N.J. Lindquist's Blog, page 4

LoveChild 32: The Tipping Point

A tipping point is "the critical point in a situation, process, or system beyond which a significant and often unstoppable effect or change takes place."

Miriam Webster dictionary

You don't usually know ahead of time that something is about to happen that will affect you for the rest of your life. Unlike in movies, there's no "dramatic music" to warn you. It just happens and you're left to deal with the results. 

That's how it happened for me when I was roughly 4 1/2 years old.  

We Have Visitors 

Early in the fall of 1952, Granny Shaw, Aunt Margaret, and Uncle Albert finally made the 100-mile trip from Brandon to Crystal City in Uncle Albert’s 1946 two-door Ford.

As usual, Uncle Albert drove, Granny Shaw sat in the front seat, and Aunt Margaret in the back seat. Back seats weren’t especially comfortable in those days, so, since Granny Shaw was elderly, she got to sit in front.

This was the first time they’d come to see us since we'd moved to Crystal City. And the first time we'd seen them for quite a while.

I wonder now if it might have been the Sunday of the Labour Day weekend, because neither Uncle Albert nor my dad was working the next day.

The best picture I have of Granny Shaw.

This might be the only one of Aunt Margaret and Uncle Albert together that I have. 

After we’d shown them through our new house, we took them for a drive around town in our car, which was newer and larger than theirs. I expect we stopped to show them Dad's store, too.

Then we had supper and the adults talked to each other while I played with my dolls and “read” my Little Golden Books.

Now and then, someone spoke to me or offered to read a book to me, and for a short time, Uncle Albert and I played a game of Snakes and Ladders. But for the most part, I was just kind of there but also on my own.

Our car at this time. On the back of the picture, Mom wrote that it was a 1948 Pontiac Silver Streak, and was dark maroon in colour. 

After I was in bed, however, my four-and-a half-year-old mind kept whirling. We rarely had company, so seeing them was exciting.

Plus, while I'd been in the upstairs hallway next to my bedroom (likely visiting the bathroom), I'd overheard a few bits of conversation, and wondered what it was about. Their voices seemed kind of louder than usual.

I especially wondered what Granny Shaw was talking about when she said, “You must tell her!” I wondered who “her” might be, and what they all knew that she needed to be told.

Mom Takes Me Aside

The next day, we’d just finished eating lunch in our kitchen when Mom looked over at me. “Nancy,” she said through tight lips, “You need to come upstairs with me.” She pushed her chair back from our grey chrome kitchen table and stood up.

I quickly tried to remember everything I’ve done that morning. I couldn’t think of anything that might have annoyed her, but she definitely sounded annoyed. When I didn't get up, Mom pulled my chair away from the table and held out her hand.

I placed my hand in hers and she tugged as I tried to propel myself off the kitchen chair, but the red vinyl stuck to my bare legs and I had to wriggle to get free.

I sensed only anger from my mother, and I wanted to run outside. She hadn’t spanked me for a long time, but I was worried that she was about to, even though I had no idea why.

I looked across the table at my dad, but he looked away. My aunt and uncle were watching me, encouraging smiles on their faces. Granny Shaw was looking at my mother. I realized that everyone except me knew what was going on, and I wouldn’t get help from them. I took a deep breath and slipped off the chair. Might as well get it over with.

I silently went upstairs with my mother.

I started toward my bedroom, but Mom steered me in a different direction, leading me into her and Dad's bedroom with the white chenille bedspread over their  double bed, the dark brown wooden headboard and footboard, the matching chest of drawers placed against the wall on the near side of the bed, and the small mirrored dresser next to the window. The dresser had two small drawers on either side and a small rectangular stool with the burgundy seat that Mom could sit on to put on her makeup, or turn sideways to push it partway under the middle part of the dresser.

Mom went to the chest of drawers and bent down to open the bottom drawer.

I held my breath, wondering what she was getting.

Mom dug under some folded clothes and brought out a child’s picture book with a baby on the cover.

A new book? Relief flooded over me and I breathed again. But then I considered the situation. As far as I knew, Mom had never kept books in any of her drawers before. Why was this book there? And what else might be hidden in the drawer?

My mother shut the drawer, and I turned, still puzzled but ready to go back downstairs.

I didn’t get far. Mom picked me up, and set me down on the edge of the white spread, not saying one word about keeping my shoes off the spread because the bottoms were dirty. She sat down beside me, opened the book, and began to read the story aloud.

I wondered why she was reading to me when she so obviously didn’t want to. I preferred to have my dad read anyway. Even though he didn’t read as well, he seemed to enjoy it more. Or Aunt Margaret. She was really good at telling stories.

But I didn’t say any of this to my mother. Just sat there politely in my pale blue dress, keeping my feet, encased in white socks and white sandals, as still as possible. I wanted to swing my legs, but I knew my shoes would hit the white spread then and get it dirty.

The New Book

The story in the book was about Moses when he was a baby, and his mom had to put him in a basket and send him away because some bad people wanted to kill him. And the King’s daughter found him and rescued him and raised him as if he were her own son. 

I tried to find the storybook on the Internet, but I didn't see anything that looked like it. I'm guessing the storybook's pictures might have looked something like this. (Picture by Prawny in Deposit Photos.) 

I already knew the story from church activities, and while I liked it, I didn’t know why it was so important that Mom was reading it to me now when we had company downstairs.

But the story didn't end there. Apparently there was another little baby whose mother couldn’t look after it. Only that happened now, not many years ago. And so the mother got help from some a nice lady who knew a couple who didn’t have any children of their own, and who wanted a baby. So the baby’s mother gave the baby to the nice lady, and then she gave the baby to the childless couple, and the baby became their child.

The last pages of the book said that just as God had looked after Moses, so he looked after the other baby, too.

The story was okay, but I was still wondering why my mother had brought me into her bedroom to read the book instead of reading it in the living room or in my bedroom, as usual. And why was she reading it with so little enthusiasm? And I still wanted to know why Granny Shaw had said, “You have to tell her?” Who was "her?" I also wanted to know why the book was hidden away in the drawer. Sometimes Mom hid presents, but that was for Christmas and birthdays. And then she would get excited, not angry. What was going on?

My mother closed the book, and said, in a funny, kind of distant voice, “The reason I read you this book is that this story is about a little girl like you. We wanted a baby and God chose you to be our daughter. He gave you to us because he knew we would be the best family for you.” Her voice broke. Although she turned her head, I caught a glimpse of tears in her eyes.

I realized that I’d been wrong. I’d thought Mom was angry when, really, she was sad. And maybe afraid.  When Granny Shaw had said, “You have to tell her,” it was because Mom hadn’t wanted to tell me this story. She was afraid, but Granny Shaw had made her tell me anyway.

I sat quietly, processing what I'd just heard. “Can you read the book again?” I said quietly. 

She nodded. This time, she read it more softly, and with more emotion.

I listened carefully this time, trying to connect the words with what my mother had just said. This story was about me. I was like Moses. My own mother couldn’t look after me, so she had given me to my parents, who wanted me. And God had known they would be the best parents for me.

When Mom finished the book, she repeated what she had said before, and told me that God had given me to them to be their daughter. She asked if I had any questions.

I shook my head.

The air in the room felt damp and heavy. Mom used a tissue to wipe her eyes. But there were no tears in my eyes.

Mom lifted me off the bed and I watched her put the book carefully back under the clothes in the bottom drawer.

Even though I had only a few precious books, I didn’t ask to keep this one. And I didn’t try to see if anything else was hidden in the drawer. I simply waited until she had closed the drawer and straightened up.

“Can I go and play now?” I asked.

“Yes.”

My New World

I went down the hall to my bedroom, but I left the door ajar. It was a few minutes before I heard my mother go down the stairs. I heard Granny Shaw say, “Did you tell her?”

I didn’t hear Mom’s response; just the hum of their voices moving from the front hallway back into the kitchen.

I climbed onto my single bed and sat there trying to make sense of what my mother had just told me. I looked just like my parents. Same pinkish beige skin. Same dark brown hair. No one would ever guess they weren’t my real parents.

Part of me wanted to go downstairs and ask my dad if it were true. But Granny Shaw and Aunt Margaret and Uncle Albert were in the kitchen, too. And my mother might be hurt if I acted as if I didn’t believe her.

I got down and gathered my three dolls—Judy, Donna, and Mary—into my arms, and held them close for a few minutes. I replayed everything my mother had said. I can't be certain, but I likely told my dolls what had happened. 

I considered my thick, wavy, unruly hair and Mom’s very straight, thin hair. And a very small part of me felt relieved. I’d rather have my thick, messy hair than her straight, thin hair. Then I moved the whole thing into a far corner of my mind. 

I knew I’d never forget what I’d been told, but I also knew that I’d never mention it. And I didn’t think my mom or dad would, either. Not unless I brought it up.

For me, the most important part of what Mom had said, and what the book had said, too, was that God was the one who decided my mom and dad were the best parents for me, because just as he’d taken care of Moses, he’d take care of me.

I gave a moment’s thought to my original parents, whoever they were, wherever they were, and then asked God to look after them, content in the belief that God knew where everyone in the world was.

Then I sat on the linoleum floor of my bedroom holding my dolls and thinking. What troubled me, much more than the fact that my parents apparently weren’t my real parents, was the realization that they’d kept this secret from me. What others things might I believe that weren’t true?

It’s very unsettling to realize, at four and a half years of age, that you can’t completely trust anyone…except God.

Epilogue

I should add that I'm positive either Granny Shaw or Aunt Margaret had found the book, brought it with them, and given it to my parents the night before. And that I'm so glad Granny Shaw insisted that my parents tell me the truth about my birth. I’m quite sure Mom and Dad would have preferred for me to have gone on believing I was their natural daughter, my name was always and only Nancy Jane Shaw, and there were no photos of me as a newborn because their old Brownie camera wasn’t working.

 I love this drawing, and the reminder that Moses was found by the Princess's servants and taken to her, and then given to Miriam so that he could be raised by his own mother without fear. More evidence of God at work. However, I also wonder what he was told. (Picture by lenschanger in Deposit Photos.) 

.         .         .

Can You Relate?

There's a lot more I could say about adoption, of course, and I have some posts here outlining what I've learned in the past twenty years about the reality of adoption during the 1940s to 70s. And in my memoir I'll be sharing a lot more about how my being adopted affected me in the years to come. However, my focus here is not so much on adoption itself as on an event in childhood that affects you for the rest of your life.  

Can you recall something, positive or negative, that had a "tipping point" kind of affect on you? 

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LoveChild: Life Lessons from an Ugly Duckling is the story of my struggle to adjust to the life I was given, and my eventual discovery that, not only had I become a swan but, contrary to my perceptions, I had always been one. Though I didn't realize it until many years later, my life was part of a much bigger plan that all made perfect sense.

I'll be blogging my story once a week.

Find links to all these blogs at:

https://www.njlindquist.com/lovechild/

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LoveChild 31: New Experiences

“Life is a journey with problems to solve, lessons to learn, but most of all, experiences to enjoy.”

– Anonymous

Our First Summer in Crystal City

I don’t remember anything about the actual move to Crystal City - like whether we hired a truck or how we drove there… Nothing at all. 

As for our new house, while I remember the outside and the yard, I don’t have many memories of the rooms in the house. The stairs to go to the second floor were on the left just inside the front door. I assume there were three bedrooms upstairs, plus a bathroom. I think we had a guest bedroom, because I'm pretty sure we had a family member or two visit once in a while.

The basement door was under the stairs and it was dark down there, but that’s where the washing machine was kept.

I think the kitchen was at the back of the house. 

And I'm quite sure that the dining room table was in the room at the front of the house, because I remember reading and doing puzzles on that table, with the window nearby. Although for some reason, I remember sitting with my back to the window. 

We Begin to Make Friends

When we arrived in town, we didn't know anybody. Of course, Dad got to meet people at his store, and he slowly got to know other businessmen.

We went to the Crystal City United Church almost every Sunday, and I assume we got to know some people through the church. I was part of the Baby Band, but I don't remember that at all. 

The family I remember best is the one who lived kitty corner from us (behind the garage). He was a pharmacist who owned the the only drug store in town. I remember her as bubbly, outgoing, and fun to be around, and I think she and my mom, who was much quieter in general, got on quite well.

They were a bit younger than my parents, but not a lot, and they had three boys. The oldest was my age, and I believe the younger ones were twins. A fourth was born a year or two later.

Of course, their house was a lot more chaotic than ours, because of having several young boys versus one very quiet little girl. I don’t know if I envied their sons or not, but it did occur to me that life was probably a lot more interesting at their house.

Bozo and Tippy

We still had Bozo, of course. (See the photo in my last post.) And I believe we also had a cat named Tippy.

I know we had a cat who had kittens, and it was either in Wolseley or in Crystal City. I assume it was Fluffy and that Tippy was one of her babies. But somewhere along the line, Fluffy wasn't there are more but Tippy was. 

There’s not much else I can recall from that first summer, other than what was a pretty major event for Mom’s family—her younger sister Brucie got married.

Very fuzzy picture, but that's me with Tippy on our cement slab. 

I Get To Be a Flowergirl

My aunt Brucie was married on June 28th, 1952, to Sheldon Bloomer, who lived in Charleswood, then a Regional Municipality south-west of Winnipeg. The Bloomer family owned a grocery store in Charleswood, and the three Bloomer brothers later built and operated the Charleswood Hotel.

But I was more impressed by the fact that Sheldon was also a hockey player who played in the AHL and other US leagues. He was a member of the Winnipeg Maroons hockey team that won the Allan Cup in 1963/64 and is in the Manitoba Sports Hall of Fame. I still have a small change purse he brought back for me from overseas. 

It was a sad wedding in some respects because it was hard for the family not to think of Brucie's dad, Bruce MacDonald, who had died when she was eleven. Brucie was named after him, and he would have so enjoyed walking her down the aisle. Instead, her Uncle Mac had that honour.

I do have a few pictures. 

I was four and a half and I'm not sure I smiled at all that day. I felt like a princess in my beautiful dress and I was very intent on not making any mistakes.

By the way, Aunt Brucie's bouquet was made from gladiola with roses in the centres. I thought it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen, and when I was married, I had a similar bouquet. Hers was white and red; mine was yellow and red.

Brucie with her mother, Alice MacDonald.

The three sisters: Fay, 18; Brucie, 22; Margaret, 40.

Brucie being walked down the aisle by her uncle, Mac McTaggart. 

Mr. and Mrs. Bloomer.

The wedding itself. The little girl watching intently is me. I'm pretty sure that's Mom's brother, Uncle Mervin, beside me. Which is sort of puzzling.  

Brucie with her bridesmaids - a friend and her sister Fay. And me.  

Two Last Memories of the Summer

In Saskatchewan, we'd been able to spend some days at Lake Katepwa. But it turned out that Crystal City had a lake, too—Rock Lake. It's less than half an hour from the town, and it has a beach and boating, etc. So we were able to make some day trips there for a picnic. 

The last thing I remember (only because Mom told me) from that summer was that the school wanted to know if they wanted me to start grade 1. No, there was no kindergarten in those days.

Apparently, there weren't a lot of kids who were the right age, so they were looking for a few more. Mom and Dad decided that they didn't want me to attend.

The weird thing is that the next year, when I was 5 1/2, there were too many kids. So, because my birthday was January 4th, I had to wait until I was 6 1/2 to start school.

.         .         .

Can You Relate?

There are scenes that are sort of like short video clips that live in my head. Some of them I can sort of anchor to a specific time or place because of pictures I have of things someone has told me, but others just kind of float in my memory without many details. 

Do you have a lot of memories from when you were four?

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.          .          .

LoveChild: Life Lessons from an Ugly Duckling is the story of my struggle to adjust to the life I was given, and my eventual discovery that, not only had I become a swan but, contrary to my perceptions, I had always been one. Though I didn't realize it until many years later, my life was part of a much bigger plan that all made perfect sense.

I'll be blogging my story once a week.

Find links to all these blogs at:

https://www.njlindquist.com/lovechild/

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LoveChild 30: We Start All Over in Crystal City

“Once you'd resolved to go, there was nothing to it at all.”

– Jeannette Walls, The Glass Castle

Our New Home

In the spring of 1952, we moved to Crystal City, Manitoba, a village nine miles north of the Manitoba/North Dakota border. There were around 400 people, pretty close to the number that live there today. However, the village was surrounded by a large farming community.

By car, it was 170 km from Brandon, where Granny Shaw and several members of Dad's family lived, and just over 200 km to Winnipeg, where Granny MacDonald and most of Mom's siblings lived. Much closer than we'd been before.

In a sense, my parents were back "home" in the province they'd originally left.

As far as the town is concerned, people often laughed at the word “City,” since it was really a village, not quite half the size of the town we’d just left, which itself had only about 1,000 people. 

History of Crystal City

Back in 1872, the Government of Canada passed the Dominion Lands Act, which was put in place to encourage people from Europe and Eastern Canada to settle the land and start farms in Manitoba, Saskatchewan, and Alberta. The Act, similar to the Homestead Act in the US, offered 160 acres of land free (except for a $10 registration fee) to any man over 18 or any woman who was the head a household. They did not need to be British subjects, but they did have to clear at least 40 acres to farm, build a permanent dwelling within three years, and actually live there and work the land. They could also buy neighbouring lots for an additional $10 registration fee if they desired.

Much of what is now Southwest Manitoba was settled between 1878 and 1882, mostly by immigrants from Ontario and Britain. Some 58,000 immigrants arrived in Manitoba between 1879 and 1881, a three year period.

A man called Thomas Greenway came from Ontario to Manitoba in 1877. He filed for a homestead and then registered extra lots, ending up with 648 hectares of land. He mapped out the beginnings of a city south and east of Crystal Creek and called it Crystal Cihttp://www.manitobaaghalloffame.com/h...​http://www.manitobaaghalloffame.com/history2.php​​​ty.

Crystal City quickly grew to become a population of 230. At that time, Brandon had 100 people and Winnipeg 400, so his idea of a city wasn't unreasonable.

Unfortunately for Greenway, when the railroad arrived in 1885, the tracks were laid, not where Greenway expected, but two kilometres north. Eventually, the entire village packed up and moved closer to the railway lines, but Greenway’s land became worthless, and the city never happened.

http://www.crystalcitymb.ca/profile/history.html

Thomas Greenway remained very active in not only Crystal City but in the province, and in 1988 he became premier of Manitoba.

http://www.manitobaaghalloffame.com/ahofmember/greenway-hon-thomas/

Our House

When we first moved there, we lived in a small house Dad rented near the railway tracks. But we soon moved to a larger, two-storey house at the other end of town.

Our house was on a corner, all by itself, the very last one on Broadway, the street which included most of the stores. Dad only had to walk a few blocks to get to his store.

I've searched and searched, and I can't find a single picture of the house! The closest I have are several pictures of me or Dad and me standing at the front door. Mom obviously was the photographer. 

The house was on a corner lot south of the village, on Broadway. To the right and behind the house were a wild, grassy area and some trees. In one sense we were just a short walk from the main business area, and on the other hand we were pretty well isolated from other houses, although there were a few on Broadway before the majority of businesses began.

Me standing at the front door of our new house. 

Me with Bozo and my tricycle. The school is behind us.

Directly in front of our house, on the other side of Broadway, was the school. I'm not sure if there was only one school, or two. The pictures only show one. It's possible that older students when to Pilot Mound, another village not far from us.

On our side of the highway, across a small street from our house was Menzies’ garage.

This concrete slab was on our front yard, and we took a lot of pictures here for some reason.

There was a narrow road (Luxton) between our house and Menzies' garage on the opposite corner.

This picture of me with my doll carriage was taken on the sidewalk just past the school.

Me on our slab, with Menzies' garage behind. There's a narrow road between our yard and the garage.

Dad's Store

Dad with me. I believe the building in the background is the local hotel, which would likely have also been the bar.

Hard to believe, but I can't find a picture of the store. Different times, I guess. In my head, I can see where it was, across the street and down a tiny bit from Cudmore's Hardware, which is still there! 

Naturally, Dad was very hopeful that business would be good. I believe his store was the only one in town that had clothing and dry goods.

He liked doing the cash register and dealing with customers part. However, he had some new things to learn. The majority of his past retail experience was from working in butcher shops. There wasn’t a lot of variety or new fashions in meats.

Now that he was selling clothes, shoes, and dry goods (bedding, towels, etc.), his biggest challenge was learning what his customers would want so that he’d be able to choose the right items from the salesmen.

As before, Mom's role was to look after the house and me. So she didn't have much to do with the store. She sometimes helped him select items from the travelling salesmen who came to town, or go with him to the wholesales in Winnipeg when we occasionally drove there.

Mom also wrote any letters that Dad needed to write. All his life, he was embarrassed by his lack of education, in particular his spelling, as well as the fact that his writing wasn’t particularly legible. He'd get Mom to write his letters or anything else he had to fill out. She was just the opposite—very proud of her handwriting.

So there we were, ready to create new lives. 

.         .         .

Can You Relate?

Starting over in a place where you don't know anyone seems kind of scary. But the truth is, once you do it, it's done, and you simply begin from the new "normal." 

When you walk into a situation where you don't know anyone, do you feel overwhelmed, terrified, or excited?

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.          .          .

LoveChild: Life Lessons from an Ugly Duckling is the story of my struggle to adjust to the life I was given, and my eventual discovery that, not only had I become a swan but, contrary to my perceptions, I had always been one. Though I didn't realize it until many years later, my life was part of a much bigger plan that all made perfect sense.

I'll be blogging my story once a week.

Find links to all these blogs at:

https://www.njlindquist.com/lovechild/

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The post LoveChild 30: We Start All Over in Crystal City appeared first on N. J. Lindquist.

LoveChild 29: As I Turn Four, My Parents Become Restless

“Your time is limited, don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma, which is living the result of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of other’s opinion drowned your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition, they somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.”

– Steve Jobs

I Turn Four

For my fourth birthday, in January of 1952, I had a party with the three boys I played with on a regular basis: Scott, Greg, and Donnie. Mom wrote in my Baby Book that we had cake, cookies, drinks, paper hats, and balloons. I have no picture of the party, which was of course indoors, but I do have one from the spring of that year. 

My gifts included a 14-carat gold ring from my parents, a book from Granny Shaw, a hankie from Aunt Margaret and Uncle Albert, writing paper from Scott and Greg, some money from Donnie, and cards from Granny MacDonald and Aunt Ettie and Uncle Bert.

I really hope I got a few new toys for Christmas. I suspect I got a new toy phone.  And probably another doll.

Me with two of the boys I played with. No idea whose truck we were playing in, but you can see why Mom wasn't thrilled with our backyard playground.

This is a drawing of my hand, probably on the writing paper I got for my birthday. I assume Mom traced it. 

My Parents Began to Get Restless  

As 1952 began, life in Wolseley was getting my parents down. Mom hated living in the small apartment instead of having a house with a yard (and grass instead of dirt). Dad was working long hours with both the store (what Aunt Ettie, in a letter written in November, 1952, called "gents' furnishings") and the mink ranch, and not liking either much—especially the mink part.

What I can't figure out is what Dad would have sold in a "gents' furnishings" store in the middle of Saskatchewan farming country. I have no memory whatsoever of the store.  

As well, no doubt they also missed their many friends from Indian Head. I don’t think they’d made a lot of new friends in Wolseley. I can't remember the name of anyone from Wolseley except for the kids I played with.

Plus, we were still a long way from their families, so we didn’t see much of them. Of course, some family members visited us occasionally. Late in January, I got a letter from my uncle Jim, Mom’s brother. I’m guessing Mom preserved it because Jim likely didn't write a lot of letters to us. I'm not sure when he had visited us. Probably in the fall.

In case you can't read the writing, I've copied it below exactly as it was written.

My Uncle Jim

Dearest Nancy,

Well my little Sweetie how are you fine I hope. So you are four years old now you will soon be going to school. How was Santa Claus to you did you get lots of things how is your doll Jane. Have you still got the cat and kittens. We have a dog a little black one it will never grow very big you would have a good time with him we call him Boots.

Well my little Sweetie Pie I will close and you be a good girl and I may see you this spring of course you are always a good girl. Call me on your phone.

Bye Bye Dear Lots of Love & Kisses Uncle Jim
XXXXXX

Not sure how old I was here. It was taken either in the fall of 1951 or the spring of 1952.

I don't know how much time Dad spent looking around, but by the summer of 1952, two years after we’d come to Wolseley, we were ready to move to an even smaller town in a new province.

At 40 years of age, Dad managed to sell his "gents' furnishing store" as well as his share of the mink ranch. He then bought a small clothing and dry goods store in Crystal City, Manitoba. 

Mom looked forward to having a house with a yard with grass again, and I'm pretty sure Bozo did, too. Wolseley is actually a rather picturesque village, with the lake and the swinging bridge, but the back part of our apartment building left a lot to be desired. 

.         .         .

Can You Relate?

This would be the third time I'd moved to a new town, and many more than that for my parents. I've wondered what the difference is between people who stay in the same place and even the same house while they grow up and people who move a lot. Personally, I think it might have more effect when you're older and have more friends than when you're young. 

If you moved frequently when you were young or stayed in one spot, how do you think it influenced you? 

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.          .          .

LoveChild: Life Lessons from an Ugly Duckling is the story of my struggle to adjust to the life I was given, and my eventual discovery that, not only had I become a swan but, contrary to my perceptions, I had always been one. Though I didn't realize it until many years later, my life was part of a much bigger plan that all made perfect sense.

I'll be blogging my story once a week.

Find links to all these blogs at:

https://www.njlindquist.com/lovechild/

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The post LoveChild 29: As I Turn Four, My Parents Become Restless appeared first on N. J. Lindquist.

A Robins’ Nest at Our Front Door, Part 3

So where do birds sleep? Presumably in trees. Had the small bird been afraid to stay in the tree, even with an adult? Had it tried to get back into the nest, and either be unable to do so, or possibly prevented from doing so by its parents?  

I honestly have no idea whether it was a smart idea or a foolish one, but Baby Robin had created its own sleeping spot on the narrow ledge next to the window above our door, not far from the nest. 

When I came down the stairs on the morning of May 29th, my eyes, from habit, began to look up, preparing to check the nest for the mother bird. But something stopped me.

On the narrow ledge of the window above the door was a dark silhouette.

I ran and got my stool from the kitchen so I could get a closer look.

Yes, it was the baby bird.

Wondering if the adults had left their baby behind, I looked around.

And, of course, there was Mama Robin, sitting on the post she had flown to so many times after we'd disturbed her—the same post from which she'd often looked me in the eye as if daring me to try something.

She was keeping watch, swivelling her head all around, making sure nothing was going to bother her baby.

I looked toward the trees. Yes, Papa Robin was still in the area, too.

Over the next hour or so, Baby Robin stayed on the window ledge, moving a few inches now and then.

At one point that morning, I saw Mama Robin in the nest.

And Mama and Baby on the bannister again. 

I love this picture of the two of them! Mama Robin looks so fierce! And Baby Robin so trusting.

But I got busy, and didn't look out front again until later in the day.

I didn't see them. They were likely in a nearby tree, but no longer making the nest or our front steps their home base.  

I really don't know if there was a second baby in the nest that I hadn't seen, and it had flown away with them that day or not.

We never saw any broken eggshells. Apparently robins are known for keeping the area around their nest clean so predators don't see evidence of their continued presence. 

The next morning, May 30th, there was no baby robin on the ledge, and no sign of any robins in the area.

A few days later, I was in our back lane and I thought I caught a glimpse of a young robin near our neighbour's house.

I also saw one who looked a lot like the mother grabbing a raspberry from a bush at another neighbour's house. I tried to get a picture but it flew away.

A week passed. I decided they must have moved to a new area, perhaps to join other robins.

We had a lot going on, so a couple more weeks passed, but eventually we had time to make plans to get the railing replaced and redo our front yard. We started the process for someone to come and start the upgrade.

I discovered I had so many pictures of robins that they needed their own folder.

I wrote a blog about the robins, and prepared to move on.

But no one thought to take down the old nest...

*All photos copyright N. J. Lindquist, 2120

To be continued

The post A Robins’ Nest at Our Front Door, Part 3 appeared first on N. J. Lindquist.

LoveChild 28: The Problem We Didn’t Talk About

“Let’s be brief and frank about poop: It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Aside from eating and sleeping, it’s basically all we do in our early years." 

Zachary Crockettt

Potty training 

“Pediatrician Dr. Benjamin Spock encouraged mothers to leave toilet training up to the child and to hold off starting until the child was physiologically ready.... In the 1950's nearly 100 percent of babies wore cloth diapers and were potty trained before they hit 18 months. Today, over 90 percent of babies wear disposable diapers and only around 10 percent complete potty training by 18 months. The average age a child completes potty training today is 30 months.”

https://pottygenius.com/the-history-of-potty-training/​

My hot water bottle

I mentioned earlier that one of the presents my parents were given when I first arrived was a child-sizes hot water bottle. While it was useful for warming my feet when the sheets were cold, or putting on my stomach when I had a tummy ache, it had another use that made me want to run and hide.

By the time I was around 18 months, I’d graduated from using cloth diapers to using the small pink potty my mother had bought for me. I was a big girl now!

However, my memories of the small potty involve me trying my hardest to “go” and not being able to. I can even remember my mother showing me in a mirror that I had a red ring around my bottom from sitting on the potty so long. As if that would somehow enable me to "go" faster.

When it was really bad, and my stomach hurt, Mom resorted to a number of solutions including:

Milk of Magnesia (It tasted horrible.)Ex-lax (when I was a bit older. At least it tasted okay.)Suppositories (I hated them.)Enemas (The worst!)  That's when Mom or Dad got out my pink hot water bottle and filled it with warm water and put the long tube on it while I tried to hide. I should have stayed away from dairy products.

Me in the middle with (I think) Scott and Greg. (I totally love this picture!)  

Someone should have realized that my tolerating buttermilk better than regular milk when I was a baby might suggest I would have an ongoing problem with milk as I got older. But no one associated my constipation with my earlier issues with milk. And I don't blame them. I wasn't throwing up as I had when I was a baby, so this seemed like a different problem.

It wasn't until fifty or so years later that studies showed the relationship between cow's milk and constipation.  

"Cheese, ice cream, and other dairy products have a reputation of being "binding" or constipating foods. ... Dairy products made from milk can cause constipation in many individuals, particularly toddlers, he says. "To prevent constipation, try fruit sherbets instead."

https://nutritionfacts.org/2016/02/11/a-simple-yet-neglected-cure-for-childhood-constipation/

Cow's Milk Protein Allergy (CMPA) is a food allergy caused by a baby's immune system reacting to proteins in cow's milk. Some babies may develop CMPA after eating or drinking products containing cow's milk protein, which can cause an immune reaction resulting in allergic symptoms, including vomiting and constipation (both of which I had). 

Buttermilk is lower in lactose than regular milk, so people with lactose intolerance may find that they can tolerate it. But I have no idea why drinking buttermilk made a difference when I was young because it's actually a different issue. 

 https://www.nestlehealthscience.com/health-management/food-allergy/milk-allergy/milk-allergy-babies

But back to my problem...

When I was young, I drank milk, ate ice dream, loved milk shakes, and of course ate lots of cheese. Kraft dinner was one of my favourite foods, as was apple pie with cheddar cheese. 

Then, of course, I'd sit on the potty or the toilet trying to "go." And when I couldn't, and my stomach hurt, Mom would insert a suppository, and I would cry and wish I could run away.

And when it got really bad, my dad would have to hold me while I cried and struggled, and Mom gave me the enema. And then I'd have to try to quickly get on the potty before the water all ran out, and we'd all hope that it would work this time. 

Of course, we never talked about it. And if my mother mentioned it to our doctor, she didn't say anything to me. Plus, as far as I know, there was never any consideration that it might have something to do with what I was eating or drinking. It was just the normal way of life for us. 

As a young child who had very little control over what happened, I occasionally felt that I wasn't a very good girl because so often, I just couldn't "go." But my parents never blamed me. They were just concerned for me. And because of that I believe I was fortunate because I was usually able to forget about the problem until it got really bad again. I didn't live in dread of what would happen, but could put it aside until "next time." 

.         .         .

Can You Relate?

The digestive system is actually a key part of our body and has a lot to say about whether or not we're functioning properly and in good health. But until recently, digestion hasn't been something we talked about much. I do think it's much better now than it used to be.

Have you thought about how digestive issues might have affected you? 

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.          .          .

LoveChild: Life Lessons from an Ugly Duckling is the story of my struggle to adjust to the life I was given, and my eventual discovery that, not only had I become a swan but, contrary to my perceptions, I had always been one. Though I didn't realize it until many years later, my life was part of a much bigger plan that all made perfect sense.

I'll be blogging my story once a week.

Find links to all these blogs at:

https://www.njlindquist.com/lovechild/

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The post LoveChild 28: The Problem We Didn’t Talk About appeared first on N. J. Lindquist.

A Robins’ Nest at Our Front Door, Part 2

I discovered the robins' nest above our front door on May 5th, 2014.

If you missed the first part of the story, you can find it here.

On the morning of May 28th, I came downstairs and, as usual, checked to see if an adult robin was sitting on her nest before I opened the door to get the newspaper. If an adult robin was there, I would usually wait until the nest was empty so as not to disturb the birds.

I stood back toward the left side of our door (your right here) and looked through the window at the top of the door. 

I could usually, but not always, catch a glimpse of the adult bird's head when it was on the nest. If I wasn't sure, we have a small stepstool I often brought over to help me see.

No sign of an adult. 

I began to open the door as slowly and quietly as possible in order to grab the newspaper. But just as I began to move, my eyes happened to glance out the window on the left side of the door.

I stopped dead and looked closer.

During the summer, we have a plastic chair that sits in the corner. I've no idea why it's there, because no one actually ever sits in it. But it's useful for setting things on before you unlock the door or when a courier drops off a package.  

On the arm of the chair perched a bird. Not an adult robin, but a large fuzzy baby robin.

My first thought was that maybe the baby bird had fallen out of the nest. I'd always dreaded that—opening the door and seeing a dead baby splattered on the cement. 

But the baby seemed to be okay.

My next thought was to wonder what had happened to the adult robins. 

Where were the baby's parents?

I stepped back and looked up at the nest again. No sign of an adult robin, but I could never be 100% sure.

I moved to look out the window on that side of the door nearest to the nest.

I had never seen the adult robins on the ground before, but sure enough, Mama Robin was on the cement landing, only a few feet away from the baby.

And she was looking at the side of the door that opened. 

I wondered how good the adult birds hearing is. Because it seemed to me that Mama Robin knew I was watching.

After a few minutes, I left them there and went to get breakfast.

A short time later, I came back and found the baby still on the chair and the mother bird on the post. She was looking all around in her usual frenetic manner.

And, of course, keeping an eye on me.

I still wasn't sure if the baby was okay. 

But as I watched, the baby flew over and perched near its mother on the bannister railing.

I sighed. All was apparently well in Robinland.

After taking a few pictures, I went back up to my office to do some work. 

A while later, I came downstairs and noticed that the baby robin had flown down to the walkway, off the steps. I decided it was safe to open the door a crack and grab the newspaper that was lying right next to the door.

As silently as possible, I unlocked the front door and began to open it.

Both parents flew into the air shouting in bird language. Mama Robin must have been on the nest and Papa Robin on the grass just out of sight.

Baby Robin flew up, too, and all three of them perched on the tree in front of the house, both parents chattering away as if telling me what a clumsy oaf I was for disturbing them.

So much for thinking I could get the newspaper without the birds noticing them. But I did get the paper.

The rest of the day, I checked occasionally, and the three of them were still in the area, either on the lawn or in a tree. At one point, the baby flew up and perched right on the ledge of the middle living room window as the very moment I was looking out of it. Unfortunately, I didn't have my cell phone at that time. 

Night came, and while I wondered about them, the only thing I could do was hope they'd be okay.

Where was Mama Robin?

Where else? Sitting on the post she had flown to so many times after we'd disturbed her. The post from which she'd often looked me in the eye as if daring me to try something.

She was keeping watch, swivelling her head all around, making sure nothing was going to bother her baby.

When I came down the stairs the following morning, my eyes, from habit, began to look up, preparing to check the nest for the mother bird. But something stopped me.

On the narrow ledge of the window above the door was a dark silhouette.

I ran and got my stool from the kitchen so I could get a closer look.

Yes, it was the baby bird.

I looked toward the trees. Yes, father bird was in the area, too.

Over the next hour or so, the baby bird stayed on the window ledge, moving a few inches now and then.

At one point, I saw Mama Robin in the nest.

But later on, I looked out, and they were gone.

Read Part 3

The post A Robins’ Nest at Our Front Door, Part 2 appeared first on N. J. Lindquist.

A Robins’ Nest at Our Front Door, Part 1

We didn't notice until too late that a pair of robins had decided to build a nest on the light fixture beside our front door.

The light fixture is just to the left of the top of the door. (Photo copyright N. J. Lindquist.)  

The moment of discovery involved my opening the front door to pick up the newspaper, and jumping when something flew squawking from just above my head to the tree in front of our house.

A bird. A robin, to be exact. 

I looked up at the light fixture. Uh oh. A nest was hidden behind it, with the edges peeking out.

I told Mama Robin that she was okay, and I went inside, shutting the door.

It was hard to get a good photo of the nest. The windows above and beside the door are where I stood to get almost all of my pictures of the birds. (Photo copyright N. J. Lindquist.)

There are vertical windows on either side of our front door; so I stood back and watched.

Mama Robin soon flew to the post right in front of me and perched there, on the ready, peering in every direction for several minutes. 

At one point I was sure she was staring right at me, daring me to try to open that door again. 

I finally gave up and went away.

I took this picture after the birds had gone. The nest was on top of the back part of the light, and over the space between the fixture and the brick. it was much shallower than one might expect. (Photo copyright N. J. Lindquist.)

Mama Robin staring at me. (Photo copyright N. J. Lindquist.)

Later that afternoon, when our oldest son dropped by, we discovered that Mama Robin was still on the nest and still very annoyed when bothered. 

As our son came up the front steps, she shot out of the nest and flew toward him, just above his head, chattering all the way, to land on the tree and keep chirping like crazy.

He thought it was funny. Well, at least until he noticed the fresh white spots on his car when he was leaving. :) Yes, Papa Robin was also in the tree.

Les thought it was funny, too.

I, on the other hand, related to the mother bird. One of my strengths as a novelist is the ability to get into the mind of my characters and feel what they feel. And I easily put myself into the mind of the mother bird.

I've had four babies of my own, not to mention a number of grand-babies. I know how a mother reacts when danger of any kind threatens her child. So I felt bad for Mama Robin.

I promised her we wouldn't bother her any more than was necessary.

Since we normally park our car at the back of the house, we didn't bother her when we left the house or returned by car.

I also started going out the back door whenever I went for a walk, and encouraged Les to do the same.

If I knew people were coming to visit, I either warned them to go to the back or made sure I opened the door before they came up to our house so Mama Robin wasn't inconvenienced for long.

Getting the newspaper each morning was the biggest problem. I'd start by trying to see if Mama Robin was on the nest. If I stood in the right place, and if she was sitting with her head up, I could sometimes see her.

In this picture, her head is on the right, just above the light.

Or his head.

I realize that male robins may take a turn at sitting on the nest.

But the robin who stared at me frantically from the post seemed to look the same each time to me. Kind of frazzled, to be honest. The other robin looked sleeker, and a bit smaller.

If you look really closely at the picture below, you can see Papa Robin sitting in one of his favourite spots—on a branch of the tree right in front of our house. 

(Photo copyright N. J. Lindquist.)

(Photo copyright N. J. Lindquist.)

Over time, I realized that Papa Robin was always somewhere in the area. 

In one of the trees out frontOn the grass on the other side of the streetOn the grass on the median or our lawn, presumably hunting for wormsPerched on the roof of the house on our right, out of my viewOn our roof, again out of my view 

And, of course, he was sometimes on the nest or on the bannister, guarding the eggs while Mama Robin took a break. 

Our unexpected tenants first came to my notice on Monday, May 5th, 2014.

Our efforts to accommodate them in their efforts to raise their babies went on for over three weeks, with me keeping an eye on the nest from time to time, feeling bad every time I opened the front door, and trying my best to only open the door when I couldn't see an adult on the nest (although I wasn't always successful). 

Mama Robin did get so used to me that although she'd fly off to the tree when she heard the knob of the door turn, she'd fly back to the bannister post the second the door was shut. Then she'd turn in every direction, looking a little crazed, with wild eyes, until she was satisfied the danger had passed and it was safe for her to return to the nest.

Oh, did I mention that she was complaining loudly the entire time? Technically, she was probably trying to distract me so that I didn't notice the nest. However, it sounded like complaining to me.

I think this is Papa Robin. Sleeker and a bit smaller. (Photo copyright N. J. Lindquist.)

Mama Robin always looked a bit crazed. (Photo copyright N. J. Lindquist.)

Were we inconvenienced by our tenants?

If you count the number of times I checked to see if all was clear before opening the door, or felt bad because I or someone else had disturbed Mama and Papa Robin, causing them to fly crazily to the tree and making her sit on the post staring around for several minutes, then yes, it was somewhat inconvenient.

However, there was actually a bigger problem.

If you look closely at the banister Mama Robin is sitting on above, you'll might wonder where on earth we live. As in, did we live in a shack?

No, our house was fine. But after thirteen years, the wood on our front banister had begun to rot. We'd intended to hire someone to come and dismantle the banister and put in a new one that year.

Of course, we couldn't even consider doing something like that while the Robins were still using their nest. And we hoped to get a glimpse of the babies!

Click here to read part 2

The post A Robins’ Nest at Our Front Door, Part 1 appeared first on N. J. Lindquist.

10 Ways to Survive with Schools Closed and Your Kids at Home

Advice from a mother of four who home schooled her kids from birth to high school, and saw all of them thrive!

Photo by dmbaker on Deposit Photos

When my kids were young, I taught them at home for a total of 17 years. I did it because I’d been a high school English teacher and I’d seen a lot of kids who were falling through the cracks. I also did it because my kids were gifted and pretty creative, and I didn’t want them to lose their desire to learn or their creativity. They are all successful, contributing adults.

If you’re home with your kids right now, I have a few suggestions:

1. Plan to enjoy the time together.

Don’t complain about having to be with them or try to incorporate a school-like structure. Instead, treat it as a time to explore new things and have fun with them, and they’ll have fun with you.

2. Focus on teaching them how to think for themselves, and not just how to regurgitate facts.

(That’s actually the ultimate goal of education — to create individuals who can think clearly and act wisely.)

3. Ask them what they’d like to know and help them learn that.

When I was young, I was fascinated by the pyramids and mummies and read everything I could find about Egypt. I also know a ton about birds and trees, and can identify most flowers, not because I was taught but because I was interested. Each of us is different, and this is a great time to encourage those differences.

Photo by Y-Boychenko on Deposit Photos

4. Teach them things they need to know (based on their age).

Practical things like how to tie knots, manage money, sew on buttons, change a light bulb, survive if they had to cook for themselves, even how the government works, how to change a car’s tire, how to wash their own clothes, etc. etc.

5. Find them stories/novels to read that will not only entertain but challenge them.

Fantasy is great for stirring the imagination. Adventures can be good. Mysteries, history, biographies, memoir, stories about animals or about how things work… Each child will likely have different interests.

Photo by monkeybusiness on Deposit Photos

6. Get out the blocks or Lego.

Encourage them to build things they’ve never done before.

7. Give them a variety of puzzles to do.

From activity books where they have to find things to jigsaw puzzles of varying complexity to logic problems, puzzles are fun and will expand their minds. Make sure the puzzle is appropriate for their age and abilities so they don’t get frustrated.

Photo by National Cancer Institute on Unsplash

8. Play games with them.

Especially card games or board games. You could also make up a game for them, like a scavenger hunt.

9. Let them be bored.

If children are always in school or in organized programs (sports, swimming lessons, etc.) they seldom have time to be alone, to read, or just to goof off. But children need time to play, imagine, and learn how to plan their own time. They have to be allowed freedom to explore, create, invent, dream, and doodle.

10. Brainstorm ways each of them or your whole family could do something to help another person during this time.

Make the time memorable. Make cards or videos for grandparents, write a story or a song for a friend, send a meal or a cheque to someone in need… Working together to be safe and to help others at the same time might become a memory that stays with them forever, or alters who they will become.

Honestly, this could be some of the best time you’ll ever spend as a family.

The post 10 Ways to Survive with Schools Closed and Your Kids at Home appeared first on N. J. Lindquist.

LoveChild 27: A Scary Experience

     "Rincewind tried to scream through gritted teeth. His ankles were already beginning to sweat. 'I'm not going to ride on a magic carpet!' he hissed. 'I'm afraid of grounds!'
     'You mean heights,' said Conina. 'And stop being silly.'
     'I know what I mean! It's the grounds that kill you!'”

Terry Pratchett, Sourcery

I Feel Fear 

Up to the fall of my third year, as far as I can recall, the only fear I'd felt was that my mother would be angry with me and either spank me or wait until my dad got home from work to tell him what I'd done so he would spank me. I was a little afraid of Mom, but, aside from the one time I mentioned earlier, not to the point of being fearful of her. And while I wasn't really afraid of my dad, I didn't want him to spank me, so her warning worked fairly well. 

However, something happened the summer I was three that really scared me.

At Fort Qu'Appelle with Dad - Mom took the picture.

As I've mentioned before, my parents still kept in touch with their many friends from Indian Head, and one weekend during the early fall, we went to a cottage owned by two of those friends, at Lake Katepwa, in the Qu’Appelle Valley, just north of Indian Head.

This picture was taken at Fort Qu'Appelle when I was three and a half. No idea what I was looking at or why Dad was watching me from behind the gate.

My guess is that we were staying at their friends' cottage for the weekend, and that we had a bedroom there.

I remember the place as being rather dark, with bedrooms at the back, and then the kitchen, and then a large living room and a patio or porch of sort. 

But I don't really remember any parts of the weekend except what happened on Saturday evening. 

There was a party going on and people kept arriving—mostly adults. At least, I don’t remember any other children being there—certainly no one my age.

I assume many of the people at the party had cottages at the lake and had just come over for the party, although some of them might have been planning to drive home to Indian Head or other nearby places. 

Pretty sure this is the cottage we were visiting, and this might well have been the weekend. 

I remember that people were milling around, holding glasses, and talking in small groups both inside and outside the cottage. To my ears, it was quite loud. 

At one point, I somehow got separated from my parents. If, as I assume, we were staying at the cottage, I might have gone back to our bedroom for something, or I might have already been put to bed but either woke up or couldn't sleep and wanted to know what was going on.

Anyway, I came out of the room and found myself in the midst of a crowd of adults. I didn't see either of my parents and couldn't see much because of the number of large people everywhere.  

Suddenly, a very tall man with a rather loud voice and a hearty laugh—someone who I vaguely knew but whose name I don’t recall—saw me and asked what I was doing. I told him I was looking for my dad and before I could do anything, he'd picked me up and set me on his shoulders with my legs dangling down in front. If my dad had ever done that before, I don't recall. I think my mother would have objected.

I’m sure the man felt I was secure, and that I’d enjoy being up there where I could see better, but I was speechless with fright. I didn’t want to touch him, but the ground was so far away that I had to put my arms around his neck to make sure I didn't fall.

I remember his moving from the kitchen into the other larger room where more people were gathered, and I was terrified I was either going to hit my head on the doorway between the rooms or fall backward, or else just lose my balance and fall.

He was drinking something dark from a glass, and he was laughing and talking loudly to everyone. From observing the people when my parents had a party, I was already aware that adults seemed to get very loud and silly when they were together and drinking dark liquid in glasses, so I was also worried that he might do something silly and accidentally drop me.

They talk about fright or flight responses. I clearly had a fright response. I couldn't speak or move. I just held my breath and tried not to look down. I felt completely helpless, and I could only wait for this moment to be over. 

I felt marooned up on his shoulders for ages, but I expect it was only a couple of minutes before someone noticed that I looked scared, and suggested to the man that he should probably set me down. He did, and I think someone pointed to where my parents were and I ran to them.  

Looking back, I wonder why I didn’t scream or yell for my parents. I think it’s because I knew the man wasn’t intending any harm—in fact, I’m sure he thought he was giving me a treat—so I didn’t want to embarrass him. Plus, I was afraid my parents would be annoyed with me if I made a big deal out of nothing.

Also, I likely didn’t want people to think I was a scaredy-cat, even though I knew I was. 

The fear of falling has stayed with me. Who knows, maybe I was dropped at some point earlier and learned the fear of falling then. All I know for sure is that I've never ever wanted to go on Ferris wheels or other rides that go high up. I've never gone into the CN Tower even though we've lived near it for more than 30 years. And I'm very cautious about going to the edge of buildings or cliffs.

And, no, I didn't let my husband put our boys on his shoulders unless they were begging him to pick them up. And I made him hold their legs.  

Speaking of fear, I have one picture that puzzles me. It's of me going out for the first time on Hallowe'en.

Mom wrote on the back that I was 2 years, 9 months old, and that it was taken in Indian Head.

As you can see, this was shortly before my first haircut. 

I assume that my parents had driven back to Indian Head for the evening to take me to specific houses, no doubt because they still had more friends there than in Wolseley. Or maybe we did both. The drive was only about twenty minutes. 

What strikes me is that Mom dressed me up as a witch. I expect it was that or a ghost, since both costumes were pretty easy to make. 

As you can see, I'm holding an old purse to put the candy in. Back then, you made do.

My question is, did I have any idea what a witch was? Was I afraid of being a witch? I'm not smiling. Did I enjoy my first Hallowe'en or not? I'm quite sure I enjoyed any candy I was given. 

But, seriously, what do two and three-year-olds think about at Hallowe'en? I doubt if it's witches.

Which reminds me: 

When I was 3, I paid my first visit to the dentist. I had two cavities, which, unfortunately, were the first of many to come. (Note to parents: don’t let little kids eat raisins and dates and raisin bread without brushing their teeth!)

I didn't much like going to the dentist, but I don't think it was too scary. Not that time, anyway. (I feel sorry for all the dentists who have to live with people being afraid to visit them!)

.         .         .

Can You Relate?

How do you feel about heights? Did you/do you go on Ferris wheels or other rides that are high in the air? Climb mountains? Go bungee-jumping? If so, how do you think you're able to go high without fear? Or do you do it in spite of the fear? 

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LoveChild: Life Lessons from an Ugly Duckling is the story of my struggle to adjust to the life I was given, and my eventual discovery that, not only had I become a swan but, contrary to my perceptions, I had always been one. Though I didn't realize it until many years later, my life was part of a much bigger plan that all made perfect sense.

I'll be blogging my story once a week.

Find links to all these blogs at:

https://www.njlindquist.com/lovechild/

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