Burned skin and cigarettes

Last Sunday, I spent a lot of the day outdoors. It was very sunny, I spent the day bent over the garden, and in my bathing suit; I managed to burn my back from the sun. That tightness across my back, the smell of the dirt, the air and the sun on my skin transported me back to a time when I also burned my back in the sun.

When I was a wee girl, my family would rent a cottage in Kincardine - a small town on Georgian Bay, Lake Huron, Ontario. As the name implies, the town has Scottish roots. My mother's Scottish family would also vacation there when my mum was a wee girl. So, it was natural that she would want to return there. 

Mary Margaret Ross Nicoll on Bruce Beach, Kincardine - 1937

  

It was a sleepy town in the 1960s and had a beautiful beach. My brother and I would play on the sand, look for stuff in the creek that ran down to the lake and generally have a magical time. My mum, smelling like the sun lotion Bain de Soleil, would watch over us, feed us and generally try to keep us from running wild.

My skin was often burned. I don't remember putting on sun screen and it wasn't as if I was lying in the sun trying to get a tan. I used to insist on putting on a new bathing suit  if mine was too sandy, or too wet or it was uncomfortable ( I was 4 years old) against my burned skin. The cottage (where my dry bathing suits  were located) was perched on the top of the hill overlooking the beach. You had to walk up many wooden stairs, under a canopy of trees, to get from the beach to the cottage. When I would insist on putting on a dry bathing suit, my mother would ask Kevin (my brother) to help me find one. So, he would begrudgingly accompany me up the stairs and into the cottage to help me. Invariably  I would have trouble with the whole process because a wet body and a dry bathing suit are two incompatible objects. So, I would make Kevin help me get encased in a new suit. He was six and such a good boy when I think back - and I was such a little brat. 

We weren't rich. My dad had to work during the week to pay for the holiday. But, he would drive up on Friday nights for the weekend. Pulling his huge car (at least it seemed huge to me) into the parking space in front of the cottage was a time for celebration; he was always ready for fun and adventure. 

He was the one who made me walk down those wooden steps to the beach slowly -  so that I could  inhale the air tinged with cedar. He made me look at the sky through the leaves and watch for birds and down into the creek to see the minnows; to listen to the cicadas at night and try to hear the owls in the distance. And he told me to remember those smells and sights and feelings.   

In Kincardine there was a tradition (still is) of having bagpipers parade down the main street every Saturday night. So, we would always go into town to watch. Sometimes we would get dressed up and go to dinner at a restaurant. I can still feel the stiff cotton dress brushing against my (burnt) back as I wriggled into it. 

Bagpipers in Kincardine

 Now, this is in the 1960s - in Canada – so we are not talking about a fancy restaurant.  Nevertheless, it had menus, linen tablecloths and napkins and we were greeted and seated by a host. As we drove in to have dinner dad would remind us how to behave; we were NOT to disappoint him. We were to participate in the conversation, not squirm (even though my back was burned), place our napkin on our lap immediately upon being seated, look the waiter in the eye and clearly enunciate our order. We were to butter our (still warm) roll on the bread plate (not in our hand) ,sit up straight and not order the most expensive thing on the menu.  While this might seem hard for a four year old, you had to know my dad. These dinners were always fun - he would tell jokes and treat like us adults. It was so much fun. 

Smoking kills - don't forget

After dinner, he would sit and have a smoke at the table while we waited for the bill.  This was a time when ashtrays were everywhere and smoking was practically expected.  Sometimes, my dad would dissemble his cigarette pack, take out the foil lining, turn it so the white side would be on the outside and roll the paper into two long cylinders - so they looked like two cigarettes.  He'd then light them briefly so the ends were red. Then he would hand them to me and my brother so we could join him in a "smoke”.  

I think he liked to shock the patrons. I know I loved pretending with him. 

Times change. Ashtrays are not available in restaurants and behavior like my father's might find him at odds with Child Protective services. 

But, I was lucky to have a dad who understood that I could behave like an adult at 4, that I could commit to memory the smell of warm skin in a cool cedar forest, and that I could appreciate being part of an inside joke on the world. I was luckier still to be able to spend  summers with a family that adored each other. That family taught me how to love the family I created with my husband. Memories like those that get me through these tougher times in 2020. I hope that you can find solace in a sweet memory from your past, too.   

  PS  - Despite my dad's "efforts", I never became a  real smoker...though I occasionally pretend.