about my little lamb

Sheep have always been a part of my mother’s family, and by default of mine.  This association began in the early 1900’s when Lottie Gaunce married Nelson Rogers.  Lottie was a teacher and her final pay was a twenty dollar gold piece; final due to the fact that as a married woman she could no longer teach.   Grammy Lottie used that gold piece to purchase a dozen sheep and a ram.

In my mind’s eye, I can see Lottie choosing her herd.  She would have gone for a few good milkers, some with an extra wooly coat and black faced simply because she liked them.  The sheep were good to Grammy and she was good to them.  Every spring the sheep produced lambs.  Grammy would choose several to add to her herd, one or two for meat and the rest would be sold as spring lambs.  While the ewe’s milk production was at its best Grammy use this and make cheese.  A little later the sheep would be sheared.  This fleece would be taken to the Briggs and Little woolen mills in Harvey, NB.  There Grammy Lottie traded for yarn and woolen items, (I still have one of those woolen blankets in my home).  The yarn was knit into innumerable pairs of socks and mitts and the occasional sweater or hat.  As well, Grammy’s stock of yarn was so bountiful she sold to all of her neighbors.  Yes Lottie had chosen well when she spent her gold piece. 

Grammy Lottie Rogers, Uncle Earle, Charlotte, Brenda, Arlene and sheep 1955

My association with the sheep was, for many years, at arm’s length.  Then in 1963 Grammy Lottie passed away and we moved into her house.  Part of the legacy was the flock of sheep.  In lambing season a farmer needed all the help he would get.   My father got me.  I never slept in the sheep pen as he did but I nursed many a sickly lamb.  That first spring was a comedy of errors including a late, cold stormy spring and sheep that had “caught” too early.  Lambs were born at an alarming rate.  Many were twins and I think I remember two sets of triplets.  A young ewe, with her first lamb, often will not nurse.  When that lamb is a twin or triplet the ewe really cannot cope.  So I had many boxes and bottles going in the back of the kitchen.  Sometimes as soon as the lamb could stand and butt back at the bottle they would be ready to go down to the barn.  Dad would work to see if an older sheep might foster one of these little ones. 

However there were many sad stories.  A returned lamb who had been bouncing out of the cardboard box was smothered by an adult.   I would check for the 2:00 am feeding and fine a lamb dead.  And the worst was when you found green diarrhea, which could wipe out your lambs in twenty four hours.  Dad and I survived that first season.  I enjoyed my animal husbandry.  The year progressed. Spring of 1964 arrived.  Dad was much better prepared; the lambs were being born later in the year.  March/April is much friendlier that the blasting snows of February, there were few lambs to be brought to the house. 

Then when the lambing season was almost finished, Dad arrived at the house with a poor waif.  He was no bigger than a kitten. I rolled him in a diaper and put him inside my shirt.  He was too tiny for our bottles so he sucked milk off my finger.  I named him Lambert.  We never named the farm animals that were to be sold or for food.  But this baby needed a name.  Mother would not allow me to take him to bed so I set my alarm so I would wake for night feedings.

Dad told me, when he brought Lambert to the house, that if I could pull him through I could have the money when he was sold. Nothing motivated me like money, unless it was Lambert’s big eyes and soft blats.  As the days lengthened and the grass grew, Mother put Lambert outside to frolic.  And how he loved to follow me around, nibbling on my clothing and butting me with his little head.  One day as the school bus was slowing down in front of our house some called, “what’s that waiting by the road?”  My brother Rodney called out “Oh that is .... Valerie’s little lamb!”   I was teased unmercifully after that. 

The lambs were sold one day while I was at school.  Dad gave me the proceeds from Lambert and I was pleasantly surprised by the amount.  I missed Lambert, but I was a farm kid and realized that that was his end.  And no one asked me about my little lamb.

why I called myself Thallery Thail

When I was young I had a lisp and mispronounced a number of letters.  My mother said this was caused from sucking my thumb, which in turn had caused a large space between my teeth.  At any rate the letters “F” and “V” came out as “TH’.  I do not remember being teased about this, or even that my teachers commented on my speech, it was simply a part of me.

This all changed the Christmas vacation I was ten.  My Uncle Earle arrived to take me to his place for holidays. Earle was one of my Mother’s older brothers and father to Charlotte, Brenda (my partner in crime who is oft mentioned in the blog) and Arlene. They lived some thirty miles away in a rural area of Lindsey near the town of Woodstock.  Uncle Earle was my favorite relative; the smartest, best story teller, champion of literacy and female enlightenment; I could go on and on.

Uncle Earle

As we were travelling to Lindsey Uncle Earle said, “You are too old and too smart to continue calling yourself Thallery Thail (Valerie Vail) so we will just correct that during your visit”.   There was no dispute from me.  The first day was spent with Uncle Earl giving me sounds and words to repeat, and then he watched my lips and mouth and made notes. By the second day the diagnosis was made.  As was the case with all items of importance, this was done at the dinner table with Uncle Earle, Aunt Effie, the girls and I in attendance.  “Your tongue gets in the road, but I think I know what to do.”  Then Uncle Earle proceeded to show me how to put my front teeth out over my bottom lip whenever an “F” or a “V” occurred.  And it worked!

My speech therapy had some other positive effects.   I had been a very rapid speaker.  Now I must mentally preview all my conversation spelling out each word to “set up” for my offending letters.  Suddenly my thoughts need be much more important to make it out as speech. 

I went home in ten days, I was Valerie Vail.   I could talk about funny, fabulous fruits and Valentines with violets.  I had been released from my imposed word prison.  The slower speech continued and also my voice took on a quieter modulation.  In the next year my Grandmother Rogers, Uncle Earle’s mother suffered a stroke and lost most of her speech.  Uncle Earle arrived with flash cards and instructions for me to teach/coach Grammy.  And we did, She angry and determined, me eager and filled with pride at being the teacher. 

When I was seventeen I had a head injury and developed a facial paralysis. A complication of this was that I lost my speech.  This was in the 1960’s and there was no medical intervention. However, using those skills taught to me by Uncle Earle, I was soon speaking once more.  You would think it ends there or that I choose a career in audiology (I did not even know that profession existed) but no, there is more. 

With my challenges most would shun public speaking but this has not been my case. This past fifty years I have participated in countless speaking engagements from radio and television, storytelling, facilitations, political debate, spokesperson supply minister and more.  I have addressed crowds of thousands with no qualms.  And yes, I miss words, or forget them.  I handle this by speaking slowly and it I hit a road block, I stop.  I stop and look the crowd over, make eye contact. Those thirty seconds that it takes to shuffle my mental file cabinet and find the word only serves to heighten the interest of the audience. Several local sound people have mentioned how much they like working with me because of my slow measured speech.

My daughters, Vavielle and Leisa, also loved to visit Uncle Earle and Aunt Effie.  With a house filled with books and magazines, unlimited learning opportunities and one on one mentoring the house in Lindsey was their own private science museum.

When I was fifty five I suffered a stroke,   the right side of my face dropped even more, I tripped over my tongue, speech was again difficult.    And again, I remembered the lessons of my childhood and bit by bit I was able to bring my speech up to par.  I still have problems getting words out, but that is a brain cramp and not with the speech. Uncle Earle’s method’s assist with these challenges as well.   

Uncle Earle has been dead almost fifteen years; someone is going to correct me on this, but I think of him daily.  I am fortunate to now have the privilege of spending several weeks a years living with Aunt Effie.  We talk about my speech therapy.  Uncle Earle was not flying solo on that.   His whole family had invested time and energy researching speech defects and working with me that week.  And they provided back up and coaching over the next few years. Another positive was for my younger brothers who had unknowingly been copying my lisp.   Their speech corrected as well. 

Thank you Uncle Earle; you are still my hero.  And no one asked me why I called myself Thallery Thail.

if I knew David Adams Richards

 In the late seventies, when I was living in Florenceville, I belonged to a writers group. Some were better writers than others however the group kept us all writing, and reading aloud, our work.  Ann Brennan, our self-styled  leadeer, announced at one meeting that she had an invitation for us to visit The Ice House Gang.   The afore mentioned was a group of witters with ties to University of New Brunswick in Fredericton.   They met in; you guessed it, the old ice house on the university campus.
 

Several of us were brave enough to attend, remember we were also obligated to read from our work.  The Fredericton gang numbered twelve. Memorable were Nancy and Bill Bauer, both were wonderful characters.  Bill read his narrative verse from what seemed to be a roll of toilet paper decorated to resemble a scarf.  Except for one other fellow, the others have slipped into oblivion. 

a younger David

The writer who is etched in my memory was a large fellow about my age.  His long hair and beard obscured most of his face and seemed in contrast to his double barreled name. When he read, his stance seemed diminished his bulk.  His mumble and unclear speech made him difficult to understand.  His writing was peppered with four letter words and we found the plot lines difficult to follow. I remember one of the writers commenting  to me; “If there is one person here who will never be published it is David.”    Yes the man in question was David Adam Richards. 

We were incorrect in our assumptions re publishing, for when David was reading to us he had already published The Coming of Winter and The Dungarvon Whooper.  David has gone on to win a Giller for Mercy among the children, the Order  of Canada, two Governor Generals and many, many more awards.  In all Adams Richards has more than twenty five published works to his credit. 

I do not enjoy his work any more now than I did at THE ICE HOUSE. David’s story telling manner does not resonate with me. I find the dirt poverty of the Miramichi too gritty.  However, I recognize his talent and the weight of his stories and characters.  I shall never forget Autumn Henderson, the albino woman in Mercy among the children.   After thirty plus years Adams Richards cries of the Dungarvon Whopper still echo in my memory.

Saint Mac’s high school here in Saint John has chosen The Friends of Meager Fortune to be read by all their students.  I am sure some of those students will find it hard going.  My granddaughter who is in grade eleven may not enjoy this book but she will have no trouble reading it.  “Friends” won the Commonwealth Book prize and has been compared to Steinbeck.    I think I will read along.

And no one asked me …if I knew David Adams Richards.

About eating alligator

Earlier this evening my husband and I were watching The Iron Chef.  For this episode the secret ingredient was pheasant and Steve asked me if I had eaten that.  I replied that I had but the more usual game bird of my past was partridge.  When I was growing up my brothers were excellent hunters. As soon as bird season arrived they would be off to the woods. After they had bagged two, three or more birds they would be back to make a stew.  Birds would be dressed, that is plucked, cleaned and parts removed for the uninitiated.  Mother would break down the caresses, now I realize that was to extract the goodness from the bones, cover with cold water and bring to a boil.  Veggies and herbs were added, and sometimes a piece of salt pork and there would be partridge stew for supper.  To me this was not an unusual ingredient.

As I have wandered my way through life many of my delights have been gastronomic.  I believe it was my Grandmother Lottie Rogers who lit my foodie fire when at age nine I was sent to pick watercress.  The cress grew under water in a little stream on the edge of the property.  I would harvest and she would make tea sandwiches.  As we ate Grammy and I would pour over cookbooks and descriptions of English teas.  During my years at home we ate a number of products that other households shunned; lamb and mutton, goat, head cheese, duck eggs, lobster and beef liver, heart and tongue to name a few. 

chocolate covered bugs

By the time I visited Expo 67 I was open for most experiences.  It was here at Expo I tried cricket snacks, deep fried crickets with a salty coating eaten like chips and chocolate covered bugs.  The crickets I liked, the bugs not so much.  I tried Yaks milk, too thick and my first donair, yum.   As I moved through life I ended up on Vancouver Island.  Here I ate oysters for the first.  Actually harvested by moi in Parksville and eaten raw right there on the beach.  They are an acquired taste.  As well I was introduced to Ukraine food, Chinese cuisine, East Indian feasts, Danish Delights (the lutefisk was not a delight) and a vast array of fish and pastries.

Sea Urchin

Back in New Brunswick I once had the opportunity to go to a dinner that featured bear, squirrel and many other wild proteins.  I remember the bear to be strong and stringy and the hosts suggested we slather it with mustard.  In Rankin Inlet, North West Territories I ate caribou and arctic char; both were excellent.   In Ontario I cautiously tried uni, sea urchin, I loved it.  This is one food I wish I could have again.  Deep fried plantain served with red snapper was a favorite in Cuba.

Travelling through the south I tried both alligator and rattlesnake. They were battered and deep fried and yes …tasted like chicken.  In Texas I ate real Texas barbeque; chicken fried steak, deep fried okra and hush puppies.  All those foods were good; though a little barbeque goes a long way.  My opportunity to travel has been curtailed so my opportunities to try something new are not as frequent.  However, Steve and I are going to Ontario in June and we have been talking about the Oceans supermarket is Mississauga. They have chicken’s feet, barbecued duck and pig’s ears.

Paula Dean's Fried alligator

So back to the alligator; No one asked me about eating alligator.  But if they had I would concur with the cook who said “alligator tastes like prehistoric chicken”.  The one thing I could not eat is shark.   Go figure.

how Leisa and I rolled the truck.

A winter storm is raging outside and my muse is calling.  There are so many subjects and stories I could address; bullying and intimidation; why bad things happen to good people, Rats (don’t worry you will hear more of these two legged creatures at a later date, and finally I settle into a topic, Snow and Storms.

This storm is of little consequence.  Both Steve and I retired, no work calls. It is Saturday evening and there are no errands to run.  We are warm and snug in our home.  All the people I love and care about are safe and secure.  We have a shovel master extraordinaire who will insure that my steps and walk is snow free.

I remember earlier winters driving home in a storm. I would know that hills of both Pitt and Wentworth Streets would be impossible to navigate.  So I would take Crown and turn right on King Street East hoping to loop around to Elliott Row.  Often none of these streets would be plowed.  I would be okay if there was nothing in my way; for those who drive in winter snow the secret is to keep the gas steady and do not let off!   However bad drivers seldom know they are bad drivers and many times, waiting for one to falter,  I would become swamped.  Then it was the shovel and I against the snow with the snow often the victor.  Finally I learned to leave my vehicle at work and bus or cab home.  Now I do not venture out.  Have I mentioned I love being retired?

Leisa and I / no truck!

For someone who has been driving over forty five years I have had few accidents.  One noteworthy exception was the time Leisa and I rolled the half ton. I was the library manager in Florenceville, NB and Leisa went with me each day as she was a preschooler and the babysitter was close to my work.  Our family vehicle was a half-ton and while the box was surely filled with a half-ton of snow, it was still notorious on the snow packed roads.  It had snowed all weekend and was now clear and sunny, the roads were plowed.  Everything should have been good.

 As I started down Spruce Hill I suddenly knew we were in trouble.  For you readers in Carleton County, Spruce Hill has changed considerably.  That morning it was a long, straight, steep slide.  And that is what my half ton was doing, Sliding!  Then in an instance I saw the back of the truck in front of me.  In one continuous motion I turned off the key, put Leisa down on the floor and tucked myself in and over her.  There were no seat belts in the 1970’s. My next thought was that the world was upside down; in fact our world was.  The truck was upside down and tilted head first in the snow.  Leisa and I were too stunned to cry. We righted ourselves so that we were at least pointing toward the sky. 

I did not even have time to think how to proceed.   There was banging at the doors and voices.  In minutes local menfolk had us out.  There was talk about calling my husband to pull us out, but someone remembered Ronald was working over in Centerville.  Leisa and I were hustled off to the nearby store.  A tractor and a front end loader pulled out the half ton.  The guys cleaned it off, looked it over and proclaimed it fit to drive. After telling me they had seen the truck roll at least three times,  Leisa and I were sent on our way.    I was not even late for work.  And no one asked me how Leisa and I rolled the truck.

If I had another Moose story

It was the summer of 1958 and our little family was living in a community we called the Narrows.  This rural area was situated on the Wasdemohawk Lake, in Queens County, New Brunswick.  One side of the lake was Cambridge, across the bridge and down the turn “the Narrows”.

To me our home there felt like Alice in wonderland or nature gone wrong.  No, not our house but it was the lay of the land.  As you drove along the road there were woods to your far left, and then came the fields; ours were filled with strawberries and market garden veggies.  To the right of the road the land sloped sharply down, there was a drive way, barns to the right, our little house to the left and then the open fields meandering on down to the lake.

Father (Talmage Vail) Valerie, Rodney& David

It was a late summer afternoon and our Father was away, this was abnormal as we usually all went together.  Our mother sent Rodney and I up to scrounge the berry patch, hoping to find a few straggler berries that we would have for supper.  Off we trudged.  We had just started picking when Rodney shook my arm and said in a whisper, “I feel something watching us.”   From my lofty height of eight years old I assured my six year old brother he was just imagined it. 

A minute or two later Rodney said “I really feel it!”  And I did as well.  We were country kids and had been trained for most eventualities.  I quickly cautioned Rodney not to turn his back and not to run; I was expecting a bear, dog or fox in that order.  We quietly started for the house.  We had just put our feet on the road when it emerged from the woods.  There stood a big male moose with a full rack and a bad attitude. Rodney stopped.   "Keep coming", I pleaded.  Then the moose roared, yes he roared, pawed and began to run after us.  Rodney did not ask he turned and flew down the hill; I was hot on his heels. We were both calling for Mother at the top of our lungs.  In retrospect it was a scene right out of Jack in the Bean stock.  Mother met us in the door and literally threw us inside. 

Not a minute too soon as the Moose was there as well, banging his antlers against the house.  Mother cautioned us not to go near the windows.  We were all terrified as the Moose roared and charged the house again and again.  In the end I think Mother, Rodney, little David aged three and I were all firmed wedged under the table.   I cannot say how long we stayed that way however when even your Mother is afraid you know it is bad.

Eventually the pawing and the banging stopped.   Father came home soon and went to investigate.  He followed the Moose tracks down through the field and into the lake.  No one else in the community ever spoke of a rogue Moose.   I was speaking to Rodney today; he could barely remember the incident.  His main recollection of the “Moose” was the chant “the Moose is Loose” when the guys were drinking Moosehead beer.   Perhaps that is why I am the storyteller.  No one asked me if I had another Moose story.

about Moose Poop

Have you had moose poop?  This chocolaty based confection created by CHOCOLATE CRAVINGS is very popular with the cruise ship passengers.  And moose poop became even more popular when the shoppers learned the history of this product.

Oh, you do not know the story?  Well it goes like this; one hot summer day a moose came into town, by that I mean Saint John.  It clomped right down King Street, its hoofs tapping out a beat and its thin legs all askew. Why it did not collide with, or be hit by, a vehicle was a miracle.  When the “Alces alces” (scientific name for moose) first made his appearance the general populace was too stunned to react.  Perhaps they thought it had something to do with the cruise ship?  The children sensed there was trouble and they began to run after the moose, shooing it off the street.  The parents ran after the children.  The cruise ship visitors ran after the parents.  Someone called 911 and the fire truck, the ambulance and the police arrived.  Soon they were joined by the mall manager and the Port authority.

They chased that poor moose down Prince William Street but he made a right on Princess and was heading for the cruise ship.  The crowd roared into place and turned him right on Water Street.  He thundered up the cobble stones and was again headed off at Market Square. All over the down town one could hear his hooves striking out on the Boardwalk.  Then there was a crash and a splash, and silence.

“He’s gone into the Harbour”, all rushed to see.   There was only high tide and some swirling foam.  The uptown returned to normal.  The cruise ship departed, the employees went home.

Under the cover of darkness the Moose crept back into the area by loyalist plaza. There was some tall grass, he was exhausted.  His moose heart was still thumping in his chest.  Now Moose sleep like horses, while they can lie down, they normally just lock their knees and sleep standing up.  Our Moose was so exhausted he chooses to lie down.  Night came and went. In the early, early morning Mr. Moose raised and tried to shake, he was getting out of there.  To no avail, during the night magic had happened….he was no longer a living, breathing moose but a Statue of a Moose!  If you do not believe me – simply visit the outside area of Market Square, you will see him there.

And the Moose Poop?  Because people drop so many treats, and because he was once living and breathing, Mr. Moose just has to nibble away at some.  And if you eat, you ……poop.   So our friend Jackie collects the leavings; the maple leaf, the little fishes from the bay, assorted M&M’s and tiny treats, and even someone’s false teeth.  Then Jackie does her magic and makes it all clean and edible, she covers it with her CHOCOLATE CRAVINGS chocolate and there you have Moose Poop, the best Moose Poop!

You do not believe me?  Go talk to Jackie or the Moose.  This tale was written because no one asked me about Moose Poop.

does it snow on Vancouver Island?

As I am sure all writers experience, what you start out to write and what comes out of the pen (supply keyboard) are often two different things.  I have been working on a blog about my brothers and a long cold, snowy winter.  However, I have not yet located a photo to accompany that blog, so ……. One side benefit of blogging is that I have been forced to unearth all my old photos.  I am scanning what I use and hope to get all of my collection in order. A bonus is those photos have given me many more blog ideas.  

Now for this blog; my husband Ronald Brooker and I moved to Port Alberni on Vancouver Island, British Columbia in the summer of 1968.  As I was unpacking my belongings my relatives and new friends hooted with laughter to see that I had brought winter boots and coats for Ron and myself.  “You won’t need those here.”  “It does not snow in Port Alberni.”  Their comments went on and on.  And as the months progressed someone would ask, “Wearing your snow boots yet?”

I thought perhaps they were correct and the winter weather would continue on as it had for October, November and now into December; cold and rainy interspersed with cold and drizzle. It may not have been the sub minus temperatures we had in New Brunswick; however I found it just as bone chilling.  Christmas came and went, the ground stayed green.  Vavielle received a Christmas parcel in the mail from her Brooker Grandparents, a lovely pink pile snow suit.   “She won’t need that here”, remarked my neighbours.

 Then just before New Year’s it started to snow, and snow and snow.  Within twenty four hours I think we received almost four feet.  Since it was Christmas holiday’s schools were closed.  Good thing because nothing was moving.  Ronald received a call that his work in the woods was cancelled because of the snow.  He could not believe it; he had worked in accumulations of eight and ten feet of snow back in New Brunswick.  The men simply used the big machines to plow themselves out.  We lived on the outskirts of our small city; Ronald decided to take a walk into town to see what was happening. 

 When Ronald returned he could not contain his amusement as he told me about the snow clearing efforts, several graders were attempting to make a path through the streets.  By the second day Ron had called the City and convinced them to let him clear out the main thorough fare with a back hoe.  While he was plowing, his boss from the bush came along and the next dayRon was back to work getting their operation going.

 The snow lasted most of January and February. By March the warm breezes were wafting over the land, lawns were growing and the daffodils and crocuses blooming.  We were in Port Alberni three winters, it snowed every winter.  But no one asked me does it snow on Vancouver Island?

why we spelled her name Leisa.

Blog writing has become a habit, albeit a good one.  After January I was only going to blog on an irregular basis; however it appears that I cannot let a day pass without an episode of No one asked me.

Today is February 3^rd, and on this day thirty nine years ago my youngest daughter was born.  We named her Leisa Renea Brooker.  The naming was not a simple task.  Her father, Ronald, was determined that he make the decision. Vavielle, our oldest, had been christened by my mother.  This second daughter would be our last and Ronald’s curtain call for names.

His first suggestions of “Rusty or Terry” I immediately deemed unacceptable.  Second choices were Lori or Lisa, so Lisa it was.  Enter my mother, who felt we should spell the name Leisa.  Leisa has always been apologetic about the spelling of her name. So after thirty nine years let me share the facts about LEISA.

Leisa meaning and name origin © 2004-2012 Thinkbabynames.com

Leisa age 3 months

Leisa \Top of Form

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le(i)-sa\Top of Form

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As a girl's name is a variant of Elizabeth (Hebrew), and the meaning of Leisa is "God's promise; God is my oath".

The baby name Leisa sounds like Lisa, Leesa, Leasa and Luisa.

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Popularity of Leisa

Leisa is a very popular first name for women (#1477 out of 4276) but an uncommon surname or last name for all people. (1990 U.S. Census)

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While Leisa was a very difficult infant, she suffered from an incomplete digestive system and projectile vomiting that only served to draw us closer.  An adorable preschooler, Leisa grew into a great student.  I could list all of her accomplishments, however I want to finish this blog tonight LOL.  Also Leisa is very, very modest and I would not want to embarrass her.

Suffice to say I have now legitimized Leisa’s name and spelling.  As her Mother, when I look back over Leisa’s life some of the high points for me have been;

·       When the vomiting ceased

·       Her first step

·       At age five Leisa taught herself to read through typing

·       Swimming prowess and making the swim team

·       Grade nine valedictorian

·       High school graduation

·       Birth of her daughter Marcia Brooke Denton

·       Marriage to Mohammed Mourad

·       Birth of Matthew and Noah

·       Conceptualization and success as a jewellery artist  LeisaB

·       Travelling to Egypt this past year

Leisa 2011

Names are so important; they are the first indication one has of a person.  Those many long years ago   I was thinking of Hilary or Meredith. While they are good names,  I am very glad that Ronald intervened.  My special daughter would not be the same person with one of those names.  But no one asked me why we spelled her name Leisa.

If Brenda and I skied.

Brenda & Valerie 2009

From age ten Christmas was my favorite vacation.  Not so much for the day and presents but because I would go to Brenda’s.  Brenda Rogers was, and is, my all-time favorite cousin.   We met when I was seven and she was eight.  I know, I know, half a century later Brenda looks ten years my junior but I love her in spite of that.

Uncle Earl was Brenda’s Dad and one of my Mother’s older brothers. He would arrive to pick me up a few days after Christmas. Sometimes Brenda would be with him, sometimes not.  Brenda and family lived in the rural community of Lindsay, outside of Woodstock, New Brunswick.  That was about thirty miles away from my home in Fielding.   Not far in distance but a million miles in spirit.  My home was loud and noisy, filled with little boys and animals and a difficult father.  It was the kind of place where you could find the clothes line (with clothes) around a cow’s horn, barn hay in the separator milk or a bird in your bedroom.

Brenda’s home was quiet and serene.  I cannot remember anyone raising their voice.   We sat around the table after dinner and had long conversations.  Those conversations featured such topics as how many angels could dance on the head of a pin, or the meaning of the Greek key.  I was introduced to kitchen sink soup by Brenda’s older sister Charlotte.  This delightful soup was never the same for Charlotte used whatever was available.  Once it was miniature meatballs swimming in tomatoey goodness another would be more chowder with a potato base.  And that was just the evening meal.

 Each day I was at Brenda’s was a delight. I would rise early and tip toe out of the room so I would not wake Brenda and her sisters.   Uncle Earle would be awake long before I; we would have breakfast and then I would be his companion in whatever exploit or task was at hand.  He often befriended a neighbour who was down on their luck, and I was cautioned to keep those jaunts confidential.

 In my memories Brenda and I spent our days reading and talking and going to town and talking and cooking and talking.   Our snicker doodle cookies are still infamous.  Paper dolls were a favorite activity.  Not those large commercial ones but tiny little ones we fashioned and used the Easton’s catalogue as a source for hundreds of dresses. 

Brenda Rogers & Valerie Vail  1963?

I do not remember many outside activities but these photos prove we did have at least one skiing adventure.  Surely Uncle Earle gathered the skis, organized the outing and took these photos.  Back inside Aunt Effie and Charlotte would have been waiting with hot chocolate and snacks.  You have not heard of this before?  Well no one asked me If Brenda and I skied.

what I think of Tattoos!

I have written mental commentaries for many years.  Politics - local, provincial and federal; current events, social trends, stupidity, the subjects of my rants go on and on.  When I conceptualized this blog my purpose was to give print to my histrionics.  However, I write what my muse dictates and most have been common interest and family snip its.

tattooed woman 1907 USA

 Today my subject is tattoos and tattooing.  While scrolling through the Facebook ticker a saw the comment a friend of mine made in response to an article on tattooing.    I am not a fan of tattoos; in my day and age tattoos were for low lives, sailors, people who were incarcerated, and prison camp survivors.  But this is not my day and age.  Now 12% of the Canadian population has a tattoo, and most have more than one.

Two beautiful female acquaintances of mine have lovely, colourful floral works of body art. A Facebook friend sports a sleeve; my brother Bruce has several tats, as does my nephew Ash (who responded to the advance notice of this blog with “what is wrong with tattoos?”)  

I believe to understand any subject we must first know the history.  From Wikipedia, A tattoo is a form of body modification, made by inserting indelible ink into the dermis layer of the skin to change the pigment. The first written reference to the word, "tattoo" (or Samoan "Tatau") appears in the journal of Joseph Banks, the naturalist aboard Captain Cook's ship the HMS Endeavour in 1769: "I shall now mention the way they mark themselves indelibly, each of them is so marked by their humour or disposition".

 Many tribes of the world have been tattooing since the beginning of mankind.  In those cases the tattoo served to mark a tribe or denote a rank.  When someone opts to tattoo in 2012 is it for that reason? I think not. Today most choose tattoos as Body art or for a political statement.  In that vein there are three beliefs that forbid tattooing; Islam, Mormons and Jews. 

I have never wanted a tattoo.  However I have never wanted gel nails, hair extensions or a bikini wax.  Why would I have the right to pass judgment on what someone else chooses to do?  Yet many of the people my age are not only negative about tattooing but feel free to verbalize their displeasure.  Perhaps my tattooed friends regard my fat belly with as much revulsion as I might feel towards their tattoo.

 A few years ago I started a conversation with a young man while we waited for the subway at the Younge Station in Toronto.  The man had bandages on his forehead and in true Mother form I inquired about his injury.   He told me that when he was in high school he was very angry and had FUCK the world tattooed on his forehead.  Now, ten years later, he had a Master’s degree in Computer Engineering but could not get a job.

 I will probably never get a tattoo; for one thing Steve would have a fit. But I will be happy for you with yours.  Choose well, you shall have that tattoo always.  It might not be as pretty when you get old and wrinkled but I am sure you have considered all those options.

We do live in a free society.  You are free to make what choices you want that only affect you personally.  I may not agree with your choices, but I will defend your right to choose.  And no one asked me what I think of Tattoos!