Mom

She was an incredibly patient woman. A stoic. Looking back, she took nurturing to an art form. Mom, a mother of 4 boys and three girls, and I happen to be the one in the middle.

Hands with Mom, Welland 2022

Sadly, I never knew my brother, Christopher, as he passed very early. To consider losing your first son, the sorrow chiselled her resolve to care for all of her children.

As a tyke, she would get us ready for a walk downtown. Where I grew up, a canal wound through several city cores. Large ships, both freighter and bulk carriers, slowed their course while the bridges at the town centre would rise, stopping all vehicle traffic. People reflected on the ship, their day, their struggles, and their resolve to navigate their own waters. The bridge's cement, steel girder and rivet construction creaked as two enormous counterweights descended to the ground and the road lifted to clear any vessel.

I was not permitted to run free on our way, and I was secured by her hand as we passed the storefront with a huge Heidelberg Windmill press, whirring away as it printed ink on card stock. The machine at the time was intriguing yet foreboding, quite probably as it was elevated in the house-come-storefront and gleamed in the window. To a child, it resembled a robot. I don’t believe that I ever mentioned to my mother how menacing seeing that machine was to me, as I’m sure she would have ventured inside to meet the owners and have it explained to me or simply passed on the other side of the street.

We would meander past Bill Weeks Meat Market, a place reserved for Dad and me to visit on a Saturday. The store had sawdust on the floor, and it always smelled so fresh. Mister Weeks would allow me a couple of smoked kippers—I loved them. Next, we would pass by Morewood’s Hardware. It had turn-of-the-century wooden floors and, best of all, a reasonably extensive fishing section.

The next hurdle was the bridge. It was always referred to as the Main Street bridge, where the streets changed from West Main to East Main. Crossing that bridge would mean little more than an inconvenience to an adult, but to a little guy, you have to know, I was chilled as I passed every girder that perforated the walkway. A large gap would allow room for the gantry way and road, elegantly suspending these platforms so vehicles and people could pass. To a little guy, these gaps were large enough to pass through and fall into the waters below.

Her grip noticeably tightened, and in my mind, our pace quickened. This could have been my perception as I’m certain that I navigated each girder and railing with hesitation. Soon, we would reach the other side and staring right in front of me was our first destination. A department store named Ross Stores. Department stores had given way to malls, and while there are still a few remnants of the department store concept, nothing quite compares to Ross Stores. They had womenswear, menswear and all sorts of things for children.

I never seemed to get past the counter with the Boy Scout and Girl Guide apparel and hiking paraphernalia. I would palm the glass as I spied the badges, the sashes, the scouting guides. But my attention would focus on the pocket knives. Certainly, there were all models of Swiss Army knives with multitudes of blades and gadgets, including one with a spoon and a fork. How cool was that? My desire would have the best of me as I zeroed in on a silver metallic model with a knurled outer shell and a simple red cross. Unlike some of the heartier ones, this knife had very few blades. I remember a knife, a saw and a pair of scissors. I’m certain that it had to be expensive, and if a child owned one, it would have been later found by an archeologist as I would have lost it. I have never forgotten it.

The other detail I remember of Ross Stores, located on a corner and surrounded by large windows, was the clothing section, where I moved from what I can recall as size 6X to size 12X. Today, I don’t know what those sizes represent, but they do stand out in my mind.

Leaving the store, we would walk a few more feet to the East and find ourselves at my favourite destination—Woolworth’s. It, too, was a department store but different from Ross Stores. It not only had clothing but also housewares and toys, and while the toy department was a magnet for any child, my favourite place was the Woolworth’s Food Counter.

Mom loved bringing me to the food counter. We would sit on the stools, which presented amusing as I could swing my legs free, and Mom would whirl me around and around. It was a happy place. A secure place, and the best was yet to come. Mom drank coffee. Lots and lots of coffee, and the cup was bottomless like those found in some places today. She would get me a large Coca-Cola in a Coca-Cola glass with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. The waitress dispensed whipped cream and placed a maraschino cherry on top — yes, a Coke float. And if that weren’t enough, mom would order a plate of French Fries.

Mom would sip her coffee while waiting for the French fries to cook. I would sip my float slowly, waiting for the fries to arrive so that I would have some left once they came. Today, fries seem to go with everything, but they represent the pinnacle of the treat world. When the waitress placed them on the counter, mom would dispense a dollop of ketchup on the edge of the plate with a paper container of brown gravy. She would put a bit of salt on them as they were hot, and we’d wait patiently as they came to temperature.

The best part — we’d share them. She would look at me and me at her as each fry found our mouths. I would get the odd spin on my stool, and we’d sip our drinks. I can’t say that we did this weekly; I don’t believe we did, as the event remains an exceptional time with Mom to this day. I know it happened regularly as we would venture to the Ross Stores well into my early high school years, as the store carried school uniforms. This was where you got your grey flannels, a school tie and a blazer.

Once we were full of coffee, a Coke float, and fries, we would make for the bridge and walk that gauntlet. Mom would hold my hand.