossip. As a wee girl, I’d sit quietly on the floor, playing with my toys while they chatted with my gran, gleaning nuggets of family history and sometimes, gasp, a scandal or two! They always brought a supply of cream cakes with them and of course, sweeties for me and when they left, they always gave me some “pocket money” to spend. As I grew up, I was allowed to join in with the adults and later when my daughter arrived, she in turn loved their visits with the candy and cash being for her this time.

From time to time we would all go through to Stirling to visit an old friend of my grandmothers, who was an honorary aunt! Granny, two aunts, my daughter and I would board a train for the 40 minute trip to Stirling where we would be met by a nephew of my “aunt” and whisked off for an afternoon of blethering with a lovely “tea” spread out for us. When I was a girl, I loved to visit there because there was another girl, a relative of theirs who I could team up with and we would go off exploring the countryside. When my daughter’s turn came, she loved the visits too because of the delicious home baked treats laid out for tea and because behind my aunt’s house there was a field of cows and she would go out feed them over the fence.

Aunties and uncles are important members of a family; I only wish I had many more of them and that they were still with us. I’m an aunt myself but alas don’t have the same close contact with my nephews that I enjoyed. I wrote the following story as a writing exercise a while ago but it recalls a happy childhood memory of a different era. I hope you enjoy it.

My Secret Garden

I was raised by my grandmother in Scotland in the early 1950’s and have fond memories of visiting her sister Bell and my great-uncle Frank Bunn at their little home in a village just outside of Edinburgh called Loanhead.

Theirs was an old terraced house with a long, narrow garden which backed onto a railway cutting. Every time we visited in the summer, Uncle Frank would say the magic words “want to go down to the garden Maxine?” This eight year old had no hesitation, and off we would go my young hand tucked in his old gnarled, gardeners’ one.

We would walk slowly down the long gravel path, stopping to admire the neat rows of vegetables; carrots, beets, turnip, lettuce and peas with me listening politely while he extolled the virtues of this variety or that. Then we would come to what we both knew was the real goal of this sedate stroll…..the strawberry patch! Uncle Frank would say with a twinkle in his eye, “well Maxine, and let’s see if there are any ripe berries today”. I needed no second bidding! And of course, there were always berries, large, luscious, sweet strawberries, ripe and warm from the sun. I would just brush off the soft, brown soil and pop them in my mouth, savouring their sweet juices. Uncle Frank and I would just grin at each other as he helped me eat my fill. Then with a satisfied sigh, we would move on to the raspberry canes, my next favourite stop!

When we reached the end of the garden, there was another source of satisfaction and not a little morbid curiosity on my part for I knew that under the beautiful rock garden there, lay the remains of their beloved pet dog “Tippy”, who had died many years ago. Uncle Frank would always stop for a few minutes here and pick out a tiny weed or two that had the temerity to take root.

Just over the rough stone dyke was the railway line. Uncle Frank had a bench here and I would stand on this and peek over the wall while he puffed away on his old pipe. There were steam engines then, great black puffing noisy monsters chugging by, what a thrill for a child! I would wait patiently for one to come by, belching out clouds of black smoke and would wave wildly to the engineers and passengers as they passed, they always waved back. Later, my pockets stuffed with peapods and my face stained with berry juice, we would return contentedly to the house and join my aunt and granny for tea and scones with strawberry jam of course!

The house, the people and the steam trains are long gone now but not my happy memories.

For Mother's Day

I am the daughter of a WWII ‘War Bride’. My Scottish mother met my father, a Canadian soldier, at “The Palais De Danse” in Edinburgh during one of his leaves. The Palais had seen better days. It used to be quite grand apparently. It had a sprung dance floor and a balcony running around the large floor where you could watch the dancers. Before the war people used to arrive in carriages, and fur and jewel bedecked women swanned in on the arms of handsome tuxedo clad men, or so I am told. The wars changed all that and in the 1940’s it was a hang out for the ‘sojers’ to meet Scottish lassies. I just remember it as a place to go “dancin’” and meet boys in the 1960’s. It had a bad reputation by then and I was not supposed to go but did anyway. Sadly it closed down and became, like many others, a Bingo Hall. I don’t know even if it is still there.

My dad was not a dancer, being a big Saskatchewan farm boy, but he wanted to meet girls so made himself go. On this occasion he looked ‘across a crowded room’ and spotted my mum and her lovely, auburn hair and was instantly smitten. He plucked up courage to go over and ask her to dance. He remembers the song that they danced to was Bing Crosby singing “Where the Blue of the night meets the gold of the day, someone waits for me”. He tells me that after they met, they were inseparable and every leave he got was spent in Edinburgh with my mum. You have to realize that this was war time and a different generation, the blackout was on, no lights allowed anywhere, no sign posts, food and clothing rationing and people being shipped out at a moments notice.

They were married in 1943 in my mum’s house by the local minister. Being war time, it was very difficult to find nice things and my mum was married in a short, pale blue rayon dress and she could only find a pair of heavy shoes to wear with it. Of course Dad was in his uniform. It was even difficult to find enough ingredients for a wedding cake with the severe rationing that was in place at the time. I was born in 1944 in Edinburgh while dad was away and he actually didn’t get to see me until I was 1 year old.

The war ended in 1945 and dad was sent back to Canada to be demobbed. He bought a veterans house in Vancouver and sent for my mum and I to join him in 1946. We sailed from South Hampton on the Queen Mary which was almost brand new but still fitted out for war service. My mum thought it was very grand and sent a post card of the ship to her mother, my granny, saying they were having ‘a swell time’ with plenty to eat and cheap cigarettes or ‘fags’ as she called them!

Imagine a ship full of hundreds of women and children all leaving their homes for new lives with husbands they hardly knew to live in a huge, strange land. How brave they all were, I don’t think we’ll see the like again. We landed at Pier 21 in Halifax and then my mum had to face a four day train journey across Canada with a two year old! The train was packed with other war brides and children who were dropped off as they crossed the continent, some in the middle of nowhere in the prairies. My mother was lucky she was going to Vancouver and a comfortable home.

We were only reunited with my father a short time when it was discovered that my mum had contracted TB. She was hospitalized and my Scottish granny came out in 1947 to look after me and keep house while she was in hospital. My mum was in hospital for 5 years during which time I was not allowed to visit her, only see her through a window several floors up. She died in 1952 age 32 never having seen any more of Canada other than what she had during her train trip. I was 8 years old and had only had my mum for 3 years. My granny wanted to return to Scotland and wouldn’t leave without me so my dad let me go and we left for Scotland later that year.

I am now living in Vancouver having immigrated with my own daughter in 1981 and I have nothing but admiration for all those brave war brides who have helped make Canada the wonderful country that it is. I only wish my mum could have been here with me to see it all.