Moving out and up
My first home was actually owned by my parents. They didn’t make that mistake again for another decade. You see, one of the perks of railway employment (for the fortunate ones) involved housing provided as part of the the “package”. The station agent would bid on a better job, based on seniority, and take whatever was offered. And so, by the time of my third birthday, we had moved. Down the line. Into the next village, which also came with a store big enough to sell tea by the box.
I remember that detail only because my father brought home an empty wooden crate, lined with tinfoil and heavily scented with Orange Pekoe. I could sit inside that box and inhale the vapours. In fact, the box moved with us, several times. Our new home was an upstairs apartment, over the waiting room and the freight shed. Trains came really close to the windows; after asking my mother for details, she told me that I used to hide from the brouhaha. Perhaps inside the tea crate.
We had running water (cold) which was a modern convenience compared to an outside pump. And an outdoor “facility”; less modern, but memorable. Winter was cold, in those times. My guess is that we moved from house #1 to address #2 with the assistance of a neighbour with a truck. Farm country meant trucks that were available when harvest wasn’t underway. We stayed there for another couple of years, and my first buddy (with a name) lived just across the road. I think we went on a sled together.
