Stars in the Sky at Dawn: Enduring Memories of Childhood

By Marjorie Victoria White

Stars In The Sky At Dawn: Enduring Memories of Childhood is based on actual events; and presents personal stories that shaped the life and experiences of the author while growing up in the small, close-knit community she calls Canary Hall, on a Caribbean island. The accounts outlined provide the reader not only with an understanding of community structure and the exigencies of daily living, but also invaluable insight into the ideals that governed family life, child-rearing and social interaction. These entrenched values are lasting, and are the foundations on which the present is built and the future determined. This work also calls attention to the values that can mould ones thoughts and behavior, as one journeys through life and experiences its transformations. It reveals that beauty is ever present, even in unlikely places; and can be found when and where we make a conscious effort to discover such.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 9, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465342225

Marjorie Victoria White

Marjorie Victoria White was born on the Caribbean island of Jamaica and later migrated, with her family, to the United States. She worked as an educator, for many years, in the field of library and information services; and now enjoys writing, community work, and the outdoors. This is the author’s first published book.

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The Journey For My Cup

Sunshine evaporated milk was a favorite of mine. Its taste was pleasing and it had a rich consistency. When I would sneak some from the can in the ice box at home, I experienced the delectable taste, the flavor, and I would savor that one sip for an extended moment. Only a sip it could be, since one can of milk last our family of five for an entire week. It was added to the mild home grown tea my sibling and I drank and to my parents’ coffee in the morning. Only a spoonful could be added; and even then our milk would, oftentimes, run out as soon as Wednesday or Thursday; and then we would have our morning beverage with just plain sugar, until another can could be purchased during grocery shopping at the end of the week.

At school, my class was made up of a bunch of six-year-olds. I longed for the day when I would be seven; then I would go to the school for big children—the one that Rosie and Darlena, my older siblings, attended. Rosie was the oldest. Her name was really Rosalena, but family and friends called her Rosie; she, herself, preferred being called Rosie. Darlena was the second girl; and I, Magdelina, was the third and, for a long time, the last girl. Anyway, this particular day at our school was uneventful, until the big van from the health ministry arrived. We never knew when the van would come, but we knew its presence meant one of two things: either we would get in line for vaccination against some childhood disease such as polio, diphtheria or malaria; or something nutritious would be distributed—primarily milk or cheese.

Soon after the arrival of the big van, we were overjoyed to learn that we would not be receiving shots but, instead, would be given some treat to make us healthy. We each would be receiving a can of Sunshine evaporated milk. I was elated and imbued with anticipation when I learned that I would receive a can of milk. I started imagining how I would take the milk home and give it to Ma. She would praise me; and my family would have enough milk to last the entire week and perhaps into the next! Ma could, perhaps, even save some money on milk.

It was our class’ turn to get in line for the distribution. We had to do this quietly and orderly or we would not receive a can. We waited and watched impatiently as boxes of cans of milk were opened. It was customary for each child to receive one can. On this particular day, however, it became obvious that the supply was insufficient for each child to receive one whole can of milk. Thus, the decision was made that one would be shared by two children. It was devastating to me that I would not be receiving the can of milk I had hoped to take home. One child was receiving a can of milk to share with the next child in line. I started thinking and counting quickly. I thought to myself that if I received the can of milk, then I could take my half home, in the can, to my family. The child in line after me would be responsible for devising a way to obtain his half-a-can.

Betina Berry was not my friend, but she was a congenial six-year-old who exhibited a maturity beyond her years. I was extremely disappointed when Betina Berry was handed the can of milk that I was to share. My distress was great. Not only did I have to come to terms with receiving only a half of a can of milk; I then had the responsibility of formulating some means of obtaining my half. Nothing venture, nothing gained: I asked Betina if I could have the can of milk. Understandably, she said no, but she was prepared and willing to let me have my half. Children were busily sharing their milk in creative and innovative ways. Our teacher had acquired a can opener, and at the front of the class one boy was drinking from the can and leaving the remainder for the other.

Betina, observing my agitation, declined to have our can of milk opened. She knew that the matter had to be resolved. However, she made no suggestion. She left it entirely up to me to come up with a solution. After all, it was my responsibility to find and answer to the problem, since the can of milk was handed to her. Still observing pupils sharing and enjoying their milk, my eyes fell on one girl who, somehow, had a cup. She pulled it from her bag and teacher opened a can of milk, poured half the content in her cup and handed the remainder to the other child. I thought: That is a great idea! If only I had my cup, I could pour Betina’s half in it, let her drink from it, and I could take my half home in the can. Yes. That was the solution. At lunch break, I would go home for my cup. I told this to Betina, and she agreed to wait for me to go home and get my cup, before drinking her milk—a major decision by two six-year-olds.

The lunch break soon came, and without informing anyone, except Betina, I embarked on the one and a half mile journey home for my cup. I had to take this milk home to my family, whatever it takes. I had never walked this journey alone before. My mother had arranged with Alina’s mother, a neighbor that lived on our street, for her and her brother to walk me to school and home again each day. I set out on my journey feeling petrified and, at the same time, with a sense of freedom that I had made this decision on my own. Despite my sense of foreboding, I convinced myself that the way home was not complex; that not only could I find my way home on my own, but I could also cover the forward and return journey well in time before the forty-minute lunch break ended. No one would notice that I had left; and I had walked this way many times before with Alina and her brother.

It was a day of brilliant sunshine; the temperature was about 90 degrees, or so said the weatherman earlier that morning. The road was long and the sun was beating down on my bare arms and feet. The newly laid asphalt had succumbed to the heat of the sun and my feet sunk therein and burned. I was not afraid. I trotted on with a determination to accomplish my mission; taking the time to observe items, structures, and people along the way that I had not the freedom to observe before, always having had to keep pace with Alina and her brother as we trod to and from school. They were older than I and very demanding; forever threatening to tell Ma about the least wayward action on my part. On this journey, however, I was free of them—free to run when I chose and to walk when I chose. I chose to stop for a few seconds and admire Miss Mee Mee’s showcase. Miss Mee Mee’s showcase was deeply fascinating and enchanting, with her palate-teasing coconut drops, tamarind balls and ginger biscuits.

Feeling a sense of urgency to return to my mission at hand, I scampered away from the showcase of children’s treats. Time was slipping by and I had yet a far way to go. I could not stop again. I was in earnest to get home for my cup and return to school before the lunch break ended. I passed Miss Girla on the way—she lived on our street; and I said: Good afternoon, Miss Girla. Children were supposed to be polite. I was now close to home. I knew it because I had passed Mr. Ashton’s shop, which I used as a marker to remember the first turning to our house. After making that first turn my young mind went blank and my memory failed me. I just did not know which way to turn. The houses now appearing were totally unfamiliar. I could not recognize a mango tree, or a brick fence, or anything I knew. I realized that I had taken a wrong turn at the fork in the road after making the turn at Mr. Aston’s shop. Suddenly, I started to panic and to cry. I knew then that I would never make it back to school before the lunch break ended. I turned around, headed back in the direction from which I had come, with pitiable regret over having to abandon the idea of going home for my cup. I started to run, crying louder and louder.

A passerby, a kind elderly man I did not know, stopped and inquired what the matter was. I told him that I was going home for my cup and that I had lost my way. Strangers were kind to children, then; there was no reason to be afraid. He inquired where I lived and I told him the name of my street, but had to refuse his offer to show me the way. I had to get back to school. Sobbing, I knew that I could not continue on the journey for my cup. I had to concentrate on returning to school.

The lunch break would soon end and my teacher would punish me for leaving school without permission. I hoped that Betina told her where I had gone. Now I must get back to the main road leading to my school. The kind man showed me the way. Still crying, I ran and ran. The sun was so hot that I though I would faint under it. The asphalt burned my bare feet. My cotton shirt was wet with perspiration and my tears. I cried, not only because of the obvious predicament I was in or because of my increasing physical discomfort, but more so because of the realization that I would not be able to take the milk home to Ma. For by then, Betina, growing tired of waiting for me to return, must have gone ahead and drank the can of milk.

When I made the turn into the schoolyard, all was quiet. The lunch break had ended and afternoon lessons had begun. Saddened, agitated, disappointed and late, I entered the classroom without my cup. I asked my teacher to excuse me for being late for the afternoon session. With pity, she told me to take my seat. The other six-year-olds looked wide-eyed, but there were no overt reactions. Soon it was time for the afternoon recess. While the other children scampered through the door, eager to go out and play, Betina and I, knowing that we had unfinished business, sat still for a while. I told her that I did not get home; that I had lost my way and had to return to school without my cup. What Betina did afterwards taught me a lifelong lesson in kindness and empathy that has impelled my actions in dealing with others these several decades later. She fetched her school bag from beneath the desk, pulled out the can of Sunshine evaporated milk and handed it to me. Unbelievingly, I asked her if I should have the whole can. She said: Yes; without ridicule or disdain.

I went out for the afternoon class recess and, somehow, Alina found me; for she had not seen me during the lunch break. She kept the penny that Ma gave her to buy my lunch—which I had forgotten all about. She asked me if I was hungry. I said: Yes; and requested a snowball—shaved ice with syrup. I just had to have something cool in my stomach.

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Father Tells Us A Bible Story

We loved when father told us bible stories. Rosie, Darlena and I would complete our chores, for the evening, at home. Nightfall would occur quickly, at times; and on this particular evening, we had to hurry. In addition to the impending darkness, heavy rainfall was in the forecast.

The mood that existed, for us, that evening involved both a sense of foreboding and one of rejoicing. There was foreboding because, with the threat of rain, we were concerned that the tin roof of our house would leak again. Some days earlier, father had gone onto the roof to repair the leaks; but because it had not rained since those repair jobs, it was not known whether or not the roofing would hold under a heavy downpour. Notwithstanding father’s repair job, Ma prepared us for the eventuality of rain, by having us move our bed to the dry corner of our room; and she prepared the water pans that would serve as reservoirs for the intruding and unwelcome flow. However, we also felt a sense of rejoicing because, on that night, father would, again, tell us a bible story.

We never knew what bible story father would tell us on bible story night; but we absolutely enjoyed listening to him relate those vivid and colorful accounts in the bible about what happened a long, long time ago. Before we could even read; or before we ever saw a bible story book at a library, bookstore, or at our place of worship, we had been familiar with many bible stories. Father knew the bible well. He was an ardent reader, and he had read the bible several times over.

I can remember one of the first bible stories that father told to us. It was the story in the book of First Samuels. Father spoke from memory about Hannah; about how she had no children and had prayed to God for a son. He explained how back in those days in the nation of Israel, it would have been a curse, a tragedy, for an Israelite woman not to bear children. That was so, in view of the expectation of the Messiah, and the desire to continue the family line. The fulfillment of a desire to be an ancestress of the Messiah would lie in an Israelite woman having children—or a child, preferably a son—father said. So Hannah had prayed for a son.

However, as I iterated earlier, we never knew what story father would tell on a given night. So, on this night, as we hurriedly finished the dishes, washed ourselves, and made preparations for the anticipated rainfall, we could only guess at what father had in mind. As we transported the washed dishes from the small outdoor table, where we performed our dishwashing chore, to the counter of our small kitchen, we were careful not to miss our steps, as we maneuver from the outdoors to the kitchen area. Ma would become very, very upset when we broke something. Times were hard; there was no extra money to replace broken pieces of utensils; and we needed every item we owned for everyday use.

Being fully aware of our economic situation, we were all extremely careful with the dishes, cups, pots and pans. So, when an owl lurking somewhere near the dibi-dibi tree that grew tall at the back of our house startled Darlena, who was carrying a small pile of dishes, Rosie and I breathed a sigh of relief when her misstep did not result in a fall. We did not want to see Darlena punished. We did not want Ma’s anger to spoil our anticipated evening of story-telling with father.

Father sat patiently in his green armchair, the one he made for himself from green canvas, as he waited for his audience to appear. Later, as I contemplated those absolutely great times with father, I can only make assumptions regarding those quiet—and sometimes silent—deliberations on his part, just before our sessions would begin. I believe father must have used those moment, prior to the beginning of his story-telling, to set the stage and to formulate the lines, and the different scenes and acts of the audio drama he would present; for father must have been the best bible story-teller of his time.

The characters of father’s stories assumed life. When he spoke, and as we listened, we could visualize the people, the places, even their surroundings and dress. It was as though we could hear them speaking. Father did all of this for us, putting forth great effort in order that the hour may prove to be not only a learning session, but also a fun time for the family. We would feel a sense of joy, and closeness as a family, when father told us bible stories.

So, on this evening, we were eager to join father in the humble small quarter of our home, with modest furnishing, that he had set aside as our living room. Even though the room contained wooden benches and chairs that father made himself, Darlena, and Rosie enjoyed sitting on the floor, cozying up close to father’s feet and looking up at him while he relate a story by lamplight. I would place my small, low wooden bench that father made especially for me, the youngest, close to fathers chair, in order to listen carefully so as to hear every word he spoke. On this night, I could recall the contents of the previous story father told—it had been about Joseph and his eleven brothers. I waited anxiously for the tale of this night.

Darkness had come, and with nightfall came the strange and pleasing, (and sometimes, scary) sounds of the night creatures. That owl, that startled Darlena, continued with its intermittent screeching; but there was then a symphony of sounds, with other creatures—frogs, crickets, barking dogs and others unfamiliar—adding to the cornucopia. So it was, that all three girls, having completed the evening chores and our washing-up, in preparation for bed, filed into the room where father sat, and Ma engaged the two large bolts on our backdoor. No one would be going out again this night. We would experience the delectable joy of father’s story-telling; he would have a surprise treat for us at the end of the session, and then we would be off to bed.

The sound of pouring rain falling on our tin roof could be deafening. It was that way this night, as we gathered around father’s chair. The sound was of gentle raindrops, at first, but with increasing loudness as the clouds opened. The light of the lamp flickered methodically; not from waning oil content, on this occasion, but because of the adverse weather and a strong gust of wind that forced a path under the window sill.

Father had waited until just past twilight before lighting the lamp in our small living room. In this way, we could conserve the oil that fuelled it. I liked looking at the lighted lamp. The shade was a new one that father had save money to buy. The previous one broke, suddenly, just from being worn. No one was deemed responsible for that breakage. Without the shade, the lamplight would be dull, and there would be a profusion of smoke, which would darken the white asbestos slabs of our ceiling. The smoke also exuded an unpleasant odor. Therefore, father planned for, and bought a new shade for our lamp.

I can remember him coming home with the new shade. He had it wrapped in wads of newspaper, and when we saw him approach at the top of the lane, with a package in his hand, we could not tell what the package was until it was unwrapped. He had ridden to the haberdashery in town, about four miles away from that other store that was closest to our house, to buy the lamp shade. This he did, so that he could save three pence on the price. We were grateful for the new shade. Written on it was the phrase: Home Sweet Home. As I sat on my little wooden bench, waiting for father to begin his story, I thought of how sweet our home was, with father, Ma, Darlena and Rosie; the sound of the rainfall on our tin roof; the beautiful light of the lamp; and the new shade with the words: Home Sweet Home.

It appeared as though father’s repair job on our roof had worked. Father was a good carpenter and handyman; and that was evident in the fact that not one drop of rain came falling from the roof on that night. We all breathed a silent sigh of relief, as father began the story of Hannah and Samuel. It so happened that, before that night, father had only told us a part of the story; and had concluded at the point where Hannah had brought her precious young son to serve at the temple, under the supervision of the High Priest, Eli.

Hannah had promised God, in prayer, that if she had a son she would give her son to His service for all the days of his life. Her faith and sincerity were rewarded with the birth of her son. Father had concluded that previous session, telling us how Hannah would sew a garment for her son each year, and take it to him at the temple. We cherished the lessons father emphasized in telling the story. We learned of Hannah’s faith and devotion; of her personal sacrifice in giving up her son for temple service; and of her love for God and for her son.

Even though we had not known it, father’s agenda, on this night, was the completion of the story of Hannah. For the second segment of this bible account, father focused on Samuel’s activities as one of Gods prophets—mainly on his relationship with King Saul—and the anointing of David as king of Israel. In telling us the story, father was animated: he made us laugh, he made us sad, and he made us pensive and thoughtful, as his voice re-lived different aspects of the account, including King Saul’s meeting with the Witch, and the anointing of David. As I listened to father, I felt grateful to him for loving us and for being a master storyteller.

While father told us these stories, we were free to ask questions. However, with the exception of Darlena, on the occasion of the story of Joseph and his eleven brothers, we did not have many questions; we just enjoyed listening to him re-enact these dramas. He would provide us with the complete details of these events—and more—without ever once opening the bible. Father had committed all of these accounts to memory. We enjoyed the conclusion of the Samuel story, on this night; and later, as we lay in bed, there was a lively interchange among Darlena, Rosie and me, based on our assessment of the events, and their outcomes, as father related them. We were happy for Hannah that God blessed her and gave her a son; and we were a little sad for Eli because he died, even though it was his sons that were bad. Before sleep crept in and stemmed our thoughts regarding Samuel and Hannah, we prayed that God would love us and bless us as he did Hannah; and that we would have lots of children—not just one, as Hannah did.

As I walked to school, the next day, my thoughts continued to be occupied with the contents of the story father told the previous night. I thought of God and his love and mercy, and how important it was for me to pray—because God would answer my prayers, as He answered the prayer of Hannah. That evening, our school day ended in the usual manner—with a song and simple prayer. I can remember how we would sing one of two songs to end our day at school—either Now The Day Is Over or Hushed Was The Evening Hymn. On this day we sang the latter, with the beautiful words and melody that truly complemented father’s story of the previous evening.

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Pale-Onto-Log-Y: Help With The Word Paleontology

The article that father chose to read to us this night was about some seemingly strange creatures. The times when father would read to us are memorable. He would usually sit in his green canvas folding chair, and we children would sit on the floor in a semi-circle—one as complete as three young girls could form. I always thought that, because I was the youngest, I should be in the middle. On the contrary, however, we always sat in a semi-circular row from right to left, beginning with Rosie, the eldest. Therefore, I would always be sitting next to Darlena, who was always in the middle. She was the second girl; and many a times I could sense that she was not happy being stuck next to me all the time.

What father would read to us, during those cool Autumn evenings, when the sun set early and the hens went to roost in the trees, would always be a surprise. We did not know what article he would read from the many pieces of religious literature that came to our home each week. There were interesting things to be learned; and the journals would present bible topics, as well as topics pertaining to various other fields of knowledge and disciplines. We enjoyed listening to father read. It was a real treat for us just to listen.

There were those evenings when each one of us was required to participate in the reading; and there were those times when all we children would have to do was listen. This night was one of the latter. We gathered together, on the floor, around father’s green chair to begin our reading ritual with father, when the flame of our lamp flickered and waned. Father was the first to recognize that the flickering and waning of the light was not due to the wispy refreshing evening breeze that was stealing around the crevices in our windows and into our modest living room but, instead, to the fact that the oil in the lamp needed to be replenished. It was an assignment that Rosie had forgotten to fulfill; for the responsibility was hers to ensure that the oil in the lamp was replenished when it reached a certain level that father had designated.

Our lamp, with its recently purchased Home Sweet Home shade, served us well for all of our after evening household activities, and was so much nicer than that old tin lamp we used before father purchased our new oil lamp made of glass. With the old tin lamp, there was , invariably, a proliferation of smoke in our house, as soon as it was lit, with the subsequent darkening of our ceiling and walls. An additional problem with the tin lamp was that when it was being used in one room of our house,