When I was their age, I wrote in homemade diaries, I noticed boys and hung out with Lynn at the schoolyard on Tuesday evenings to watch the town's marching band practice. I got my ears pierced and my period. I started babysitting. The extraordinarily compassionate Jack Barnes was my teacher at Amherstburg Public School. Thank goodness, because it was the only time in my life I was not self-assured.
We went roller skating at the Amherstburg arena over the summer and wore homemade halter tops tied around the neck with shoestrings. I wore eyeshadow for the first time; it would have been blue. We still listened to CKLW AM radio, and the Brady Bunch and the Partridge Family were still the shows to watch on Friday night.
And funny – looking back on the movie screen in my mind, those days were always sunny.
Paige and Elaine on the cusp of teenagerhood: beautiful thing number 47.
On my way home last night I see this dad walking back and forth on the streetcar platform at Broadview Station having a debate with his three-ish year old daughter about whether he needs to hold her hand while they wait. I think he wins, but I forget about them while I look over messages on my phone. I notice them again as the car comes in and they say goodbye to an acquaintance.
“Bonsoir” says the man’s friend.
“Bonsoir” says the dad.
“Bonsoiiirrr” mocks the little girl. “Bonnnsooiiirrrr” she continues mocking to the amusement of her dad as they board the car.
I sit behind them, exchanging charmed smiles with the doting dad.
Over the course of the ride, dad tries to get the little girl to settle and rest. She concedes for a minute or two at a time, but the pops up back in her seat to watch out the window and ask all manner of questions about the goings on. She’s wearing a bright pink winter coat and wool hat – not really necessary for this unseasonably warm evening I think. Neither does the little girl because she keeps whipping off the hat. Dad keeps trying to get her to put it back on but she won’t have any of it.
At one point, when she relaxes, her cute little multi-braided head quiet against his arm, he starts to sing to her in rich, gentle tones – a bluesy sounding folk song of some sort. He’s a beautiful singer – no doubt this dad’s sung a song or two in his day. I stop paying attention to my phone just to enjoy it too.
Then we stop in front of the lit up Royal Alex Theatre and the little girl pops up wanting to know what all those lights are. Dad tries to explain what a theatre is, then in his “islandy-with-a-thick-dose-of-British” accent says, “it’s a picture house.” Little girl thinks the idea of a picture house is hilarious.
Dad hears me chuckle and turns to chat. He jokes about her age and the incessant questions, and that sometimes they are hard to manage, with minds of their own.
I say, “never mind, before you know it she’ll be in her twenties,” feeling, as I often do when I see little girls, a twinge of melancholy at the time passed so quickly from when my own girls were small.
He says he loves being a father and “Princess” is one of four, two boys and two girls. He hopes there will be four more to follow – “a large family is a blessing” he says.
He asks me if I have a family, and as I get up to get off at my stop, I tell him I have two grown up daughters. He tells Princess, who is resting against his arm again, to say goodbye to me, and she offers a sleepy wave and a cheeky grin.
When I got on the 510 headed south a few moments later I imagine Princess all grown up like my girls, and remembering how her father sung to her like that. And that she’ll be filled with gratitude and love when she does so.