about a gift for Vavielle

March 25^th is Vavielle’s birthday and I would like to bestow on my eldest all manner of gifts.  However I am hampered, first by lack of funds.  Were money no object my first gift would be a glamor photo shoot. Vavielle is so beautiful and photogenic the photographs would be outstanding. 

Then I would throw a party.  As Vavielle and Peter’s home is so beautiful 2131 Berwick Drive would be the venue.  The theme would be family fun and flowers. Imagine the pool with one hundred beautiful flowers floating on the water, balloons and Chinese lanterns dancing overhead.  Children cavorting on the lawns, Yummy finger food  and snacks and did I mention I would fly in all her favorite people – Leisa and crew,  Steve and I too,  Grammy Edna, David and family, Julie plus three and Anissa with her brood.  Of course Allen and family would attend.  And then there would be all the wondeful Schlacter family and the Onraio Vail/Rogers contingent!  What a party we would have.

 However that is all a dream so I shall give what I can, reminiscences and a small object that is associated with those memories. This is a little Noritake cream pitcher. 

Noritake Tree in the Meadow pattern

The creamer was given to me by Aunt Bell some thirty odd years ago.  Aunt Bell was a younger sister of Burl Brooker.  Burl Brooker was Vavielle’s grandfather.    Aunt Bell told me that the pitcher had belonged to her mother.  I have attempted to weave the memory trail between that statement and the facts.  Bell and Burl’s mother, Dora Howland Brooker, died when Burl was just seven and Bell less than five.  Dora was an American from the Presque Isle, Maine area.  When Dora died the Howland family came to Fielding for the funeral. When they left Bell, another girl who I think was called Inez, and the baby Donny went with them.  I can only imagine this little creamer; did the child Bell clutch it in her hand as she left the only home she had known?  Or did Bell acquire it later in life?  Had Dora at one time had a set of the Noritake?  That does not seem realistic as this china was always considered expensive and they were a poor family.  Or was the creamer a gift to Dora?  She was known for caring for the sick.  In fact Dora had been caring for a community on the other hill (she lived on Brooker hill and was nursing on Bell Hill) who were sickened with diphtheria.

 When the call came for Dora’s nursing skills her husband Earlin pleaded with her not to go, citing her young baby Donny and the fact the disease was so contagious.  Dora replied that she had survived diphtheria and so was immune and that she must nurse her neighbours.  Dora was gone several weeks, many of the adults and children succumbed to the disease but for some Dora’s nursing skills proved successful.  When the epidemic had passed Dora returned home.  Unfortunately it was a cold rainy day when she trudged those miles of wooded trails from one hill to the other.  Dora arrived home soaked to the hide, chilled to the bone and very weary. She took to her bed.  Dora Howland Brooker was dead in just a few days. 

When our daughters were young their father Ronald and I loved to visit his Aunt Bell who lived in Fort Fairfield, Maine.  She was such a presence that I remember her as Aunt Bell and cannot recall a surname. In our visiting time frame Aunt Bell had already been widowed, there was much talk of Uncle Harry – I think he was a character.  And her one foster son lived far away however their presence filled her mobile home.  As much as we enjoyed our visited to her, I think Aunt Bell treasured them more.  The girls were content to eat, listened to the adults reminisce and watch fuzzy TV on a rabbit ear TV.  Aunt Belle often showed me her prize possessions. I like to think that the lovely Noritake creamer was Aunt Bell’s light. That she would pour the half and half in the pitcher and remember her Mother.  A memory held by a five year old, warm and fuzzy.  I was so honored when Aunt Bell gave me the pitcher. I have treasured and guarded it.  Now it is time to pass it on.  The creamer is from 1930’s and valued from $17.99 to $70.00. But for me it is priceless,  Happy Birthday Vavielle, love you forever.

Why I loved my time in Rankin Inlet

Many of my life adventures have been a result of serendipity.    Not familiar with that word?  Serendipity means a "happy accident" or "pleasant surprise"; specifically, the accident of finding something good or useful without looking for it.  A British translation company has voted Serendipity one of the ten English words most difficult to translate. 

So not to be labour the point, in the spring of 1990 I attended a Library conference where I complimented a woman on her attire.  Later, over drinks, I learned she was the Director of Public Libraries for the North West Territories.  Just a few weeks later, I was on a plane to Rankin Inlet to interview for the position of Regional Librarian for the Keewatin region.  Even though it was a large plane there were only seats for twenty, as a partition had been put in place and the rest of the plane was for cargo.

When we landed in the North I was holding my breath in anticipation.   The first thing I realized was the cold.  It might have been June but the weather said December. That is why the Inuit were still wearing their parkas. I had not packed warm clothing.   Luckily I had several blazer style jackets and I soon acquired the layered look.   As for the Inuit parks, they serve many purposes.  Mother carries their babies in their hoods until they are two or three. As infant s the babies are snuggled in the hood wearing little more than a diaper, or the traditional moss, and when it is time for lunch Mummy somehow moves the baby from her hood to the feeding station without going onto the cold!

 The first night in the hotel was an experience.  I went off to my room around eleven pm and it was still bright and sunny.  The travel and latitude change had left me hyped to the max.  At three am the sun was still streaming in through my window.  That was when I discovered the blackout blinds.  The days flew by, I had a tour of the village, walked out to see the sled dogs (scary) and set for interviews.  I was treated as if I had accepted the position and one day was spending in receiving instructions regarding employment with the government of the North West Territories.

village of Rankin Inlet June still ice floes!

One evening while I was cat napping in the bar two of my companions asked if I was free for the next day.  Sure. Come with us they invited. They were going to make a medical in-and-out to Iqaluit and thought the nurse would enjoy another white face.  I inquired about transporting medical patients and they said there was lots of room. What an experience!  That little old plane was like flying inside a tin can.  The only plus was the noise made it impossible to talk; their medical stories were truly terrific. I was happy to get back to Rankin in one piece, and my ears rang for days.

A high light of my stay was the reception in our honor.  I neglected to tell you that I had a counterpart in this process.  The government of the North West Territories invites the two top candidates from a competition to the position location.  There the candidates can meet the hiring board and together come to a collaborative decision re who to hire.   My counter was Marc from Quebec   and we developed an easy friendship.  The reception was at the home of Michael Martchenko, for those in the know he is the illustrator of Murmel, Murmel  a picture book by Robert Munch.  Marc and I were thrilled by the attendance and the food was specular.   Our favorites came from the barbeque, garlicky caribou marinated in soya sauce and arctic char in a secret marinate.  And I think the first time I had Quinoa was in a salad served that night.  I found the food as sophisticated as we would have in the south.

Out on the land

Our week was action packed yet seemed so relaxed.  One day some of the elders invited us to go out on the land.  What a motley crew we were, Marc and I in what we could borrow and throw together, the elders (male and female) in their parkas riding ATV s  and the young men dressed in camo  wear,  $200 sneakers and trotting along beside.  From the air I had observed thousands of little mud puddle like lakes, how different they looked from the ground. We were above the tree line and all the vegetation rose no more than a few centimeters.  Yet the land was diverse and beautiful.  We passed a number of inukshuks and the elders often stopped to check that they were intact.  They explained that these food caches, marked with their distinctive stone shapes have often saved a life. 

But no more talking, it was time for action.  Our entourage stopped, all gathered round and the fishing roads and rifles were unloaded.   Soon an elderly woman was pulling char out of this little hole at an alarming rate.   Several others grasped the flapping fish, drug them to another hole and dressed them out. The fish heads were tossed in a pile.  Several of the fish were so wiggly that they escaped back into the water and were long gone.  There is a scientific explanation why this is so, but I will not get into it at this time.  The rifle – to shoot the sea gulls who tried to poach our fish! 

At the end of the week, our decision was made. Marc would take the position. (He stayed eight months then ended up taking a library position in Campbellton, NB!) There were many factors, I was not disappointed. I was not sure that living in isolation was for me. And Marc did not have a current position, I did.  They were hoping to get someone who could learn the Inuit language.  That would not be me.

The Coop Store - everything was available just 300% more !

Sunday morning was bright and sunny, as had been every day of my stay. I packed and went to check out of the hotel.  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you”’ said the desk clerk, owner, bartender and morning cook.   “But we fly out today!”  I replied.  “Maybe”, was her answer. We went to the airstrip for our ten o’clock flight,  at two they sent us back into town.  They suggested we come back at 7:00pm.  Did. Waited.  10:00pm they send us back to town.  I was getting very irritated and inquired why they could not just call and see when the plane was going to come.  I was told “That is not our way”. 

Wednesday the plane came, I was playing cards in the bar with the desk clerk, owner bartender and mornings cook.  I jumped up to pack and dash to the air field.  “Set right down there and finish this game and then have something to eat”, she said “they need to unload that cargo and then load what is going from here, you have lots of time”.  And she was right. 

Rankin to Winnipeg, I was only three days late. I waved the paperwork they gave in Rankin and I had a hotel and flights for Thursday.  I had missed three days of work thus far and needed another day to travel.  The people in Rankin had, in advance, cleared that with my library manager.  A week or so after I arrived back in Saint John I received a letter from the government of the NWT.  There was a letter formally stating Ihad been unsucessful in the competition;  and a cheque to compensate me for my time and trouble.

how David amputated his ear

When I was a teenager we moved to my mother’s family farm in Fielding, NB.  Since we had been living in the neighbourhood it was an easy transition.  And my four younger brothers soon found many areas for play.

Right to left - David, Bruce, Allen and Rodney

One was the lumber pile situated on the top of the knoll between the house and the barn.  I am unsure of how the pile was started, perhaps when the sheep pen was constructed.  What was left was a pile of finished lumber that could easily have filled a haft ton truck.  I use the word pile loosely as the lumber and boards had been pulled and pushed until they had doubled in width and reduced in height.  Mother continually admonished to boys not to play on the lumber pile and she suspected that nails or worse might lurk in the depths.

 On the day in question, my brothers were cavorting around like a flock of kid goats.  I was outside doing some chores when I heard the screams, then “Mummy, Mummy ….David has cut off his ear!”  I called for our mother and then ran to the lumber pile.  David was sitting up, his head in his hands and blood was pouring out through his fingers.  Mother appeared, did her usual little chicken hop (her reaction to all things stressful) then called; “Where is his ear. Where is his ear?”    Mother was practical and resourceful but she could also be a bit hysterical.  I thought she had finally lost it.   

The severed ear was found, still clinging to the hatchet (or sharp rock, there has always been a question over the implement.)   Mother instructed me to run for ice, a wet face cloth and a towel.  She loaded David in the back seat of the car, smacked the ear back in place, covered it with the wet facecloth, the ice and the towel and set off to the hospital.  I stayed home with the rest of my siblings. 

When Mother and David returned the bleeding was stopped and the ear reattached.  When I asked how she knew what to do Mother replied that everyone knew that ear is just muscle.  Mother was a registered practical nurse.  We were all pleased that David had regained his ear, David most of all as they were quite prominent.   And that is the story of how David cut off his ear, almost!

David a few years later

A few days Mother was visiting and we recalled the incident.  Mother remembers it thus.  She took David in the house, washed his ear and head and put them back together; she does not remember stitches or tape.  I asked how she kept the ear to his head, David was not a kid to stay still, and she said with the wash cloth.  Sounds suspicious to me, yet we both agree the ear was totally severed. 

about driving the bookmobile

In 1975 I accepted the position of Manager at the Florenceville Public Library.    At that time the Florenceville Library was part of the York Library system and supervised from the upriver headquarters in Woodstock.  In addition to the branches a bookmobile also operated out of that location.

I was always one to enjoy new experiences so after I had been employed for a few months I had the opportunity to go out on the bookmobile.  The crew consisted of the driver and a Bookmobile librarian, a role I willingly played.  Many of the patrons on the bookmobile route were housebound and we were their main contact with the outside.  Although the bookmobile could only hold a thousand or two volumes these books were chosen with care.  There is adult fiction of all genres, nonfiction, teen and children’s novels, children’s nonfiction, picture books, paper backs and magazines.  The selection is rejuvenated before each outing to reflect the interests of the patrons on the route.  In addition patrons can make requests and some would have as many as a dozen titles to sign out.

The winter of 1985/86 was cold and snowy in Carleton/Victoria County.  My seven mile trek to work could be a challenge.  Then one morning I received a call from my supervisor inquiring if I still had a Class one licence.  I replied that indeed I did, I had acquired this some years ago when driving truck with my husband.   “Good”, said my supervisor, “You are taking out the bookmobile today”.  She went on to say that both the bookmobile driver and the librarian were sick with the flu. Betsy herself would take the Bookmobile but she had sprained her ankle and did not think she could navigate the snow packed back roads. Soon she arrived at my library and hauled herself up the long flight of stairs.  Betsy had made it up the TransCanada from Woodstock but there was no question of her driving further.

I received my instructions, I reviewed the route.  This was long, long before cell phones.  I was on my own.  I backtracked from Florenceville and headed out toward Mount Pleasant.  Now Mount Pleasant is a community only a few miles from my old home in Fielding.  The village was apt named, I thought of that winding stretch of road with a sheer precipice on the right side.  The side I would be travelling.  

I made my scheduled stop in the center of the village and between patrons took the opportunity to eat my lunch.  Each person’s description of the roads was more ominous.  It started to snow.   I put the big, awkward vehicle in gear and continued on.  As I rounded the curve by the school I noticed something amiss, sawhorses were blocking the right lane, I was forced to drive on the wrong side. As I drove farther I realized the road had been salted and sanded, and then I saw a group of men by the side of the road.  I stopped. They told me that their wives had received a call from my supervisor.  They were worried about me so they had arranged salt and sand and a shutdown lane for the tricky seven miles of my route.  There would be men all along the road should I need help. No one offered to drive the bookmobile.

Vavielle and Leisa summer 1976

 I made it through the tricky part, navigated down over the West Gordonsville hill and turned on to the Black Brook Road.  All level road here and only a few miles from my home.  My last stop was at the Fielding Baptist church.  How proud I was to pull over and serve my neighbours.  As I was busy stamping out books I heard a cry “Mummy!” and there were my daughters Vavielle and Leisa, just eight and three at the time.  I never knew who told them I would be there.  It must have been their father who brought them to see me.  The patrons were delighted to see the girls and they enjoyed their time playing librarian.  My truck driving husband did offer to take the Bookmobile in to the library.  I refused his offer. 

I cannot remember if I was called on for repeat engagements. However this one performance so stood out in Vavielles’s memory that she asked me to write a blog about when Mummy drove the Bookmobile.

About seeing Whitney Houston

On February eleventh, I like the rest of North America, heard that Whitney Houston was dead.   Not of some lingering illness or an unforeseen accident but of an overdose of drugs and alcohol.  She was 48.  

Houston was a mezzo-soprano, and was commonly referred to as "The Voice" in reference to her exceptional vocal talent.  Her vocal range extended from G below middle C (G₃) to high B-flat  (B♭₅); she could belt out to treble F (F₅).  Whitney was third in MTV's list of 22 Greatest Voices.   At her peak Whitney was worth $150 million, it has now been released that at the time of her debt she was $20 million in debt.  It is sad to see someone who rode so high crash so low.  Then I remembered, I had seen Whitney in person.

The year was 1989 and I was one of four women who visited New York on a whirlwind “show” tour. One of our shows was Diana Ross in concert at Radio City Music Hall.  Our tickets were for the midnight show.  Diana was awesome, more about that later.  About half way through the show she mentioned there was someone special in the audience and called Whitney to the stage.  I was sure Diana called Whitney her niece; however they are no relation whatsoever. Whitney’s mother is a singer, Cissy Houston who sang back up on several of Diana Ross's Albums!

Whitney floated on stage; she had that ethereal fairy dust quality.  Towering over the diminutive Diana, Whitney sang one number.  Although we were in nose bleed seats I put my opera glasses to good use.  One number and she left, drifted off the stage and out of my life.

Diana resumed her concert.   She was magnificent, making at least seven costume changes with matching vocal selections.  I had not realized how tiny Ross was and many of her costumes were very heavy. The program said that one weighed twenty pounds.  We were also informed that Diana often lost up to ten pounds in a performance.  It was a magnificent show; we enjoyed the audience almost as much as Diana.  Many had arrived in stretch limos and wore evening clothes glitzed with what we now call bling.  We wore casual clothing and sneakers and enjoyed the evening immensely.  I had not thought of the Diana Ross concert for many years.   

Is it the quest for riches that drives these entertainers?  Does signing one contract for a cool million make them salivate for more?  Are possessions really so important?   I wish I could have told the young Whitney Houston what her future would hold.   She would not have been deterred.

about International Women's Day

Today, March eighth, is International Women’s Day.  Other years I have participated in an event to mark the day, a gathering at the ABEC, a meal with likeminded women, an event for teens.   I saw no such event advertised this year.

On May 8, 1965  International Women's Day was declared a non-working day in the USSR "in commemoration of the outstanding merits of Soviet women in communistic construction.” In the West, International Women's Day was first observed as a popular event after 1977 when the United Nations General Assembly invited member states to proclaim March 8 as the UN Day for women's rights and world peace.

 The 1932 Soviet poster dedicated to the 8th of March holiday. The text reads: "8th of March is the day of rebellion of the working women against kitchen slavery" and "Down with the oppression and narrow-mindedness of household work." 

I was unaware of this important day until the mid-eighties when I moved to Saint John.   Here I met Ermine Cohen, Mary Eileen Travis and was introduced to Saint John Women for Action.   This was a nonpartisan political group comprised of socially conscious women. My first interaction was with the Pro Choice group which had sprung up to support the Morgentaler clinic.  There were thoughts of establishing this in Saint John, but the realities made Fredericton a better home.  

It was the interaction and introduction to women that was my delight. Nancy More, brew master at Labatt’s;  Cheryl Robertson, principal of NBCC;  Patricia Donahee, then chair of the Welfare review board; these are a few of the wonderful women who were then, and now, my friends.

The Women for Action held events for International Women’s Day; participated in elections at all levels (I was on the moderator panel for one debate).  We supported International and local students. We brought high profile women to town as Speakers.  Then after ten years, we grew weary.   The bright young things were not interested in our group. 

They seemed to think their star shone bright because they were brighter and stronger and their sisters hung out at the bars.  We did not disband, be simply fizzled out. 

From time to time another group will have an event similar to ours, a trade union or Non Profit.  I attend a few, it is always nice to see old faces and hear new ideas.  But, the new ideas are one dimensional. International Women's Day - here in Saint John signifies the ground we have lost. There is only one woman on city council, no women on most boards and commissions. Most of our daughters have given away what we fought for. Our granddaughters say "fight, what fight?"  

Has it all been in vain?  I am on the wrong side of sixty, retired, ill and have a decent pension.  I may have my husband’s last name but I have my own bank account and for most purposes I wear the pants.  I am the go-to person for our family and friends.  You need not purchase my burial plot just yet.