Certain times of the year lend themselves to fond memories of days gone by, to nostalgic recollections of the way we were, or at least how we remember the way we were.
Our family planted a huge garden, with the produce preserved to keep us fed during the harsh winter months.
The pea patch was particularly impressive, and a wonderful place to visit when the pods showed signs of being ready for the first sampling. Standing there in the patch, finding the perfectly-filled pods was a child’s delight, even though I was admonished not to eat too many or I would go hungry in the winter.
Of course I didn’t listen as I knew the parents would never allow anyone in their home to go hungry. But I carefully hid the evidence of the number of pea pods I sampled. What better place to stash the opened pods was in the pockets of my homemade trousers. The pockets, as I recall, were deep and wide and concealed many secrets.
But I should have remembered to empty the pockets and bury the evidence down the outhouse hole. But being so delighted with my snack, and wanting to get on to another adventure, those pockets were not emptied — until wash day when they were turned inside out to make sure a nose tissue wouldn’t end up in the washing machine.
Of course I pled not guilty when confronted with the evidence. And despite my guilt, I don’t recall going hungry that winter. Dad laughed, and so did Mom when she thought I wasn’t around to hear her tell the story.
Of course I was punished: I had to help shell peas that filled several old fashioned wash tubs. Sneaking a pea here and there while completing this task wasn’t nearly as much fun as hanging out in the garden.
Now many years later, I am allergic to raw peas and while they taste pleasant when cooked, I glare at Housemate as he eats his raw peas for a between-meal snack and then also helps eat the ones I have cooked. It just isn’t fair, my inner child laments.
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It took me a long time to learn how to ride my two-wheeled bike but once I figured how not to fall off I was off and gone here and there all through the town, and even out into the country.
Riding down the school hill was a dare-devil stunt for all of us, and riding in the newly-laid gravel on the town streets was a challenge, but not too much of one to keep a group of us from riding and riding and riding.
In today’s world someone might come along and help themselves to our bikes, left as they were in our yards, unguarded by tall fences and locked sheds. My bike came indoors when it rained and when we left home to a trek to the city, but all other times it was safe in our yard.
Or so we thought: we came home from a church function one evening and my bike was missing from where it always stood, propped against the clothesline pole in the back yard. We scoured the yard, the neighbours’ yards, ditches and sloughs in a wide radius of the yard. And I cried.
We called CHAB and had an announcement put on the Mailbag about my missing bike. That didn’t get my bike back home, but when Dad made it known he was going to call the police to report it stolen, the culprit must have decided he’d rather not go to jail.
Soon we received a call that we should look in a ditch close to the house to find my missing transportation. We had already looked there but off we went and sure enough, my beautiful blue CCM bike was right where the caller said it would be. Imagine that.
Back then we didn’t have call display but we recognized the voice of the caller. And then his cousin ratted him out. He never personally confessed to us, but he was unusually friendly after that and he did teach me a lesson: keep my bike in the house to keep it safe from bully boys.
I wanted to chat with him about my bike episode at our community school reunion a few years ago but I couldn’t bring myself to open the conversation on that note. He nodded politely and kept his distance. I wonder why?
Joyce Walter can be reached at ronjoy@sasktel.net
The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author, and do not necessarily reflect the position of this publication.
