Beware of the Shoelace

Thanks to my dad for scanning this picture on my request!

For the most part of my early childhood, my dad worked the night shift.  I clearly remember seeing him off every night after dinner.  However no matter how this schedule was tiring him, he always managed to find time to spend with us kids.  Since my sister was still a toddler, spending time with "us" often meant spending time with me.  He would sometimes take me skating or give me a ride on his motocross but more than often he would take me for a bicycle ride.  At first I would sit in the child seat on the back of his bike but as soon as I was able to pedal on my own, he took me for short rides around the town.  When I got better, we even participated in our city's biking events.

One summer day we left on one of those rides.  I must have been six or seven but still managed to keep up.  Well, ok, I confess that dad did help me by pushing my bicycle at times.  But only a little!  We left our house in Saint-Eustache and rode all the way to a snack bar in Deux-Montagnes.  The place doesn't exist anymore but it was a great spot for children.  They had many jungle gyms to play with (made of wood and old tires) and even had a huge pond with ducks and swans.  It was great and I still remember the place clearly.  

When we finally arrived, I sat at one of the numerous picnic table outside waiting for dad to bring me the French fries he had promised me as a reward for my efforts.  I still remember his apologetic expression when he came out with only a paper cup filled with orange juice (the type of juice that came from those transparent juice fountains they had everywhere back in the days.)  and a straw.  Apparently, he had forgotten his wallet home and the juice was the only thing he had been able to buy with his pocket change.  Surprisingly, it didn't matter to me.  The day was hot and the juice hit the spot.

On the way back, we were riding the cycling path, chatting about this and that when I saw something on the road.  Judging by the color, I thought it was a piece of string or a shoelace.  I continued talking, knowing that the obstacle ahead represented no danger for my bike.  I was soon to discover that there was danger ahead, but not for me.

As soon as my front wheel came in contact with the string it became alive and sprung straight up on both side of the tire.  I let out a scream and looked back as my bike continued forward. I was so startled (and maybe a little scared) that I didn't dare stop pedaling to take a look at my victim.  My dad, seeing that I wasn't hurt or in danger, glanced back and declared wisely:

"Next time, that snake will look twice before crossing the street!"

Literally

My nemesis

I think my mother was really lucky to be blessed with two daughters. I don't believe she would have been able to enjoy herself as much with two sons. My mom just loved to dress us up like little princesses. Before we started to have our say in the choices of our clothes, I remember that twice a year, huge blue Sears bags would arrive home. I was always excited to see them because I knew it meant that I got to try on new fancy dresses, jumpers and shoes. As we grew older, however, the bags stopped coming and my mom started to take us to the store. That was a lot of fun, too, and I soon became a pro at getting what I wanted.

Sometimes, though, she went without us. That meant that we didn't always like what she brought back. One summer, (I think I was in second grade) my mother came back home with new shoes for my ever growing feet. I was really excited until I opened the bag.

The horror.

These had to be the ugliest shoes I had ever seen. They looked a lot like the vans in the picture above, but the print on the canvas looked liked the result of a Picasso painting chopped to pieces and put back together by a toddler. I was not pleased and refused to wear the shoes, requesting new ones. My mother, tired and upset, told me that I would wear them until they became too small or too worn.

A day or two passed, my mother's words still on my mind. No matter how fast my feet were growing, they would never outgrow these abominations before school started. That left me only one option.

One morning, I put on my ugly shoes, jumped on my bike and headed for the area of our neighborhood that would be perfect for my plan. I found it before long: the perfect hill. The road was straight and long with the perfect angle. I stopped my bike in the middle of the road at the top of the hill, I put the tip of my feet down and with a big push, I was on my way.

As I gained speed, I pushed harder on the ground, letting my feet drag with the optimum pressure. I won't lie, I enjoyed every moment of my evil plan. When I stopped at the bottom of the hill, I took a satisfied look at my shoes. The sole was so thin that a few more meters would have probably sufficed to open a hole into it. Satisfied, I went back home to show my mom how worn my shoes were.

I remember being yelled at for ruining perfectly good shoes. I don't remember however, ever wearing those ugly shoes again. I guess I won. Actually, to this day, I can't wear shoes like the vans in the picture. I still think they are very ugly and wouldn't hesitate to let my feet drag down a hill while wearing them.

Muddy Games

As a child, I always loved climbing on things. I have pictures of myself dangerously climbing on various furniture in order to grab stuff out of my reach. Growing up, I kept that passion for high vantage points and scratched my knees countless times going up and down trees, walls and other structures. I was a real tomboy.

So it was without hesitation that I accepted my friend Geneviève's invitation to go see the foundations of the new house they were building close to hers. As we were first grade students, her mother accepted to accompany us, for our safety.

It had rained the day before and so when we reached the house to be, there were big puddles of mud all over the place. Of course, it takes more than mud to deter children; we walked on to give the cement work a closer look. The foundations were pretty low, and it looked like there would be no basement as the hole was quite shallow. The place was a prefect playground. Without losing time, I climbed on the short cement wall and started walking along. My friend followed and we played a while until her mom told her it was time to go back home to have dinner. I had had dinner already and still wanted to have some fun so when my friend's mother asked me to go with them, I told her that I was fine and would stay a little more. She left me on my own after I promised to be reeeeeeally careful.

Having the playground to myself alone, I walked on the foundations at top speed. However, I soon got bored and decided to ride my bike back home. I was about to get off the wall when I tripped. I tried to regain my balance but my attempts were futile; I crashed face first in a huge puddle of mud.

I got up immediately and hopped on my bike, holding back my tears. I pedalled top speed all the way home. I prayed that no one would see the blob of mud I had turned into. When I got home, I walked up the stairs of our patio and called my mom through the screen door. I can't remember if she laughed or got angry at me. The one thing I know however, is that she categorically refused to let me into the house.

And so I stood in the yard, crying, while my mom washed me up with the garden hose. Humiliated, I finally got to go into the house looking like a wet cat with my drenched coat.

I don't think I ever walked on house foundations again.

Maybe it was a Boomerang

My sister, during her spice girl phase (far right)

During the summer of my thirteenth year, my mom and her boyfriend decided that they would take us children to Quebec City for the vacations. I had never been there and the prospect of spending a week in the capital city with my new family was exciting. My mom and her boyfriend had event rented a minvan so that the six of us could travel together; this was going to be an exciting trip!

On the way to Quebec City, we stopped at a rest area for lunch. It was a sunny day and so we decided to eat outside. Many other families were also enjoying the good weather. My sister was going (or coming from?) the toilet when suddenly a pink frisbee hit her straight in the face. She started crying and covered her face with her hands. Soon a man came running to retrieve the projectile and apologize to my sister, making sure she was alright. We, in the meantime, stood there laughing, all five of us. What a nice family!

Once my sister calmed down, we learned that the frisbee had only hit her on the forehead (still, ouch!). It was her pride, more than anything else, that had been hurt. On we went with our trip.

On the last day of our vacation, we visited the Quebec City Aquarium. Having little interest for animals in general (unless I can pet them) , I was most happy when we finally sat in the cafeteria for a snack. It was then that a man came up to my sister and said:

"Would you like to play some frisbee?"

My sister looked at him like he was a madman (I can still see the look on her face) but my mom burst out laughing. It was the man from the rest area. Apparently, he had recognized my sister right away. He was happy to see that she was ok, but I think she, on the other hand, was not so happy to see him again.

Maybe it was a boomerang he should have thrown around!

Let's Operate

Before my parents divorced, we used to live in a big house in the suburbs. Well, maybe it wasn't that big, but I was small, so it did look big. The house had, like any 80s house, carpet wall to wall. And it wasn't just any carpet! Oh no! It was beige shag carpet. In all honesty, I look at pictures now and can't help but ask what my parents were thinking; the thing was horrendously ugly. Of course, back then, the color of the carpet was the last thing on my mind. In fact, I loved it. After bath time, my sister and I would lay our towels on top of the carpet in the hall and pretend we were sun bathing at the beach. The shag carpet was the perfect cushion!

However, bath time was not all fun and games. In first grade, I was like a little monkey and loved climbing up and down trees, running around and getting dirty. I always managed to scratch my knees, elbows or any exposed area of my body. When taking a bath, submerging the scratched area always required the courage and valor of ten, no, a hundred knights in shiny armor. It hurt so much!

I remember one night in particular when I had a very nasty scratch on my right foot. I don't know how I had gotten it, but it was big enough that I categorically refused to put it under water. My mom was trying to wash my sister and I up and was slightly annoyed that her big girl was making the job much more difficult. She tried to coo me into doing it, but I was adamant; this leg was not going anywhere.

Suddenly, as if on cue, my dad came in the bathroom with ski goggles on and a saw in each hand.

"So, Doctor! When do we operate?" he asked, in a mad scientist/German accent.

I squealed and put my leg in the water immediately. Better endure the pain and keep my leg! My mom almost rolled on the floor, laughing hysterically. I guess my dad had been watching the whole scene and decided to take matters in his own hands. Strangely, after the incident, I was never fussy again about scratches and bath water.