I
don’t believe in "coincidence". I do, however, firmly
subscribe to the philosophy that there is a sublime reason for each
and every thing that happens in human
beings'
lives, regardless of
whether it is a
huge event, or a seemingly miniscule and
fleeting moment. This was never more evident to me than when I
recently tripped across an old memory—my personal
memory
of “Little Bare Knees Berneice".
It was a barely
significant incident in my childhood. From kindergarten in 1955, to
the sixth grade, I attended Rolph Road Public School in Leaside, (a
town originally amalgamated into the Borough of East York, then later
into the City of Toronto). After about the second grade, and during
all of those years to follow, when I walked unaccompanied,* to and
from my school, I was safely escorted across the main intersection at
the corner of my street by the elderly, gray-haired crossing-guard,
Mr. Shamus MacNeely.
My best estimate would put old Mr.
MacNeely around 157
years of age—at that time! His was a diminutive stature which was
even further shortened by the distinctly forward bend his spine. His
gait manifested a rhythmical limp definitely favouring his right leg.
I think this was probably, at some time or another, the result of him
either being honourably woundedin the service of his country, or
perhaps less than honourably maimed in just another pubbrawl gone
somewhat awry!
MacNeely’s fearsome scowl was only
exacerbated by the ruddiness of his complexion and his pockmarked
blue, or
actually
more like purple, vein-riddled, bulbous protuberance, which
was
only
barely
recognizable as his nose! I suppose it could be said he looked a
little bit like Santa
Claus,
only unlike Santa’s trade-mark white, fluffy and cottony beard, the
old man’s facial
hair was
thick, smoky, grimy and grey-tinged with yellow. There was a definite
connection between his facial hair and his brushy side-burns which
grew all the way down, incorporating the unruly over-growth of his
down-turned eye-brows into a marriage with his side-burns. All in
all, the grey and yellow fuzz did a fairly complete job of entirely
faming his face!
Unfortunately, those wild and wooly eye-brows
gave old Shamus a particularly angry visage--probably one reason I
was not alone in being terrified of him, at least at first!
This
caricature from an ‘old-sailor’s head shaving mug’ sported
fingers which were like thick, shapeless, hairy white sausages,
dreadfully scarred and stuck awkwardly onto the end of his huge, fat
hands; and those were almost indistinguishable at the end of his
unusually short, plump arms!
The old man seemed to undertake
his responsibilities with a level of seriousness one would not
normally associate with that particular career choice. He’d use his
"STOP" sign in the same manner a person might communicate
in sign language with someone who is deaf. He’d wave us little kids
to “come on”, or to “stop” abruptly, or even pat us on our
collective bums and hurry us a little faster across the street! And
he’d wield it in the air, maniacally chasing any offending drivers
who dared to disobey and tried to scoot through his intersection
after he had firmly waved his authoritative sign demanding them to
halt!
The old man spoke in a very loud, gruff, rumbling voice,
heavy and husky from years of slowly inhaling the signature pipe
which always hung lazily thus forging a path through the yellow-gray
bristles around his virtually indistinguishable little mouth. When he
spoke, the bristles moved up and down, but his lips stayed virtually
shut, so you rarely saw his old, sparse, yellowed, broken teeth.
Perhaps his voice was affected by the years of imbibing the
"medicine" he kept in a little, faded, brown
leather-covered flask, (something, I
noticed, he’d predictably
stash with a quickness whenever another adult came by).Actually as I
think back, I remember now, though not understanding then, that he
smelled of the cheap whiskey he would both, consume internally, and
dribble externally following hurried swigs.
The whiskey was
also most likely the reason he was so adept at creating those little
names and rhymes and songs which he jovially delivered off-key or
occasionally whistled! He was obviously, entertaining himself first
and if anyone else enjoyed his little performances, so much the
better!
Sometimes I had a hard time understanding old
MacNeely’s thick accent with its "R-R-R-rolling" Scottish
brogue, which he most obviously delighted in not only keeping intact,
but also actually cultivating despite the decades of his residing in
Canada! Of course he was harmless enough, and after awhile I looked
forward to daily his antics. Also, it was very reassuring when he
made it his personal mission to first learn the given names, and then
invent his own individualized nick-names, for all the children on his
watch, including, of course, yours truly!
Living in the snow
belt of Ontario, I remember year after year suffering through very
long, excruciatingly cold, snowy, icy winters. So cold, in fact, the
atmosphere stole your breath when you first ventured out of doors!
Despite these foreseeable, annual conditions, I never understood why
the girl’s school grade school uniform, forced upon us, remained
unchallenged as only a navy-blue cotton, wide-pleated tunic and a
crisply pressed white blouse (the only concession for winter being a
change to wearing long-sleeved shirts). Of course, instead of wearing
sensibly warm tights or leggings we had to wear obligatory matching
navy-blue, or white, knee-socks! Yes, that was socks--just to our
knees!Of
course, in order to ensure we wouldn't wear our tunics too short,
risking undue exposure,
our Principal made all of the girls in the school regularly line up
class by class and kneel side-by-side across the very front edge of
the gymnasium stage while he actually walked along below in the
orchestra pit using a ruler to ensure the four inch distance from the
tunic hems to each girl's knees! If the tunic measured too short,
or
too long, the offender was sent home straightaway with a note
to the parents to re-hem the tunic and to were expected to amend the
situation by the next school day!
The first year I met Mr.
MacNeely, as soon as the weather turned cold, he would repeatedly
express his concern that my little knees were bare, and he’d ask me
every day: "Aren't your little bare knees cold?". After
awhile when he saw me coming he’d sing: "Here comes the little
girl with the cold bare knees!" After awhile I wasn’t afraid
anymore, in fact, I was amused. When he laughed at himself, I was
treated to
the visage of his wide, yellowed,
long-and-gapped-toothed grin and a funny song mixing up pieces of
little sayings with children’s rhymes. But mostly the old codger
made me laugh when he started to call me "Little Bare
Knees".
Eventually his accent mixed with the cold air,
and maybe just a little of the "spirits", made his words
seem to slur from "bare knees" to "barenees", to
"berenees", to "berneece", and then "Berneice!"
Finally he seemed to settle on that as my new nickname, and one that
stuck with me for all my school years at Rolph Road. As far as old
Mr. MacNeely was concerned, my actual given name was in fact,
"Berneice"!
An unusual name, Berneice, and it wasn’t
really very common at all in the fifty’s or sixty’s, unlike Mary
or Susie or even Cathy. It was a name that held absolutely no
significance for me until April 26, 2001--more than four decades
later! That was the day I was finally discovered and contacted by the
brother I never even knew existed, Richard
Ketteringham.
Richard
had promised our mother, whom I never did meet, on her death-bed,
that he would never stop searching for me and here it was some 28
years into his search when his promise was fulfilled!
It was
on that day I first found out that I was literally ripped from my
mother’s arms in 1950 when I was only six weeks of age. I knew
then, for the first time, that my birth mother had not only loved me
dearly, but also had wanted me very much and would have never given
me up willingly. This was exactly the opposite of what my abusive,
adoptive had mother drilled into my brain throughout my entire life!
After I
was pried from her grasp, my birth mother anguished and
suffered her entire life, daily searching for mine, in the myriad sea
of strange faces in the passing parade of downtown Toronto’s
throngs.
And the connection between us?
My birth
mother’s name was Berneice!!
How unbelievably prophetic was
old Mr. MacNeely’s nickname for me! Sometimes I have to wonder,
what my real mother, Berneice, would have thought about her lost
little "Bare Knees Berneice"!
See what I mean? No
coincidences!
*(this occurred back in the day when children
were safe and didn’t have to be driven or hand-held to go anywhere
in such a safe, small-town atmosphere in Leaside, a middle-to-upper
class suburb in Toronto, Ontario, Canada.)
