Not mine. Only my Medieval heroine gets married at this age. But when I was 14, my oldest brother got married. He was 23, just graduated from Boston University. I wasn't in the wedding party, but I'll never forget the event - we flew to the States, and stayed in a hotel! My first ever airplane flight, my first ever night in a hotel. I remember every minute of both. (The wedding itself is a blur - Sorry about that, Peter and Jan).

Here we are - me, my mom and the groom-to-be, my brother Peter.

The next spring, when I was 15, my sister got married. We didn't fly, and didn't stay in a hotel; she got married in our hometown, Newmarket, Ontario. But I did get to be her Maid of Honour, and that was pretty cool, too.

Here we are, just before the wedding, for a photo op at our Mom's Vanity table. Seven years later, just before my wedding, I have a photo of me sitting on the chair and Linda, my Matron of Honour, arranging my veil in the same mirror.

What do I remember about these weddings? My brother was so nervous he bungled his lines at the rehersal. My sister was so scared Peter's arm was clenched as hard as a log, which she clung to to keep from falling as they navigated the aisle. When it was my turn, I marched stiffly beside my brother Richard, promising myself all the way down the aisle that I could have it annulled the next day.

What a surprise! All three of us are still married to the same people 3 decades later.

When I was nine, my best friend moved away. I was devastated. She had more on her mind than losing a friend, however: her parents were separating. This was so unheard of at the time, I don't think it really registered for me; or maybe I didn't know till later. People didn't talk about divorce then. At the time, I was just upset about losing her.
 
A year later, a miracle happened: I was riding my bike down the street, and there she was, playing with some kids on the front yard of the house she used to live in! Her father had decided to sell the house instead of continuing to rent it out, and had brought my friend Ivy and her younger sisters to see it one last time.

We exchanged addresses and agreed to write - a task less daunting at ten than it was at nine. For the next couple of years we wrote (sporadically) and visited each other on weekends occasionally. Ivy and her siblings lived with her mom just an hour's drive or bus ride away.

Then her mom had a 'nervous breakdown' (the polite term for any mental illness at that time). Her Dad worked evenings and had to take frequent business trips, so Ivy went to live with her Grandparents.

Ivy came to visit me for a weekend that summer. She was miserable. Her Grandparents were strict, cold, demanding people who had disapproved of her mom from the start. They expected Ivy, as the eldest, to help with the younger kids and the housework. Unfortunately, Ivy was as flighty, timid and irresponsible as her mother.

Ivy poured out her troubles to me, spiced with examples of her Grandma's meanness, all weekend. By Sunday, I was as upset on her behalf as she was. Something had to be done! And quickly, because Ivy had to catch a 7:00 pm bus back to Toronto right after supper that night.

At the bottom of the hill a creek ran under the road. We had taken off our shoes and socks and were walking along it, scouting for frogs (well, I was, Ivy was just wading, she wasn't the catch-frogs-in-your-hands type) when I had a brainstorm. Ivy could come and live with me! My mom could take care of her (even then I realized that Ivy needed taking care of) and she could share my room. Like, permanent sleepovers with my best friend! But how to convince my mom?

We talked about this as we waded--it was such a good idea I forgot to look for frogs--and concluded the first step was that Ivy couldn't get on that bus. Of course, my mom would definitely be opposed to that.

We'd reached the place where the creek ran under the road. A tin tubing just big enough for us to walk into single file, bent over completely at the waist, allowed the river to flow underneath. I led the way in. The road above us was only two lanes, so it wasn't too dark. Suddenly I stopped.

"Ivy! This is a perfect placer to hide. We can wait here till your bus has left, then go home!"

Ivy was doubtful. I had to reassure her that Mom wouldn't be mad when she learned why we did it, and then I had to convince her we had to wait here--I knew Mom would send my older sister and brother out to find me when we didn't show up for supper, and they knew all my places. "There just isn't any other way," I told her.

We had a long wait in that little metal tubing, our feet in the water, crouched side by side against the metal. Our feet got cold. our backs and bottoms got damp. Every time a car drove over us the tunnel rattled and shook and the noise was awful. Normally I never noticed when the streetlights came on--supposed to be my signal to get home, but actually, my sister's signal to come haul me home--but this evening I saw them light up with relief. It was after 7:00 pm. We crawled out of the tunnel, put our socks and shoes on, and walked home.

Mom was really mad. My sister and brothers, who'd been out hunting for us, were even madder. And worst of all, it didn't work. Mom called Ivy's Dad and Grandparents to let them know we'd been found, and arranged to have Ivy take the 9:30 pm bus instead. No time to argue, she whisked Ivy into the car for the drive to the bus station and left me with orders to take a bath and get to bed.

When she returned, without Ivy, to my disappointment (I'd been hoping she'd miss that bus, too) she came into my bedroom. I started into an explanation of how miserable Ivy was at her Grandparents, how mean they were to her, how much she wanted to live with us.

"She needs us, Mom," I finished tearfully.

A month later, Ivy came to live with us, just before my thirteenth birthday. She stayed a little over a year, by which time her Dad had changed jobs and got a place where he could have Ivy and her siblings live with him.

But what adventures we got up to that year!

I have thought and thought, but nothing worth writing about happened in my eleventh year. It wasn't a bad year, it wasn't a good year. It was just a year.

But when I was twelve... what a year! I fell in love. The kind of breathless, heart-stopping, going to explode with it, intense love only adolescents can feel. He was cute, he was a year older than me because I'd skipped a grade ( that was called enrichment back then) so I was twelve in Grade Eight, a year younger than my classmates.

And this wasn't love from afar. He noticed me! He sat beside me for half our classes, and we'd talk and whisper and joke and laugh together - certainly not pay attention to lessons. Mostly we talked about James Bond and The Man From UNCLE, which we both watched avidly. He didn't ever bother talking to any other girls. Yup, i was loved back, it seems.

I remember the way I felt then, and I have to say, it's straight from Twilight. The incredible intensity of first love. We never met outside of school. We never held hands, let alone kissed. He moved away at the end of the school year, and I never saw him again.

Which was really the only good way it could end when you're twelve.

Do you remember your first love?

Dear Photograph,
How different you look to me now, the house I grew up in. Is there another family growing up in you? How many have you seen, over the years, happy families, sad families, all sharing their lives with you? Do you remember this family, my family, standing on the small square cement patio at your front door, having their picture taken, so many years ago? I was only 10 years old then; I'd lived in you for 5 years, and I spent another eight years with you before leaving for university. But you will always feel like home to me.

                                                 ******
Today, I visited my brother in Newmarket, Ontario, the town we grew up in. I've been thinking of doing a "Dear Photograph" post, so I brought with me an old photo of us standing in front of our house.

My brother drove us over, and as he approached the house, he asked, "So are you going to knock on the door, ask them if you can take a photo?"

"No, I'll just take it," I said, as he parked across the road in front of the house. "What the heck, it's only a couple photos." I reached for the door handle.

Just then, a police car passed us on the street.

"But I think I'll wait till the police car's gone," I added, settling back in the seat..

When the coast was clear, I dragged my husband out with me to stand in front of the house holding the photo while I lined up the shot. It's not as easy as it looks, taking a "Dear Photograph" picture. I should have had him go closer to the house, but I knew he'd balk at walking on their lawn. I was pushing my luck to get him to stand on the public sidewalk  holding the photo while I shot three pics, making adjustments to his hand, my angle, etc.

Then we drove down the street to the house I lived in from 2 - 5 years old. This was easier, because I hadn't thought to bring a photo, so I could just snap a picture, not a "Dear Photograph" picture of then and now..

This is the house where I had asthma (because it was near a creek and wetland), the house where I was stung (but not by the wasp), the house with the steps on which I sat in my kitten-ear hat at two years old (and built a fort under those steps at 4 years old).

What surprised me was how much smaller the houses looked. All the old houses of my friends and neighbours looked equally small. Middle class families lived in much smaller houses then, than they do now, I think. But we were just as happy piled two kids to a bedroom, as my children were, each with her own bedroom. I guess it's just what you come to expect. I wouldn't want to go back to one bathroom for the whole family, though! ("Anyone need to use the bathroom before I take my bath?")

When I was 7, my br0ther (14) got a dog and named her Dusty. By the time I was 9, he was into girls and hockey and high school sports--I inherited Dusty, which suited me just fine. Meanwhile, the summer before, I'd negotiated a kitten ("If Richard can have a dog. Mom, why can't I...") So here I am at 9, with Dusty and Pinto (I really wanted a pony), my beloved childhood companions. They slept with me, Dusty curled in the crook of my knees, Pinto against my stomach, and I spent all my time with them.

"Bye, Mom," I'd say, a peanut butter sandwich stuffed into my pocket on Saturday morning. "Be home for dinner at 6," she'd call, and I'd be off with my dog at my side. Pinto hated being left behind, and would follow us, wailing at the top of her lungs, a sound like "M-ee-ow-come-back-owww" She hated us leaving home, but hated worse seeing us go without her. I'd have to carry her back and shut her in the house. Mom would let her out again when we were out of sight, and she'd howl the whole time. We were her people.

Richard taught Dusty to retrieve rabbits and grouse he shot when he went hunting. I taught her to climb trees with me. She couldn't get up as high as Pinto and I, but I got some strange comments from passersby when she sat beside me on an 8-ft-high limb. I taught her to climb ladders, too. Down the street there was an old abandoned single-story house with a low grade on it's roof. We'd climb up the ladder and sit on the roof. The legion hall was nearby, and one evening a couple of guys coming out did a double-take at the sight of Dusty and I, decided not to believe it, and told each other they were swearing off drink.

One day Richard and his friend took Dusty hunting. Richard returned shaking his head in disgust. "We came to a wood rail fence. Instead of jumping through the rails, Dusty climbed up over it after us!" I heard him telling Mom. That's my dog!

I'd often play tracking with Dusty in the fields behind our house. Mom would keep Dusty inside for 20 minutes while I took off down the hill, through the grass, up the tree, splashing thru the creek - trying to hide my scent. Finally I'd hide in a copse of small trees and with my binoculars I'd watch Dusty tracking me. She always found me, thought the creek really slowed her down.

We'd even play wild west cowboys together. I'd point my finger at Dusty and say, "hands up, I've got you covered!" She'd sit pretty, begging. "Bang, bang, you're dead!" I'd cry, shooting my "finger" at her--and she'd roll over on her back and play dead.

 Dusty and Pinto were part of every aspect of my life all through middle childhood, and I was enriched by their presence in my life. They loved me when I was bad, consoled me when I was hurt, rejoiced with me when I was happy.

Did you have pets as a child? What memories do you have of them?

This is, for me, an amazing experience. People are being so honest in this challenge, sharing so many important memories--poverty and death and abuse and racism side by side with the happiness and innocence and beauty of life and love and childhood. I'm humbled to think I had a small hand in these stories coming out. Thank you for your honesty, your courage, your openness. I've cried with you, and laughed with you, listened to your stories and poems, enjoyed your photos, music, and research, and marveled at your creativity. And we're only into the first third! I had no idea it would be this great. Thank you all.

What a cliche! I'm 8 years old and I'm in dancing lessons - tap and ballet. It figures my costume would be a turkey; sad to say I dance like one and only last 2 years in lessons. Long enough to learn "shuffle-tap-shuffle-tap" and not much more.

The costume, on the other hand, has lasted for years. I wore it for Hallowe'en and dress-up, my daughters wore it for Hallowe'en and dress-up games, and pretty soon my granddaughters will, too. That stupid turkey costume may well outlast me!

And take a look at the cool old stand-up box radio in the photo. My Dad and uncle made that; my brother still has it in his home.

I look at a picture like this, and I remember that room, those walls, the furniture, and I'm back there in that time, in that place (not in that costume, thank you!). That will always be home to me, even though I've lived in my current house for 20 years--longer than it took to grow up in that one.

This isn't a picture of me taking tap-dancing lessons--it's a picture of living in a family where an eight-year-old in a turkey outfit is worth preserving in a photo, where a first recital is worth commemorating.
It's a picture of home.

The year I was seven, I was sick a lot. I got mumps and measles and chicken pox and German measles and colds and flues--I missed half the school year, one thing after another. It probably didn't help that I was afraid to sleep at night when I was sick, for fear of dying in my sleep.

My mom, a school teacher,  would wake me up in the morning and wrap me up, pajamas and all, in my favourite blanket and carry me out to the car all cosy and warm, and lay me on the back seat, and drive me to Mommy Riddell's house. This was a multitude of treats: not having to get dressed all day, being wrapped up in a warm blanket on a cold day (I still love sleeping under warm blankets in a cold room), and being carried (I was too old to be carried by my mom except when I was sick. It felt great to be carried in her arms again.)

Mommy Riddell was the woman who babysat me from the age of one-and-a-half, when my mom went back to teaching after daddy died. She had a son my brothers' age, and treated me like the daughter she never had. I'm sure it hurt my mom when I started calling my sitter "Mommy Riddell", but there was never any doubt in my mind who my real mommy was.

When we got there, my mom would carry me in my blanket into the Riddells' house and lie me on the living room couch. Not away in my bedroom at home, where I'd be expected to lie in bed and sleep, but right in the center of the house where I could see everything. There I would be nursed and waited on all day by my solicitous Mommy Riddell, until Mom came to carry me home again after the school day was done.

When I was grown up, my Mom told me how guilty she felt about waking up a sick child and dragging her out of bed to go to a babysitter.

"Mom," I said, "You can't imagine. Those are such happy memories for me, of being treasured and loved."

How often do we feel guilty over things we need not feel guilty about? How often do we berate ourselves for things our children (or loved ones) don't remember at all, or remember completely differently?  How often do we forget that the way we do things matters so much more that the things themselves?

Today I'm going to try something different - the backstory of a character in my novel. She's six - the same age I am in this picture, and lives in France, 1073 A.D.  I'm experimenting with her voice here.
*
"Jeanne," Mamman calls. "Come sit beside me."
Papa is there. too, and they are both smiling, which reassures me. Maman never sits down in the middle of the day, let alone suggest I do, too.

I run over and climb onto the wooden bench beside her.
She looks at Pappa. "You tell her," he says.

"Jeanne, today you are six years old," Maman begins, "old enough to have your future settled."

She looks at me expectantly. "Umm," I say, noncommittal.

"Some very good fortune has come your way," Papa says, smiling broadly. Papa loves me best, after Maman. I grin back at him.

"You are going to be engaged. To the son of a landowner." Maman says this as though she does not believe it.

I look at Papa. Even I know we could never afford such a dowry. But he nods. "Do you remember the Lord and Lady who took Symon to apprentice with their stablemaster? They arranged it."

"Symon saved the Lady's life," I say, remembering the story of my brother Symon stopping her runaway horse. But they have already rewarded him. Why would they do this for me? When I ask, Papa and Maman look at each other quickly, the way they do when they have a secret.

"Never mind that," Papa says. "Be happy now."

Papa trades for some yellow silk, which Maman sews intro a beautiful dress for my betrothal party, and some fine green and blue cotton, because I can't wear the same dress every day. I've never seen anything so beautiful as my new dresses.

Tomorrow we will travel all day to meet my intended. I wish Maman and Gilles could come with us, but even if they could leave the chickens and the garden and the house untended, how would Papa ever buy clothes for them, too?

I kiss Maman goodbye, and suddenly I'm clinging to her, afraid to leave her. When will I see her again?

"There, there, Jeanne," she says. "You will be happy, and you will learn so much. There is nothing to fear. They will be kind to you. Who could not love you?"

"Jeanne," Papa says. "You must be happy."

Maman pulls my arms from her neck and stands up. I wipe my face and make myself smile. I am too old to need my Maman. I am old enough to be betrothed.

"I will be happy, Papa," I promise. He lifts me onto the donkey's back. It is very hard not to look back at Maman and our house as we leave. I sit very straight on the donkey, and think about my new dresses.

"Janie! Talking! Sit in the circle."

Not again. I roll my eyes. The kids near me giggle. But I do as I'm told.

There is a circle painted on the floor in the middle of the kindergarten classroom, just big enough for one person to sit inside. Twenty-four child-sized desks and one teacher-sized desk are arranged in a wider circle around it.

I sit down with a nonchalant smile which hides a mixture of emotions: embarrassment, resentment, resignation. I had looked forward to starting kindergarten. I wasn't afraid one bit, like some of these kids who cried on the first day. I couldn't wait to learn to read and make crafts and play with the other kids!

Nobody told me I wouldn't be allowed to talk to them.

I can stop talking, I think, sitting there alone where everyone can see me. When my sister lets me into her bedroom, we lie side-by-side on her bed while she reads to me, and I don't even move, let alone talk, hoping she'll never stop. She read me Maggi Muggins and Half-Magic and we are half way through the Narnia series. When there's something interesting to listen to, I can don't talk.

But why would anyone play alone at her desk, when there are all these kids to play with? It's just dumb!

"You can get out now," the teacher tells me. "Find something quiet to do at your desk."

I look around. I spend so much time in the circle, I'm not really sure if I have a desk. But there's an empty one over there, so I guess it's mine. Now what to do?

I'm not sure what you're supposed to do in kindergarten if you're not sitting in the circle, either, so I go to the nearest kid's desk. Sherry's doing a puzzle. I watch a minute, and suggest where a piece should go. She smiles and puts it there. I move to the next desk, where Bobby is making a block house. We talk about it as he works, then I go to the next desk, where Debbie is circling all the red things in one picture, and all the blue things in another. This looks interesting, if a little too easy. I ask where she got the paper.

"Teacher handed it out."

I nod and move on. Maybe something more interesting was handed too, while I was in the circle. At the next desk, Brenda is doing a page of coloring. She tells me it's all pictures of things that start with "S". I check the paper and she's right. We talk about that; I suggest a few "s" words not on the paper. I ask her if there's a "J" paper. My name starts with "J" I tell her.

I'm about to move on and see what the other options are - I like to know all my options before I decide - when the teacher calls out: "Janie! Talking! Sit in the circle."

I lie in bed, struggling to breathe. My chest has closed. I pull and pull, but the air will not come. I am dizzy, terrified. I can't breathe!

"Mommy!" I cry, expending what little breath I can suck into my lungs. I hear her running down the hall. "I can't breathe," I gasp, desperate for air. She sits me up, removing my pajamas. My urgent attempts to draw in air sound like croaks. I am four years old and terrified. "I'm too young to die!" I cry.

"Don't be silly. You're not dying!" The strain in her voice frightens me further. I weep bitterly. I am dying. I suck at the air, fighting to draw it into my lungs as she carries me quickly into the bathroom and runs hot water into the tub. I dislike baths, dirt being my natural environment, but I breathe in the steam, feeling the tightness in my chest ease. The croaking turns to wheezing as my lungs open a little.

"Take this," she says, handing me one of the pills the doctor left with her after my last asthma attack. I hate pills. They always get stuck in my throat, and then they start to melt and the taste is worse than anything. I wish she would call the doctor and make him come and give me a needle instead.

"I like needles better," I say, sniffling, but the terror hasn't left yet, though I'm breathing a little better, so I take the pill and the glass of water. The pill gets stuck in my throat, which is not even big enough for air right now. I gag. Mom brings me more water. I gulp it down. The pill loosens and slides down my throat, leaving a horrible taste all the way down.

"That pill will let you sleep," Mom says, toweling me off and putting my pajamas back on me, even though I'm old enough to dress myself. I don't say anything, still wheezing as I think about her words.

My Daddy went to sleep and never woke up. That's what somebody told me. Not my mom, who never talks about him. She tucks me into bed and kisses me.

"Don't turn the light off!" I croak.

"I'll leave the hall light on and the door open."

I lie in bed, looking at the lighted hallway and thinking of what happened to Daddy, believing the pill will at any minute force me into sleep—and what will wake me? I  think of the moment of falling asleep—one second I'm here, laboring to breath, and the next I’ll fall into a blackness, into an absence from which I might never emerge, especially if I'm sick. That's the most dangerous time to sleep. Daddy was sick when he fell asleep and couldn't wake up.

The thought of that moment, of that sudden fall into the dark oblivion of sleep, terrifies me. Where do you go when you sleep? What if you can't get back? I sit up in my bed, resisting that terrifying moment of falling into sleep. I sit up until the sky lightens and the sun rises, and I can rest in the safety of daylight. Surely my father didn’t fall asleep in the daytime. Grown-ups don’t nap.

I blink at the pale dawn lighting my window, and lie down in my bed, and finally sleep.