If you ever find yourself driving through downtown Toronto and come upon the intersection of Cherry Street and King Street East, you will see some old white row houses on the southeast corner.
 
That's where I lived with my family, when we first came to Canada in 1953. There was no question that we were living below the poverty line in those days. The only question was how far we were below that line. I figure it was right around rock bottom. My dad was a hard worker, but work wasn't always easy to find, especially when you couldn't speak English very well. We spent some long weeks between pay cheques during those first years in the country.
 
Charities and social assistance were not as organized in those days. If you were poor and had no food to eat, you either turned to friends and family, or you went to the church for help. Since my family had neither of the former in Canada, we turned to the Baptist church. I will be forever grateful to these kind people for helping us when we were so down and out. We weren't even Baptists. But that didn't matter to them. We needed help. May God bless them always for their kindness.
 
About five years ago, I took my mother for a drive past those tiny row houses and I asked her, “Which one of these little houses did we live in?” She replied, “That one there on the left.” I said  that it sure seemed like a small house for our family (there were four of us). She said, “What do
you mean house? We lived in one room. When she said the one on the left, she meant the window upstairs. We had to share the house with two other families.
 
One room? All those families in that tiny house? Yep. I had no idea. I have no memory of us all in one room.
 
But I clearly remember living there. I remember walking down to Cherry Beach and along the boardwalk with my family. I remember skipping stones on the lake and playing in the sand. I remember my dad playing the harmonica on the stoop of the house, and my sister dancing on the sidewalk. I remember the King streetcar rolling by while we were laughing and playing games in the alley.
 
I was told that we had no gifts at Christmas time, then. There was simply no money to buy them.
I have no memory of being without or wanting any toys. But I definitely remember being riveted to the beautiful windows at Eaton's downtown. I remember the wonder of the Santa Claus parade and the great hot chocolate we got in the store after it was over. I remember riding on my dad's shoulders on the way home through the snow, and my mother singing Christmas songs. I remember the warmth and comfort of falling asleep and watching the snow out the window from my bed.
 
I don't remember being poor. I don't remember any hard times. I don't remember any kind of despair or worry. My parents just took it. And outwardly, I saw only smiles. They never argued. There were never any cross words. I just remember being very happy.
 
I guess that is the greatest gift a kid could have from their parents. Not toys, nor expensive cars, nor clothes in the latest fashion, nor the best play apparatus. Just plain good times, and happiness.