Picking Up Moonbeams Chpt. 7 104 Gore St.

We moved to 104 Gore Street in early spring of 1959.

I made my first best friend the first day of Grade One in St. Mary’s School. Her name was Helena. She too was a child of immigrant parents, an only child. We wanted to be sisters and marry twin brothers. Where my parental home was full of commotion and strident voices, hers was tatted doilies, fine china and calm.

We walked to and from school holding hands, planning our children’s names and such almost everyday. Some days her parents drove her. One afternoon in the February deeps of an Ontario winter Helena’s parents were waiting to drive her home after school. They asked if I would like a ride. That had happened before. I turned the offer down saying that Mom had told me not to take rides with them. I really wanted to go; instead I started walking.

Ten minutes later, two block over and two blocks down I came to the accident. Helena was dead. She was killed instantly in the back seat when their car was broad-sided going through the intersection of Bagot and Earl Streets. That intersection was two blocks away from where we lived on Gore Street, four blocks from where Helena lived on King Street. I went into shock that my parents didn’t understand.

A week later at the funeral in St. Mary’s Cathedral I wailed like a banshee to everyone’s discomfort including mine. The nuns tried to hush me by telling me I should listen to the priest. That didn’t reach me. Helena was gone forever and nothing anybody said was going to change that. I knew before Helena’s death that people who said they loved you could hurt you over and over. Now I knew that people who told you they loved you would and could leave. This event has had a stranglehold on me;I would be angry and not trust women, myself included, right up until the time of this writing.

A few weeks after the funeral I worked up the courage to go see Helena’s parents. We were very happy to see each other. They asked if my parents knew I was there. I lied. We had tea and cookies and they told me it was good to see each other and talk about Helena, we could share our memories and keep her with us. Those were the first words that anyone had said that helped ease the grief and made sense.


Over the years I learned, when I reached the top of our street to reach down the street into our house, second on the right from the end, and feel around inside the house. I’d know in my stomach what was up. Coming through the door after school was one of the most frightening events of many days and I honed my empathic and telepathic skills reading the situation preparing to go through the door. Sometimes, there was nothing to be done for it.

A short while passed and I had forgotten my illicit visit to Helena’s parents. I sensed nothing in my stomach as I walked through the door. A lovely note of thanks had arrived in the afternoon mail from Helena’s parents, with another invitation to visit. Mother had worked herself into a fury of righteous indignation and all hell broke lose on my head. She was slapping and punching, spewing incoherent statements and questions at me. I didn’t know what she was talking about and said so. That infuriated her further. Of course it was the people who were trying to steal me from her to replace the daughter they had lost. Between her fists and her words Mother made it clear that I was going to forget Helena and double forget her parents or ever going to see them again. There were hours before Dad came in from work, plenty of time to convince me.

Now I’m under the huge old maple tree that dominates the front yard. The sidewalk is heaved, as is the lawn, even the basement of the house from the roots of that tree. There is a spot between those roots, with my back against the tree that feels like I’m being cradled by the tree. Though we’re new in the neighborhood the tree and I are old friends.

I can see the neighbor lady peaking from behind her curtains, she can’t see me though. I don’t wonder why, I do not want to be seen. It is working, no one sees me, even the people walking a few feet from me on the sidewalk. I feel I can remain safe and unseen in full view as long as I’m sheltered by the tree. From the first day tree spirit and I met the conversation and comforting wisdom has not stopped. I am hurting from the beating and shocked by what caused it. While the words and feelings “it is not supposed to be like this…it shouldn’t be like this…why is it like this roared and pounded through me, I am lulled and rocked by the murmur of a gentle breeze in the branches above my head. Eventually the sap in the tree is one with the blood in my veins and my heartbeat slows. I return to the sound of the car in the driveway next to me.

In order to forget I was forced to break other rules. I was supposed to walk to and from school using only one route, a route that included the corner where Helena had died. It became impossible to walk past that corner four times a day and forget. As spring slowly gained command that year I walked a different route to school, one that Helena and I had not shared. I practiced looking at the world without seeing everything through her eyes as well. In the last days of that school year I realized that it had worked. I had forgotten about Helena while discovering a new part of the small world I lived in. I didn’t see her parents either. I was devastated the day I discovered that they had moved away. I couldn’t remember why and I didn’t tell anyone

(This teaser is my way of thanking Wilma for reminding me about that tree...I rewrote this chapter yesterday, and again this morning...this time including the tree.)
P.P.S Thanks for the feedback Wilma, I've changed one line to better reflect your observation.