Sports
As a young boy living on Ludlam Street in Lower Centralville, my days and those of my many, neighborhood friends were mostly focused on homemade games and activities common to all the other ethnic groups of the city.
Most conversations, but not all, were held in the French-Canadian patois coming from the farms and fields of Montreal’s outskirts and the La Beauce region south of Quebec City.
Accommodations had to be made to include those kids coming from an English-only background. But as youngsters, a happy mix of the two languages came easily.
One of the outstanding advantages of growing up among other financially challenged – not poor, yet – families was the infinite possibilities of having fun using the straggly tools at your disposal. That old piece of rope, that ripped bicycle tire, or that empty, tin can of Campbell tomato soup became impromptu toys for weekend games. Imagination was our unifying guide.
In this effort, several participants added to the mystery of that ghetto scene. There were many, like Leonie and Angeline Vallois, Donald Bergeron, the Antefenario kids, Claire Beauparlant, my two sisters, Michelle and Denise, plus my brother Bob and me. Of course, the Robillard boys – they lived above us on the second floor – added to the fun.
Improvised Games
There was street baseball played (carefully) on Dana Street’s cobblestone pavement, plus drawing dirt streets to drive miniature cars and trucks through our great dirt front yard (the grass from decades ago had long been trampled out of existence). Then, there was roller-skating while wearing those old-fashion metal skates that clipped onto the soles of your shoes plus climbing the easily managed maple tree that reached above the third-floor tenement where another part of the Vallois family resided.
In autumn, we enjoyed knocking down fresh chestnuts from their spiny protective covers, while also shooting arrows from our target practice bows into cardboard boxes placed here and there in our sandy layout. Still, there were many more, like hide-and-seek, jump-rope challenges among the girls.
Discoveries and Treasures of Old
George Bourbeau, a friend from elementary school and, later, during our high school years, became my best friend. He and I, plus my cousin, Richard Ouellette, and Roger St-Armand from West Sixth Street, together with worked hard at understanding the ways of the world. We were discovering the woods of Dracut and the streets and alleyways of the big city. Everything was new and fascinating.
In the summer, we rode our two-wheel bikes all around the nearby streets like: Ludlam, Jacques, Cumberland, Lilley, Ennell, Dalton, Dana, Hildreth and, of course, Aiken. Seldom did we venture up to Bridge Street, which formed the natural boundary between the French-Canadian and the Irish neighborhoods.
Sometimes, George, Roger and I would drive our bikes uphill from my house on Ludlam with a left turn onto Bridge Street followed, soon, by a right turn onto Willard, the gateway to many adventures in the verdant, Dracut woods, and the farmers’ fields there to explore.
Those were the days, my friend, and we thought that they would never end, but life surprised us, as it often does to everyone. Later on, Johnny Cash helped to set us straight with his lyrics from “I walk the line”.
Before realizing upcoming America vs. Russia differences that our homeland was about to encounter, Hollywood cowboy songsters like Roy Rogers and Gene Autry had us believe in a new world of comfort and safety that was just around the corner, maybe. The ten years of Depression followed by WWII had left financial and psychological scars on everyone’s psyche. We could only hope for the best.
