We were a poor family living in what was then, the quiet city of St. Catharines, Ontario. It was 1959 and everybody knew everybody. Most of the land on the north end of town was either orchard or vineyard. There was still a thriving amusement park in Port Dalhousie.
Kitchen knives were still sharpened by a man who roamed the streets pulling a portable grinder, ringing a bell and smelling of garlic. Milk, eggs and bread were all delivered by panel truck, or horse drawn carriage, and stores still had a delivery service.
While many kids my age were probably dreaming of bicycles or hockey sticks, I was happy just to be up and walking. I'd only been doing so for about a year.
I was born with clubbed feet. Only the previous year had the heavy metal braces holding my feet in place been removed. I'd not been given permission to wear anything other than orthopedic shoes and my activities were limited to walking. I wasn't supposed to run and I definitely wasn't allowed to cycle or skate.
Each Christmas the local firemen banded together and held a Christmas party for the underprivileged. Over the year they collected old, damaged, or discarded toys and rebuilt them to give to kids.
This particular Christmas there were about 40 kids and their families at the party. It was a gala affair complete with turkey dinner, ice cream, apple pie, Santa Claus, the whole shebang.
After dinner it came time for the Santa Claus procession. The jolly old fellow wandered onto the stage where the curtains had been drawn to reveal a mountain of toys.
The very first thing I noticed was a white wagon parked beside the pile of toys. It was a big wagon, much larger than the little red metal ones that would become so popular a few years later. It was also well built, with a good foot and a half or more between the ground and the floor boards. The handle was jet black and the wheels bright red. From the moment I saw it, I wanted that wagon.
The children were called up to Santa Claus in alphabetical order. Having a last name that started with a "W" meant that I would have a long wait.
It seemed to take forever as kid after kid was called to the stage, given a turn on Santas' knee, handed a stocking full of goodies, and then offered a toy from the mountain.
Kid after kid, I watched as Santas' helper made their way over to the mountain and pulled down another toy.
By this time I had made my way up to the stage, on the side nearest the mountain, and was admiring the wagon (making wish after wish that it would still be there when my turn came).
When my name was finally called I made my way on to the stage and up on to Santa Claus' knee. He asked me if I'd been a good boy and I told him I didn't know. He then wished me a Merry Christmas and handed me a stocking.
I watched as the helper went over to the diminished mountain of toys and pulled down a teddy bear. My heart sank as I realized that my wish probably wasn't going to come true.
Sadly, I began to make my way toward the helper and the mountain of toys. If I could not have the wagon, at least I would have one last look at it. The helper handed me the bear and I began to toddle off the stage, tearfully looking around for my mom, who I knew was close by.
As I was about to step down from the stage I heard a voice behind me. "Wait a minute little boy, I have something else for you. Perhaps your teddy bear would like a ride in this."
I turned around just in time to see the helper reach for the handle of the white wagon. My heart leapt as I realized that my wish was coming true.
The remainder of the evening, which couldn't have been more than an hour, I was the terror of the party. With one leg buckled on the floor boards of the wagon, and the other poised over the side, I raced around the room making sharp corners and nearly running over dozens of toddlers.
I did the same at home, racing around the house on my four wheeled pre- ambulator and many times winning the disfavor of both parents as I crashed recklessly into walls, furniture and younger siblings.
When spring came and the snow cleared I was out on the side walk practising. I learned to take quick turns off of our private walk and onto the public one in front of our house. I became an expert garbage hauler and eventually took on passengers.
In fact the wagon would be with my family, for years. At one point, when we moved to Niagara Falls in the mid-1960s, I would use it to haul pop bottles my friends and I collected on Clifton Hill. Much later my mom would use it in place of a stroller for my kid brother.
At various junctures it would be used on paper routes, during cub scout paper drives, as a ride at penny carnivals, a stage coach for a bunch of backyard cowboys, and from time to time, to pull around my sisters' dolls.
The white wagon would survive almost every toy in our house. And when there are seven kids in a house, of which I was the oldest, it says something for a toy that was already second hand.
The last time I saw the white wagon it had just received a new paint job and was looking as good as the day I got it. It was the late '70s and my youngest brother had long since graduated to a ten speed.
No one remembers what happened to the wagon but I recall being asked if I minded it being given away. I don't know where the wagon is today. I like to think it is being used by somebody.
I haven't seen one like it in years. But that white wagon still carries some of the dreams and memories from long ago.
By late 1962 we had taken up residence in a farm house across from Scotlea School in St. Catharines. This was two doors down from our previous residence where I'd lived when I got my white wagon.
The new place was neat. It had a big old barn out back, a peach orchard and rooms that were big enough to turn a car around in.
It seemed to me that I was getting a new brother or sister every few months up until this time. But for now the baby boom had died down and we were settling into being a family with lots of kids in diapers. The unique relationships that grow up between brothers and sisters had also begun to develop. My second brother and eldest sister had joined me in school.
One fixture in the house was an old wood desk. It was the style that had a pull down cover and a pull out writing surface.
While my siblings busied themselves vying for Mom and Dad's attention (the younger sister went so far as to set the kitchen curtains ablaze, earning herself a reputation as a fire bug) I would busy myself for hours on end at the old desk.
I recall spending much of my leisure time working at the desk. I was enthralled by all the cubby holes and unique aspects of this peice of furniture that came down through Mom's family.
My teacher at school was a woman named Leyden. Every scholar has at least one teacher they claim inspired them. Mrs. Leyden is mine. When Mrs. Leyden had the class plant tulip bulbs and nurture them over the winter I got a reputation for having a green thumb. When she had us draw pictures in art class, I became an artist.
At one point I was issued a composition exercise. As usual, in her class, I worked very hard on mine with an overgrown desire to impress. On the night before it was due I was working furiously at the old desk making sure everything was perfect.
Midway through, my pen ran out of ink and I was forced to finish the project with a pencil. I was very discouraged and certain that I would lose brownie points if I turned in an assignment that was done half in ink and the other half in pencil. I'd even decided to print the entire composition out in pencil until Mom put an axe to that idea, telling me it was time for bed.
Next morning I turned in the composition. I did so by sliding it under the others that had been stacked on Mrs. Leyden's desk. There was no way that I wanted to draw any extra attention to it. Sure, I was confident that the printing would be legible, the content good, and the sentences correct, but I was distressed about having to use both pencil and pen.
As the teacher went through the works she paused.
"Billy, come up here for a moment please."
Those words stung. I knew that I had let her down and I was now going to have to reconcile and explain.
I approached her desk and started apologizing.
"I know you wanted the composition in pen but mine ran out and there wasn't another one to be found. I wanted to do it all over again but it was too late and Mom made me..." Mrs. Leyden made a motion for me to be quiet.
"That's not the problem," she assured me. "Take a look at this."
I looked at the page quizically. All I could see was the place, half way down, where I'd run out of ink.
"It's like I told you..." I started to explain.
She motioned for me to be silent again.
"Look," she said. "Here, just after you started to use the pencil. I didn't know that you could write the alphabet. Why have you not told me? I knew your printing was very good but I didn't know you could write. When did you learn to do this?"
Mom had taught me how to join words and make them into writing back in kindergarten. I'd been so bad stealing other peoples poems and such that she had decided to make the task of writing out the dictionary that much more difficult. I'd been writng long hand since the summer before Grade 1 and had been keeping it a secret. I didn't want to get in trouble for going ahead of the class.
Mrs. Leyden gave me a stern talking to about changing styles midway through compositions. She told me that from now on I would have to either write or print, but not both in one exercise. She also told me to make sure I had more than one pen.
My mark on the composition was an A. It would have been an A+ but she felt some deduction was in order for my flip flop.
Some months later we moved again. I was very sad to be leaving Mrs. Leyden, and she me.
Rumour has it that she approached my father at one point and offered to let me come live with her. Dad's reaction was apparently very rude and verged on violence.
While in transition I was hold up at a farm owned by a fellow named Herbie. One day Mrs. Leyden came by with her daughters. The little girls sang a song for me. They were very good.
I was never to see Mrs. Leyden again. I don't know what became of her. I'm certain I was not the only student she inspired and I still feel I owe her a debt of gratitude. After Mom, she was the first person who honored me for what I was good at and offered encouragement. She was kind and caring and offered discipline through respect and loving example. Every student should have such a teacher.
For many it was the summer of love. For the Robinson Street Gang it was the summer the meteor lit the 11 pm sky. Just like daylight it was. For a flash everything was brilliant.
Curiously there was no sound. Only light.
Dad said it was a meteor. It made the news.
"Niagara area residents were treated to a spectacular display of light, when a meteor crashed on the escarpment near Grimsby tonight," read the morning newscaster.
But we knew better. They weren't going to fool us. We knew what was going on.
That was no meteorite. That was a full fledged alien spacecraft. How else we're you going to explain the fact there was no noise? Meteors at least make a bang. This thing landed quiet as can be. It had to be a ship. Next morning we had a mission. Eleven 13 and 14 year old boys would search for, and destroy the alien invaders. We would show them what landing in our territory meant. A meeting was set for the Beaver Lumber parking lot. Our approach would be planned from there.
Three riders would go in by the road. The rest of us would stash our mustang bikes below the cliff, near the wrecks, then split into two groups. One group would stick to the main path. The other would take the short route over the gravel to the ledge, an eight inch precipice that rimmed the point. They would follow it around to the far side. Once there they would double back and meet up at the pit. (The pit being a fire hole, dug out on the point).
In this manner all three groups would approach the point from different directions. Everyone would keep a sharp eye out for anything unusual. Watches were synchronized. We would meet in 25 minutes. Secret signals were to be used. No one was to approach the point until the coast was absolutely clear. The secrecy of our mission was an utmost priority. If word of an alien landing got out, panic would surely ensue. We planned to seek out and destroy the intruders as quickly and quietly as possible. If we were captured we were to make no comments on the nature of our mission. Each of us packed a cyanide pill cleverly disguised as an aspirin.
An hour later we'd cordoned off the point and were holding council. We'd not been able to identify or uncover any sign of the spacecraft. Wherever it was hidden, it was secure. Cloaking devices were unheard of in those days. Only one thing could be mutually agreed upon. The three elderly persons, with the yappy dog, seen scanning the lake with binoculars, were the only suspicious creatures to be found.
Debate was hot but the conclusion was unanimous. There was no way the aliens would allow such a group to wander at will; especially through an area where their ship was stowed. They had to be the aliens in disguise.We decided to put the four creatures under surveillance. It was vital we get as much information about them, and their mission, before we destroyed them. We did not want to prematurely tip them off, in case there were more. We also wanted to know which one was the leader. When it came to destroying them, the leader would be first. It would demoralize them and perhaps we could draw extra information from those who remained.
In two groups we began to track the invaders. One group took the forest side, the other the ledge. We would slip up as close as possible and see if we could get an earful of what they were discussing. A lot of it was code and the rest just didn't make sense, but it wasn't long before it became clear which was in charge.
From the way the three remaining aliens doted and beckoned over this one it was obvious. The yappy mutt was in control. We quickly reunited for further council.
It was already mid-afternoon. Time was of the essence. Something was going to have to be done before it got too late. The plan was simple. We would take out the leader and finish the rest off in the confusion. A diversion was set up. A couple of the guys, the smallest (which included myself) would pretend we were lost and approach the aliens as innocents. The remainder of the gang would encircle and proceed to use whatever means at their disposal to distract the leader.My partner and I rubbed dirt into our faces and clothing, then hardened some of it with our spit. We entered the scene, he with his double jointed arm dangling, me hollering for help. The two female aliens seemed to buy our charade right off. The male just glanced at us briefly, but the leader was frantic. We knew he wasn't buying one iota of our scam.
"We saw a bear, honest. A big one right over there. Busted my buddy's arm. Ya gotta help us," I pleaded.It was right then that our guys opened up with a volley of mud balls and obscenities that would have made the toughest kid run for cover.
The aliens stared at us dumfounded. We suspected they did not know how to react and feared giving themselves away. Their leader was in a frenzy as a mud ball landed square on its snoot.
All hell broke loose as it burst from a subordinates and let out in vicious pursuit of our gang. A rock from one of the fleeing struck the mutt on the right paw. It reeled. All of a sudden it was headed directly at my partner and I.We high tailed and ran straight for the spot where we'd agreed to meet if anything went wrong.The spot was on the ledge that rimmed the point. We would reach it through the break in the hedge near the point. With the yappy mutt on our shirtÑtails we skedaddled, too fast to think.
One after another the guys stormed through the hedge, stepped on the little outcrop, then leaped onto the ledge. We were certain of the alien's inability to complete this maneuver.
Being the smallest, and the latest to flee the aliens, I was the last in line. This also meant that the dog was right on my heels.
I watched as each of those before me made the step and the hop. We had all done it many times, it was very familiar. I lowered my right foot onto the outcrop and was just about to leap when something entirely unimaginable occurred.
The rock gave way!
I grappled but there was nothing to grapple.
I was free form in full planetary gravity.
Below me, some twenty five feet, the gravel slide was rising like water to the high diving board at Prudhomme's Pool.
Hours seemed to pass as I hung in the air. It took a long time to decide I was falling.
I'd dreamt of flying as a child but in reality the experience was entirely new. It was not what I had imagined flying to be. I tried. I flapped my arms vainly. I reached.
As my feet hit the gravel it gave way. The jolt however was enough to buckle my knees and I was sent backside over tea kettle into one of the wildest commotions I ever want to experience.
A strange thought occurred, like the ray of light the night before.
Folding my arms over my knees and tucking my head, I decided to cannonball. Just as I had done at Prudhomme's pool and not unlike I'd once seen a bear do in Tobermorey. There was no fear. No flashing of my short life before my eyes. No prayer. No sound, other then that of flesh barreling over small stones into thick brush.
My next memory came when I found my nose imbedded in the bark of a tree on either side of which, dangled my arms and legs.
I did not have a thought in my head, nor was I in any pain of my knowledge.Days seemed to pass. My empty mind devouring every detail of the tree bark. In my trance the bark seemed to breathe.
In. Out. The spot where my nose was planted expanding until I could pull it free. I turned my cheek to it. I could hear the tree. I could hear the voices of my comrades.
What happened?
Billy fell.
Is he dead?
I think so. Lets go see.
Where is he?
Look! Holy shit he looks dead.
Billy. Billy.
Billy can you hear us?
Are you ok?
I think he's dead.
His eyes are open.
He looks dead.
That's the way dead guys are. They always got their eyes open.
His mouth is open.
Look, he's breathing!
That's a miracle. Look how far he fell!
Hey Billy what happened? How come you didn't yell?
You didn't make a sound. All we could hear was the bush.
God you look like hell!
Can you stand?
Your brother's gone for an ambulance.
Can you walk?
Here we'll help you. Think you can make it back up to the point? How come you're so quiet, did you swallow your tounge?
Guys, give him some room!
Billy are you ok?
Ya. I think so.
The aliens would be forgotten.
We would re-climb the point and I would be rushed to hospital. I would be laid up for six weeks and a local hero for about a year.
Our aliens escaped. But in the years to come we would find many more of them, and their commanders, in every town and village we would visit.
And the point of it all is. If points are to be drawn from the adventures of childhood. I may turn out to be an alien myself someday. Thanks to my friends and a few flashes of brilliance.