Sleep overs

 

My son in law is from Egypt and he and often find ourselves on the opposite side of an argument.  However, there is one subject on which we can agree; sleep overs for young children.  I can seldom finagle to get the boys, ages six and eight to spend the night.  Their father’s position is he wants the boys at home and why do they need to be away?  So there are no small boys coming and going with back packs from their home.

It is unfortunate that the parent/parents of Connor and Noah Barthe did not share the same view. Now I am not blaming the parents, their loss must be unimaginable, this was an accident.  However we have legalized seat belts and cars seats to prevent accidents.  We, as a country, need to take more care with our children.

I have seen more harm than good come from sleep overs.  Often there are more than two children involved and in numbers come trouble.  Who has not heard of sleep over children who storm the kitchen, watch adult movies and videos, help themselves to liquor and even partake of prescription drugs?  All while the adults are sleeping!

Both my daughter and I had disturbing episodes, of the personal nature, while on sleep overs.  They were definitely not the fault of the host but had we been at home this trauma would have been avoided.

Our children are the most precious gift; we should watch them like we would an invaluable work of art, a fortune in cash or a priceless antique.  Would you send one of those treasures out for the night?

I do advocate occasional sleep over visits with grandparents to give the parents a break and the grandparents some alone time with the younger generation.   However most grandparents are getting older and both parents and grandparents should review sleeping arrangements, safety issues, and security of adult materials and proximity of pets.  Too many little ones have been bitten by the family pet! 

When you and your family feel sleep overs might be appropriate here is my check list;

ü  Child should be about ten

ü  Ensure you know the family your child  will be visiting

ü  You need to have visited the home, preferably more than once

ü  Inquire about sleeping arrangements, safety issues, and security of adult materials and proximity of pets

ü  If you are not 100% with the answers do not let you child go!

ü  Ask about hours for sleep, what and when they will eat

ü  Check access to Television, cell phones, electronic games and social media

 

I am sure all you parents can add more to my list and thoughts.  My last point is that the majority of bullying episodes happen between 3 or more children.  Do not set your child up to be the victim.

 

No one asked me, but I say No to sleep overs.  The exception being to their grandparents.

About Fiddleheads

Fiddleheads as they grow once the spring waters recede from streams and rivers
 

 I was first introduced to this wonderful vegetable after my family moved to Carleton county in 1959.   After a winter berefit of green vegetable's, fiddleheads were an unexpected delight and a harbringer of spring.   Even though I now have green vegetables all winter I still welcome each spring's arrival of fiddleheads.

In the 1950′s and 60′s locals were not aware of the dangers of polluntants when harvesting these green goodies from along the Shitehawk stream or Saint John River; or perhaps there were no pollutants at this stage?

Yet my mental pictures of those long ago "pickings" show emply chemical barrels along the stream!

We called the brown sheath the brac and it was this that caught the dirt, no one thought of it as a health hazard.










Fiddleheads were washed once, plunked in a pot and cook until soft (and somewhat gray). There would be several inches of brown scum up the side of your pot!! One would carefully ladel out the fiddleheads and serve with butter, (homemade of course), and vinegar. At one home in our neigbourhood the fiddleheads were cooked even longer and then mashed on the plate with a fork.


It was not until I had “lived away” and returned to Carleton County in the 1970′s that I realized fiddleheads could be eaten tendercrisp – heaven!

 

 

There were years when cleaning fiddleheads was a spring pastime; in a pillowcase, in the clothesdryer, hosed down between two screens – removing the brown covering seemed next to impossible. My friend Graydon Shaw had such a system.

 

This Google image search on the right shows a automated Fiddlehead Cleaner devised in Maine.

In 1985 I moved to Saint John and have only harvested fiddleheads a few times. However I await each spring’s growth with anticipation. Fiddleheads, salmon, potatoes = a feast. 

My mother Edna, at 88, has now decreed that she shall only eat the superior grade of these ferns; the ones without stalk and harvested just as they burst from the ground.


NOW FOR THE KICKER! Because of contaminants from the waters;

Fiddleheads must be boiled for at least a minute to kill the germs.







Should you wish to saute, make soup, add to salads, stir fries etc the fiddlehead still requires this preboil; and I advise you to shock them with an ice water rinse to preserve the bright green colour.

Now I must run, there are some left over fiddleheads in my fridge and I have not yet had breakfast. I enjoy them cold ; and they would be so much better if I had some of my brother, Bruce Vail’s, cornmeal crusted, fried, Carleton County trout!!


Feel free to share your fiddlehead memories, comments or questions.  Readers loved, Comments adored!

 

The Rogers Twins

Edna herself
 

My mother, Edna Vail, celebrated her 88^th birthday on April 28^th/2013.   Mother has had many trials and tribulations, as well as some serious illnesses, so it is even more rewarding that she is bright and cheery as she celebrates this day.  Or as Edna would say “I’m just peachy”!

 

 

 

Ena, Frank, Barney, Edna
 

Eighty eight years ago in the hamlet of Fielding, New Brunswick there was an event; twin girls were born to Nelson and Lottie Rogers.  They were named Edna Mary and Ena Marie.   The birth was notable as the Rogers had seven boys and one girl to welcome the babies. 

The twins were identical so at birth a pink ribbon was tied to the wrist of one and a blue for the other.  As Mama was on bed rest (and well deserved I am sure), Papa and brother Earle took charge of the twins.  In a day when many babies did not survive, these full term girls weighted a total of 15 lbs. and were destined to thrive.

 

I do not have many stories before they went to school, I am sure they were busy sisters.  I know they were christened the “twinzies” by their siblings.  Edna’s first memories were of them making mud pies.  It was a serious event, deserving neighbour children would be summoned, the mud procured and the pies formed.  The mud pies would be left to bake until the next day when the tea would be held. The twins would serve their guests the mud pies with cups of imaginary tea. Edna can still remember breaking off a piece of the pie and pretending to eat it. 

One pie making day was particularly sunny and the twins looked for a prime spot to bake their pies. Then their eyes feel on the lumber pile.  Papa had just added some brand new lumber; they laid their pies out on its pristine surace.  When their father came in for supper he inquired why they had dirtied up his new lumber.  “But they are fresh mud pies, they would not dirty anything”, was the Ena’s reply.  But they were told to clean off the pies and sweep the boards.

The mud pies were a factor in a near tragedy.  The best source for mud was from along the brook than ran by the main road.  Ena was the “harvester” and loaded up her implement then brought it to the waiting pie makers.  On one trip Ena was so engrossed in her play that she popped up from the brook and out and onto the road.  A big lumber truck was coming, the driver tried to stop but to no avail. The bumper hit Ena, she fell down, and the truck ran over her.  By the time the truck stopped Ena had been hit by the axle, (she was lying vertically between the wheels).  The driver, Harold McDougall from Bristol, gathered her up and took her to the house.  He told Mrs. Rogers to call the doctor. She informed the truck driver that they were not on the phone and they did not get Doctors; they believed in God for healing.  The truck driver responded that it was his responsibility and he would get the doctor; which he did. 

Ena, Mother Lottie,
Rodney and Edna 1932

 

The doctor examined six year old Ena and could find no visible breaks and only a few abrasions; however he diagnosed a concussion and put her on bed rest.  And in a few days they were back to normal.  Edna says the matching dresses they are wearing in this photo was one of the few times they ever dressed alike.  Their family was very poor and most garments were made from hand me down adult wear.

 

The twins were so alike that the school teacher could only tell them apart by their clothes and were they were seated.  Imagine their delight when at lunch time they scurried to the facilities and changed their dresses.  Each became the other!

The Sunday School teacher realized that Edna had a dimple which showed up if she smiled ; so the teacher would tickle the twins (which they hated).  Then Edna could be identified by her dimple.

The year’s sped by.  The first real difference was at the end of grade four; Edna passed into grade five but Ena was held back.  This did not dampen their spirits, they continued teasing their big brothers, helping with their little brothers Rodney and Sam, attending church and Sunday school and helping Mama.  Edna says the Ena was a better helper, a kinder person while she Edna was a whiner and complainer. Their brother Earle told me that the girls had two personalities and they traded them at will, just as they switched their dresses. 

Days rolled into weeks, weeks to months and months to years and the twinzies grew and flourished.  Then one day Ena became ill with flu like symptoms and went to Mama’s bed.  That night Edna slept alone for the first time in her life. The next day, in October 1935, Ena Marie Rogers drew her last breath: she was ten years old.  Edna has grieved for her twin these seventy eight years. 

 At the time neighbours felt Ena had died of a ruptured appendix.   Others said a knot in the bowel.  Or had she been damaged internally when the truck ran over her? There was no doctor, no autopsy.  Fifty years after the fact a local doctor, whose father had been the doctor who covered Fielding told me this.  “I will never forget the night the Roger's twin died. My father came home and held his head in his hands and cried like a baby.  He was so angry with the Rogers that their faith healing would deny medical help for their child.”

My Rogers grandparents died in the 1960’s.  After their death a neighbour shared this; Grampy was so distraught with the death that the night of the funeral he went to Ena’s grave and prayed for God to raise her.  He pleaded and reminded God that they had followed his faith healing edict; Grampy said, “ God you raised Lazarus, now raise our twin!”  The neighbour continued that Grampy prayed all night and as dawn broke he felt that God said, “I will raise her one day, but not right now”.

Why we named her Vavielle

 

When I was a girl my Mother and I had lots of talks, I know every girl talks to her mother.  But ours were special, Edna and I had real conversations. Perhaps they had been going on for many years but the ones I remember best began when I was fourteen and we inherited my Mother’s family farm.

We always talked when we were working, and it seemed we were always working.   Doing dishes provided a great time for our discourse, Laundry, ditto.  Making beds, cleaning, cooking, pickling, gardening, chasing cows; I recall chats from all of those time.  Then there was berry picking!  That was when the serious tête-à-tête took place.

“Vavial, is that not a beautiful name?” began Mother on one of our raspberry picking jaunts.

“What….

“Vavial, is a nice name.” Mother replied.

“For who?”

“A girl”.

“You are not going to have another baby!!!!” I protested!

(By way of explanation, I was the oldest of six.  When I was 14 Mother had her last baby, my only sister.  I was not impressed.  And I had stressed there were to be no more babies!)

“No – let’s take a break,” said Mum.

So we located one another through the raspberry canes, found a patch of grass and had a long drink of water. Mother had survival down pat; she was freezing partial bottles of water as soon as pop came in plastic.  Then the story…

In the 1940’s my mother was a student, and a teacher, at Emmanuel Bible School in New Castle Bridge, New Brunswick.  One summerMother and some of the other students travelled to Maine for camp meetings.  This was an annual summer occurrence for evangelicals where for a week or more they would meet, visit and have three services a day.  As well as preaching the services highlighted singing, both congregational and “special singers”.   Now one of those soloists was a beautiful francophone lady with dark haired, wonderful smile and a magnificent voice.  And mother said her name was Vavial.

Edna, that would be my Mother, was so taken with the name that she vowed any future daughter would be called Vavial.  Then in 1949 enter Talmage Vail and v’s abounded.  I was born June 1950 and Edna decided that Vavial Vail would be too much, so called me Valerie.  (I was named Valerie Vail which was no treat for a kid with a lisp!)

And now Mother is telling me this story, which she repeated several times each year.  Fast forward a few year and I am pregnant, however, I am still in high school so it was not a happy time.  As the pregnancy progressed I thought of names; “Leif” for a boy and “Vavial” for a girl.  The most wonderful baby girl arrived on March 25/1968; all dark hair and dark eyes.  We called her Vavial Rae Brooker (yes her father and I had married).

baby Vavial 5 months

Vavial was the perfect baby, slept through the night, good traveller, not given to vomit.  I loved her name, yet many people asked if I had “made it up” from my Christian and surnames!

Vavial said she did not like her name but she was always a beautiful, intelligent girl and I felt it set her apart from the pack.  When Vavial was in grade three French immersion came to our area and the program included Quebec born monitors.   During a chat with one of the monitors the origin of Vavial’s name arose.  So I recounted mother’s story. 

 

 

“Mais oui”,  said the monitor “Vavielle!”

“Excuse me?”

“C'est le nom pour une fille, comme Michele, Danielle et Gabrielle. Tu comprends?”

Then she explained that my mother had anglicised a French name.   Vavial and I discussed the subject and Vavial  came to understand that she had a unique French name.  

 

Now Vavielle
with sister \leisa

 

When she entered middle school she was Vavielle Rae Brooker.  People seemed to be more able to pronounce her name.  I liked it when I chose that name, I like it still. 

 

And my Mother?  When Vavielle was five a second daughter, Leisa, was born to our family.  As soon as Leisa could talk Mother referred to Vavielle as “Sissy” and so she has been to Leisa and Grammy Edna for the past forty years.

 

Vavielle (aka Sissy) &
Grammy Edna

 

Now that we are all on line a few more Vavielle’s have surfaced.  There are now five Vavielle's on Facebook. Google searches always turn up a few Vavielles and occasionally it surfaces as a surname.

 

 

 

 

 

Vavielle has had a love hate affair with the name and in later years has shortened herself to “Vave”.  She has been Auntie Vave to her niece and nephews and now Mommy to her little guy Jonah.   Whatever the moniker, I love her dearly.  And I think Vavielle’s name suits my special, talented, competent, loving daughter and Vavielle she will always be, to me.

Vavielle and I ( Valerie Vail Brooker Bauer)

 

Leaving home

 

Marcia & her father

My granddaughter, Marcia, has been talking to me about leaving home.  She is graduating from High School in a few months.   I do not think that I responded in the manner she expected.

“Move away, well of course…when I was a girl in rural Carleton County everyone had to move away. There were few jobs and if one wanted to go to college or university you had to move. I grew up with the realization that I would move away after I graduated”. 

 

Of course this brought eye rolling and mutters of the good old days on her part.  For my part, it brought a flood of memories.

July 1968, forty five years ago, I had my newly minted high school diploma, a three month old baby, a husband and we had a debt of $8000.   This was 1968 when wages in our area were $1.00 an hour.  I had planned to move to Fredericton and attend Teachers College but that was not to be.

Instead, we packed our possessions into a wooden tea chest and a trunk, took down the baby crib and taped it together, tied 2 pillows together and packed a lunch and drove to Juniper to catch the train west to Vancouver.  Coach, you set up 24/7.  Our baby, Vavielle, was wonderful; she ate, slept and filled her job description.  Thank goodness we had received a package of the newly invented Pampers!  My husband Ronald was not so easily assuaged and either smoked or paced.  By Quebec he was ready to jump train.

Union Station July 1968
Ronald, Valerie & Vavielle Brooker
Marlene, Dan, Grace & Frank Rogers

I do not remember whether it was prearranged or by chance, however when the train pulled into Toronto we were met by my cousin Brenda.  In fact we were met by many of our Ontario relatives!

Brenda was ready for a visit with an infant and fashioned a bed for Vavielle by lining a dresser drawer with a towel.  We had not been in Toronto long when someone suggested we trade in our remaining tickets and purchase airplane tickets for the rest of the journey.  Good plan!  A few days later we stepped off the plane in Vancouver and were met by my Uncle Gifford, aka Buck. 

Our ultimate goal was Port Alberni on Vancouver Island.  The day after we landed Ronald and Buck went to the train station to claim our baggage.  CPR seemed puzzled as to how we were requesting baggage when the train had not yet arrived.  Buck smoothed it over and they returned a few days later.  Our few days in Van were filled with adventures; being guest in a home that also housed a number of hippies, cruising downtown on a Harley and being introduced to the drug culture.  Oh Toto, we are not in Kansas anymore.  We made our escape in an old VW van Buck had donated to our cause and feasted on our first Big Mac, twenty five cents, at the Golden arches.

We stayed in Port Alberni three years.  We truly had left home.  My cousin Brenda Rogers never moved back from the GTA and over the years her entire family migrated to Ontario.  My brother Rodney went to Toronto in 1969, many of his friend were there looking for work.  He found a job with Facelle tissue Plant in the GTA, where he worked until he retired this year. 

My Rogers grandparents raised a family of eleven, two were casualties of WWII, the eldest Ira never left New Brunswick and of the remaining eight only my mother returned and has spent the remainder of her life in the province.  While Uncle Earle raised his family in NB when they had all left home he and Aunt Effie followed them.

"Go West, young man" is a quote by American author Horace Greeley , and my family certainly took this admonishment to heart.  Some of our family stopped off in Ontario but many continued on to British Columbia.

My siblings and I number six; only two have spent their lives in New Brunswick.  My elder daughter Vavielle lives in Burlington; my sister Virginia  lives in Jamaica, and my brother Allen is in Texas.  I have eleven nephews and nieces; five are living outside of the province.  Nephews Tim in Toronto area, Dallen in Banff and Ashley in Medicine Hat; Neices Rebecca in Winnipeg and Patti in Pennsylvania.

So Marcia, you have your Gram’s approval to pack your bags and go.  Your family before you primarily went for work, but there are many reasons to move on.  Spread your wings, try something new, and see something different (this is a big beautiful country in which we live).  Make a fresh start; leave old habits behind (a good time to give up smoking?), and reinvent yourself.   I will give you all the support you need; just text me every day, eh?  

Note: After sleeping on it I realized that my brothers David and Bruce also "left home"; they both went to NBCC; David in NS, Bruce in Moncton and they both spent a year working in Calgary.  So we are six for six!

about Eugene Whalen 

It was in the early eighties and I was in Ottawa with my friend Ann Brennan.  I was assisting Ann in research for her book which was to be published as the Real Klondike Kate; http://www.amazon.com/Real-Klondike-Kate-Ann-Brennan/dp/0864921349.  The research was exciting as we were some of the last people to be able to handle the actual historical documents before they were microfilmed and sealed from the public.  But Klondike Kate is another story, let’s get on to Whelan. 

Ann and her husband Raymond Brennan, at that time were very active in the provincial Library party. Since the archives are housed in the parliament buildings and we were already “on the hill”   Ann had invitations to a number of events.  For me the most memorable was the party in Whalen’s office.   We arrived while the work day was still in full swing; I found a chair in a corner and watched the machinations while attempting to keep my jaw from hitting the floor.  Phones were ringing, staff was running, Whalen was barking orders.  Ann had disappeared.   Then at some unheard signal, all work stopped. Most of the staff disappeared, Whalen took off his suit jacket, donned a suede, fringed jacket, cowboy boots and a 10 gallon hat.  I did not remember that hat to be green, in fact in my memeory it was white! Food and drink appeared and a new crowd of people,  and there was Ann in the fray.

Whalen in recent years
 

Early on I had a conversation with Whalen; he was a big man in every way; size, voice and personality.  When he discovered I came from rural New Brunswick and had worked for McCain’s we had a bit of a conversation. Whalen moved on and I was left to find a drink and mingle. 

An aide found me nursing a gin and tonic and advised me the only way to survive this party was to “water” the plants and switch to ice water. Somewhere around midnight Ann was ready to leave, I must say I envied her ease and knowledge of this political crowd!  However, I played the trump card.

When we had come to the hill earlier in the day Ann had parked the car in the large underground parking lot that occupies several blocks just down from the Hill.  Now it was dark and the area seemed abandoned. Ann wondered how we would find the car, and if we would be safe in the parkade.  I noticed a cab just by the steps so pulling a piece of paper from my pocket; I had written down the level and section; I handed it over to the cab driver with the words “Take us to our car”.  He did.

And no one ever asked me if I had met Eugene Whalen.


I love your comments, be brave, leave one!

<a href="http://www.hypersmash.com">Hypersmash.com</a>

if I was a leader

I had my epiphany when I was five years old.  I was attending a church Christmas concert when suddenly I began poking my Mother.

“Mummy, Mummy,” I whispered.
“What?” replied my Mother.
“I know what I want to be when I grow up!”  I expect my Mother was anticipating a request for the bathroom or a candy not a career pronouncement.  However, Mother played along.
“What is that?”
“I want to be up there”, and I waved my hand at the stage.

“Oh you want to be preforming, in a play like your Father”.   My Dad was an amateur thespian and has just given a rousing performance in a play that revolved around him miscounting eggs and oranges.  It was 1955, this was heady stuff.

“No!” I replied.
“Singing in the choir, or a solo? Saying a recitation?”
I was frantically shaking my head in the negative.  Even then it took me a bit to coral my ideas into words.
“Then what do you want to do?” asked my exasperated Mother.
“I want; I want to be that lady up there telling everyone what to do!” 
 

Myself at five

At five I had identified my role in life.  Some people are followers, some are leaders.  Some are sheep, others are shepherds. A few charge ahead, the rest stay back or tentatively go along.  As the oldest child I was in perfect position for leadership.  With parents who were often over whelmed with life, my skills were needed on the home base.

Although I had resolved to be a leader every scene did not play out in that way.  With my four younger brothers there was no contest; what I said, they did.  With childhood friends I was smart enough to rule by consensus and not be pegged the bossy one.

In school the teachers reigned supreme and somehow that suited my sensibilities.  The ineffectual teachers I learned to work around. In homage to my first real authority figures I planned a career in Education.  That was not to be. However I spent twenty three years as Manager of several public libraries where I truly ran my own ship.  This has been augmented with seven years as a Housing Officer and many, many years as President on various boards and commissions. Leadership roles also abounded in the Guiding organization, political parties and within the United Church of Canada. Every opportunity added to my skill set and self-confidence.

I do not always play the lead role as there are others who need an opportunity to learn and grow.  Forty five years ago I left my family home and bossing my brother’s ceased.  Yet they still call me for advice and emotional support.

Early on I learned that the best manager/leader takes all his players into consideration. Perhaps the instance in which I most stretched happened in Florenceville. The mill in Stickney had closed without warning and for some reason the workers were not eligible for EI.  The mayor of the day came to me with his problem, they could get Federal funding (this was the early 1980’s) but there was no village employee to supervise.  Could I keep eighteen men busy for twelve weeks?

The gauntlet had been tossed, I met with the men and we choose a fore man from their ranks. They concentrated on cleaning the banks of the river from Stickney to Bristol and giving all three villages a thorough cleaning.  The foreman checked in with me on a daily basis. The men were happy so worked well, the villages never looked better.

And no one asked me if I was  a leader.