Home was not the only place that was concerned with preparing me for school.My mother's mother,in far off Canterbury was doing her part as well,every time we visited. My grandmother was not an educated woman, so far as I know,yet she greatly respected the concept of learning, and realized that for the latest generation of her family, it was the key to the future.I think she clearly understood that her grandchildren would not be tied to the land as her and her family had been.Consequently, she jumped in with both feet when it came to mine, and my sisters pre-school learning.
By 1967,my grandparents were settled into their retirement for the most part, though I do recall that on occasion my grandfather still went to work, though he was nearly eighty. They were settled into a little two story house about two thirds of the way up Orchard Street,at the top of the first hill in Canterbury.The house was not big at all, but I thought it to be larger than our own simply because it had an upper floor,while ours did not.My grandmother, being hyper kinetic also gave the impression,that were she not on the move from sunup until past dark, all of her housework would never get done, though that would have been an exaggeration.So,sometime in the time we were not visiting her,she took the time to cut out all of the letters of the alphabet,using old cereal or cookie boxes, or the boxes from any other product that she used.Then,when we came to visit she would bring out a box containing all of those letters, and help us make words, just like we were doing on the chalkboard at home.I would sit for a long time spelling out the words that I already knew,and I was learning to spell my name as well, which was likely harder than any of the simple one syllable words I was being taught. I used the M from a box of Catelli macaroni, and was somewhat jealous that my sister got to use the biggest letter in the box to start her name-the capital K from the box of Special K.
My grandmother also had a small collection of books that she read to us whenever we visited.The only two that I really remember was this thin,hard covered book about a rather precocious black and white puppy,that liked to hide in a laundry basket, and a book about a red hen who tried to get all the other animals to help her make bread.They wouldn't help her make the bread, but they were there as soon as the bread was ready to eat.To me,the stories were just fun, quality time with my grandmother, but I think that both my parents and grandparents understood that reading to children was important in helping us to develop language skills.
By now, my grandparents were not the only people we knew who had moved into town.The farmland out in Dead Creek was for the most part,the rural equivalent of a ghost town.My mothers brother and his wife had moved on into Fredricton around this time, and her sister, my Aunt Ruby and her husband,Ernie, and bought a service station at the top of the second hill in Canterbury, just before you go out of town towards the lakes,and eventually the American border. Their house,at the time was a small shack like building with a full porch in front, and the ubiquitous red asphalt shingles.It was more than one room, but so small that when you were inside, you were more or less aware of the presence of every other person in the house.Sitting in the front room,you could hear anyone in any of the bedrooms if they happened to be snoring.This seemed to suit Ernie and Ruby quite well,because,although they had a large family, most of them were not still living at home.Later,someone else came to occupy the house,and Ernie and Ruby moved a green and white mobile home onto the lot.It was still just a short few steps to the garage for them when it was time to go to work.By the time I was four or five, I used to like to hang out at the garage and watch Ernie repair tires,or scurry about in the grease pit,fixing some part that I couldn't see on a car.The next house down the hill, and the third to last house in town belonged to my grandmother's sister, Anna English and her husband Fred.Fred was a very old man,or at least it seemed that way to me,by the time they had moved to town.He was a tall, austere,thin looking man that rather reminded me of Vincent Price.And, he smoked cigars-a lot of them.A decade and a half later, after he had been gone a few years, I could still smell the cigar smoke when I walked into his house. My aunt,Anna English,whom everyone called Annie was old too, but very spry and lively, and she adored children.Many of the neighbors children would drop by to see her when we were there, and she was always kind to them.She was a God fearing,religious woman,though not severe in any way that I could tell. Being around her was, until the day she passed, one of my favorite places to be.
By 1967,my grandparents were settled into their retirement for the most part, though I do recall that on occasion my grandfather still went to work, though he was nearly eighty. They were settled into a little two story house about two thirds of the way up Orchard Street,at the top of the first hill in Canterbury.The house was not big at all, but I thought it to be larger than our own simply because it had an upper floor,while ours did not.My grandmother, being hyper kinetic also gave the impression,that were she not on the move from sunup until past dark, all of her housework would never get done, though that would have been an exaggeration.So,sometime in the time we were not visiting her,she took the time to cut out all of the letters of the alphabet,using old cereal or cookie boxes, or the boxes from any other product that she used.Then,when we came to visit she would bring out a box containing all of those letters, and help us make words, just like we were doing on the chalkboard at home.I would sit for a long time spelling out the words that I already knew,and I was learning to spell my name as well, which was likely harder than any of the simple one syllable words I was being taught. I used the M from a box of Catelli macaroni, and was somewhat jealous that my sister got to use the biggest letter in the box to start her name-the capital K from the box of Special K.
My grandmother also had a small collection of books that she read to us whenever we visited.The only two that I really remember was this thin,hard covered book about a rather precocious black and white puppy,that liked to hide in a laundry basket, and a book about a red hen who tried to get all the other animals to help her make bread.They wouldn't help her make the bread, but they were there as soon as the bread was ready to eat.To me,the stories were just fun, quality time with my grandmother, but I think that both my parents and grandparents understood that reading to children was important in helping us to develop language skills.
By now, my grandparents were not the only people we knew who had moved into town.The farmland out in Dead Creek was for the most part,the rural equivalent of a ghost town.My mothers brother and his wife had moved on into Fredricton around this time, and her sister, my Aunt Ruby and her husband,Ernie, and bought a service station at the top of the second hill in Canterbury, just before you go out of town towards the lakes,and eventually the American border. Their house,at the time was a small shack like building with a full porch in front, and the ubiquitous red asphalt shingles.It was more than one room, but so small that when you were inside, you were more or less aware of the presence of every other person in the house.Sitting in the front room,you could hear anyone in any of the bedrooms if they happened to be snoring.This seemed to suit Ernie and Ruby quite well,because,although they had a large family, most of them were not still living at home.Later,someone else came to occupy the house,and Ernie and Ruby moved a green and white mobile home onto the lot.It was still just a short few steps to the garage for them when it was time to go to work.By the time I was four or five, I used to like to hang out at the garage and watch Ernie repair tires,or scurry about in the grease pit,fixing some part that I couldn't see on a car.The next house down the hill, and the third to last house in town belonged to my grandmother's sister, Anna English and her husband Fred.Fred was a very old man,or at least it seemed that way to me,by the time they had moved to town.He was a tall, austere,thin looking man that rather reminded me of Vincent Price.And, he smoked cigars-a lot of them.A decade and a half later, after he had been gone a few years, I could still smell the cigar smoke when I walked into his house. My aunt,Anna English,whom everyone called Annie was old too, but very spry and lively, and she adored children.Many of the neighbors children would drop by to see her when we were there, and she was always kind to them.She was a God fearing,religious woman,though not severe in any way that I could tell. Being around her was, until the day she passed, one of my favorite places to be.
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