Realizations Inc

©Arlene  R. Taylor PhD

At age three and a half my life changed rather dramatically, at least from my perspective. I discovered that henceforth almost everything would need to be shared with a new baby brother. That included what I had thought was my bedroom! He was such a little oxymoron—actually not so little since he’d weighed close to 10 pounds at birth. On one hand I was delighted to have a sibling. On the other, perhaps due to feelings of displacement, I considered him a boil on the little landscape of my life. Over the next decade and in four different homes, our twin beds always ended up in the same room.

Then I was molested. There was only one incident, yet my world came tumbling down like Humpty-Dumpty’s great fall. All sense of safety vanished. Fear, anxiety, and vigilance took its place along with a form of helpless awareness that I was not strong enough to protect myself, at least from some things. In the aftermath I began to crave my own space, but there were no options. At least none I could recognize. My parents had already turned the dining room into their bedroom. The living room couch was out because that room always had to be kept pristine in case a parishioner needed to meet with the Preacher. I couldn’t sleep in the porch room because all traffic flowed through there morning, noon, and night. Plus it wasn’t well heated in winter. Of course the bathroom was out, as were the basement and attic, and I couldn’t sleep in the kitchen... and that about covered it!

Weeks went by. I tossed and turned at night, shedding tears of despair for some space that I didn’t have to share with anyone, not even my younger brother. The situation truly seemed hopeless. Then one day an idea took root in my mind. Perhaps desperation really is the mother of invention!

Our house had five levels, if you counted the basement and attic. There was the porch room, from which you could descend a flight of stairs to the basement or ascend six stairs to the main level. From there, more stairs led up to a landing. Directly above the porch room and about eight feet square, the landing overlooked the back hill. From the river it resembled a square tower. More stairs led from the landing to the attic that was rarely, if ever, used. I asked for the landing. Fortunately my parents agreed.

The builder had never intended it to be a room, just a pause between the fourth and fifth levels. My father squeezed in my twin bed, a miniature glass-topped desk and chair, a tiny chest of drawers, and an apple crate turned on its end to serve as both bedside table and parakeet-cage stand. A sheet, which my mother tacked over the arch at the entrance to the landing, functioned as a door.

The tower landing at 389 Scotia Street became my personal Camelot. Except when the East windows were pelted by rain or snow, Old Sol shot its warm morning rays in through two tall windows. On the West wall, another pair gave out over wooded hills that stretched toward the Hudson Bay and courier-de-bois that silently patrolled its isolated shores. Some of the best views were to the North. From the middle set of windows could be seen green velvet (at least for part of the year) that rolled from the porch room down to the churning whirlpools that were the Red River. Our aluminum canoe, The Kathleen R16, could be seen beached on the bank, its tether rope looped round the trunk of a sturdy weeping willow.

In reality I had my own private multi-media center with regularly-changing feature shows. In spring great flocks of Canada Geese honked overhead in flying formation. Below, great hunks of ice bumped and jostled each other on their way to the sea. Pistol shots cracked and labored groans filled the air as the ice struggled to free itself from clutching riverbanks.

In summer the scent of lilac, lily-of-the-valley, and jasmine called swallows to nest under the eves and kingfishers to hone their diving skills. More than once a knight in shining armor galloped by on a white stead, slowing almost imperceptible to touch his visor in greeting before the cloud formations melted away.

In autumn there was the ballet of the leaves, bits of yellow, red, orange, and brown that brushed the windows in farewell. Perfectly choreographed, they danced and dipped to the piano artistry of Roger Williams. And Jack Frost returned like clockwork to etch medieval castles on the glass, hang icicles from every twig, wire, and eve, and sprinkle diamonds helter-skelter.

In winter the Northern Lights were a special offering. Mysterious hues blended and swirled their gauzy veils, beckoning to me. How I longed to travel with them! Their ethereal warmth surrounded the house like an electric blanket to help counteract howling winds that threatened to tear stucco from wood.

Wrapped warmly in an Eaton's comforter, hot chocolate steaming on the miniature glass-topped desk, I could screen a private showing of the sunset as it played itself out against the horizon. The sheet pulled across the arched opening to signal that my space was closed for the night, the goose-necked lamp stretched out to meet Jack London's Call of the Wild, and I’d be ready for whatever else was offered up by way of entertainment. It might be a snowy owl swooping down to snatch a field mouse, a great hare searching for the last seeds on the hillside, a golden eagle hanging its wings on the wind, the silvery scales of salmon fighting their way upriver, or a lone canoe catching moonlight on birch bark while its paddle sang Pauline Johnson's song.

I began to heal in that room of my own, and continued to do so for the subsequent three years we lived in that house. Among other things, I learned that there are always options, that everything is possible in some form or another, that the impossible just takes a little longer, and that scarcity can turn into abundance—if you are really committed to making that happen.