Hey Kate
I owned the little car it was bright red and shaped like the racing cars of that time. It was a pedal car. The picture was taken about 73 years ago. I was 8years old and we had just moved to Western Ave. In N.D.G. and the neighbour kids had to try it out I guess someone thought it would be a good idea to take my picture. That’s about it.
Bruce Randall
March 6th, 2011
I remember when Papa used to go to work every day. It hadn’t been like that in a while. I didn’t take notice of it. Tommy’s and Jarrel’s fathers were staying home with them too. It was like that for lots of kids in the neighbourhood. I kept hearing the word recession, but it didn’t mean much to me, I liked getting to be around Papa more often. But around the house, he was always getting in Mama’s way. They kept arguing. I didn’t know much what they were arguing about, just that Mama would yell something and the Papa would yell back. I was used to it. I would just go outside to play. I would pretend I was a race car driver. They drove around so fast, that the arguments couldn’t catch up to them. Their engines roared so loud that they wouldn’t be able to hear anyway. I wish that my race car could be more than a box one day; I wish it could be a real race car so that I could drive clear away from all of the arguing.
One day, though, the argument was different. Mama started shouting. I heard her shouting about being hungry, and about our house. I heard her shouting about me, shouting my name, and she sounded real angry. But this time, this time Papa didn’t yell back. Papa just picked up a newspaper and walked out the door.
He didn’t come home that night. Or the night after that. I was scared. I thought Papa might be sad, or mad, or that he wasn’t coming back. Mama didn’t say much about it. Mama didn’t say much of anything for those days. She just cried, except to say: “Don’t worry Brucey, Mama and Papa love you very much”.
But how could I not worry? The dust started to pile up on the table, and the dishes piled in the sink. All Mama did for those days when Papa was gone was pretend not to cry every time she saw me. I didn’t understand. Did I do something wrong? Mama was shouting my name, and then Papa left. Did Papa leave because of me? I didn’t understand where Papa was, or why Mama was so sad. I missed Papa. I wanted Mama to be happy. But I couldn’t do much of anything to help. But it was ok. My race car in the backyard took me away from it all. I could almost feel the wind against my face, under the hot summer sun, blowing the worries and the mosquitoes away.
Three days later, Papa came through the front door again. He looked tired, and he smelled like old cigars. But his smile stretched from ear to ear and he was strutting mighty quick, his head held high, his chest forward. He looked proud.
“Go get your Mama, Brucey. Tell her I have great news!”
***
Mama didn’t stop smiling. Not for a long while. Mama was folding up all of our clothes, real nice, and putting them into boxes. They were putting all of our things into boxes, and taping them up.
“Why are you packing up all of our stuff, Mama?” I asked, “Are we leaving? Where are we going?”
But neither Papa not Mama seemed to hear me, with all of the commotion. They were running around every which way, both with smiles from ear to ear. Mama hummed to herself as she put things into boxes. Papa whistled. I wish I knew what was going on.
“Hey!” I shouted angrily, “You can’t put things in there! That’s my race car!” That was it! Everyone was angry, then everyone was happy, but I still had no idea what was happening. Papa was gone, then Papa was back, but I still had no idea what was happening. And now they were taking away my very favourite place, my race car, my refuge—to store linens in it? It was more than I could take. My head to the floor, my eyes started to well up. I put my hands in the pockets of my trousers, wishing I had my race car so that I could speed away from it all.
“Bruce! Oh Bruce!” Mama fawned, “Don’t you worry about a thing. Papa got a new job! We’re moving to a new city. And you know what Brucey? We might even be able to get you a new race car.”
***
It glistened and sparkled in the noonday sun in the driveway on Western Avenue in N.D.G. It was the brightest, most striking red I ever did see. And it was mine! My very own race car, Mama said. I ran over to it and put my hand on the side. If was warm from the sun and so smooth. I looked at the car, and then at Mama.
“Go ahead!” She said.
I jumped into the car, put my feet on the pedals, and sped away down the street. With the sun in my hair and the wind on my face, it was a new day. On a new street. In my new race car. Without a trouble in the world.