With six of us kids in the family
it is interesting to compare notes on our childhoods. There was always a division of the 3 older
ones and the 3 “made in Canada” as Dad used to joke. Mostly it was just an age thing but it was
also a little bit of a cultural experience thing. We older ones had moved around a whole lot more
than the others. I had gone to 8
different schools by the time we moved to Burlington and could remember all the
homes in Canada as well as our last home in Denmark (sketchy but real). The younger ones only knew Burlington until
we moved on to Winnipeg. I can only
assume that this moving around for us older ones made things a little
different, we had a shared experience the younger ones would never know. We also had the added trauma of losing our “lille
soster” (baby sister). It was an
unspoken grief for our parents and we kids knew not to talk about it even
amongst ourselves.
Sometimes we question our memory,
is it a true memory or has the anecdote become so vivid it feels like a
memory? I know some memories are real
because I remember thinking about them when I was 8, long before anecdotes were
being recounted to us of our own histories.
When I go further back than age 4 I find myself doubting the “true
memory” and then I look at my younger brother John when he says he can remember
coming over on the ship. He was barely
one. I am thinking “no that cannot be
true”. He swears he can remember. Again, no I don’t think so. The stories have just been told so often they
have sunk into your head like a memory.
Well, who am I to know the truth
of it? As Mr. Monk says “I could be
wrong, but I don’t think so.” J
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