Through The Years

The years go by. Jeannette left, Billie was long gone, and we were a package deal for Momma.

Most first born children will agree that there are far more pictures of them than of the next in line, and the one after that....... I'm guilty of it too. But gosh, I was cute! And I had curly hair, what happened to that? Oh ya, menopause.

Apparently I was "hyper-active" and never slept. Looks like that trait runs in the family. And I wish there were more pictures of my siblings and me, but I unearthed all I could find. And I'll pop them in here as I go.

I have a few more early memories that I can share.

I'm not sure at what age you should start playing with crayons and coloring books, but I've always loved coloring. In an earlier blog, I had a lengthy post on that. I still love the smell of a new box of crayons, it just takes me back. Opening a fresh coloring book, with each page a new mystery and a new pleasure. An early memory tells me that perhaps my mother wasn't all that impressed by my coloring skills. I know it had to be before I was 7 years old, because she was gone after that. But I clearly remember being so proud to show her a page I had just colored. She frowned. She thumbed the pages. She said "Why did you start in the middle of the book? You are supposed to color the pages in order, from page 1, page 2, so on. And the coloring book is a Whitman coloring book, so you should be using Whitman crayons."

Wow. If I'd only known. I have no idea where the book came from. But you can bet that careless criticism didn't dampen my love of coloring. Even now, when I set out a stack of coloring books at Christmas for anyone to enjoy, you can bet I just toss caution to the wind and pick a page willynilly. That's half the fun! But I never forgot the words and how deflated I felt.

Here's a rare picture of Butch and me and what looks like some kind of pet. And we're parked right in the middle of Momma's gladiola patch. Butch had the most glorious head of tight blond curls, they were impossible to comb. I think Momma just gave up on them. Most people who know Butch know that he's pretty quiet, but he wasn't always that way.

We always seemed to have a pet; a stray dog or a cat and a budgie once. And I have the most pronounced fear of mice or rats, as anyone who knows me will tell you. Just to type the word, or even see a picture of one, starts my heart pounding. And I think I know how it started.

In our tiny worn out little house, there was no foundation under the house, just a dirt cellar, so mice led a steady parade through the walls, under the washer, in a closet, in a drawer, wherever they wanted to be. And every fall, the house needed to be banked, so they got sealed in, and were quite snug. But then some digging under the back porch would let us know that a rat had made its way in, so now what?

I guess Momma didn't have the same fear as I had, I know she set a trap now and then, but that's as far as I know. One memory from my early years is pretty vivid. I remember Momma sending me to the "long door" which was just a cupboard where she kept baking supplies I guess. She was always baking. I don't remember what it was she asked me to fetch, but I'll never, if I live to be 500, ever forget what happened next. As I opened the door, I disturbed a rat that was right on the edge of the shelf and he rared up on his hind legs. Now, I was little, and he was up quite high, so at that distance, he appeared even bigger and more fierce. I don't think I even made a sound, but some sort of startle reflex must have set in. Even now, if I close my eyes I can see that white belly. That image is no one's fault but it has haunted me my whole life, and if some doctor tried to figure out how to overcome this purely irrational fear, well good luck. It is part of my DNA.

But back to Butch and the pets.

For some unholy reason, one day when Momma came home from a trip to Charlottetown, she brought Butch a pet white mouse. I think I cried for days, I was so terrified. I had no where to escape it, and Butch was so proud of it. Until one day he found the little bastard dead.

Now, everybody knows where we live, right on a cliff here on the south shore. I spent most of my life on the rocks, the beach, digging clams, listening to my radio. I even had a favorite rock where I would do my homework. It was my solice.

But Butch decided that it would be fun to chase Nova all over Rollo Bay while swinging a dead white mouse by the tail. I am two years older than Butch, around 10 at the time and I was pretty fast, but young boys are pretty fast too. I ran and ran until I was almost sick. I'll never forget it. Then I guess I figured if I went down on the rocks below the house he'd just get tired of it all and leave me alone. And he did. For a while. Until I spotted his bushy head peeking over the bank and he took aim with the dead mouse and threw it right at me. It missed me, but now I had a dilemma. Because as anyone can tell you, if you suffer from this phobia, if a rodent is anywhere near you, whether it's dead or it's alive doesn't matter. It's the same fear. So now I couldn't go home on the rocks. There was no way I could pass by it, what if it wasn't actually dead?

So the only solution was the climb straight up the cliff. Which I did. And I went in the house and cried for hours. There was no point in telling Momma, she wouldn't understand and the harm was already done. There was no one to help me, and Butch got away with it. But that sickening feeling is still with me, 55 years later.

That's my beautiful Aunt Isabell sitting with me, in the living room of the old house, in front of the door to my Grandparent's bedroom.

Years go by. I have a clear memory of sitting on my Aunt Anne's knee while she taught me how to read, I suppose. She married my father's brother Freddie Chaisson, and she was the teacher at the one room school that stood at the crossroads at Rollo Bay. I loved school!

I spent my first three grades at that little school, with so many wonderful memories. I walked to and from every day, usually with Anne or my cousin Linda, but so did everybody else, that's the way it was. Many times I also headed for Mahar's Woods, an absolutely idyllic and magical place to wander and explore. It was a short cut home, and a short cut to my friend Mary's house; we used it as our highway many times. And would you believe that during one of those years the Lower Road got paved? That's right, I walked uphill to my one room schoolhouse on a dirt road. Imagine that. And in still walking that same hill every year of my life just for pleasure, that hill never got any easier. In my fourth grade, the new Consolidated school was built and I got to ride that big Bluebird bus everyday. That changed things! For one thing, Anne was never my teacher again. But I wouldn't have traded those first 3 years for anything.

Once in a while in the winter Anne's father Pete would pick us up in his sleigh and whiz us off to school with speed and style. I was in heaven, all bundled up behind Pete and that enormous horse, my first experience in a horse and sleigh. My memories of the school would fill another Blog, so I'll leave them for another time.

As I learned to read and write, another world opened up for me........I could write letters to my mother! I was 8 or so, she hadn't been gone all that long and I fully expected her to come back and take care of us anyway. So I started writing these little letters, and I often wonder what happens to things. Where would they be? Where did they go? Did Momma even mail them? (I watch way too much TV) Of course she did, I remember she always read my pitiful letter before she sealed the envelope, and she would help me address it. She would put a few cents with the letter and set it in the mailbox at the end of the lane. I'm pretty sure old Val Mullally was our mailman in those days, and it was common practice for people to depend on their mailman to actually be the post office for them too. It worked. The letter would be gone! Things were different back then, there was honesty and integrity.

I remember getting replies to some of my letters, although sporadic. I soon learned that my name was actually spelled "Novah" as in "Dear Novah...." but since the "h" got dropped before I even learned how to read, it never made much of an impression on me. And to be honest, it's a queer name, I've had to defend it all my life, and since Nova Scotia is most people's experience with the name, well, fair enough.

N-O-V-A it is.

It was always a pretty exciting day to see an Airmail envelope sitting on the table, so distinctive with that blue and red edging, a letter from Labrador!

I know she wrote beautifully, her penmanship was perfect. Easy to read, with a dropped French word here and there, she was primarily francophone after all. I know for sure that I always asked when she was coming home, and no doubt I got an answer. But these letters came fewer and further between and Momma didn't like to be asked about it.

From left to right.......Nova, Butch, Aunt Anne holding her baby Sammy, Anne's oldest daughter Cindy, and Darrell, with what looks like a cat.

So one day Momma decided to take a trip North to Labrador. She loved travelling and she had a lot of pluck. What she didn't have was any money or means to travel, so how she did it, I'll never know. But doesn't everything end up being an adventure?