Robert and Pearl and me

ROBERT AND PEARL, DUCHESS ALBERTA, 1946

The war is over! The soldiers who are fortunate enough to be returning home have arrived and settled in, recognizable but changed, eyes haunted by visions they struggle to forget.

A few men are back from working for 50 cents a day at Seebe forestry camp. They are conscientious objectors, and Robert is one of them. And Robert is in love.

The engagement picture shows two awkward, very serious young adults, dressed in modified Mennonite clothing—she with long hair pulled back in braids around her head, covered with a net ‘covering’, loose blouse, skirt just below the knee, arms crossed tensely in front of her, smiling slightly. He is wearing a suit and vest, with no tie, and dark, short hair, slicked back.

Robert was born in a farmhouse near Tofield, Alberta, Canada, 40 miles east of the provincial capital, Edmonton, in February 1924. He was his parents’ second child, but their first child, a girl, died in infancy. Robert grew up with a distant, intelligent father, and as he told me a few months before his death at 73, a mother who regularly beat him with willow branches, or any stick she laid her hands on.

Robert was a physical presence in an intellectual environment. He reached his full height of 6 feet at 12. His younger sister and brother were brilliant students, and artists. A sister, Virginia was born last, and was loved and treasured by all. She also succumbed to a communicable childhood disease before the age of 3.

Robert loved playing ball, hunting gophers, and working with his hands. He started smoking at 9—another revelation in the last year of his life, although there certainly were clues throughout my childhood. Robert’s maternal uncles had a reputation in the Mennonite community of being wild, and were known to be athletic. All died in their 40s of heart ailments. Robert’s mother, Irene, also died at 45 of a heart attack.

Pearl was the 7^th of 8 children, born in Medicine Hat in 1924 and raised in Richmound Saskatchewan. A snapshot showing an overhead view of Richmound in the ‘Dirty Thirties’ shows a flat huddle of worn-looking shops and houses, fading off to the horizon with no trees in sight.

Pictures of Mom in her childhood reveal a sensitive, unsmiling, attractive broad-faced child with wavy hair and big blue eyes. The exceptions to the stern expression occurred when she had a baby or small animal in her arms. Pearl’s sister Shirley was a year older, and was considered the family beauty. Pearl dressed fashionably and was somewhat proud of her tiny waist and long, wavy hair, but was aware of her ‘also ran’ status in terms of looks. She focused on piano lessons. She played piano for the numerous family singing parties, as well as for dances and weddings. She worked hard in high school as she planned to become a nurse, possibly in India, where she had dreams of becoming a missionary.  Major events in her early life were her illness in mid-childhood, which she believed was polio, and dust storms that filled the air and sifted in through cracks in walls, filled bowls, and left drifts on floors.

Raising 8 children in a small Saskatchewan town in the 30’s required some imagination and a lot of hard work on the part of Pearl’s parents, Sally and John. Pearl’s father was a jovial man with a barrel chest, a reputation for strength, and a loud voice, who did not seem to pass on much of his extraversion to his offspring. He sold Fuller Brush products, sharpened knives and scissors for the neighborhood and beyond, and sold fertilizer to the surrounding famers. The family raised a few cows and the younger children delivered milk to the neighbors for a few cents a week.

Sally was known for her gentleness and her smile, and for keeping her hands busy sewing, cooking, or cleaning. She loved literature and music, and would sing songs and read nursery rhymes to small children until her voice cracked.

Robert and Pearl met in a Mennonite youth group in Duchess. Pearl’s older sister Leila had joined the church, and invited Pearl to attend meetings and social events with her. Both women were attracted to the Gospel message, the conservative way of life and they made strong friendships that lasted for years.

When Pearl accepted Robert’s proposal, he gave her a small cedar chest as a gift, and a watch instead of a ring, as was this group’s custom. He also built a small house in Duchess for them to live in after the wedding on July 14, 1946. Robert was working for a local man as a farm hand. Pearl stopped working as a nurse’s aid in the Brooks Hospital just before the wedding.

Just under a year later, I was born, a month early, but healthy, weighing 6 lb. 3 ounces. Even though prenatal care and delivery came with a price tag in the days before universal medical coverage, Robert and Pearl were optimistic, and life was sweet.

Four months later, Pearl developed pleurisy and her left lung collapsed. She was admitted to the hospital. Her mother, now a widow, travelled from Medicine Hat to look after the baby. Pearl needed surgery, and a long hospital stay, and was facing a long convalescence. By this time, Robert’s father had remarried. Robert asked if he and his family could stay with the new couple until the medical bills were paid, and Pearl regained her strength. They agreed.

IRENE: EARLIEST MEMORIES        :  

Grandpa Ezra and Stella’s house: “The Fisher Place,” Tofield, Alberta. Age 2 1/2.

It’s warm out even though it’s almost bedtime, and the air smells like yarrow, clover and cows. The cows are bawling to be milked, and Grandpa puts on his striped overalls, picks up a couple of pails from the shed on the side of the house, and heads out to the barn. I skip along beside him.

“Are you going to milk Bessie?”

 “Definitely.”

 “Are you going to give the cats some milk to drink?”

 “Possibly.”

 “Can we go see the baby horse?”…Silence. That’s the signal to stop bothering Grandpa and go find Daddy. He’s working on the railing beside the barn, and when I reach him he smiles, finishes pounding in the last two nails, drops the hammer into his pocket, picks me up and tosses me in the air. I squeal appreciatively. He carries me to the house on his shoulders.

Although the details of living at my grandfather’s house are fuzzy to me now, since we moved there when I was 8 months old and left when I was 3, I have lasting impressions of Queenie, the collie, and my step-grandmother, Stella. Stella was probably in her late thirties when she married my grandfather, and was a hard-working, pleasant woman and an excellent cook. Her husband was well respected in the Mennonite community, but he was nearly 20 years older, and his heart was failing. I was usually welcomed when I visited their part of the house, but there were times when Grandpa was in severe pain, and I had to leave.

Grandpa’s house had a parlor, with a lovely polished wood bookcase full of books. There was no running water, but there was a windmill on the property with a pump whose handle would lift little children up into the air. Water for the household came from the pump on the kitchen counter.

The farm was operational, but it didn’t make much money. Grandpa was, of course, more focused on books, preaching, teaching and touring than on making a living. One year, a huge storm took the roof right off the tall red barn. Almost overnight, the men of the Mennonite community replaced it. They arrived in pickup trucks, with tools and lumber. They sang and joked with one another as they busily pulled boards off the blown-away roof and set to work replacing the ones that were not broken.

The large country kitchen was buzzing with preparations of food for them all: roast beef, pickles, preserves, mounds of mashed potatoes, corn and peas from jars in the pantry, big, white loaves of bread, and apple pies.

We stayed in Tofield for much longer than any married couple would be comfortable with. It was probably a blessing that Mom had another medical condition that prevented her from further pregnancies at that time.

Eventually, when I was 3 1/2, in 1949, we moved to Culp, Alberta, in the north eastern part of the province, where my parents, partially supported by the Mennonite Church conference, would introduce the locals to our take on Christianity. Dad worked as a carpenter on various bridges, beginning with the one across the Smoky River at Watino.

Happy Monday

Nordic track + Rachelle van Zanten + Robbie Robertson + Kashtin = good times!

Puzzled by RCMP report in local paper

So...I'm pretty puzzled by the RCMP reports I've been reading in the last year or so. They're completely reassuring at first, as various drivers are described doing dumb and illegal things, and being apprehended by our hard working, vigilant officers. I really do appreciate them. They do one of the most difficult jobs I can imagine--putting their lives on the line and attending fatal and horrific accidents, for example.

But after reading about several drivers (gender-neutral, no racism or ageism there), I found two entries referring to the crimes of FEMALE drivers. What the heck? Are we to assume that it is so typical for people who run afoul of the law to be male that it doesn't require a mention? Or was it impossible to identify the genders of all the other drivers?

I just wonder, what would be the reaction of our community if the report had only identified people by race?
Let's see...5 "drivers" were stopped due to various offenses including suspected drunk driving, or transporting large quantities of marijuana, and 2 Black drivers, or Latino drivers--fill in the race of your choice--were stopped for suspected drunk driving or some other offence.

Think about it.

EARLY PERCEPTIONS OF GOD AND RELIGION

I'm writing my memoirs. It feels quite narcissistic, except for the fact that I believe there are things in my past that my siblings missed out on, that they probably would benefit from knowing, and being 65 and aware of my mortality in new ways every month or so, I am anxious to pass on my memories to my descendants. 

 ***

Being ‘different’ in a society where sameness is emphasized so strongly had its drawbacks. We, as a group of semi-conservative Mennonites were different from the general population—incredibly so to my immature way of thinking—and I couldn’t understand why my mother, who had been raised with such freedom in terms of appearance, entertainment, and general lifestyle, converted into a group where even trimming a woman’s hair was seen as wrong, and the standard patterns for clothing, shared by Amish and Hutterites, with slight variations, included a net ‘covering’ and a heavy black ‘bonnet’ to cover uncut hair, which was pulled off the face and pinned up. Women were not to wear makeup or jewelry—not even a wedding ring—but were given watches in place of engagement rings, by their fiancés.

We were taught Bible stories from an early age. Some of them were exciting and very worthwhile in terms of examples of faith and character. Joseph and Daniel were two of my favorites, and I wondered why I had to be a girl, when it seemed evident that not only Mennonites, but God Himself, preferred males. I reacted to this perception of unfairness by deciding that there really was no difference…my thoughts and opinions were as valid as any boy’s. This led to some physical altercations. When I was about 4, I attempted to beat the truth into a Bluesky boy’s head when he insisted that hands were not called hands, but ‘patties.’ I also had a strong difference of opinion with a boy in Watino who stated that it was more important to be a Christian than a Mennonite. My mother told me I had punched him on stage during some performance, but that memory is lost to me!

Our beliefs were based on a strict literal interpretation of the Bible, mainly focused on the New Testament epistles, and the words of Jesus. One preacher friend we visited often confused me somewhat. He was a powerful speaker, who knew the Bible well, but at home he indulged in a lot of silly talk, and ignored his wife’s struggles to force some cooperation in chores and responsibilities out of their young teen son. The preacher delighted in teasing children. One of his main routines involved a threat that he would put tape on my brother’s chin to prevent him from drooling when he ate. This preacher figured prominently in a nightmare I had. In the dream, I had died, and went up a rough ladder to heaven, which looked a lot like a hayloft in a barn. This preacher was there, roaring and teasing as usual, and angels came by like birds, pecking at me. The latter undoubtedly arose from my misunderstanding of song lyrics, ‘The angels beckon me’ sounded like ‘The angels pecking me’ to my 3 year old ears.

At any rate, my impression of God and religion was that He was watching me with a stern expression on his face, and keeping track of all the things I did that were wrong. And there were many…sexual exploration with a neighbor boy in a tent being the most guilt producing, but also dreams that my second brother had been having a bath in a sink, and went down the drain. Somehow I believed it was my fault. I used to consider my likely punishment before acting, sometimes. (This is probably more common than I realized at the time). I would take a small box of matches into the ice house, where large blocks of ice were stored in sawdust, having been cut out of the river the previous winter.

I’d light a match to watch the flame, and inevitably burn my thumb. One of my parents would notice the blister, and a spanking would ensue. I also felt guilty about my inner rebellion toward rules and punishments that made no sense to me, and about losing toys, being mean to my brothers, and procrastinating when a parent told me to do something, instead of obeying instantly. I somehow had the idea that if I died without having confessed one of my many sins, I would not go to heaven. The alternative was too horrible to contemplate, but impossible to forget.

This guilt has been a lifelong companion, and probably also arises from being raised by parents who believed strongly in correction and punishment, but that complimenting children was likely to make them conceited and unteachable. Even when helping to sort through my parents’ belongings after their deaths, I found essays they had written on this topic. I noticed, however, that they enjoyed compliments themselves, and were hurt or stung when others’ efforts were valued more than their own.

I hasten to add that both my parents made efforts to establish closeness, acknowledged the contributions that their children had made, were proud of us all for one reason or another, and were also products of their imperfect environments.

Mastercard Update

So...we broke up, my M/C provider and I...quite some time ago. But undaunted, they kept sending me 'bills' telling me when to make my payment. The problem was, in terms of logic, that they owed ME. I let this go on for a few months, then I wrote to them again. This time I mentioned that it might be worth their while to pay me what they owed and stop sending 'bills,' as it was costing them money to continue the madness.
Today I got my cheque in the mail for $27.78. No comment, no thanks. Ah well, c'est la vie.
I think I'll splurge and take us out for a latte! lol