Childhood Stories - The Bear

My earliest memory that I know happened in my own head was a dream I had when I was three. We now lived at Reid Lake, north of Prince George, B.C. on a farm, I think. It had fields, and a pond, and a barn, and a creek, all the trappings of farmness. One of the fields was across the creek, I think it had to be forded for there was no bridge. On the far side of the field the track which led through the field went into the trees, out of sight and into imagination. Who knew what kind of creatures lived in those woods?

In dreamland the imagination can take mysterious things and show them in the clear light of day. I remember going to the field on the far side of the creek. I walked across the stream on a log which had been set there for that purpose. I was out in the middle of the field when I saw a big black bear standing in the track at the opening of the forest, and he was looking at me. I saw him get down on all fours, and I knew I had to run home or be eaten by the bear, so I ran as fast as I could go back to the log. I could hear him gaining on me, hoping for a little boy for lunch, but I knew, somehow, that if I could just get across that log the bear wouldn’t get me, because it couldn’t walk across logs like I could. I made it, and here I am today to tell the tale! Ah, dreams!

Childhood Stories - Church

We went to church in Prince George at the Evangelical Free Church, pastored by Cliff Deitrich, a short little bald fellow who preached with a good bit of gospel fire and fervor. My father had learned a good bit of what it meant to walk with the Lord from this man, and I owe him a great deal because of it. I don’t remember much at all about that church, except that I threw up in Sunday School one day, having eaten too much Puffed Wheat for breakfast.

I also remember getting to church on one particular Sunday. Our Ford van was broken down, and the only vehicle we had that ran was Dad’s new purple 1971 Ford pickup, which of course we all wanted to ride in. Grandma was with us that day, and we somehow got all nine of us into the cab of that truck and went to church. I remember sitting on the left side of dad as he drove.

Childhood Stories - Corn and Beans

Saturdays held the family rituals that I remember from when I was small, most of them are food-related. Mom would bake bread that day. I remember helping her punch down the dough, and the wonderful smell of the finished product coming out of the oven. I think she made cinnamon rolls, too, but I may be just wishing… Saturday night supper consisted of corn and beans and bread. Mom did deep brown beans in a slow cooker that day, with molasses in them, and were they ever good!

When I was in Bible college I went on a music tour with one of the teams PRBI would send out, and we would billet at peoples houses. I walked into one such house and was immediately transported back to my five year old days; the beans smelled just right, just like mom’s recipe! MMMM!
And I have always liked the colors yellow and brown together; it creates some sort of deep-seated, Saturday night satisfaction in my soul... I would eat my yellow smarties last, forget that song about the red ones…

We were allowed to have a cup of tea on Saturday night (but not too much, it might stunt your growth!), and we would watch Hockey Night In Canada. The girls always cheered for Montreal, and the boys always cheered for Boston. We usually ended up with four angry boys and two happy girls…

Childhood Stories - My Mother

My mother passed away when I was nine years old, after a long illness which kept her in the hospital for three years. I have seen pictures of her from when I was a toddler, and she never looked well. I suspect that life weighed heavily on her; bearing and raising six children took it’s toll on her frail frame, and when financial difficulties arose they cast black clouds of uncertainty on an already uncertain endeavour.

She was not very stable physically when I was a child. One day when I was four we stepped out the side door of the house into the garage, presumably to get some potatoes for supper. The landing outside the door was about eight steps higher than the concrete floor of the garage, and it had a wrought-iron railing attached. My safety-conscious mom was leaning on this railing as we descended the stairs, as was I. The railing gave way suddenly, and both of us tumbled headlong onto the garage floor from a few feet up. Mom lit, I am told, on a garbage can full of potatoes; I lit on my head on the floor and cracked my skull. I remember having a terrible headache, sitting in bed and waiting for dad to come home, since mom couldn‘t drive. When he arrived, he took me into town to the hospital to get me checked out, and I had to stay in the hospital for a couple days.

My mother trusted in Jesus, and I am sure she must have taught us kids to do so as well. But I think her life was still a fearful place to her. Never having learned how to drive, she often left dad in a bind, needing another driver and having none. I remember an incident when dad had loaned a tractor to a neighbor a couple miles from home, and it was time to pick it up. Little kids could not be left at home alone, or perhaps dad knew we would need to offer moral support, so several of us got in the van and drove to the neighbor’s farm.

“But how will we get home?” mom asked dad.

“You are going to drive home.” said he. “I have to drive the tractor.”

Much protesting ensued, but dad won out. I remember his instructions to her, to keep both hands on the steering wheel, and to drive right down the middle of the gravel road, to watch for traffic on the two corners she would have to make. I remember that Dad drove the tractor ahead of us and we followed, with mom’s white knuckles gripping the wheel like it was some wild thing…

Childhood Stories - Moberly - Card Games

Once upon a time there was a boy who did not like to lose. This made his life quite miserable, for losing was something he did often.

There were several card games in favor among the siblings, to help the evenings go by after supper. They played Three-Five-Eight, and Poker, and Hearts, and a few others. When the short-tempered boy started grouching in their midst, they would offer to let him play Fifty-Two Pickup. Having fallen for this a couple of times, he declined to play any more.

Though he was not a very good sport, the siblings, practicing their Christian duty, involved him in their games, though they knew that by doing so they would most likely compromise the peacefulness of their evening. The boy was touchy to begin with; his history of previous card game losses would set him on edge, but he was determined that this time would be different and he would be victorious. When the same old same old began happening, the ire would rise, along with the voice, the volume, the dander, and the angry tears in his eyes. Losing graciously, holding the prospect of victory with a lighter grasp, never seemed to have occurred to him.

The Hearts hands were dealt. The boy, having lost the previous six hands in a row, studied his cards, then passed three cards left, hoping to give some of his grief to someone else. He received in return three cards; not really good ones, but not as bad as could be either. His frown lessened.

In the second round he played a low card, but the person on his left played a lower one, as did the person across, and the one on the right gave him the Queen of Spades (Grrr!!! Anger from the boy, chuckles from the siblings.).

His next few cards were too high as well, and the person on the right kept feeding him hearts. Howls of protest rose; accusations of cheating, of picking on him, of being the source of most of the world’s ills were leveled at the siblings. With each passing card his voice rose, as each of the siblings always had a lower card than he did…

“It’s not fair! I’m getting so many points…” Which was, of course undesirable in Hearts. The hand ended, and there was the boy, with all the points. He wept bitterly, until it was pointed out to him that taking all the cards actually resulted in 26 points for everyone else and none for him. This made the boy happy, though he was still emotional, crying and laughing at the same time…

His siblings deserve many commendations for their patience with a self-centered and egotistical boy. I’m sure they all hoped he would not stay that way forever…