Five Years a Writer

MONTREAL, Canada, Fall 1967: I remember the feel of the cool fall air on my bare knees, as I walked to school in my pinafore-dress-white-blouse uniform. The nip of the wind against my skin got me moving fast towards the warmth of the building and my classroom that held a desk of my very own. BANBURY, England, Fall 1973: I remember the creamy custard poured by the school-lunch ladies, out of white enamel jugs — large, the ladies (from my perspective, as a short 13-year-old) and the jugs (never holding enough). The custard, sweet, warm, the flavour of comfort to make the pudding (think Bake-Off sponge) taste delicious. And I remember the fact of learning, the fun of my friends, and the frantic pace of the field hockey games that left my fingers so cold I could barely unbutton my skirt-and-Airtex-blouse Phys Ed uniform. I want to remember that I loved those games. I shall remember that I did. What I cannot remember is any fear, any frights, any famine. My childhood and young adulthood w...