COLUMN: Tales from the Gravel Ridge – Framing some of my earliest Rosengard memories

Memories of my childhood provide me with countless reasons for gratitude. If I were to begin to arrange my thoughts on the subject in the form of music, or a drawing or painting I would soon realize that I was barely able to scratch the surface of the subject, given the enormity of the project. Furthermore, since I am not experienced in creating such works in either of those art forms, I will resort to calling up memories in a framework of my own making.

The earliest memories that I have of my Rosengard home, must surely be of the humble home in which I was born on a Sunday afternoon in January. Before I was old enough to attend classes at the Rosengard School, I had already absorbed countless memories that continue to shape my view of life. These memories, although I haven’t always recognized the profound influence they have on my life, nevertheless helped me to feel safe and secure. Because my parents treated each other, and the members of our family, with love and appreciation, they instilled in us the importance of treating others with respect as well.

Mealtimes in that wonderful environment continue to shape my view of life in numerous ways. We were a large family but I cannot recall that my mother ever expressed frustration about what to prepare or how she would manage everything that went into the preparation of our noonday meal, which was always the main meal of our day. Our family also sat down for Faspa, when the children returned home after classes ended at four o’clock in the afternoon. This meal consisted of bread, always baked at home, and spreads of various kinds, including homemade preserves of jam. Sometimes we also had cheese, and on Sundays there were buns, and other pastry on our menu. Of great importance to me is my recollection of how we partook of those wonderfully nourishing and tasty meals. All of us sat down together for each of our four daily meals, which might include a toddler sitting in a highchair. Nobody began eating until thanksgiving for our food was given.

If on occasion someone expressed the sentiment that the particular meal we were having was not their favourite, we were reminded that people in other parts of the world were experiencing famine. My parents spoke from personal experience, knowing well the disastrous food shortages in Russia, including Ukraine, where my family had lived before emigrating to Canada in 1929. Although they did not personally experience famine, they knew nevertheless that such circumstances can occur all too readily, be it through disastrous climatic conditions, or gross mismanagement on the part of political leadership. Severe food shortages are not an experience that is readily forgotten.

Our parents infused in us the importance of making the best of our circumstances. We learned early on that it was our responsibility to take good care of the resources we had. This was taught to us by the lifestyle our parents modelled and which they sought to cultivate in us. This meant that the clothes we wore to attend classes at the Rosengard School, were not the ones we wore if we had chores to do at an outdoor job, such as milking cows or feeding various farm animals. The same rules applied to our Sunday best clothing and footwear.

By framing our memories in a format that somehow resonates with those who are younger than we are today, we may yet do ourselves and them a great favour by learning to take the lessons of history seriously. Little by little we might begin to understand what it is that history is trying to teach all of us in our present circumstances.

It has taken me a long time to recognize and appreciate the countless gifts I have received by virtue of growing up in a caring family. The list of these immeasurable and innumerable gifts that are mine include the faith that was imparted to me by my parents, and that their faith permeated how they lived their day to day lives.