A Very Special Day
It was a sunny Sunday afternoon in summer
when my father asked me if I would like to go for a walk. I was
only five and could not remember ever having my father all to
myself. I agreed enthusiastically, said goodbye to my mother,
and we started out. We walked and walked, each step of Dad's meaning
two or three for me. I had no idea where we were going. I was
just so happy that my father had wanted to take 'me' for an outing.
Dad asked if I would like to go across
to Centre Island on the ferry, adding that I shouldn't be sick
on the ferry if I stood at the rail and looked away out ahead
of me. Oh, I was so excited that my feet fairly skipped along.
For anyone who knows the city of Toronto,
you will know, or can hazard a guess, at how many miles it is
from the northwest end of the city down to the ferry docks at
the waterfront.
We finally arrived and waited in line for
the ferry. It was so nice and cool by the water and I had never
been to one of the Islands!
We went up on deck and stood at the railing,
my father pointing to things on the horizon for me to see. There
was a soft, cool summer's breeze upon my face and I was a little
disappointed that we reached the island as fast as we did.
I couldn't believe that I had actually
ridden on a boat and had not been sick! When I said it out loud
to Dad, he just smiled and squeezed my hand.
It was near supper time and my mother had
no idea what my father had planned for us to do. If she had, I
most-probably would never have had my beautiful ferry ride. We
made a phone call home and my mother asked to speak to me. She
told me not to eat any junk food and to be sure to have a glass
of milk. Well, at five, I hadn't experienced anything but home
cooking, so hardly knew what she considered to be junk food.
We found a picnic table under the shade
of a large maple tree and there, with a cool breeze coming across
the water, I ate a hot dog and drank one of the gingerales that
my father had bought for us. It didn't occur to me that a hot
dog would be on my mother's list of junk food, but, I was always
allowed a little gingerale on a Sunday. We topped that off with
an ice-cream cone, which we often had on Sundays, as well. I would
make up for the milk tomorrow.
I imagine that I was beginning to show
how tired I was, and, I am sure that my father wondered how-on-earth
he would ever get me home.
On the ferry-boat, Dad mentioned that it
was a long walk home and he thought that we might have to ride
"part" of the way on the streetcar. I don't remember
answering, but had noted that he had said "part" of
the way, which was comforting.
We came out of the gates to the street
and were headed for the streetcar when someone called out my father's
name. The man was obviously an aquaintance of my father's and
he drove a funny-looking car. He told my father that we should
hop in the back and he would drive us home, or almost home.
Dad thanked him, winked at me with his
sparkling-blue eyes, and lifted me into what was called the rumble
seat. It was the back seat but outside - no roof or anything!
The wind blew in my face and was cool and
refreshing. Before I knew it I was being lifted down from the
rumble seat and saw that we were all the way home! Dad thanked
the man again and we went into the house.
I couldn't wait to tell my mother about
my wonderful adventures and that I hadn't been sick on the boat
or in the car. Dad received a disapproving look when my mother
was told that we had walked all the way down to the docks and
what we had eaten for supper. I was told that my story could wait
until morning; it was time that I was in bed. I said goodnight
and walked up the long flight of stairs and got myself ready and
into bed.
In my dreams, I relived each and every
moment of that very special day and all of my adventures - even
eating the hot dog that, in my dreams, was twice the size.
~Joan Adams Burchell~ (copyright)
