COLUMN: Tales from the Gravel Ridge – The power of a single word

The power of words, needless to say, is immense. A simple word can change the trajectory of a conversation, and so can the tone of voice of one party or the other, or both for that matter. That, of course, is the case in a wide range of circumstances, some momentous, almost beyond comprehension, and others in a less significant way.

Some words have such a hold on our memories of times long gone, that they continue to inform how we prepare for certain events and celebrations. A few years ago, we discovered a mid-eastern food store near our home. It is a place where we go to purchase loose tea, which in our minds produces tea that is superior to that brewed with teabags. Nostalgia may well be one of the reasons it seems to be our preference.

In addition to a range of tea brands, the shop also markets an array of mid-eastern foods. What to our minds is truly exceptional is the fact that we can also purchase a sweet in this shop that resonates with me from the earliest memories of my Rosengard childhood. It must be noted that luxuries were few and far between in our home during that long ago era. I think that was likely the case for many of our neighbourhood, especially that segment of the population that were relatively new arrivals. Our families had Reiseschuld to be paid. It fell largely on the eldest members of our families to find employment away from home in order to assist in repaying that travel debt.

In spite of these privations, our parents knew how to make ends meet. This included allowing for a small degree of latitude in respect to purchasing treats for Christmas. Among these special occasion luxuries to be carefully placed on a dish under the Christmas tree for each child, were some nuts and peanuts. But there was more. Special varieties of candies purchased only once a year delighted our eyes on Christmas morning.

There was however another treat that was never on our dishes under the tree. This special item came in a block which could be cut into small squares, and served individually. It was a most delicious crumbly treat, not quite as sweet as some more regular candy, but mouth-wateringly scrumptious. The name of this treat that has been part of my vocabulary from as far back as I can recall, is “Halvah”.

How, it might well be asked, did a poor family, living in Rosengard in the 1940s, come to have such an exotic treat. I can only imagine that Halvah was a delight to which my parents had been introduced long before they came to Canada. Living in a Mennonite village in Ukraine as they did, the influence of the Middle East was felt even in Schoeneberg, the village that was home to my family so long ago.

Memories of those Halvah treats also bring with them reflections on how we managed to have celebrations in spite of our limited resources. I can only imagine how our eyes must have sparkled as we waited for a piece to be cut for each of us. The setting would most often be a lamp lit evening, when, after all the chores were done the family was settling down for a winter evening. After we had eaten supper, and the dishes had been washed, my father might bring out the tin container in which the candy was stored. Carefully he would slice through the crumbly texture, and with pleasure offer each of us our share. My father had a love for his large family that I cherish more the older I get. Sharing celebrations, and the traditions that go with them were important to him. Although I no longer have one of those old halvah tins, embossed with the words Camelbrand Halvah, the distributor being Sacharen Bros. Inc. of Montreal, the memory of it reminds me of those evenings around the lamp lit table, enjoying Halvah.