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.


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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.

No one asked me …. Who poured the booze in the spring?

It was July 1958, in Fielding (a dot on the road) in rural Carleton County, New Brunswick. The occasion was the 50^thwedding anniversary of Nelson and Lottie Rogers. Their nine surviving children, down from the original fifteen, were assembled with their spouses and children. Aunts, Uncles and cousin both first, second and once removed were also in attendance. To judge by the photos it was a fine time.

 

Valerie centre left, Brenda centre right

From my perspective, at the ripe old age of eight, I had a new dress and many new cousin playmates.  From the many, Brenda was my cousin of choice.  Although cousins we had only seen each other a few times.  This was our opportunity to bond.

 

We found a grassy spot behind the house and went toe to toe;

“I’m older than you!”  From Brenda

“I’m bigger.”  That was me.

“I am two years ahead of you in school”, Brenda.

“I lived in British Columbia and travelled all across Canada, twice!”

“I ..”  We never knew what came next for I hissed “Sshhh!”

I could hear the sounds of men talking around the corner. And they were discussing liquor, which was verboten with this Pentecostal family.  It appeard that two of the uncles and two older cousins were making a trip to Perth.

”Why Perth?”  I mouthed to Brenda.

“Liquor Store”, whispered back my worldly wise accomplish.

We had a mission for the day, while the older cousins simpered and had tea with Grammy we watched out for the debauched renegades.  In the afternoon we saw the four return, bags in hand. We watched from a vantage point as they set their purchases to cool in the spring. 

Lottie and Nelson

Now I must explain about the spring.  Since time immortal there has been a wonderful, gravity feed spring on the property where my Mother’s family made their home.  Modern conveniences came late to this part of New Brunswick, electricity has just arrived a year or two before.  My grandparents, like most of their neighbours, brought their drinking water in from the spring in a galvanized pail.  Now their children had united to purchase a pump, dig the line, hire a plumber and install a sink and taps and viola running water in the kitchen.  A ribbon cutting, arranged by Aunt Eva was happening soon.

 I do not think that Brenda and I went immediately to the spring. We probably visited the outhouse and talked to the pigs.  Then ….we went to the spring.  I remember no discussion; we just opened the bottles and poured them in the water.  One was 40 ounces of gin or vodka (clear at any rate) and we refilled it with water.  We returned the bottles to their original place and scampered away.

We were just time for the ribbon cutting, and the ceremonial drinks of water as the dipper was passed around. Every one proclaimed on the quality of the water and the phrase Adam’s ale was oft heard.  Brenda and I exchanged a gleeful glance.  We spent the next few hours running in and out of the house and drinking as much water as we could possibly hold!  After we were banished from the house for our silliness, we rolled around on the grass convinced we were inebriated!

The evening meal was eaten, darkness fell and the parents who lived nearby were gathering their children.  From the vantage of the back shed Brenda and I were plotting our course.  Then we heard a roar from the direction of the spring, followed soon after by the call of our names.  We were watching out the back shed window and could see the four angry men nearing, yet we were frozen to the spot.  As the first man reached the steps we were grasped by two large pair of hands.  Our fathers, both of whom did not condone drinking, grabbed us in their arms.  I cannot remember what happened after that.  My Father held me and protected me, like wise Brenda and her father.  Soon I was in Uncle Earle’s car with Brenda and her family, off to spend the night.  I think Charlotte inquired about the dust up. “A misunderstanding”, replied Uncle Earle.

And no one ever asked me ….. who poured the booze in the spring?

No one asked me ……why this day is not like the other?

Remember the song/game from Sesame Street “One of these things is not like the other; one of these things just does not belong....”?  My day was like the displaced item in the song, but in a good way.  I have not written a blog of late because …. My word program ceased to open.  Whenever I attempted to open a document I got the error message “Microsoft Word Open 2010 cannot open - fix in control panel”!  As if!!

Therefore I have fiddled and diddled and considered calling my family and tried remedies to no avail.  Yesterday I completed the T3210 (E)’s and mailed them to Revenue Canada, another story.  Today I was going to catch up on some written work, if possible.

 

I was not always computer literate, in my day I was the office software go to girl. I was competent in DOS programs!  But the stroke of 2005, sounds like a natural disaster, threw up road blocks in my mind. Some days I operate quite nicely; others, not so much.

Today I was determined. I did a system restore back to the time this computer was purchased. No luck.  Then I typed a Facebook query, but did not post, for as my fingers flew over the keyboard I thought “go on line”. I did.  In seconds I had the info, deleted the problem “Opener” (who knew), reinstalled and was up and running. I revised a letter for a friend, I seldom have problems writing or editing, and cleaned up files.

Should tomorrow bring a computer problem will I know how to handle? It is anyone’s guess; No one asked me ……why this day is not like the other?

No One Asked Me about Sharing

 

Our city, Saint John, New Brunswick is having a romance with Play it Forward.   This is an action on the concept that you do a good deed for someone, not know to you, and they in turn will play it forward and do a good deed for something else.  The local paper has made much of a Tim’s coffee paid for by a member of City Council.  I am sure there are more weighty gifts but at this time I am not really to participate.   For you see I have my own personal gifting program, I Share.

Sharing was the first social trait instilled in me by my parents.  Part of the Vail family lore tells of Talmage (my Father) and little Valerie trotting home in the horse and buggy.  Yes, I am that old!  We had been to the local grocer and as Dad was purchasing flour and sugar Mr. Dykeman had given me a small bag of penny candy.   Up to that point there had been little candy in my diet.  “Did you save some candy for Mummy” my Dad inquired?  I checked the bag, it was empty.  I took the last candy out of my mouth, wiped it off and put it back in the bag. 

This story has been told now for sixty years, with reinforcement like that why would I not share?   I love to give, choosing just the right gift and imagining the recipient pleasure on the opening fills me with joy.  Yet sharing has another special pleasure.  When I talk about sharing I do not mean my French fries with my husband or my hair spray with my Granddaughter.

My most recent share was to a family member who had been my house guest.  They found their own apartment but had absolutely no furniture and little funds.  Of course I gave them the bed in which they had been sleeping, and the bedding as well.  It was my spare bed but I shall find another in time for my next “guest”.  This is not the first time that a guest has decamped with a bed.  I think of it as the admonishment made in the Bible, to paraphrase “should you have two coats and your brother has none, give your brother a coat”!

I share family heirlooms, my personal clothing, books, furniture, groceries, meals, and cash ….in fact just about anything I possess can be given away if another’s need is greater.  I do not always share out of need, when I gave a table and chairs to my nephew it was because my dining room was bursting at the seams.   My cousin did not need our grandmother’s recipe book, however I had used and cherished it for thirty years and wanted to share.  Ditto for the jug with a family history I passed on to my brother or the silver plate toast rack to his wife. 

For a bit I was worried about this sharing.  I have been quite ill and wondered if the passion for divesting my possessions was an unconscious way of preparing for a personal demise.  But no, my recollection is that I have been like this all my life.   And I try not to worry what happens to the item once it is passed on.  The moment I made the decision to share, it was no longer mine. 

Now I have some items in my tickle trunk I would like to regift …… sorry, they do not meet the sharing criteria.

No one asked me about getting caught in the power take off!

 

I met a man this week from Missouri; the first thing I noticed about him was that he had a hook rather than a right hand. Then I realized his entire right arm was prosthesis.  He was standing in front of my table where I was selling LeisaB jewellery to the cruise ships, so I asked him about it.  

He explained that he had become caught in the power take off of a farm machine and lost his entire arm.  “Oh my”,  I exclaimed “the same thing happened to me but quick thinking on the part of a truck driver saved me from losing a limb”.  And we shared our stories.



I would have been standing at the place of the girl in red
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was fifteen that rainy fall Sunday when I became entangled in the Harvester.  We were employed by McCain Produce and did not normally dig on Sundays. However it had been a rainy difficult fall and there were still a lot of potatoes in the ground.  It was cold and drizzly and I was wearing a green oil cloth slicker that was popular in the sixties. 

 

Perhaps I nodded off, over reached to grab a rock at any rate I realized that the sleeve of my jacket was caught in the power take off at the end of the conveyor belt and it was slowly chewing me in!  I screamed and pulled.  The harvesters are very noisy, no one heard me and I made little head way in my battle with the machine.  Soon I was on my knees, my glasses had disappeared and my hair was caught as well.

 

Everything went black.  When I opened my eyes the machinery had all stopped and men were cutting me out of the auger.  My jacket was ripped to shreds, and a section of hair from behind my right ear was missing, scalp and all.  The blood poured, I was sure I was dying.  I don’t remember much more. I think they took me to the hospital and patched me up.

after my hair cut!
 

 

McCain’s shut down all the harvesters and sent out mechanics and sheet metal. Not a wheel rolled until all the augers and power take offs were enclosed. 

I later learned that Laurence Claire, a neighbour from Gordonsville, had been driving the truck under our harvester.  Laurence was wonderful in the field and was always checking on people and machines. He saw my plight, jumped from his truck and ran to the tractor, which was pulling the harvester, and shut it off.  Laurence definitely saved my arm and maybe even my life.

 

I did not go back to the field that year; in fact I did not go back for many years. McCain’s paid me for every hour the harvesters were in the fields.  And no one ever asked me about getting caught in the potato harvester!