Memories of Childhood

Mum was the sort of person who devoted her life to her children and home. Although she was active in our communities, her family was her raison d'être. Like many of our Mothers, she will be remembered both for her love and sacrifice and those less than stellar moments which had us screaming that we would never do this to our kids…of course, we did in spite of our resolve.

Mum was an old fashioned person with a stern eye toward manners. We sat down for dinner as a family (all six of us), and these feasts weren't always the most comfortable times. Mum insisted that dinner be a time to learn and practice good manners. Our conversation was keenly censored by our very own Ms. Manners, we were expected to sit up straight, hold our knives and forks correctly, and NEVER giggle. Of course, when kids are told NOT to giggle, what inevitably happens... you guessed it, the guffaws come cascading out like belches in a church service. Many times one or more of us were banished to eat our dinners in our bedrooms because of our distinct lack of civility. In fact, there were times when we "kids" would purposely giggle just so that we could all eat our dinners in our bedrooms together and behave like animals. There were also many fried eggs found under rims of the table when the smell finally bore witness to our disgraceful lack of respect for healthy repasts.

Along with those stern moments, I have warm memories of Mum's home baked cookies waiting for us on the kitchen table when we returned home from school....every single day. I distinctly remember our midnight snacks. We would wait until the house was dark and our parents were asleep, and then we "kids" would shine our flashlights on the hall ceiling in code-like fashion quietly heralding the time to convene in the walk in closet for a secret midnight snack and ghost stories. I'm sure our parents knew about it, but we thought we were being so sneaky. I have equally fond memories of our camp outs. Off we'd go in our woody station wagon to the hills for a week of communing with nature. We packed heavy with our sleeping bags, tents, camping stove, freezer with food, the DOG and fold up chairs. There was gear stacked on top of the car and everywhere a human wasn’t sitting. There were many bathroom stops and games in the car (like think of a word which begins with the letter "Z")...and choruses of "are we there yet," which drove Dad nuts. We particularly loved breakfast with the smell of coffee, bacon, and pancakes and Dad slaving over a hot camping stove. Somehow it all tasted better in the mountains. We'd giggle (seemed to do a lot of that back then), run around, and finally would take one long, uphill hike each day. I was the sissy who had to stop every few feet to eat something, my sister was the one inspired to lead the pack and make it to the top the fastest. When night descended, we sat around the camp fire and chatted and finally it was time for bed. All of us "kids" in one tent; Mum and Dad in another. Again, after dark it was time for ghost stories. We would actually scare one another A LOT. With the pitch dark backdrop of hooting owls, cracking twigs (which were clearly grizzly bears or ax murderers), the wind rushing through the trees, and an occasional wolf howling to the moon...there was many a ghostly night when we were convinced that we wouldn't survive to see the light of day. We became creative with our plot lines and I'm sure put Stephen King to shame. These scary stories backfired on us...in a titillating way.

Holidays were ALWAYS wonderful. Mum and Dad made certain of that. The sweet, sweet scents of cooking and the fire burning brightly, the nuts and nutcracker, merriment and laughter. We didn't have lots of outside people in, but our immediate family gathered as one big happy crew. Moving a lot caused us to be a tight-knit group of revelers and our New Zealand relatives were a faint presence in our lives. Our immediate family was it….and we did make the best of it.I also remember Mum when we were sick. She was a vigilant nurse...and Dr. Otto. He was our family doctor in California who made house calls when we were sick. It seemed to me that he made lots of trips to the Cameron household. I don't know if this happened to any of you, but when I was sick I would feel miserable UNTIL the doctor arrived and then I miraculously healed. It embarrassed Mum no end. I remember all of us being herded off to the hospital to have our tonsils out at the same time, and my brother hemorrhaging that night and me fainting when Mum mentioned "blood." We all healed beautifully, sans tonsils.I remember my sister and I pretending to be one another when our dates came to court; we sure had 'em fooled. My brother's name was Christopher and mine Christina and our friends called both of us "Chris," so the memory of Mum answering the phone and in her English accent asking if the caller wanted the "girl or the boy" brings a smile to my heart. I warmly remember our wonderful dog, Blackie! Always with us wherever we went. I will also never forget the day I fainted when he ate my parakeet!Now that we've grown, we've all gone in vastly different directions and are no longer the close-knit group we once were. My brothers married women who wanted to loosen their ties with our band of gypsies, and my Sister succumbed to depression and ultimately committed suicide. My Father died quite young of Hepatitis C caused by a blood transfusion after open heart surgery, and Mum is chugging along at 90 years old. We still gather at holidays, but the magic is gone. I suppose that magic was childhood and our close knit group of gypsies.

My son and I repeated the Cameron tradition. Now he has grown and married a woman who wants to loosen the ties we had, and his world will take on a life of its own. He and his wife will bring their personal traditions to their family. Life moves on and the generations repeat themselves with memorable accuracy. Now we "kids" sit around the table at holidays and talk about our family tree and trace it back hundreds of years; each generation and each branch having its own happiness and sorrows. The tree remains in tact while the blossoms change with the seasons. Such is the beauty of family.

Christina (Cameron) Daly
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