When does one begin to appreciate their parents? Perhaps not fully until they become parents themselves. Our Mother and Father, Gertie and Harold Layton, together produces a perfect system. We, as a family function as a support system.

As siblings we have learned how to share, express our feelings, be they good or indifferent, squabble or love each other. Through our sheer numbers we have been greatly blessed.

Mother and Father gave us not only themselves, but they gave us each other. Throughout our lives, thus far, we have not had to go far for support. It is but a phone call or visit away. What a wonderful thing!

Through all that life has dealt us, joy, or sorrows, we have had someone to share them with. Support by way of team spirit, financial, encouragement, or just having someone to listen to us and to believe in us and to truly care about what happens to us. For sure no one can live our lives for us, but how marvelous to know that our support system in in place and working well.

They Almost Didn't Make It

Mother and Father were married on February 28, 1942. They set up house keeping in Albert Mines, Albert County New Brunswick, Canada. At that time Dad ran his own sawmill. The sawmill was portable, so he moved it to wherever the work was.

In the late 40's and early 50's the economy in New Brunswick was not good. It became increasingly harder and harder for Dad to make a living to support his little family. It was being said everywhere, 'Go to Ontario, there's lots of work there.' So Dad and five other young men decided to go to Ontario seeking a better life.

The young men made their plans and charted their course. They reassured the loved ones they were leaving behind that they would send for them as soon a they could. At this time our family included Gloria, Elaine, myself and Brian. Mother, pregnant with Larry, waved goodbye to Dad on that cold February day.

The plan was to travel the Airline route through Maine, USA to get to Ontario. The Airline was a notorious hundred mile stretch of windy uninhabited road. Night had overtaken them half way through. The night was bitter cold, and the unthinkable happened. The car quit. The men got out to see what they could do, but the bitter cold soon drove them back into the car. It was decided that one at a time they would go out to brave the cold and try to fix the car, but to no avail. Nothing they did would fix the stalled car.

They talked to each other, telling stories and trying to keep their spirits up. But, deep down each one knew the chances of a rescue were slim. As the temperature in the car dropped lower and lower the men grew quiet.

Shivering and in great pain Dad began thinking about his life, what he had done, what he had not done and what he wished he could do. He thought about his little family back home and that he never would see them again. He lifted his eyes heavenward, as if to pray. Through the misty haze of their breath he saw a light. With a slow blink he looked again. The light was brighter. By now Dad realized he was gazing into the rearview mirror, and the light was coming up behind them. At this time all the men were aware. With slow, but determined movement the young men got out of their car and flagged it down.

They all arrived safe and sound in Ontario shortly there after. Now the task of securing jobs and sending for their families took on new meaning. They had a future, and it looked bright.

First Job

One of the young men who traveled to Ontario with Dad was Don Lewis from Middlesex, N.B. How Dad first met Don, I'm not really sure, but once in Ontario they became best of friends.

They both landed their first job at a chemical plant in Niagara Falls, Ontario, called the Cyanamid. Soon after that, it was time to send for their little families.

Don and his wife Annie settled on Bridge Street and Mom and Dad rented an upstairs apartment on Robinson Street. During our short stay in Niagara Falls a few early memories were made.

For every apartment dweller, there is a landlord. Our's was a short stout man about 50 years old. He was a stern man too, and pretty much kept to himself.

The landlords building was old and in need of much repair. Rather that fix the old one, our landlord began the construction of a new apartment building right behind the one we lived in. It was very interesting, to say the least, for we three older girls to watch.

First the big steam shovel came to dig the hole. Then the footing coarse forms were ready for cement to be poured. The crew of men soon put up the foundation forms to make ready for the cement wall. What a day that was, all those cement trucks right in our back yard. One after another, those cement trucks roared in and out of our back yard. With the pouring finished,the crew abandoned the job for a few days to let the cement cure.

During that time we girls took full advantage of familiarize ourselves with the construction site. We knew every nook and corner, how to jump down into the basement and how to get back out again. This was all a good training session for the days to follow.

When the cement had cured and the crew returned, the whole operation went ahead under the watchful eye of our landlord. Things were starting to take shape. The men had tools and gadgets that would spark the curiosity of any kid.

I don't remember how it all began, but one day the crew had gone, leaving their tools unattended. Now was our chance to get a closer look. While Mom was busy with the younger kids we snuck out the back door.

"Wow. Look at all the stuff," we said. There were hammers, nails, shovels, jackhammers, power tools, boards, crowbars and things we didn't even know the names for. We remembered watching the men using the small power tools and we could do it too, we figured. The three of us took hold of one, and one of us pushed the "on" button. Holay, did we jiggle, jump, and shake. It was great! Dust and chips of this that and the other thing was flying everywhere.

Then it happened. Our landlord had returned to the site, and we never even heard him coming. But no mistaking, we heard him bellow,
"Hey, you darn kids, get out of there!"

Our apprenticeship for construction came to an abrupt end. The landlord came running toward us, the chase was on. Elaine was fast as lightning and thin as a rail, swish and she was under a nearby car. I was close behind, but I was fat and slow and couldn't get under the car. So I just sat beside it and bawled. Gloria had headed out in a different direction. She squeezed to get through a narrow channel of forms and got stuck. The landlord caught her.

What happened after that was kind of foggy. Mother had been alerted to our escapades, and with great convincing of some sort, we didn't do it again. Matter of fact, we never went near the construction site after that.

The Robinson Street Fight

I'm not sure how many rooms were in our upstairs apartment on Robinson Street, but I'm sure we filled them all. There were four kids, Brian the baby and Mum was expecting another, and Dad.

Now, can you imagine living underneath this active little family? Mum was always trying to keep us quiet for the sake of those below, but not always succeeding. On different occasions the man living below harassed mother by hitting his ceiling with a hard object, a chair or broom handle perhaps, to express his dislike for our noise.

Mother told Dad about these little episodes, and if my memory serves me correctly, the man below and Dad worked opposite shifts, so little could be done. That is until one day Dad happened to be home through the day. Once again our exuberance disturbed the resting tenant below and once again he showed his disapproval by pounding on his ceiling. Well, was that a day of reckoning? I remember as though it were yesterday, Father bolted out our door and down the stairway and with great force, pounded on the door of the man who lived below.

The man answered the door. Loud words were exchanged, and with there being complete lack of compromise, Father had no other alternative but to drag Mr. Tenant from below, out into the hallway for an atitude adjustment.

By this time we girls were completely aware of what was going on. Mother was doing her utmost to keep us back from the tussle below, but that was impossible. We squeezed out from around her, out from under her arms, out from between her legs. We were coming out from all directions. From our lofty vantage point above we spurred our father on.

"Come on Dad," we squealed, and coming on he was, bang thrashity bang, the two were fisty cuffing below.

Someone, probably the lady tenant from below, called for the authorities. Soon they came rushing up the front steps of the building. Someone sounded the alarm. Both men, wives and children cleared the hallways. When the authorities burst through the front door all they could see was dust settling.

All was well, and mother was never bothered by Mr. Tenant from below again.

Vitamin "C"

Living on Robinson Street was the first time, and the only time, for that matter, that we Layton children experienced city dwelling. Neighbors to your left, neighbors to your right, you could see neighbors any time, day or night.

Having a curious watchful eye, such as I, I never missed very much. One beautiful sunny afternoon I watched as a neighbor left her home. Pretty soon she returned with an arm load of grocery bags. She must have forgotten something, for she placed the bags on her front step and left again. Silly woman.

I sauntered on over to see what was in the bags. Yup, just as I thought, groceries. I was kind of peeking around to see what kind of good stuff she had. I wasn't going to touch anything. I knew better. Then I spotted them, so colorful, so pretty, smelt so good and there were so many. Oranges! I loooved oranges. I probably couldn't count real good yet, I was only four years old, but I knew there were lots.

It stood to reason, to me, that if I dared to eat one, and only one, that nobody would ever know. I looked all around to see if anyone was watching. Nope, no one. I reached in the bag, ever so easy, I put my fat little hand on the first orange I came to, and took possession of it. I peeled and ate it. Oh was it good. One more would never be noticed. The peeling pile was piling up. I still craved more oranges, so I reached in the bag one more time. To my surprise, I had eaten all of them.

Again the ending of this story is foggy, but I do know the lady came home. I was caught, and once again Mother was notified of my wrong doings. But, in my defense, we all have been told time and time again that we all need vitamin "C" to be healthy...right?