I have recently posted a long-forgotten memory of my busby bank. On the same day, I had another and almost-as-forgotten memory surface from the murky depths of my gray matter.
We moved from Montreal to the far outskirts of Toronto on just about the day that I turned 15. When I say outskirts, I do mean outskirts. We weren't really in Toronto but a few miles beyond its suburban edge. So, I say Toronto because Cooksville would be rather meaningless to just about everyone in the world. And we were even outside of this Cooksville place.
Living on a nursery about 2 miles from the nearest store was quite a culture shock after residing within the actual city of Montreal. We needed a car, so mom got one and took driving lessons when she was closing in on her 50th birthday.
That was in 1962, so it must have been the next summer that we drove into Toronto and entered one of the multi-story parking arcades.
This was pretty new to us and after going up a few floors and not finding any parking spots, mom began to be concerned. As we came to the penultimate floor there was a space between a car and the concrete wall.
She asked if she thought there was enough space to park the vehicle. I said, "No," but she decided to try anyway.
After scraping the car on the concrete wall a few times, she decided that I was right and proceeded to the top floor where there were a number of spaces.
And that was the memory, folks. It came to me as others have — in the bathroom. Go figure, eh?
As I thought about it, I realized how astounding it was for mom to learn to drive at her age and then drive the car into downtown Toronto.
At 5'1" she was of diminutive stature, but I recall my paternal grandmother having called her a "plucky little thing."
And so she was.