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Capsized

Oil on canvas 16’’ x 20’’

Capsized on Fish Lake, the three of us, three generations swamped by a rogue wave. 4 hundred feet from shore, I could not believe we never even got our hair wet. Who says that a Livingston wont go down.

Just march down the driveway. Hup 2, 3, 4, hup 2, 3, 4.… little soldier to the right …turn. Down the hedge row driveway to the paved road and an easy marching down hill to the corner store, just a mile and half from home was all. The parents had know idea what that forced march took the little soldier boy. Not only was there real obstacles like the ditches on either side of that rural road, but the imaginary enemy behind every tree and houses as well. But the reward was well worth the adventure. Penny Candies, not the candies they have know, black jawbreakers, black licorice pipes and candy cigarettes.

The jaw breakers were so big and covered in a jet black pure sugar shell with a hard layered pure sugar inside. You could suck on the jawbreaker for hours. Your slobber could have filled a bucket and your hands would get all black with that first coating. I am sure kids died from chocking on those black jawbreakers. The candy cigarettes and black licorice pipes were something else. Just what an eight-year old needs to relate to smoking. What an era that was.

Pretty tall order for an eight-year old, you would think, but I believe this was a standard daily occurrence. I think this shows volumes on so many intellectual and trust levels for the time. Not only did the father trust the mother. The mother trusted the son to even know, where the store was located and the mother trusted the store keeper to allow the eight-year old to have the cigarettes. The store keeper trusted that the son would take the cigarettes back home. And society allowed everyone to make there own judgment call. The only one left out was the eight-year old boy.

“Hey Mom” “ yes Dad” this was a standard conversation of parents of the day. As every one should know husband and wife should never think of calling themselves “Mom and Dad” but this was that time, in time. “Give Brigan Boy some money for some sigs and don‘t forget his note” said Dad. Mom was great and fast with the money and note:

Dear Fran,

One pack of Players (the blue package ones) and 25 cents of candy for Brian.

Sincerely

Sally

That was all it took for the little boy of eight years old to get a package of “Players” brand cigarettes from the corner store.

Murrayville just south-east of Langley BC a time and place to come into ones own especially if you are eight years old. A time to see just how high you can get on the school yard swings. Real swings, thick leather straps for a seat and half inch links for the chain. You could chimney up the links and touch the metal cross bar, what a feat and performed every chance the little solder would get. Swing so high. Pump it Pump it higher and higher. Watch out the swing would feel as if, when at the top, you would come straight down and not in that perfect arch. Out of control on the edge higher and higher all day long if know one was around. The big kids would make sure that you would drop like a rock. Swing at a different rhythm and see what happens. Out of control on that giant of a sing set out behind the school building just above the ravine bank that runs outback.

Oh the Humanity

What do you think “oh the humanity” is it earth shattering? Is this the time to grow up? To be human is to grow up. “By the right … march” left … right … up and down the long driveway, hedged by a row of fur trees. What are you protecting little boy with your toy gun? Duck under the thick evergreen tree branches. Point that toy gun. Geese it feels nice to have those green nettles of the cedar trees slap against the thick woolen coat you are dressed in little soldier. Hup 2, 3, 4, hup 2, 3, 4.… up and down the driveway. It’s cold alright. Hup two, three, four up and down the driveway. The rhythm is the march little boy the enemy is out there real or not. Jump behind that tree, bang, bang. Hup 2, 3, 4, hup 2, 3, 4.… up and down the driveway. Still cold? No way, warm as toast in that blue thick wool coat. Mom’s voice is resonating through the bitter cold “ Time to come in little solder”