A pillbox hat
I was six years old when my brother Cameron was born one fall day in Quill Lake, Saskatchewan, where Dad was a highschool teacher and Mom was a homemaker. When they brought the baby home from the hospital, I said I’d rather have a puppy.
Mom always said he was “my boy,” just the one among three sisters. He held a special place in her heart.
One day when he was two or three years old and she was working in the kitchen of the teacherage where we lived in Margo, he was sitting on the table, watching. He was scowly, which was unusual for him, and she asked what was wrong.
“I just feel mean,” he said. Mom thought it was the cutest thing. Apparently a little nap solved that problem.
When he got a little older he found a pillbox hat in Grandma’s closet. He wore it constantly for some time, going all over the village with it jauntily on his noggin.
“All he ever wanted to do was drive,” Dad has said. “It’s no wonder he became a trucker.” Trucking is the only job he’s ever had, as far as I know, though he helped Dad on the farm.
Cameron has a nickname. I called him Cameroni Bumboni, and shortened it to Uncle Bum for my kids, who still call him that. He didn’t like it much because it could give people the wrong idea about him, he said, but paid me back by giving me one: Auntie Christ.
I found the pic of him as Mr Incredible on one of my older blogs, HERE.