TING-A-LING-A-LING… school bell ring, knife and fork a fight fi dumpling! Awwww childhood memories, not that I ever grew up, but it’s that time of year again. The dreaded: ‘back to school”. A time children regret even more than their parents who have to foot the bill.

Some, like my niece Toni-Ann, enjoy the summer holidays to the hilt; but being an only child, she can’t wait for the resumption of classes to blab on to her peers about what transpired during the summer. I remember my earlier years back at St George’s Girls’ Primary School. It would be my greatest joy to draw a crowd of unsuspecting classmates to relate stories of my summer holidays; most of which were part truth and part fiction…well okay, mostly fiction. Some would classify my stories as lies, but I’ll be tactful and say fiction since the five-year-old within me is easily embarrassed and needs positive enforcement. It was the beginning of my illustrious career relating stories which are a combination of books, television shows and sagas I overheard of other people’s experiences in the inner city.

My parents could not afford for us to attend elaborate summer camps and trips abroad. Oh no. As kids in the Ruddock household, whenever summer rolled in, it was either go to mom’s mother in Westmoreland who was a devout Christian woman that prayed for everything and everyone at everytime. Dinner would be cold by the time ‘Mother’, as we called her, got through thanking the farmer, the fowl, the cow and the stove. Option two was to stay at home and be productive, aka doing chores: cook, wash, clean house and “go tek up yuh schoolbook” to quote Mama Ruds. Lazy has always been my pet name, so household duties and studies during the longest romping time of the year, was a big ‘no no’ for me. I was also never a ‘country’ lover so as the ‘rebel’ I would summon my acting skills and feign asthma, blindness and other ailments just so that I could go and stay with my dad’s mom who lived in Jones Town, and my reasoning to my concerned parents was that this location was much closer to ‘Childrens’ and KPH than we were over in Rollington Town. The poor saps bought that sob story hook, line and sinker and that was where my summer stories would get an adventurous twist.

It was no glamorous holiday, yet I had tremendous fun, cavorting with the other children, and my grandmother spoiled me rotten, so I was waited on hand and foot. As daylight, I barely brush teeth and made the bed, before I was out on the steps of the Septimus Street Post Office listening to all sorts of adult tales, jokes, woes and maladies. Ghetto people did not observe the distinction between adults and children so much. Topics like: Who thief who’s mate; which family feud was brewing; who needed treatment for gunshot wounds suffered during gun battles in adjoining communities the night before and who dun di dance wid dem outfit etc was, — never a dull moment. I was not allowed to personally witness such dealings, because Granny had me on a strict go to bed time schedule, but I innocently sat and took mental notes when they were being discussed on the steps outside the Post Office and when school reopened, I was the ‘hot’ ticket for summer stories. Even my teachers would anticipate my ‘How I spent my summer holidays’ essays. The animated detailed in my work and oral reproductions of MY direct involvement with chasing thieves through Jones Town and riding on handcarts with gunshot victims to ‘Public’, while parting fights between mate and wife, rivalls any Nancy Drew or Hardy Boys novel.

I knew that they knew that the stories were fictional and that my summer was probably as boring as theirs, but the poor little things eagerly awaited my ramblings at the start of new school year and I couldn’t disappoint.

I trust that those of you with children ensured that they had a memorable summer and made preparations so that their back to school journey was smooth sailing. Have a great weekend folks.

elvachatalot@yahoo.com