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| ISBN-13: | 9781452036168 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | AuthorHouse |
| Publication date: | 08/26/2010 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 459 KB |
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Adopted at Age Four
By Brian L. Coventry
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2010 Brian L. CoventryAll right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4520-3614-4
Chapter One
"Little Leslie, the early years ..."
My first remembrances of the orphanage was a very large room with many beds and lots of kids my age in individual beds in a dormitory. The orphanage was located at the corner of Rideau Street and Charlotte in downtown Ottawa. It was operated by the "Children's Aid Society of Ottawa-Hull".
I was a ward of this Agency being given up by my birth mother the day I was born. I had been in foster homes now for 4 years. Nowadays I have no remembrance of those foster homes except that I always ended up back at the residence at Rideau Street and Charlotte, usually in worst condition then when I left.
Back then between 1945 and 1949 there was no welfare it was postwar Canada and foster homes were a source of revenue akin to welfare. Many took in the children accepted the cheques and did the least for these wards.
I was a typical example of this. By the time the Swartmanns came for their first pre-adoption visit I was a wreck. I was underweight for my age, was anemic due to very poor nutrition and wasn't the greatest candidate for adoption at age four.
I still remember sitting on the floor in an interview room and I was playing with some trucks and toys they had given me to distract me from the social worker/prospective adoptive parents conversation which I probably wouldn't have understood in any event.
At the time I didn't realize it but I was the ideal candidate for adoption. Jean Swartmann had had three successive miscarriages and her Doctors explained she was unable to bear children. On top of this problem she was told that her husband's Frank's mother Mrs. Edwina Swartmann was in ill health and looking for one of the family to take her in on a permanent basis.
Mrs. Edwina Swartmann was an old hateful mother-in-law that had given her daughter-in-law Jean a hard time from day one. She had a vile tongue and a mean temper all her life.
So with this in mind and realizing she was barren, the decision to adopt was a simple choice. Put a kid in the upstairs bedroom, no room for Mother-in-law.
Not shortly after I arrived at the Swartmann household as a permanent member, subject to the usual probationary period. This came and went with no hiccups, papers signed, court appearances resolved, name changed legally to Leslie Gerald Swartmann from my original name of Brian Leslie Wallace at birth.
* * *
From thereon I remember my life clearly.
I used to "act up" because I guess I thought these people would be no better than the ugly foster homes I'd been in before. I guess I thought it's just a matter of time I'd be sent back to the orphanage anyway.
One time I decided to freak them out and I hid in the well of their desk and pulled the chair in so they couldn't find me. I thought I was being smart or cunning but both my then new Mom and Dad freaked out. They ran through the house searching for me, culled the apartment building we lived in, even called the police.
At some point Children's Aid and the Ottawa City Police were informed there was a problem and arrived on the scene. I guess at this point I figured the "jig was up" and I exited my hiding place. The cops weren't too impressed, the Children's Aid worker wasn't too impressed but my new Mom and Dad all they could do was hug me and my Mom Jeanne cried, my Dad Frank smiled and they both told me they loved me and don't ever do that to them again.
It was then I realized I was anchored, not going back to the orphanage and I settled down and started to enjoy my new life. My new Mom figured out I must be enjoying my new home as pretty soon I started to hum and sing around the house. She and my father encouraged my singing and I used to go around our neighbourhood singing for the neighbours. A very popular song of the day was "There's a Bluebird on my window sill". I memorized this song and would sing it to our neighbours with the result that I would receive a candy or a penny or nickel for my efforts. These then were my first "paid" performances.
Although I was settled in I was still pretty rambunctious and I was testing the Swartmann's patience to the limits. I got myself in to trouble of some kind or another on a regular basis. The terrible two's were replaced by the terrible four's. My new mother was trying hard to be patient but every now and then she'd scold me and end up with her famous words; "Just wait till your Daddy comes home, he'll straighten you out!"
I don't think my father was all that keen on the role my mother had assigned him as disciplinarian but he would deal out my spankings on the bum with such gems as "Spare the rod and spoil the child!" or the best one of all was: "This hurts me a lot more than it hurts you".
When I still acted up in spite of the spankings, he then decided I needed something more attention getting. His friend Mitch Kowalski was the Superintendent in one of the other buildings, a retired military cop and a huge 6 foot 2 inch man. He gave my father one of his old police belts. No longer was it the bare hand spanking the bare ass. It was this huge police belt doubled over and wacked on my buttocks right through my pants.
When he said: This hurts me more than it hurts you!" I'd say: "I don't think so, Poppa!"
My behaviour improved somewhat after that but never enough to warrant a pat on the back.
* * *
Looking back now, I think I must have been still in Diapers when I arrived at my new home. They say boys are harder to potty train than girls and I was no exception. My late introduction to the toilet was probably due to the total lack of interest in my development during my many brief assignments to Foster care.
My Dad was assigned that duty by my Mom. He would take me upstairs to the bathroom whenever I decided that the time was fast approaching. He would sit me on the toilet seat and tell me this story that I was a WW2 B52 bomber flying into enemy territory from England. When I was ready I should shout the words: "BOMBS AWAY!!"
This proved to be a very effective learning tool as I was always prepared to bomb Hitler and the Nazi's with all I had in the Bombay!
I learned early in life, that stealing wasn't a good thing. One day my Mom and I were up in the boss's big house and I wandered off into a spare bedroom. I was looking in the drawers besides the bed and saw a small battery operated pen-light. I decided this should be mine and stuffed in my pocket. A few day's later my father's boss noticed it was missing. One and one equaled two and they found the penlight in my dresser under some clothes. Did I get a tuning up for that one. Belt and all.
I finally learned my lesson one day after school. I still thought I could pull theft off (Age 5) and I was in a store that was then at the Intersection of Wellington and Albert Street. Where these streets intersected was a triangle and the store was actually constructed as a Triangular building. It was a convenience store. I went in to buy a bubble gum and thought the owner wasn't looking as I headed for the door. I grabbed a Banana off the fruit section and stuffed it into my shirt. The owner said: "Just one minute, young man, I saw that!"
He then said:" "Don't move young lad you're in big trouble." I froze. Then he placed a call to the Ottawa City Police and before you knew it a Black and White pulled up to the front door of the store. Back then I was being taught the difference between right and wrong. No one was infringing on my "Human Rights" as that was not an issue back then. They only wanted to make sure that I understood that stealing was a crime.
The cop had a discussion with the store owner. I surrendered the banana, and was driven home in the squad car. When I got home I got the third degree from Mom and Poppa.
Needless to say, I learned my lesson and never in the future stole a single thing for the rest of my life and had no use for thieves.
Back in the early fifties the Ottawa Dairy delivered your milk by horse drawn Dairy delivery wagons. The horse Barn for the Ottawa Dairy was close to our apartment building on Empress Street. I can still remember the horse drawn Dairy Wagons coming down the hill at Bronson and Laurier. It was a steep hill and I was impressed with how the driver held back the horses and braked his carriage so the animals wouldn't be injured on that sharp incline.
They came into my backyard and the delivery man came up the backstairs into our building dropping off fresh milk (and cream) in bottles and butter on every doorstep that were customers. On the way out he would collect the empty bottles that his customers had put out the night before.
I used to go around to the Horsebarn on Empress Street to see the horses. Sometimes a good-natured caretaker would let me in to pat the horses on the head and give them a treat. Other times I was told by less accommodating employees: "Get out of here, kids aren't allowed around the horses! Get lost!"
* * *
At school my teachers soon learned in the early grades that I was an avid reader.
I was always the first student up to pick up a book for a reading assignment. I had great English teachers at Wellington Street Public School. One of them introduced me to the Poetry of William Henry Drummond a late 19th century early 20th Century Canadian poet who characterized the French population with their thick accents when they spoke English. I would read these poems and laugh out loud. They were so funny, but I could identify with them as there was a small population of French kids that attended our school from Lebreton Flats. My favorite of them all was: "Little Bateese!"
Little Bateese
You bad leetle boy, not moche you care How busy you're kipin' your poor gran'-pere. Tryin' to stop you ev'ry day Chasin' de hen aroun' de hay-W'y don't you geev' dem a chance to lay? Leetle Bateese!
Off on de feeld you foller der plow, when you get tirer you sick de cow, Make them scare so dey jump de wall , den der milk ain't good for notting at all! And yer only five and a half dis fall!! Little Bateese!
There were many other great poems by this author like "De Stove Pipe Hole" and many others but I loved Little Bateese the most because it reminded me of myself, "Leetle Leslee".
My teachers saw my passion for reading and I was encouraged to get up in class and read a chapter of the book of the day. I loved that assignment. Certain kids thought I was trying to be "teacher's pet" or a "suckhole."
I would get reminded of this in the halls and when fight ensued I was the one who always seemed to end up in the Principle's office. Back then you're bad behaviour (fights in the halls) was rewarded with the strap. The Principle was the only one who was allowed to administer this corporal punishment. He would make a big production of it, first a big speech about how the student had erred and there was necessary "correctional measures" required.
Then he'd reach into the drawer in his desk. This was when you were supposed to bust out in tears and repent. If you were from upper Primrose Street or an affluent family you were allowed to break down and forgiveness was forthcoming.
But us badasses from my neighbourhood weren't operating on the same set of rules. We were from poor families who wouldn't argue with the Principle or the School Board. So when we got the strap, we would never show the slightest sign of emotion whatsoever. I took my punishment and never flinched no matter how much it hurt. To do so would be in betrayal of the "Code of the Flats".
But as soon as I exited the Principle's office I was allowed to bust out in tears while I ran all the way to the washroom and make myself look perfectly normal as I sauntered back into my classroom.
* * *
My grandmother Edwina Swartmann was installed in a Senior Citizen's Home out on Pleasant Park Drive. She complained about the place constantly, every time we went to visit her about once a week. My Dad paid for her rent there over and above what she could afford, even though he couldn't afford it. My Uncle George (My dad's brother, nice job in the Civil Service never volunteered to assist financially.) Yet whenever we visited Grandma Edwina all she ever did was rag on my Dad and praise up Uncle George as he was the best son she ever had and my Dad was a loser.
My Uncle George became my least favourite relative of all. At one time he decided to hang the nickname on me of "Stinky". This was really hurtful and I hated everytime he showed up at our place and shouted out this awful name.
One day my Dad and I were down at Holtz's store on Elgin Street and in walked Uncle George. As soon as he saw me he said: "Hi Little Stinky!!"
I started to cry and ran from the store. This was about a dozen city blocks and I walked all the way home by myself in tears. When I got home my Mom asked what was wrong. I told her what had happened at Mr. Holtz's store and she got very angry.
When Dad got home she tuned him up and said: "Tell that jerk of a brother of yours to lay off with that stupid nickname that he has for Leslie or the next time he shows up here I'll show him my cast iron skillet!"
The only time my Uncle George did anything for us was when he took us to his cottage on a lake near Kingston. We were to go fishing. As we went around the lake he pointed out a Black Snake Nest in the corner of the lake. There was a big Black snake and it seemed like 20 or 30 baby snakes all swirling around in the edge of the lake. I was very scared by this and used to have nightmares about this afterwards.
We never went back to there again. But Dad and I kept on fishing.
My Dad could make his own lures. He carved small wood dowels and shaped them like minnows. Then he'd paint them with spots and the right colours to make them look like the real thing. He'd install a set of treble hooks and then put a coat of shellac over the finished product to preserve the colour.
One day we were up in Pakenham fishing off the shore below the bridge and he caught a 27 pound Muskie with his homemade lure. It took him about half an hour to get it into shore, but he was very proud of his catch. I was very proud of my Dad and mentally vowed someday I'll catch a fish like that too!
Meanwhile about a week later there was a story in the Ottawa Citizen about some 10 year old kid that had caught a 110 pound Sturgeon in the rapids at Deshenes, Quebec (just outside Aylmer).
I became hooked on fishing for life.
My Mom was an amazing cook as were all her sisters. German decent raised in a German settlement in Eastern Ontario next to Renfrew County. It wasn't long before she fattened me up and sent me off to pre-school kindergarten at Wellington Street Public School that nowadays serves as a parking lot for Government employees. Mom was great at cooking everything but she hated to bake. So once a week she would go down to the "National System of Baking" a bakery store located on Bank Street between Laurier Avenue and Slater Street. There she would buy sugar cookies, pies and my favourites: shortbread cookies with walnuts imbedded in the tops. They were very dry but tasted fantastic with a glass of milk. She also got Chelsea Buns for my Dad: his favourite.
* * *
I found out early in life about discrimination. Here I was in a neighborhood mostly composed of Irish, English and Italian settlers and their offsprings. I had a much darker completion than anyone in the school and so I was subjected to taunts like: "Are you part nigger?" or "are you a Chink?" So I'd go home and ask my Mom "What's a nigger? What's a Chink?" My mom said to me "Look in the mirror son and what do you see? I said: "I see me." Mom said: "You know what you are? You're a Canadian, that's all, a little darker complexion than those kids at school but you're every bit as good as them, probably better because you don't say the hateful things they are saying to you."
Half way through the year a new girl arrived in our class. She was Polish and her name was Inga Kwasniewski. She had a dark complexion like me but had a beautiful face that to me looked like Debbie Reynolds, year old version. I fell instantly in to (puppy) love with her.
Meanwhile, at school the same bunch that had tormented me decided to pick on her. One day the jerk from upper Primrose Street asked her in a loud voice so everyone could hear: "Hey Inga, you know why Polish names all end in "ski?"
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Adopted at Age Four by Brian L. Coventry Copyright © 2010 by Brian L. Coventry. Excerpted by permission.
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