Visions in Poetry: A Spiritual Awakening Journey

Copyright © 2014 Jackie Hardcastle.

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The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

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ISBN: 978-1-4525-8640-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-8642-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-8641-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013920680

Balboa Press rev. date: 01/23/2014

Contents

Foreword

Preface

Acknowledgements

Who We Are

Introduction

Together

Chapter 1 In The Beginning

The Healing

Immigration

Chapter 2 Life In Canada

Bullying

I Stand Tall

Chapter 3 Teenager/Young Adult Life

Abuse

Chapter 4 Second Time Around

Death

Chapter 5 Dogs, Disease, Divorce, And Redemption

Sickness Crawling

Restless Spirit

Jumbled Thoughts

Your Gift Of Love

Words For His Love

Chapter 6 The Journey Begins

Up In Heaven

Golden Bands

Mystic Energy

The Resort

Angel Wings

A Symbolic Vision

A Family Of Wizards

Haiti Cries, Haiti Will Rise

Hello

Someone Is Knocking

Crystal Rock

The Giggling Pyramid

To Forgive

Pink Shower

Chapter 7 Love And Wonder

Tick-Tock

Time And Time Again

Love Is All/The Dance Of Life

The Window Sees

I Close My Eyes

The Gentle, Gurgling Brook

I Said I Would

Black Horse

Mystical, Magical

The Elevator

Praise, Joy, Singing

Dreamer

I Am At Peace

Wonder

Let Your Sun Shine Bright

Energy Healing

The Children

Teachers Of The Children

On A Hill

I Walk My Day

Standing On The Edge

Forest Gifts

I Knew You Were Here Today

Snapshots

To Feel Loved

A Story We Know

Cultures Of Earth And More

Rules

Hovering Dove

Chapter 8 2012: What Is It All About?

How Fare Thee?

Truth

Truth, Truth, Truth

A Whirlwind Of Words

Words, Words, Words

The Joy Of Books

Black Shadow

The Door

Love Triangle

A Hug

The Lotus Gift

Meditating Freedom

A Soldier

Tortured Souls

The Cycle Dance

Drunken Vagabond

Deity Appeared

Angelic Wings

White Wolf

White Dove

Up In The Universe

Unicorn

Atlantis

Love Is A Dream

Me And The Sea

They Say

I Walk With Angels

The Indian Drummer

Tree Of Life

A Poem, You Say

I Am Surrounded

Michael’s Words

Gabriel’s Words

People Ask About 2012

Cherished Memories

Chapter 9 Conclusion

The Unfolding Path

Resources

To my children, Crystal and Michael,

and all my grandchildren

with lots of love

Love is all.

—Spoken by Robert Logsdail

from the Spiritual World

FOREWORD

W ithin the pages of this book, you’ll find the personal journey of a young girl from England who came to Canada at a tender age who struggled to fit in and who suffered many extreme challenges of life. While turning to the solace within, she awakened to another world… a world that reached out to her through poetry, and which inspired a deeper spiritual journey of awak ening.

This is a poignant story of growth and realization through inspired poetry, that we are not alone in our journey here on earth. It is a spiritual journey. One that we can all relate to in some small way or another. It it is a journey of trusting in our 5 senses, a leap of faith beyond the physical and arriving at a place of ‘knowing’ we are all part of a loving Oneness, and that Love is All that matters. Lose yourself along the journey, hear the messages, and find your way back in the knowledge and deeper understanding of your place in the loving Universe.

Barbara Simpson

Director, Ottawa Spiritual Pathways Centre

PREFACE

O ver the years, I have been fortunate to have many teachers. There have been friends, family, and co-workers from the youngest to the oldest. There have also been the teachers, members present at workshops, at church and various fairs, and groups designated to enlighten those searching the metaphysical world. Each one of you has had an effect on my life, which is the ultimate learning space. Some words or phrases are accepted and commonly used, so the true authors of these are unknown. At other times, a word or phrase has touched me, and later I fused it into my own thoughts. To these wonderful teachers I have not been able to give credit. Each of them has a place in my journey, and I treasure and appreciate them all. The Internet has been a valuable resource for networking and communicating with other spiritual teachers. Thank you to all of you. You each have a special place in my heart.

Please note that the only real names in this book are my immediate family members. The names of any extended family, friends, and others, as well as their workplaces, have been changed. This has allowed my journey its various influential moments and my resulting opinions and personal views to be front and foremost while providing confidentiality and anonymity to others.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A t this time, I would like to thank my dear family and friends for their support. First, my mom, who likes to be called Joanne. She is my steadfast friend, who has believed in me even if she did not always understand exactly what I was trying to say or do. She patiently listened to the growing pains of the process. She was there to quietly give a hug when the tears came as well as to celebrate the succ esses.

My children, Crystal and Mike, supplied me with the motivation to discover who I was, and they gave their endless support and love, even when I do believe they thought I was weird. Isabella and Liam, my dear grandchildren, who loved me unconditionally; they sensed when I just wanted an extra bit of love. Love also to smiling baby Ariana, who always kept my spirits up.

To a dear friend, S.F., whose love, friendship, support, encouragement, and knowledge gave me the ‘kick-start’ and the confidence to begin my journey. You showed me the doors and encouraged me to walk through and keep on going. Thank you. I thank also B.M., whose support, patience and help was so greatly appreciated.

I would also give thanks to the friends and family on the spiritual plane who came through with the messages, as well as the spirit guides, the angels, and the creator himself, God, who made me who I am. I would also like to acknowledge the Ottawa Interfaith Spiritual Church and the Ottawa Spiritual Pathways Centre, with their congregation, for allowing me to share my very first publicly read poem…

Love is All/The Dance of Life.

Thank you for your kind words of encouragement and for sharing the inspirations that you received during the reading. I would also like to recognize the many people who expressed that the poem had provided them with information they wanted to pursue. You were the unbiased audience who gave me the reassurance that people will listen and take something from my dreams and experiences that became my very own…

Visions in Poetry

WHO WE ARE

Who we are

Where we go

Who knows?

You know

What am I to do?

Where am I to go?

Where is my goal?

You know

Help me figure it out

Help me figure where

You know

I know that you are there

I know that you speak

I know that I feel

However, why can’t I connect?

Why can’t I feel?

Why can’t I hear?

You know

You send a messenger

Why does my heart beat so fast?

Why is my brain working overtime?

Why do I feel so overwhelmed?

You know

Help me understand

Help me hear

Help me do

Help me relax

Help me where, when, and how

It is time for answers

Time for words

Time for dreams

Time to relax

Meditate

It is

Time for now

INTRODUCTION

T his book started out originally as a dream journal. I was trying to discover more about myself and what I considered then, to be spiritual gifts. I had been researching the works of well-known mediums, but I found myself wanting to know more about their struggles, their wonder, and their growth as they searched for their true selves and goals in life. Craving more, I could not quite find what I was looking for. My response was to write a diary, to try to put together for myself the information I’d found. The completed version would then be available to my children and grandchildren, to help them understand who I was. I also felt there might come a time when they’d experience the same questions, so this might help them along their paths in life. It was for me a process of discovery, as I awakened more as a spiritual person and awakened, as well, some hidden talents that needed a nudge, a recall—a way to reconnect and to rem ember.

As this journey unravelled, my latent talent for writing resurfaced. Then the dreams started big time. They were so intense that, days later, I needed to write them down in order to shake them from my head. But when I tried to do that, the writing turned into poetry—and sometimes it kept coming and would not stop! How did that happen? Pages and numerous poems later, I realized that I was somehow being guided to write my experiences and dreams into poetry, particularly the dreams with the messages clearly channelled to me.

This came to a head with the poem Love Is All/The Dance of Life. The message was so clear, so blatant, and so intentional that I could not miss it. I liked this—no guesswork or interpretation of meanings and symbols, no runaround to look something up in a dream dictionary or other book (that, I find frustrating). From here, the realization came that my book was taking on a life of its own, that my life might be heading in a completely new direction. I needed to wrestle with exposing my personal life, my opinions, and experiences to the public. Trying to work out the practicalities made my head spin. How? When? After a few trials, I decided to write it in a semi-biographical format, so that the reader could understand the life lessons, the emotions that produced the poems, and the way in which the spiritual journey came about. In this format, only those experiences I felt were pertinent are in the book; suffice it to say that there is much of my life that is not in this book.

I really just consider myself an average person—there is nothing unique or outstanding about me, no famous accomplishments to catch someone’s attention. But I do believe, and I hope that this book proves it, that people can increase their own spiritual awareness, discover the truth of who they are, and can offer something to others, big or small, whether they realize it or not. We are all unique, and we all have special qualities for a reason. Some you may view as positive, others as negative—but you are you for a reason. You are perfection in your own right. You each have a special place on this planet.

So where does this leave us? What do I hope to achieve? It is my hope that you can take something from this book, from several levels, that will help you along your journey. You may even have different interpretations or awareness after reading some of the messages that came through. I want you to know and understand that this was part of my path, my dreams, that grew from a hunger for exploring and remembering, discovering the soul of me. I felt directed to do more, to share with you. I hope that you will find some inspiration and a nudge to help you along as you discover more about yourself and your life.

Love and blessings to all—enjoy.

Namaste.

Jackie

TOGETHER

Together we can

Taste a beautiful love,

Share high energy,

Trust in friends,

Laugh with family,

Climb a tree,

Jump, skip, and play.

Feel the gift,

Find the beauty,

Trust life,

Make peace today.

—Jackie

CHAPTER 1

In the Beginning

T he terminal of Heathrow Airport, in England, was a huge building, bustling with people checking and rechecking their plane tickets, looking up at all the signs to make sure they had the right gate number. It seemed that everyone had suitcases, but I only saw a few children with small ones like the ones Peter, who was my brother, and me had. It was scary, exhilarating and totally bewildering. There were moving sidewalks; we just had to step on them and they took us along the hallway—which seemed endless. We were both bundles of nerves as we held our parents’ comforting hands to begin our journey into the unknown world of a new country—Canada. Starting out from the hotel this morning I’d thought I was a big girl; now I felt very small indeed. I quickly peered through the window; airplanes were lined up waiting to take off. Which one was ours? Come along, Jacqueline; don’t dawdle, said my mother. But Mom, I want to see, I whined. No time; we have to keep up with your father, was her reply.

We settled in the airplane seats; they were so small we were squished. Peter had his blue-and-white teddy bear, Buttons, and a suitcase filled mainly with Legos for his endless building. I had Teddy, my little brown, half-naked teddy bear, who carried the marks of being so dearly loved when I had tried to warm him up by the radiator one day. Mom had had to scrape off the singed fur, resulting in several large bare patches on parts of his back and a neat row of mom’s stitches up across the shoulder. My suitcase held a small doll and some Hot Wheels cars, as well as some crayons and paper.

I hoped my dearest Tinkerbell, a large pink-and-white teddy bear that was squished into a large suitcase, was okay. I really didn’t like leaving her there in the cold undercarriage of the airplane, but she was large. I had received her near Christmas time when I was eighteen months old; she had been bigger than me at that time. Her large white ears offset her pink body, but most of all I loved the bells in her ears. She was my confidante; she knew all my fears and tears and listened intently to all my stories. Her large orange-and-black glass eyes, I figured, would scare any unwanted intruders away. Right now, I felt I needed her.

The large engines roared in our ears, and Mom gave us each a lemon drop to suck on while the airplane took off. The air stewardess came around, leaned over, and cheerily chatted away with us, showing us how to do up our seat belts; making sure we were safe. We were on our way; meanwhile, my stomach was doing belly flops, and my heart was pounding.

Where we were going I did not know. What would happen when I got there? I didn’t know. I had more questions than answers. The adventurous dream was taking a back seat to having a bad case of the nerves. Teddy advised me to look out the window instead.

Clouds like strings of cotton candy drifted by. I could see, as the wings of the airplane sliced the cloud, how little puffs were broken off and swirled in the air, drifting aimlessly until another cloud enfolded the little puffball. It was then incorporated into its own design and somehow moulded together to form another shape. I marvelled at these little clouds silently drifting by; they had no clue where they were going but ended up absorbed and turned into something new, starting out on another adventure, until another airplane careened by.

My thoughts began to drift. What would my new home be like? I had only ever known the one at Lincoln Drive, in Byfleet, a small town southwest of Woking, England. I had had a bedroom all to myself, with a slanted ceiling above my bed. When I had gone to bed and stacked up my stuffed animals, it made a nice cozy nook. In the mornings, I’d enjoyed tiptoeing downstairs to see Daddy lighting the coal fire in the living room, the dancing flames flickering on the walls.

The kitchen where Mom cooked would smell of eggs and bacon, sizzling in the pan, and of freshly baked cakes. My mouth watered as I remembered her cakes filled with strawberry jam, served with piles of whipped cream or floating in warm mouth-watering custard. Mom’s dad, Granddad-on-his–own, as we called him, had painted one of the walls blue, with large white swirls in it. He had experimented with textures using a rag. Nowadays that is referred to as rag painting.

The garage held my bike, and the backyard had my large green swing in it. Best of all, it had the Wendy House, a little child-sized house we could go inside and make believe. That house held all that we could ever dream up in our imaginations. Every fall season when we’d raked leaves, we’d found a hedgehog or two wandering in our yard. Maybe they liked to come and visit my resident guinea pig, Shandy, with his large patches of black, brown, and white. Oh, Shandy! I had just given him away to my girlfriend. I was missing him already. Was he munching his favourite carrots? Did he miss me?

Then I remembered Dad had said we were going to this new country far, far away. We would see snow, lots of snow. He described it looking like marshmallows covering the ground. Yummy! We would buy new toys, a new home and car, and we would make new friends. It had been so difficult looking at all our new furniture go out the front door with perfect strangers after they bought all our stuff. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad moving, after all.

Our family doctor had been thrilled at the news that we were moving. I had been very sick as a child and had caught, it seemed, everything that was going around. I’d had measles, mumps, rubella, chicken pox, a mild case of whooping cough, and even weird viruses that kept me in bed for long periods of time. I remembered all the night calls that Dr. Kerr had made to the house. Antibiotic bottles had lined our shelf on the fridge door. If he didn’t think I would be sick anymore, then I would have more time to play outside, I figured. That was a good thing!

My bedroom had always been my haven when I was sick, but it was my lady friend in the night that I remembered the most from those times. I can only remember her coming once, but it made a huge impression. I had been sick for a long time. I was frustrated and irritable. Apparently, when Mom brought up my supper, I promptly threw it at her!

That night a lovely lady entered my room. She sat on my bed, and we talked for what seemed the whole night. I remember curling up on her lap and sleeping. She knew a lot about me. I felt so rested and happy by the morning. I wanted to surprise Mom and Dad, I felt so good the next morning. As I entered the kitchen, Dad looked up from his paper and Mom turned around from the stove. Thanks so much for sending that nice lady upstairs last night, I began. She kept me company. In unison, Mom and Dad responded, What lady? and What did she look like? Oh, you know, I replied. As an adult I have been told that I then went on to describe my mom’s mom, my grandmother, whom I had never seen, as she’d passed away six weeks before my mom’s wedding. I really wish I could have been a fly on the wall later, when I was out of earshot! Can you imagine their reactions? I had been so casual, oblivious to the inner turmoil they must have felt.

Not only had this lovely angel kept me company and healed me, but she had also shared information with me. She had left no cause in my parents’ minds for them to doubt me now or in the future. As I look back, I see that she had sent a strong message to the whole family.

I know that, as a child, I always followed my gut feelings. This kept me warm when I was not feeling well and my spirits up when I was down. How else could I have survived those years of being sick and still come out feeling good about life? This experience was so strong that I’ve remembered it for the rest of my life. I would be able to rely on it for reference, for understanding something beyond what I knew, for feeling secure about what I was seeing and feeling. I knew that there was something beyond, that kept me secure. Someone was with me. I was loved on a deeper level—somehow, somewhere.

THE HEALING

You glided into my room, so quiet, so true.

Whispered soft words of comfort

To an aching, sick child.

Scooped me into your arms:

Held me gently,

Rocked me,

Cradled me,

Spoke to me all night,

Called me by my name.

You told me who I was,

You told me about the present,

You told me about the future.

We talked, I listened.

We joked, I smiled.

I remember little.

Loved so dearly,

Healed by morn.

A new day began.

Thank you to that lovely lady;

Nameless she is.

A spirit guide for me?

A grandmother’s love from the other side?

Sent from above.

Loved so dearly,

Healed by morn.

Family bewildered,

Energetic child:

Sick no more,

Strong and tall.

Remembered forever.

Now some people might say this woman was a product of my imagination. I don’t think so. Some might say she was my imaginary friend. Well, I know the difference. That is, if I hold out my empty hand and tell you there is an apple in my hand, I have created an imaginary apple. I can describe it in detail, pretend to taste it, and feel the sensation based on present memory banks, but it is still invisible. I can see that the hand is still empty. Even the touch or taste I can describe is based on a memory of an apple, as is the colour I describe. So if another person enters my view, in my opinion that is not imagination. That is something that I see. The lady was someone I conversed with and played with. We took turns. I saw her. She was not imaginary to me. I did not create her; she took form. I knew others could not see her, but that was okay with me, I knew she was there for me. I felt the emotion of love and a sense of fun from her. An imaginary apple does not create emotions. The lady and I talked on a different level—I would call it a form of telepathy—as well as using everyday language.

I would not want to take this one step further and say that every child who has an imaginary friend is conversing with a spirit, but I am sure many of them are, at least more than we are aware of. And if that is the case, then we really need to listen to these children and see what they can teach us. We need to deal with this issue differently. I believe this is a topic for parents and educators to seriously consider.

Back in the airplane, I was thinking of how I might be spending more time outside. I wondered whether the parks in Canada were like our commons in England. That was where I’d loved to look for the elusive fairy rings. Doubt tickles the memory, but I am convinced I saw one once. Of course, if there are fairy rings, then there must be fairies … but I haven’t seen one of those yet. I had always enjoyed looking for the badger holes and following the rabbits’ footprints through the damp green trails lined with bluebells and other woodland flowers. Maybe the new parks would be like Grandma’s common and have water fountains in them, to float our paper boats.

I was going to miss my grandparents. I loved them dearly. My grandma was named Emily, and my grandfather’s name was Frank. Their home, a tiny row house located in Wimbledon, was full of good memories for me. To me it was like a dollhouse. You walked down a short hall and past the living room, which was all green, with a fireplace and a white mantel. It was kept cool, as no one was allowed in unless it was a special occasion. The one and only time I was in there I felt stiff and awkward. I couldn’t wait to hightail it out of there once the formalities of the occasion had passed. At the end of the hall was the combined dining room and family room. It was a small room, containing a small dining table, a two-seated sofa, a fireplace, and a small chest of drawers with lots of family photos and ornaments all over it. Best of all, when we were there it would hold two small white bags. They would be neatly folded at the top and displayed in the front of all the knick-knacks. They were for Peter and me. If we behaved while we were there, when we left we could each take a bag of special goodies home with us. They usually held a Kit Kat Bar or a box of Smarties. Occasionally they had a few stickers, a toy car, or barrettes for my ever-growing long blonde hair.

Behind the dining room was a tiny kitchen. I was always amazed it did not have a refrigerator, as ours did. It had a small counter, a sink, and a stove. Off the kitchen was the back door, but first you had to go through an extension that had no heat at all. Grandma would tell me how lucky we were, as this room had been a chicken coop during the war. Now it held a running toilet and her wringer washer. I felt proud to go in this room. Granddad had put it together out of scraps he had found at the time. Scraps of wood framed the walls, and black paper covered the outside of it, for waterproofing and providing the blackness that was needed during wartime. It really was a conglomeration of scrap material. I was amazed that where I now trod, chickens used to walk. I looked but could not see a trace of feathers, or dirt, or anything!

Outside was Grandma’s treasured gnome collection. These rested on a small patch of green grass beside the fence where the green peas and beans grew. One gnome had a fishing rod, and one looked to be relaxing in the grass. I was fascinated with these little people, who apparently brought good luck and had magical abilities. I was drawn to them every time I visited. A path led through the rest of the yard to the gate at the end. On either side of the path, vegetables were interspersed with garden perennials. We were not allowed to play near the vegetable garden or venture to the end of the garden.

My memories of this home are of warmth, fun, and laughter. Grandma was a buxom woman who was always bustling around, assertive and jovial. She was always thinking of new adventures for us to play. I will always remember her telling poor Granddad what to do, but he always carried through with love and sincerity in his manner. Granddad was shy, reserved, and thin as a rake. Grandma always brought us our favourite pastries from the bakery shop when we visited. They were very flakey horn-shaped pastries, sprinkled with icing sugar on the top and filled with freshly whipped cream. We loved to eat them and feel the cool cream squirt out of the horn as we bit into it. It really was a lip-smacking event. Desserts were always served on a three-tiered silver platter, so there were obviously other desserts, but my eyes were for the cream horns only.

Sometimes my parents would sit and enjoy a fish supper with my grandparents. These special fish we were not allowed to try; we were too young. I watched as my parents ate shrimp, mussels, crab, and some others called cockles and periwinkles. I loved to say these names—it seemed so endearing; they had their own little ring to them.

My mother’s father we called Granddad-on-his-own; his name was Joseph. I found his home more cool. I am not sure whether it was the temperature or the atmosphere. He lived in a three-bedroom row house and rented out the other bedrooms. The furniture was sparse; it seemed old and uncomfortable. I always felt as if I were going back in time to the olden days when I went here. He, too, had a large part of his garden devoted to vegetables, but it was the daffodil patch that attracted my mom. They always came up around her birthday, March 12. We rarely went in Granddad’s garden. We were often told that he had raised rabbits in the war for the meat. I do remember lying on the living room floor one day as Granddad taught me how to play clock patience, a kind of solitaire, with his cards.

I never seemed to connect with Granddad. He seemed abrupt, cold and not really into having children around. Mom and Dad always had explanations, like he lived by himself, he had never got over losing his wife, he was lonely etc. Although as a child you take the explanation, in truth, I always thought there was more to it. To my way of thinking, if you were lonely, wouldn’t you cherish the company? His attitudes were very strict with both Mom and me. Later in life, he would severely embarrass me at a family gathering in Canada, when I announced I was pregnant with my first child. He would not say a word until I left, and then it was, Well, you really got yourself knocked up, girl. He made it sound as bad as being raped. Tears stung my eyes, and my heart sank. I was so hurt, but I could not dignify that remark with a response. I quickly left. However, he would always be distant with his future great grandchildren and would ignore them. Children should be seen and not heard seemed to be his operative philosophy. Sometimes I wondered whether he really wanted to even see them at all! Argh! Grandparents—sometimes you love them even when you don’t understand them!

I glanced at Peter; he was still intensely concentrating on his Lego house. He wasn’t interested in looking out the window or even talking to me; once he was into building, nothing else mattered. I watched him build for a while; it was precarious to balance on an airplane tray and build at the same time. He was deep in concentration. I played with my doll and my cars and even talked to Teddy for a bit. It was no use; the plane ride was beginning to be boring, and very long indeed.

I loved this window seat, though. I could pretend I was flying, not trapped in some airplane. We flew over Greenland. We saw mountains and glaciers, most of which was covered in white stuff that Dad said was called snow. Hmm—it looked more like white icing than marshmallows! When I looked up, I could see nothing but blue sky. Below, the Atlantic Ocean looked like a gently rolling sea. Cruise ships occasionally graced the view. They looked to be the size of my Hot Wheels cars when I placed them on the window and then squinted my eyes tightly to see the sizing. Slowly I began to realize and assimilate the vastness of the world we live in. We were so high up I couldn’t see people, houses or cars, and even those ships looked so tiny. The sky above me was endless; the earth below me was tiny. I was travelling for the first time, but Dad had flown in airplanes frequently, on business to other countries, like Russia, Venice, France, America, and so many more. If it took this long to fly to a new country, then this world was huge—absolutely enormous!

Passengers on the plane asked my mom how she’d chosen the names for her cute children. Gee, she usually didn’t explain this one to strangers—but who knew, maybe she figured they wouldn’t judge us, as we wouldn’t see these people again. Besides, I guess she was getting bored and needed some conversation to pass the time. Mom went on to explain that Peter had been named by me. I had heard this story often; she loved to tell it. I started to drift off.

On October 9, 1960, my Mom gave birth at home to my brother. I had run into the room and began saying something to the effect of: Petor, Petor. When they tried to tell me the name of the baby, I got upset and began repeating this same phrase over and over, Petor, Petor, Petor, and pointing to the new baby. I was so adamant that Mom and Dad gave in, calling my baby brother Peter.

I am surprised that Mom did not delve into the story that she liked to tell a select few relatives. However, like many other of my weird experiences, they were kept pretty hush-hush. I am sure, though, that they must have provided some interesting after-the-kids-go-to-bed talk. Apparently, I had been playing on my toy telephone. I was around the age of 2 or 2 ½ years at the time. I began non-stop talking, words and sentences I had never said before. Mom was amazed at what was happening. Part of the conversation went like this: Mom, isn’t it a shame that Aunt (I will call her Jenny) lost her baby? Mom, apparently quite startled, had phoned her cousin right away. She had not seen her for a few months and had no idea she was pregnant. The answer came that yes, she had been pregnant but had recently miscarried. The familiar story now had me falling asleep.

I awoke to excited chatter as the plane began to land. Finally, the long plane ride would be over. Now we would begin the real journey into the unknown. Gathering the suitcases and toys, making sure we were all together, we carefully exited the plane. In the airport, we had to go through a long lineup, shuffling all our suitcases along, using our feet. At the wicket, the man took the passports and, peering down, he asked, And this is Jacqueline Hardcastle? Yes, I replied. And what is your birthdate? In my best official voice, I announced, May 26, 1958. With the biggest smile and laughing eyes, he replied, Welcome to Canada. It was November 27, 1967.

IMMIGRATION

The furniture packed,

The house all gone,

Standing alone, empty.

All the toys gone,

My special place no more.

Excited, anxious, scared,

On a journey

I know not where;

Only can imagine

A place of hope and dreams.

So I take your hand,

And I place my trust;

Keep me safe and warm,

Love my fears away.

We try new foods,

Go to a new school,

Make new friends;

I thought they would be the same.

Why are things so different?

We are all children;

I just want to go home.

For what I know,

It’s way too much;

It makes me cry.

So I take your hand,

And place my trust;

Keep me safe and warm,

Love my fears away.

CHAPTER 2

Life in Canada

W e left the Toronto airport with my uncle. Our suitcases had a taxi all to themselves. Outside there was a dirty white covering on the ground; everywhere was slush and cold. This was snow? Whatever happened to marshmallows? It was up to our ankles. I glanced down at the white stuff; we were definitely ill prepared, wearing our spotless knee-high white socks and brown leather shoes. But this stuff was strangely interesting, icy cold and definitely yucky—yet, as I tested it gingerly with my feet, it held my curiosity. As the car pulled away from the airport, I knew I truly was beginning a new life, a new adve nture.

The plan was that we were to live temporarily with my uncle’s family. Being with my aunt and uncle was very interesting. Dad would be gone Monday to Friday, living and working in Montreal. We stayed in Toronto. He would come back and drive us to Montreal to look for a house on the weekends.

In Toronto, we had a house full, with four adults and five children. In fairness, none of us kids knew what to expect, and none of us had really been prepared for what we might encounter. We learned together. We were grateful we had a home with them until our parents found one for us. There were different family lifestyles and different behaviour-management techniques. We were a family trying to deal with cultural shock staying with a family that had been in Canada only a year or so themselves. Looking back, no one had time to breathe, to think or to feel. There were many expectations on both families and both sets of children.

We were learning to try out the many new foods that we were being introduced to. There were processed meats, margarine, powdered milk, canned or boxed pasta dinners, peanut butter, and soft ice cream, to name a few. There seemed to be a greater variety of all types of fruits, vegetables, and meats for us to try. I could not understand why meats or familiar types of foods tasted different. It was explained to us that the different latitudes and types of soils and water content changed the quality of foods and, therefore, the tastes. We slowly came to realize how the different climate required us to