A visit from the inner child

The dress was bright yellow, with small black squares on it (image 1); the sweater white, or beige (images 2 & 3). The pants dark brown, the suede shoes were brown too, only lighter. I still remember how determined I was to put them on by myself but finally had to give up. My grandmother would then crouch beside me and help me do it.

The monkey bars (back then I only knew the German word for them: die stange) were painted dark green. My palms would tingle and smell of iron after swinging on them.

The bicycle was blue and white; the word “Universal” was written across the blue horizontal frame bar in thick, white cursive. The bullet light was surprisingly strong and shaped like a chubby white rocket. It had wide black tires and white handles. Several generations of children learned how to ride a bike using my “Universal”: after me, there was my younger sister, then my even younger cousins and then numerous neighbourhood kids… When I saw it for the very last time, in spring 1991, it was still being well used.

I don’t know if “Universal” survived the war that had already started. But that spring, which, on a personal level, turned out to be the most wonderful and the most horrifying time of my life (isn’t it interesting that heaven and hell often walk hand-in-hand?), was the last time that I saw my grandmother. And my father, who had bought me “Universal”.

Oh, well … I have the rest of my life to contemplate the juxtaposition of light and dark, and love and pain, so now back to my “Universal”. At that time, it was probably the best children’s bicycle that money could buy. When I got it, I was only three, and my legs were too short to reach the pedals. It didn’t stop me riding it, though. I would mount my bike, legs dangling on its sides, and devoted family volunteers– my grandfather, my grandmother, my great-grandmother, my young aunt, and my mother–would push me up and down the street, as long as I wanted to ride it.

That same year my father also bought me a fancy sled, with a back rest. The above-mentioned volunteers would bundle me up, put me in the sled filled with previously warmed blankets and cushions, and drag me through the town wrapped in deep snow. The part of the country where I was born is Saskatchewan-flat, and there is no other way for kids to sleigh.

Well, almost no other way… When I was a little bit older, my father would tie the sled to the end of his motor bike, and pull it at a slow, walking speed, around the nearby park (also on the photos). I would lean on the back rest and immerse myself in the serious business of catching snowflakes on my tongue.

Winter holidays are over, old memories carefully stored, like delicate glass ornaments, until next year: of the Christmas trees of my childhood, of sugar candies wrapped in shiny, colourful papers… Of three January weeks I would spend with my father… Of smells and tastes of other places and times.

I still wish I could fill my lungs with the sharp and moist air of the winters of my childhood, which smelled of upcoming snow and smoke from the red-brick chimneys, and hold my breath until ‘there and then’ blend with ‘here and now’, so that I could be whole again.

I wish I could touch my bike and my sled, just one more time. Run my fingers along those thick white, embossed letters that read “Universal”, and over the smooth honey-brown wood of my sled.

And take that little girl into my lap, hug her tight and tell her that everything would be okay.

Only that, nothing else.