“Who Can’t Hear Must Feel…”

by Norman Alexander Smith 

An old Jamaican proverb meaning

He/she, who does not hear or listen to instruction, will feel the consequences later.

“A hard lesson but a beneficial one I learned from Dad.”

Dad was never a person who made promises, especially when me and my brother Bruce asked him for a toy or clothing we wanted for our birthdays or Christmas. He always used to say, “We’ll see,” to us as children, it was very frustrating. He continually left us hanging and wondering if we were going to get the presents we requested.

The Canadian snow melted, giving way to the sun and the spring of 1967. We had just moved into our new home in Toronto, Canada. 51 Riverton Drive was a big house; it had a huge basement which dad eventually converted into downstairs living space; a garage, a veranda and a balcony that had a panoramic view of the neighbourhood. Street Hockey, snowball fights and building snowmen made way for the neighbourhood kids to dust off, clean their bikes and take to riding around the block and beyond. One problem, me and Bruce didn’t have a bike. On the eve of Bruce’s tenth birthday that April of 1967, Dad came into our room, woke us up and asked:

     “What would you like for your birthday Bruce?”

     “A bike,” Bruce replied without hesitation.

     Dad laughed and said, “Well you know me and yuh mom don’t have much money right now, cos we just buy de house, but tomorrow we all gwine go to Canadian Tyres and see what we can get, a’right? We can only afford de one bike mind, so you and Norman have to share it, OK?”

That night we were so excited we couldn’t sleep. We woke up early on Bruce’s birthday which was a Saturday, ate our breakfast, jumped into Dad’s sky blue 1964 Plymouth Saloon and he drove us to Canadian Tyres where we were let loose to view and choose a bike. We decided we wanted to be different from the other kids in the area and chose a gold coloured banana seat bike that had high handle-bars and white wall tyres. When Dad popped the trunk of the Plymouth and lifted the bike from it, our friends were envious; we no doubt had the best bike in the neighbourhood. My problem was that even though we were told to share the bike, I was never given much riding time.

Two months later into the height of summer, imagine my joy when Bruce went camping for the weekend with the Boys Scouts. This meant for the first time I had the use of our bike all to myself. On that Saturday, I woke, ate breakfast, tidied my room and vacuumed the house, before Mom and Dad gave me the nod to go play with my friends. I remember it was a scorching day, the sky was blue, no clouds, but a slight refreshing breeze blew now and again to cool us down. As usual on sunny days like that, Dad was out on the drive messing around with his car. As I exited the garage and mounted my bike, Dad called out to me…

      “Norman!”

      “Yes Dad.”

He pointed to the hilly road Envoy Gate that headed up a steep rise to Whitfield Avenue.

      “I don’t want you to follow yuh friends and race down dat hill, yuh hear me?”

       “Yes Dad.”

     “Cos only last week me see one big pile up and a few of yuh friends get hurt.” 

       “Yeh I heard about that Dad.”

       “Good. So don’t do it, yuh hear me?”

       “Yes Dad.”

       “Ok, gwaan and play.”

Off I went, calling at my friends’ houses one by one; we rode around the block nuff times. We were out there for hours. Just before we were called in to eat dinner, Tony one of my friends, made a suggestion…

      “I know,” he said, “Let’s have a race down the hill.”

      “No,” I said, “My Dad told me not to.”

      “Chicken!” Tony mocked, and then all of my other friends joined in.

After a few minutes of being mocked, I gave in and against my better judgement, I rode up to the top of Envoy Gate with my friends, all fourteen of us. We all lined up, every single one of us determined to win the race and claim bragging rights.

        “On your marks, get set, GO!”

The race was on; all of us were pedalling frantically to be in front. Half way down the hill, I was in third place, my bike had the pace and was in prime position to overtake and shift into poll position. As I made my move, Tony, who was in second spot, swerved in front of me to prevent me from passing. My front wheel slightly brushed his rear wheel; he lost control and hit the ground hard. I only had a split second to avoid him; in my panic I clutched my front break. The wheel stopped in its tracks, I was thrown over the handle bars, my bike flew over my head as I landed on my right hip which scraped along the ground. Somehow I bounced up into the air again and scuffed my left elbow when I touched down the second time. I slid to a halt at the bottom of the merge of Envoy Gate and Riverton Drive. When I finally came to my senses and got my bearings, it wasn’t a pretty sight. All fourteen bikes were littered on Riverton Drive and every one of us was lying on the ground either crying or moaning in pain. Envoy Gate had claimed its worst pile up. All the Moms and Dads raced from their houses to attend to their wounded children. I remembered gazing down the road at Dad, he looked away and continued to mess about with his car. I built up the strength to raise myself from the ground and pick up my bike, Mom was racing down the road frantic and shouting…

     “Oh my God Norman, yuh a’right!”

We walked the short distance home, and as we strolled up the drive Mom said to Dad…

     “Freddie, why yuh never go to see if Norman was a’right? Yuh never see him fall off him bike?”

   “Mmm-hmm…” Dad replied, “Me tell him before him go riding not to race down dat hill; but he never listen. Who can’t hear, must feel!”

Thanks for that lesson Dad. It made me feel and understand that proverb.