LITTLE BARE KNEES "BERNEICE"

LITTLE BARE KNEES "BERNEICE"

I don't believe in "coincidence". I do, however firmly subscribe to the philosophy that there is a sublime reason for each and every thing that happens in our lives, regardless whether it is a huge event or seemingly minuscule or fleeting moment. This was never more evident to methan when I tripped across an old memory, that memory of little "Bare Knees Berneice".

It was a barely significant incident in my youth. From kindergarten in1955, to the 6th grade I attended Rolph Road Public School in Leaside (a town first amalgamated into the Borough of East York, then into the City of Toronto). After about the second grade and during all those years to follow when I walked unaccompanied to and from my school, I was safely escorted across the main intersection at the corner of my street by the elderly, gray-haired crossing guard, Mr. Shamus MacNeely.

My best estimate would put old Mr. MacNeely around 102 years of age! His was a diminutive stature which was even further shortened by the distinctly forward bend in his spine. His gait
had a rhythmical limp definitely favouring his right leg, probably resulting at some time or another from either being honourably wounded in the service of his country, or perhaps dis-
honourably maimed in just another pub brawl gone somewhat awry! His fearsome scowl was only exacerbated by the ruddiness of his complexion and his pockmarked blue, actually more like purple, vein riddled, bulbous protuberance only barely recognizable as his nose!

I suppose it could be said he looked a little bit like Santa Claus only instead of fluffy, cottony and white, his beard and mustache were thick, smoky yellow-tinged and dirty gray. There was a definite connection between this facial hair and his brushy side-burns which grew all the way up incorporating the unruly overgrowth of his eye-brows and framing his face!Those wild and woolly eye-brows gave him an angry visage--probably one reason I was not alone in fearing him, at least at first!

His fingers were like thick, shapeless, hairy white sausages, scarred and stuck awkwardly onto the end of his huge, fat hands which were almost indistinguishable at the end of his
unusually short, fat arms! Mr. MacNeely seemed to undertake his responsibilities with a level of seriousness one would not normally associate with that particular career choice. He'd use his "STOP" sign in the same manner a person might communicate in sign language with someone who is deaf. He'd wave us to come on, or to stop abruptly, or even pat us on our collective bums and hurry us across the street! And he'd wield it in the air madly chasing any offending drivers who dared to disobey and tried to scoot through his intersection after he had firmly waved his authoritative sign demanding them to halt!

The old man spoke in a very loud, gruff, rumbling voice, heavy and husky from years of slowly inhaling the signature pipe which always hung lazily forging a path through the yellow-gray bristles around his virtually indistinguishable little mouth. Or perhaps his voice was affected by the years of imbibing the "medicine" he kept in a little faded-brown leather covered flask (something, I noticed, he predictably stashed with a quickness whenever another adult came by). Actually as I think back, I remember now, though not understanding then, that he smelled of the whiskey he consumed internally, and dribbled externally following hurried swigs. That was also most likely the reason he was so adept at creating those little names and rhymes and songs which he jovially sung off-key! He was obviously entertaining himself first and if anyone else enjoyed his little performances, so much the better!

Sometimes I had a hard time understanding the thick accent, a "R-R-R-rolling" Scottish brogue, which he most obviously delighted in not only keeping intact, but also actually
cultivating despite the decades of his residing in Canada! Of course he was harmless enough,and after awhile I looked forward to daily his antics. Also, it was very reassuring when he made it his personal mission to first learn the given names, and then invent his own individualized nick-names, for all the children on his watch, including, of course, yours truly!

Living in the snow belt of Ontario, I remember year after year suffering through very long, excruciatingly cold, snowy, icy winters. So cold, in fact, the atmosphere stole your breath
when you first ventured out of doors! Despite these foreseeable, annual conditions, I never understood why the school uniform, forced upon us, remained unchallenged as only a navy-blue cotton, wide-pleated tunic and a crisply pressed white blouse (the only concession for winter being long sleeves on our shirts). Of course, instead of wearing sensibly warm tights or leggings we had to wear obligatory matching navy-blue knee-socks! Yes, that was socks--just to our knees!

Of course, in order to ensure we wouldn't wear our tunics too short, risking undue exposure, our Principal made all of the girls in the school regularly line up class by class and kneel side-by-side across the gymnasium stage while he actually walked along below in the orchestra pit using a ruler to ensure the four inch distance from the tunic hems to each girl's knees! If the tunic measured too short, or too long, the offender was sent home straightaway with a note to the parents to re-hem the tunic and the amend the situation by the next school day! 

The first year I met Mr. MacNeely, as soon as the weather turned cold, he would repeatedly express his concern that my little knees were bare, and he'd ask me every day: "Weren't my little bare knees cold?" After awhile when he saw me coming he'd say "Here comes the little girl with the cold bare knees!" After awhile I wasn't afraid anymore--he always greeted me with a wide, yellowed, long-toothed grin and a funny saying, and made me laugh when he started to call me "Little Bare Knees".

Eventually his accent mixed with the cold air, and maybe just a little of the "spirits", made his words seem to slur from "bareknees" to "barenees", to "berenees", to "bernees", and then "Berneice!" Finally he seemed to settle on that as my new nickname, and one that stuck with me for all my school years at Rolph Road. As far as old Mr. MacNeely was concerned, my actual given name was in fact "Berneice"!

An unusual name, Berneice, and it wasn't really very common at all in the ‘50's or ‘60's, unlike Mary or Susie or even Cathy. It was a name that held absolutely no significance for
me until April 26, 2001--more than four decades later! That was the day I was finally discovered and contacted by the brother I never even knew existed, Ed George. Ed had promised our mother on her death-bed that he would never stop searching for me and here it was some 28 years into his search when his promise was fulfilled!

It was on that day I first found out that I was literally ripped from my mother's arms in 1950 when I was only six weeks of age. I knew then, for the first time, that my birth mother
had not only loved me dearly, but also had wanted me very much and would have never given me up willingly. This was exactly the opposite of what my adoptive had mother drilled into my brain throughout my entire life! After I was pried from her grasp, my birth mother anguished and suffered her entire life, daily searching for mine in the myriad sea of strange
faces in the passing parades of downtown Toronto's throngs.

And the connection between us?

My birth mother's name was Berneice!! How unbelievably prophetic was old Mr. MacNeely's nickname for me! I have to wonder, just how close my real mother, Berneice, might ever have been to her lost little "Bare Knees Berneice"!

See what I mean?  No coincidences!