Friday, January 4, 2013

Fifty Fridays #22

Thinking about  our new year and the awkward age that she is: this is what 13 means to me.

This was taken on a family camping trip to BC's cowboy country:  the Cariboo. We were newly a family of six since my younger brother would have been about a month old.  In my memory, we swooped down on the hospital and whisked Mom and baby away in the family car on our way north.  But, surely, that can't have happened?  Even though moms and babies stayed at least two weeks in hospital in those days, the dates would still be wrong.  But, my brother had some health issues so it's entirely possible that they were there a longer time.

And, yet.  We went away on a camping trip when school was out.  That much is true.  This holiday was wonderful for me.  I'd never been away like this before.  It was camping in cabins - not in tents - but it was still pretty rustic.  we woke up by a lake and I got to ride horses.  Yay!  As you can see, I hadn't been kitted out in cowboy clothes.  In those days, one wore what one wore.  We travelled all around the area visiting all sorts of historic locations.   Our farthest destination was to Barkerville: a gold rush town.  I remember climbing a hill covered in tumbleweed with my brother one early morning before anyone else was up. 

Thirteen is an interesting age.  Adult in some ways and yet still a child.  I was such a serious kid - my wild child had yet to emerge - and I know I took the responsibility of being the oldest very much to heart.   I had the story-book younger brother who was close in age and who teased me all the time yet would be my greatest defender if needed.  He did not have any cares as I saw it.  I had a little sister who seemed to me to be golden girl.  She had it all: looks, talent, brains.  I was only a little jealous.  But I had a new baby to 'mother' and that was the best!

Like today, my grade 7 was still in the elementary school.  My favorite sport was skipping and the best kind was double dutch.  I could do that for hours.  But it was only second best:  in a corner, reading a book was where you were most likely to find me.  Hiding out in case there were chores to be done.  Unless it involved the baby, I wasn't too keen on working around the house.  Books were - and still are - an escape from housework.  My mother tried to be patient with this tactic as she would have preferred to be reading, too.  Thirteen is not the most understanding of ages.

What does this mean for our new year?  If my experience can be trusted, it will be awkward, shy and serious.  However, we all have different memories and experiences of the age.  We'll just have to wait and see what the year brings.  And, fortunately, all thirteen-year-olds  have birthdays.  It's only a year. 


Empty Nester said...

I always look forward to your Friday posts. I hardly remember 13- I'm sure I was not the most fun person to be around and I'm also sure I was doing plenty that I should NOT have been doing. I was born a rebel---thank goodness the lovelies weren't like that. :)

Rudee said...

I recall 13, but not fondly. I'd rather be 55 than 13 any day of the week.

Incidentally, I've watched 8 episodes of Downton Abbey now. At this rate, I'll be all caught up for Sunday. I also picked up some US3 DPNs and am mulling over my choice of yarns for the JBW DA KAL! I'm thinking the Madelinetosh Pashmina is whispering sweet nothings to me, but the Sweet Georgia yarn is yelling: "oh, pick me, pick me!" The Sweet Georgia would be a gauge challenge as it's not sport weight.

Tanna at The Brick Street Bungalow said...

Great photo and love your memories and your thoughtfulness... blessings ~ tanna


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