My mom can't sing. She would be the first person to tell you that. When she was in school, they always had a Christmas concert and a spring music festival. She was admonished by the choir leader to simply lip-sync but not to make a sound. In an effort to include her in the festivities it was decided that she would do recitations. So she learned poetry and recited dutifully when her turn came. This "talent", if you will, came in very handy later on in life in a way no one would have predicted.
Most of our childhoods were spent in very isolated locales. Pinetree Line radar sites were isolated, it came with the package; fighter cops and later air defence technicians were stationed on radar sites and that was just how it was. With isolation came limitations on distractions and living on a radar site in Quebec came with the double whammy of poor TV and radio reception and the probability that the stations that were received would be in French. And so it was in St-Sylvestre.
Dad worked shift work; his schedule was the 6, 3, 3 and 3 variety: three days, three evenings, three off, three nights and three off. Many evenings when he wasn't home Mom would find herself reciting poetry while we ate supper to keep Sharon and me distracted from fighting with each other. One memorable evening it was raining and we had been cooped up all day. Recipe for disaster when you've got a five year old, a three-and-a-half year old and an infant. On this evening Mom recited Alfred Noyes' epic poem The Highwayman for us. Since she had dropped out of school in Grade IX, she must have learned it when she was about 14, but there she was, reciting it word-perfect for us much more than a decade later. The character of the poem and the language Noyes used were so evocative that I instantly loved it. It became a favourite and I would ask her to recite it for us again and again.
When the wind is a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon, tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
The highwayman came riding, riding, riding.
The highwayman came riding,
Up to the old inn door...
Mom, would you recite that for me just one more time?
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I always learn something about our family when I read your reminiscences. I didn't know Mom recited to you and Sharon when you were little!
ReplyDeleteSharon remembers verses of The Wreck of the Hesperus but I don't. If I remember rightly, we also heard The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.
ReplyDeleteI was forced to memorize the preamble to The Cremation of Sam McGee when I was in Grave VIII when I was caught waiting outside the portable classroom Sharon was in. Her teacher Mrs McKeen was a real martinet.