Let The Good Times Roll

This picture shows a young and very pregnant Nova. Two things are going on here. One: while working at the CIBC, I bought a car from Lynne Morrow, a co-worker, it was a powder blue Comet. We decided to get it painted, which seemed to be such a common occurrence those days, you never hear tell of it now, except maybe in the case of an accident. I was so proud of it, here I am picking it up after the transformation, I loved that car.

And two: my coat. At the time, I never truly realized how unique and beautiful it was. It was one of the few things that my mother sent me, no doubt in response to Momma's pleas that Nova was growing, and had no coat for the winter. I received it the winter I was maybe 14 or 15, I don't remember having it in Rollo Bay School, but I sure remember wearing it in High School. Like, every day, I had nothing else.

I also know that I was wearing it the night Jamie and I started dating.

Where other people have wonderful memories of using their mother's china or piano, wearing her jewelry, or driving her vintage car, I had none of that. No, just the memory of a coat that she would have thoughtlessly sent to PEI, probably out of guilt, and maybe shamefully hiding it from her latest "husband."

Here's the Comet getting sanded down for the new paint.

Today, we'd all recognize it for what it is, a hand made parka from the North. It was a rich red 100% wool, what I'd call a boiled wool, with a shitty thin polyester lining, so although it looked warm, almost like a blanket, it was anything but. And of course, the word "parka" originated with our Northern friends.

Front, back, sleeves, pockets, all were hand embroidered with amazing Inuit Art and it was blanket stitched all around. The hood was trimmed with real fur, fox probably and even the ends of the ties were trimmed in rabbit. And if one was to search Etsy, you'd find a few rare samples of this parka, worth much more than the original maker would have gotten! But it truly was a work of art, I wore it for at least 10 years, maybe more, before the wool was threadbare and the lining had long given up the ghost. And so, I threw it away and bought something else. But rest assured, I have never had another winter coat, parka or otherwise that I was happy with for more than 10 years. I never saw another like it, and after I got used to people looking at it, and wondering where did that come from, I quite enjoyed being the only person I knew who had a coat like that. Only now do I appreciate what a treasure it was. All that my mother could have taught me, the way of life, the culture of Labrador, its people, I missed all that. Obviously living in Goose Bay, she was surrounded by wonderful artisans and had the coat made by one of them. But after I got over the shock, as a young teenager, of having to wear a coat that I was sure everybody else was snickering at, I found strength to start being my own person.

As one of my cousins in a recent private message said, "It was hard to fit in and be invisible at the same time." I thought, no truer words were ever spoken. Especially in those crucial teen years. In a small place like Souris.

And speaking of cousins........we all know that our cousins are usually our first friends. We learn from each other, how to play, how to share, how to fight, how to cry, how to grieve, how to work. If nothing else, my little Blog has drawn comments and stories and memories of shared events from cousins near and far. I never expected that, and I am humbled at what each of you has shared with me privately, and that you've taken the time to do that. It even spartked a couple of impromptu visits, and I was thrilled, although one caused hugs and a few tears. But healthy tears. Thank you all from Mexico to Boston to Alberta to locales on the Island.

Warts and all, here is another picture of Momma, looks like she just had her hair done, she was as vain as the rest of us! Most people who knew her, family or otherwise, would recognize that she is in her usual post, lying in bed, reading and smoking. How she never set the house on fire is beyond me.

But boy she could read, she devoured books, and fostered a love of reading in me too. Any trip to "Bill's Used Furniture" in Montague years ago would definitely yield at least one box of books per trip.

But Momma, I truly believe, especially with the gift of hindsight, was very sick. She fought and beat bowel cancer in her 50's and rarely left the house after that, since the surgery shortened her intestines, and she needed to be near a bathroom at all times. It was hardly living at all really, and I believe the condition contributed to her being housebound. But there had to be more to it, she was relatively young, years younger than I am right now. But we learned never to question her. Her authority was absolute.

If she could be coaxed to the kitchen, she could be in a good mood and she enjoyed cards. Not so much board games. Yet here she and Jamie are in the middle of what looks like a serious game of Scrabble, and although I have no memory of playing it with her, Jamie still loves it and plays it every day online with his sister Louise. Let me tell you, it's intense.

But Momma was a force. She had to be tough I guess. We were never spanked or punished in any way, although I'm sure we all deserved it at some time. Probably many times. Speaking for myself here.

But her roar.

Oh my Jesus, if you ever witnessed her in a foul mood and were subjected to that roar, it was enough to put the fear of god in you. She was extremely moody and often went into fits of unprovoked rage. And it didn't matter who was handy, everyone got a taste of her wrath. She would explode and her temper was vicious and something to see. When she was done of her tirade, she would grab her pack of smokes and jam it in her pocket and tramp back into her bedroom and slam that door so hard it would shake the house. She was in a dark place, with no one to blame, so we all got the blame and had to be in the dark place with her. She wouldn't come out, except to use the bathroom, she wouldn't answer her phone, she wouldn't speak to anyone. One of us would take some food in on a tray, but we soon became used to just leaving it on her dresser. She wouldn't look at us anyway. We had some very unhappy childhood episodes. If she got started rocking in front of the woodstove, it might be the begining. She was busy whipping herself up into a fury over something, real or imagined. As I read once somewhere, "Rocking is like worrying. It gives you something to do but it doesn't get you anywhere."

We were just kids, what did we know of depression or mental health issues? It wasn't just invented this year. It's been on the planet since Adam and Eve, I'm sure. And no one's ever spoken of it, I'm voicing it now because it was a fact of our lives, we just didn't know it. The signs were all there, as adults we can see it now. How she must have suffered. But after everything that she'd been through, there was no help for Momma.

I often thought she was like a summer storm. I live on the ocean, so I tend to sky watch a lot, and you get pretty good at guessing what's coming. With Momma, it's like that beautiful gentle warm summer day, maybe in July, a calm blue sky, a soft breeze breathing life into the sheets on the line. You might go for a bike ride, go for a beach walk, dig a few clams. So serene. You hope it never ends.

But what's that on the horizon? Some harmless soft puffy purple clouds, just peeping over the tree line, bruising the sky. They start to gather, get darker, til they take over the blue and that pretty sun is gone. The rain starts, and it's cold, the wind starts to moan, and there's the thunder rumbling. Lightening flickers in the sky.

When you got up that morning, you didn't expect that storm. But as the day went on, for whatever reason, there it was.

That's what Momma was like. You never saw it coming.

It was scary, but it blew over, the sun came back out and all was right with the world again, a new day. Just like Momma.

At the time, we just thought she was cranky and worried and fair enough. She had a lot on her plate. But somehow we dealt with it and we all grew up, and moved on. She disliked talking about school or any of us having a serious relationship, because to her, that meant we were leaving to start our own lives. But instead of being happy and supportive (you'd think she'd be glad to be rid of us.....) she would throw a fit and pout for days. I don't know how any of her own children had the guts to lead their lives, they had more courage than me. As I posted in an earlier Blog, she hit the roof when I came home with a diamond ring on my finger and she stated "Now I'm going to be alone." Never mind that I had 3 younger brothers at home, perfectly capable of helping her out, we got married anyway, and Jamie moved in. In all fairness, it was not a choice of their making either and there was a lot of adjustments and turmoil and tears, but somehow we got through it.

Like most people we respected our elders, our grandparents. When Momma was doing well, she was a barrel of fun. She liked company because that made her the center of attention. But one episode I'll never forget.

That friggin' Darrell. To Momma he could do no harm. Little saint. But he could be a real shit disturber, a royal pain in the ass. Someone at the house was discussing different things and the subject of partridges came up. Well, Jamie and his old buddy Donnie used to go shooting and he often bagged a couple of partridges and brought them home. Donnie didn't care for them, but Momma loved them, and as the years went on, so did Jaime Lee.

Jamie would prepare them and I would roast them. But for some unknown reason, Momma always pronounced them "pahtridge" and this one time Darrell thought he was smart and said, "Momma, it's partridge, not pahtridge."

Wrong move this time, smartass.

She took one breath and was practically purple with rage and she roared ,"It's pahtridge, it's pahtridge!!!!"

She roared so loud she nearly lost her false teeth, and Darrell wasn't so popular for a few days. But for some reason I took to laughing like a hyena on crack, so I bore the brunt of her temper for a few days too.

Funny how some lessons are harder than others. Learning respect is one.

Learning when to shut up is another.