No One Asked Me

A Mouse for Christmas

2014-01-04T14:47:00.000-08:00

I have lived in this house, 83 Elliott Row in Saint John New Brunswick, Canada for twenty eight years. Every fall/winter I have been here, we have had mice. The theory is that they are little field mice who slip in an open doorway or manage to migrate through a crack in the foundation.

Now my house was built in 1905 and still has the old flue that served the coal furnace. The flue runs up the centre of the house and is encased by walls but those rascal mice use it as their high way! I know this how? Because they leave behind their coal marked foot prints. At my first sighting I call the exterminator. He puts out bait and traps, I tell him we will not catch any mice on the traps; my mice are wise to those. This fall a black mouse surprised me my zooming out from behind the toilet just as I was about to perch on it. At first I thought we had a new breed of mice and then I realized he was covered with coal soot!

For me there are as many mice stories as there have been Christmases. My daughter Vavielle recounts that one year she was home for Christmas and sharing a room with her sister Leisa. Christmas night they went to bed stuffed with good food and brimming over with good cheer. Shortly after they went to sleep they were awaken by a rustling under their bed. Mice ….in the bags of half eaten chips and treats they had been snacking on Christmas eve!

Then another Christmas night, do you see a pattern here, my husband Steve was awakened by a rustling noise. He opened his eyes to see the tail of a mouse just disappearing into a gift bag. It was the same gift bag where he had deposited all the chocolate from his Christmas sock. So he jumped put of bed, grabbed the bag, rushed downstairs and out unto the walkway; planning to deposit the mouse out of doors. But before he could perform that action he heard a gasp from the sidewalk. Two young ladies were returning home from a late night adventure and they spied Steve battling the mouse. He was wearing just what he had on when he sprung from the bed. Steve sleeps in the buff.

This Christmas has been no exception. The mice are prowling around the house, the exterminator has visited, and his Hench man has been in. The mice are still in the house. At a Christmas craft fair I purchased some chocolate from my friend Jacqui of Chocó lately cravings. Knowing my rodent problem I stored the chocolate items in a tote bag and hung it on the pantry door. As I started my wrapping I went for the chocolate items. All was not well, some were chewed and ruined but other items were still intact. Seem my mice only like chocolate containing marshmallows. Now I have a plan, I will bait the traps with marshmallow chocolate and ………..

My grandson Noah is enjoying a book The Mouse before Christmas , well he can keep that mouse at his house! And no one asked me about mice for Christmas.

No one asked me about the Horse pull at the Bath Fall Fair

2013-09-02T17:37:00.000-07:00

It was Labour Day, 1959 and excitement was in the air. No, it was not with the children, but with the men. They were off to Bath Fall fair, for the Horse Pull, and Minnie and Molly were pulling. But the best thing? Brenda and I were attending as well.

Minnie and Molly were the family draft horses, dapple greys and getting on in years. Well technically the horses belonged to my Grandfather Nelson Rogers, but as we lived on or about the farm the children had claimed the horses as theirs, like wise for Brenda.

Our families were all of the Pentecost persuasion and did not believe in fairs, horse pulls, wagering and a host of other minor sins. My father, Talmage Vail, believed in sin, but his first love was sport. I cannot remember who persuaded Grampy to enter the team. Perhaps the farmers had been scouted for many farms were now worked by tractors and the draft horse teams were diminishing.

I can remember my Father and Grandfather perched on the lumber pile idly chewing on pieces of hay while the visitor paced back and forth, smoking and extolling the merits of horse pulls. I dodged around the perimeter picking up bits of conversation.

After a bit I ran to the house to inform my mother and grandmother that “Minnie and Molly are going to the Bath Fall Fair and Daddy and Grampy too”!

Well!! Their response was negative to say the least.

“They gamble on those horse pulls”, said my Mother.

“They have boot leg booze”, said Grammy.

“The Catholics have a canteen,” Mother again (and in our teachings they would surely be serving up unholy food)!

I cannot remember all their reasons to disagree but they ended with; “We do not go to worldly fairs!” I was determined to go.

Soon it was the day before the fair, Grampy drove the team up to the Fairgrounds, about six miles from the farm. All teams had to be registered the night before and watched to ensure they were not tampered with. Okay horsemen, how does one tamper with a horse? I am not sure who spent the night with Minnie and Molly but in my mind’s eye I can see myself setting in the front seat of Father’s pickup bouncing along between Talmage and Nelson. How did I arrange that? I am not sure but I was very good at getting what I wanted, I craved new experiences and I was adept at staying out of trouble.

How Uncle Earle and Brenda happened to attend, that is another story. Brenda reports that her family had always attended the Bath Fall Fair, with siblings and parents, long before we moved back from BC. Maybe it was the Hartley influence, but it was not a forbidden outing in Earle & Effie's house. In fact, we all looked forward to it, Dad included. We all loved the fair, with the rides, food stands, and animals (me - not so much the animals!).

After several days of talking about horse pulling and wagering either Daddy or Grampy came up with the idea of having their own man to scrutinize the situation. There was no one who would be better than Uncle Earle! Uncle Earle could have been a policeman, a big man with a big voice he took no guff. Grampy walked down to Madeline’s to make the call; we were not “on the phone”. I am not sure how Nelson persuaded him to come; Nelson, Tally and Earle were an unholy trinity, but Earle would be the eyes and ears for the pull.

We arrived at the fairground and paid our entrances, Earle, Dad and Grampy were exempt(as they were working the Horse Pull), Brenda and I as well, we were under twelve. Uncle Earle gave Brenda and I some coin and admonished us to listen for the announcement for the team’s class.

And there we were, two little girls standing out in our prim dresses amid a sea of dungarees, alone in the wonders of what was the sinful fall fair. The grounds for the fair was a good size. The big swing was front and center, there were three booths on each side a bare piece of ground in the middle and the horse pull area and barn at the back. It did not take long to check out the booths; on the right side were the Protestant canteen, burgers, and potato salad. Next came the pie booth and the last was for games. On the left was the Catholic canteen, hot dogs and pieces of tourtiere (of course we had no knowledge of this delicacy) and two booths for games. The swing did not start until later and about the time the Lions Club would begin to boil corn. I am sure I purchased some to eat; I am equally sure Brenda did not.

Not the Bath Horse pull, but the same set up

We soon drifted up to the pull area and watched in amazement as the horses were weighed. There was a special tape used to measure the circumference of each horse’s girth. All too soon the pull began. I could see why my Mother had not wanted me to attend; farmers over loaded their drags from the beginning then whipped the poor horse. Harnesses and whiffletrees were broken; Horses rose on their hind legs and whinnied. Brenda and I crept farther and farther away.

Then it was time for the Roger’s Team; Minnie and Molly were lead out with my father holding the reins; Grampy Nelson was at the horses head seeming to talk to them. They started out with just the base weight on the drag (the weighs were cement blocks, I am unsure of the poundage) and added more in a gradual manner. Soon the team were stepping away under my father’s coaxing of “come on pull, come on pull...” and Grampy’s praise of “You are good girls, you are good girls”. I would like to tell you that they won in their class. Or the writer in me would have Uncle Earle shutting the race down due to wagering. But I remember none of that.

It was the swing that held my interest. As soon as it started Brenda and I were riders, seated in what was little more than rubber slings, held by chains. The swing started slowly, this was fun; it picked up, we were lifted off the ground and the speed increased. Not so much fun. Then the speed increased, the swings went faster and higher and faster and higher! Now that I was up I was terrified! I shut my eyes; I had a death grip on the chains. I endured the ride.

When it was over and we were slowing down I looked at Brenda, her eyes were shining and she had coin in her hand “We are going again”. And so we did. By the second or third or fourth time I actually enjoyed it. I have a mental picture of being on those swings watching the fireworks, which were set off after dark. I think time has blurred my memories and I did not see those fireworks until years later when I was a teen.

This is a tale that could use some additions; I have no memories after watching Minnie and Molly pull and Brenda and I on the swing. I do know that my Grandfather Nelson Rogers lived five more years and attended the fair; I know that my father went as well for the horse pull. I usually could be found bouncing between the men in my life as we jolted along in Dad’s Half ton. I am not sure if Uncle Earle or Brenda ever re attended, they moved to Lindsay some thirty miles away. I do know that Talmage was the first to eat from the Catholic canteen; tourtiere which he dissed as “meat pie”. And Nelson loved the pie stand. And me; I waited impatiently each summer for the Bath Fall Fair so I could go on the swing.

However, no one asked me about the horse pull.

Please contact me if you have any relevant photos or information and I will add.

Sleep overs

2013-08-09T14:38:00.000-07:00

My son in law is from Egypt and he and often find ourselves on the opposite side of an argument. However, there is one subject on which we can agree; sleep overs for young children. I can seldom finagle to get the boys, ages six and eight to spend the night. Their father’s position is he wants the boys at home and why do they need to be away? So there are no small boys coming and going with back packs from their home.

It is unfortunate that the parent/parents of Connor and Noah Barthe did not share the same view. Now I am not blaming the parents, their loss must be unimaginable, this was an accident. However we have legalized seat belts and cars seats to prevent accidents. We, as a country, need to take more care with our children.

I have seen more harm than good come from sleep overs. Often there are more than two children involved and in numbers come trouble. Who has not heard of sleep over children who storm the kitchen, watch adult movies and videos, help themselves to liquor and even partake of prescription drugs? All while the adults are sleeping!

Both my daughter and I had disturbing episodes, of the personal nature, while on sleep overs. They were definitely not the fault of the host but had we been at home this trauma would have been avoided.

Our children are the most precious gift; we should watch them like we would an invaluable work of art, a fortune in cash or a priceless antique. Would you send one of those treasures out for the night?

I do advocate occasional sleep over visits with grandparents to give the parents a break and the grandparents some alone time with the younger generation. However most grandparents are getting older and both parents and grandparents should review sleeping arrangements, safety issues, and security of adult materials and proximity of pets. Too many little ones have been bitten by the family pet!

When you and your family feel sleep overs might be appropriate here is my check list;

ü Child should be about ten

ü Ensure you know the family your child will be visiting

ü You need to have visited the home, preferably more than once

ü Inquire about sleeping arrangements, safety issues, and security of adult materials and proximity of pets

ü If you are not 100% with the answers do not let you child go!

ü Ask about hours for sleep, what and when they will eat

ü Check access to Television, cell phones, electronic games and social media

I am sure all you parents can add more to my list and thoughts. My last point is that the majority of bullying episodes happen between 3 or more children. Do not set your child up to be the victim.

No one asked me, but I say No to sleep overs. The exception being to their grandparents.

About Fiddleheads

2013-05-19T08:54:00.000-07:00

Fiddleheads as they grow once the spring waters recede from streams and rivers

I was first introduced to this wonderful vegetable after my family moved to Carleton county in 1959. After a winter berefit of green vegetable's, fiddleheads were an unexpected delight and a harbringer of spring. Even though I now have green vegetables all winter I still welcome each spring's arrival of fiddleheads.

In the 1950′s and 60′s locals were not aware of the dangers of polluntants when harvesting these green goodies from along the Shitehawk stream or Saint John River; or perhaps there were no pollutants at this stage?

Yet my mental pictures of those long ago "pickings" show emply chemical barrels along the stream!

We called the brown sheath the brac and it was this that caught the dirt, no one thought of it as a health hazard.

Fiddleheads were washed once, plunked in a pot and cook until soft (and somewhat gray). There would be several inches of brown scum up the side of your pot!! One would carefully ladel out the fiddleheads and serve with butter, (homemade of course), and vinegar. At one home in our neigbourhood the fiddleheads were cooked even longer and then mashed on the plate with a fork.

It was not until I had “lived away” and returned to Carleton County in the 1970′s that I realized fiddleheads could be eaten tendercrisp – heaven!

There were years when cleaning fiddleheads was a spring pastime; in a pillowcase, in the clothesdryer, hosed down between two screens – removing the brown covering seemed next to impossible. My friend Graydon Shaw had such a system.

This Google image search on the right shows a automated Fiddlehead Cleaner devised in Maine.

In 1985 I moved to Saint John and have only harvested fiddleheads a few times. However I await each spring’s growth with anticipation. Fiddleheads, salmon, potatoes = a feast.

My mother Edna, at 88, has now decreed that she shall only eat the superior grade of these ferns; the ones without stalk and harvested just as they burst from the ground.

NOW FOR THE KICKER! Because of contaminants from the waters;

Fiddleheads must be boiled for at least a minute to kill the germs.

Should you wish to saute, make soup, add to salads, stir fries etc the fiddlehead still requires this preboil; and I advise you to shock them with an ice water rinse to preserve the bright green colour.

Now I must run, there are some left over fiddleheads in my fridge and I have not yet had breakfast. I enjoy them cold ; and they would be so much better if I had some of my brother, Bruce Vail’s, cornmeal crusted, fried, Carleton County trout!!

Feel free to share your fiddlehead memories, comments or questions. Readers loved, Comments adored!

The Rogers Twins

2013-05-02T11:52:00.000-07:00

Edna herself

My mother, Edna Vail, celebrated her 88^th birthday on April 28^th/2013. Mother has had many trials and tribulations, as well as some serious illnesses, so it is even more rewarding that she is bright and cheery as she celebrates this day. Or as Edna would say “I’m just peachy”!

Ena, Frank, Barney, Edna

Eighty eight years ago in the hamlet of Fielding, New Brunswick there was an event; twin girls were born to Nelson and Lottie Rogers. They were named Edna Mary and Ena Marie. The birth was notable as the Rogers had seven boys and one girl to welcome the babies.

The twins were identical so at birth a pink ribbon was tied to the wrist of one and a blue for the other. As Mama was on bed rest (and well deserved I am sure), Papa and brother Earle took charge of the twins. In a day when many babies did not survive, these full term girls weighted a total of 15 lbs. and were destined to thrive.

I do not have many stories before they went to school, I am sure they were busy sisters. I know they were christened the “twinzies” by their siblings. Edna’s first memories were of them making mud pies. It was a serious event, deserving neighbour children would be summoned, the mud procured and the pies formed. The mud pies would be left to bake until the next day when the tea would be held. The twins would serve their guests the mud pies with cups of imaginary tea. Edna can still remember breaking off a piece of the pie and pretending to eat it.

One pie making day was particularly sunny and the twins looked for a prime spot to bake their pies. Then their eyes feel on the lumber pile. Papa had just added some brand new lumber; they laid their pies out on its pristine surace. When their father came in for supper he inquired why they had dirtied up his new lumber. “But they are fresh mud pies, they would not dirty anything”, was the Ena’s reply. But they were told to clean off the pies and sweep the boards.

The mud pies were a factor in a near tragedy. The best source for mud was from along the brook than ran by the main road. Ena was the “harvester” and loaded up her implement then brought it to the waiting pie makers. On one trip Ena was so engrossed in her play that she popped up from the brook and out and onto the road. A big lumber truck was coming, the driver tried to stop but to no avail. The bumper hit Ena, she fell down, and the truck ran over her. By the time the truck stopped Ena had been hit by the axle, (she was lying vertically between the wheels). The driver, Harold McDougall from Bristol, gathered her up and took her to the house. He told Mrs. Rogers to call the doctor. She informed the truck driver that they were not on the phone and they did not get Doctors; they believed in God for healing. The truck driver responded that it was his responsibility and he would get the doctor; which he did.

Ena, Mother Lottie,
Rodney and Edna 1932

The doctor examined six year old Ena and could find no visible breaks and only a few abrasions; however he diagnosed a concussion and put her on bed rest. And in a few days they were back to normal. Edna says the matching dresses they are wearing in this photo was one of the few times they ever dressed alike. Their family was very poor and most garments were made from hand me down adult wear.

The twins were so alike that the school teacher could only tell them apart by their clothes and were they were seated. Imagine their delight when at lunch time they scurried to the facilities and changed their dresses. Each became the other!

The Sunday School teacher realized that Edna had a dimple which showed up if she smiled ; so the teacher would tickle the twins (which they hated). Then Edna could be identified by her dimple.

The year’s sped by. The first real difference was at the end of grade four; Edna passed into grade five but Ena was held back. This did not dampen their spirits, they continued teasing their big brothers, helping with their little brothers Rodney and Sam, attending church and Sunday school and helping Mama. Edna says the Ena was a better helper, a kinder person while she Edna was a whiner and complainer. Their brother Earle told me that the girls had two personalities and they traded them at will, just as they switched their dresses.

Days rolled into weeks, weeks to months and months to years and the twinzies grew and flourished. Then one day Ena became ill with flu like symptoms and went to Mama’s bed. That night Edna slept alone for the first time in her life. The next day, in October 1935, Ena Marie Rogers drew her last breath: she was ten years old. Edna has grieved for her twin these seventy eight years.

At the time neighbours felt Ena had died of a ruptured appendix. Others said a knot in the bowel. Or had she been damaged internally when the truck ran over her? There was no doctor, no autopsy. Fifty years after the fact a local doctor, whose father had been the doctor who covered Fielding told me this. “I will never forget the night the Roger's twin died. My father came home and held his head in his hands and cried like a baby. He was so angry with the Rogers that their faith healing would deny medical help for their child.”

My Rogers grandparents died in the 1960’s. After their death a neighbour shared this; Grampy was so distraught with the death that the night of the funeral he went to Ena’s grave and prayed for God to raise her. He pleaded and reminded God that they had followed his faith healing edict; Grampy said, “ God you raised Lazarus, now raise our twin!” The neighbour continued that Grampy prayed all night and as dawn broke he felt that God said, “I will raise her one day, but not right now”.

2013-04-22T16:37:00.000-07:00

Why we named her Vavielle

When I was a girl my Mother and I had lots of talks, I know every girl talks to her mother. But ours were special, Edna and I had real conversations. Perhaps they had been going on for many years but the ones I remember best began when I was fourteen and we inherited my Mother’s family farm.

We always talked when we were working, and it seemed we were always working. Doing dishes provided a great time for our discourse, Laundry, ditto. Making beds, cleaning, cooking, pickling, gardening, chasing cows; I recall chats from all of those time. Then there was berry picking! That was when the serious tête-à-tête took place.

“Vavial, is that not a beautiful name?” began Mother on one of our raspberry picking jaunts.

“What….

“Vavial, is a nice name.” Mother replied.

“For who?”

“A girl”.

“You are not going to have another baby!!!!” I protested!

(By way of explanation, I was the oldest of six. When I was 14 Mother had her last baby, my only sister. I was not impressed. And I had stressed there were to be no more babies!)

“No – let’s take a break,” said Mum.

So we located one another through the raspberry canes, found a patch of grass and had a long drink of water. Mother had survival down pat; she was freezing partial bottles of water as soon as pop came in plastic. Then the story…

In the 1940’s my mother was a student, and a teacher, at Emmanuel Bible School in New Castle Bridge, New Brunswick. One summerMother and some of the other students travelled to Maine for camp meetings. This was an annual summer occurrence for evangelicals where for a week or more they would meet, visit and have three services a day. As well as preaching the services highlighted singing, both congregational and “special singers”. Now one of those soloists was a beautiful francophone lady with dark haired, wonderful smile and a magnificent voice. And mother said her name was Vavial.

Edna, that would be my Mother, was so taken with the name that she vowed any future daughter would be called Vavial. Then in 1949 enter Talmage Vail and v’s abounded. I was born June 1950 and Edna decided that Vavial Vail would be too much, so called me Valerie. (I was named Valerie Vail which was no treat for a kid with a lisp!)

And now Mother is telling me this story, which she repeated several times each year. Fast forward a few year and I am pregnant, however, I am still in high school so it was not a happy time. As the pregnancy progressed I thought of names; “Leif” for a boy and “Vavial” for a girl. The most wonderful baby girl arrived on March 25/1968; all dark hair and dark eyes. We called her Vavial Rae Brooker (yes her father and I had married).

baby Vavial 5 months

Vavial was the perfect baby, slept through the night, good traveller, not given to vomit. I loved her name, yet many people asked if I had “made it up” from my Christian and surnames!

Vavial said she did not like her name but she was always a beautiful, intelligent girl and I felt it set her apart from the pack. When Vavial was in grade three French immersion came to our area and the program included Quebec born monitors. During a chat with one of the monitors the origin of Vavial’s name arose. So I recounted mother’s story.

“Mais oui”, said the monitor “Vavielle!”

“Excuse me?”

“C'est le nom pour une fille, comme Michele, Danielle et Gabrielle. Tu comprends?”

Then she explained that my mother had anglicised a French name. Vavial and I discussed the subject and Vavial came to understand that she had a unique French name.

Now Vavielle
with sister \leisa

When she entered middle school she was Vavielle Rae Brooker. People seemed to be more able to pronounce her name. I liked it when I chose that name, I like it still.

And my Mother? When Vavielle was five a second daughter, Leisa, was born to our family. As soon as Leisa could talk Mother referred to Vavielle as “Sissy” and so she has been to Leisa and Grammy Edna for the past forty years.

Vavielle (aka Sissy) &
Grammy Edna

Now that we are all on line a few more Vavielle’s have surfaced. There are now five Vavielle's on Facebook. Google searches always turn up a few Vavielles and occasionally it surfaces as a surname.

Vavielle has had a love hate affair with the name and in later years has shortened herself to “Vave”. She has been Auntie Vave to her niece and nephews and now Mommy to her little guy Jonah. Whatever the moniker, I love her dearly. And I think Vavielle’s name suits my special, talented, competent, loving daughter and Vavielle she will always be, to me.

Vavielle and I ( Valerie Vail Brooker Bauer)

2013-04-19T19:18:00.004-07:00

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!

2013-02-20T15:25:00.000-08:00

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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<a href="http://www.hypersmash.com">Hypersmash.com</a>

if I was a leader

2013-02-18T17:34:00.001-08:00

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?

2013-02-17T11:15:00.001-08:00

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?

2013-02-15T18:56:00.000-08:00

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

2013-01-07T20:33:00.000-08:00

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.

2012-09-30T18:01:00.000-07:00

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!

2012-09-11T18:43:00.000-07:00

No one asked me about driving combine

It was the fall of 1966. Potato break was fast approaching. For the uninitiated Potato Break is a three week school holiday in Carleton and Victoria Counties in New Brunswick, Canada. The potato break, for which students begin classes in August to make up the time, had been instituted in 1960 and I was glad to have the opportunity to work in the harvest and earn some much needed money. I was really anxious for this fall as it would be my second year working on a potato harvester for McCain Foods. This was a major step up from picking potatoes. But it was not to be.

A few days before the beginning of potato break we had a visitor. A car rolled in, a man got out and went to the barn or the field or where ever my Father could be found. This was normal practice in our community; however this time the male visitor soon came to the house and asked for me. Leslie Bell was the visitor, he was a friend and neighbour and as a young teen I had followed his courtship and marriage with great interest. Now there were one or two cute little Bell boys in their big house on the hill.

Leslie and Mona Bell

“I have a job for your,” Leslie said.

“Oh no,” I thought, “I do not want to babysit!”

“Oh…..”

“Yes, I want you to drive my new combine.”

“But I am going to work on the harvester for McCain’s”, I replied.

“I really need you”, said Leslie “and I will pay you an extra dollar an hour more than McCain’s”!!

“Well …………I am flattered but why me? There are lots of men available!” I have never heard of a woman; much let a girl, driving a harvester. They are big machines which cut down standing grain, thresh out the oats (in our case) and spew that grain out into a truck which drives alongside. The harvester also bales the straw and kicks it out to the other side. Multi functions, many opportunities for break down.

“I could get a young guy”, said Leslie, “but they would tear the machine apart and older men will not listen to my instructions. Actually Mona (his wife) suggested you. I have my grain to cut plus many others, including your father’s.”

Early one crisp fall morning saw me waiting for Leslie, yes he picked me up and delivered me and supplied me with lunches and snacks and water and chewing gum! The combine was everything he said; it had a cab, a comfortable seat and even a radio. Laurence Clair was driving the hopper truck and we were good to go. Leslie gave me the instructions for the first field. This is not as easy as it seems, some fields were cut working back and forth, some you worked all four sides. It was important that the field was planned out so you dropped you baled straw on cut area and made the most efficient use of the grain. I followed instructions.

Driving combine was perfect job for me. I drove slow and steady, actually just putted along. Laurence or Leslie changed the rolls of baller twine before they ran out so we had no fouls in that area. The days whizzed by, it was a perfect fall and we missed no time for rainy days or days to let the grain dry. A windy weekend made one field a challenge and Leslie had to drive the tricky bit where the oats had gone down. I was happy with my job and my employer and Leslie was happy with me. I could not believe my hefty pay when the three weeks were over.

I never again drove a harvester, by the next fall I was married and pregnant, and I do not think Leslie ever hired another female, (although Janice Bell would have been a good driver when she was in her late teens). And no one ever asked me about diving combine.

2012-08-23T20:27:00.000-07:00

No one asked me about Talmage’s Tomatoes

I was picking up a few groceries tonight and decided we needed ripe tomatoes. I debated over the ones in the cyropack, hot house grown or the ones on the vine, still hot house. Then I rounded a corner and there they were in all their glory ………. Local ripe tomatoes, supreme in their imperfection’s and packed in a woven wooden basket. Memories flooded back, I added the basket to my cart.

While we waited for Bumpie to bring around the van I asked my granddaughter if I had ever told her about the time we only had tomatoes for supper.

“Yes,” said Marcie. “That was when you were a kid and your father brought home the basket of tomatoes and the bottle of Miracle Whip because you never had that in your house. Yes you told me.”

And so I had! For me that experience was indelibly etched in my memory. I was eight, the year was 1958 and we lived at the Narrows, in Carleton County, New Brunswick. One day my Dad went to “do business” and did not return until almost dark. For some reason we had not eaten supper, as we called our evening meal. Perhaps Mother was sick or we had a late lunch, at any rate I was hungry then Dad came bursting through the door with a bushel of ripe tomatoes and a big jar of Miracle Whip. He called to Mother to bring bread, butter, salt and pepper and milk. I scurried to set the table. As quickly as Mother could slice her wonderful homemade bread Dad slathered the slices in butter and mayo and topped with the tomatoes. Soon all had a sandwich. And as we ate Dad started to talk about his day, a visit to Maugerville, getting his cows from the island, selling those cows, some financial discussions and then stopping at the fruit stand where he purchased the tomatoes.

“Taste what you are eating, “said Dad, “this is a gift from the land. You can taste the sun in these tomatoes!”

And I could. We spent an hour or more at the table, eating tomato sandwiches, discussing gardening and growing, complimenting Mother on her wonderful bread, drinking milk. It is one of my fondest memories.

Talmage Vail, my father, loved tomatoes in any form. Beefsteaks were his favorite ripe tomatoes and he knew their secrets long before the chic chefs. He would slice his tomato thick, sprinkle with salt and pepper and leave for the juices to loosen as he prepared the rest of his meal. When in season tomatoes were eaten for breakfast, lunch, suppers and snacks. For Dad they were often accompanied by a piece of old cheddar cheese.

Dad also loved what he called tomato stew, canned tomatoes heated with milk with a little baking soda (makes them fizz and prevents curdling of the milk). Mother was no fan of tomato soup but she knew the usefulness of the red fruit and in my teens she often canned at least fifty bottles of our own garden tomatoes. To this day my 87 year old mother has a ripe tomato every morning for her breakfast.

Tonight I followed my Father’s lead. I selected my tomato, after carefully examining each one in the basket, and sliced it. Toasted my bread, from Soleil Bakery – not as good as my Mother’s was, but ….. No fat counting here, I lathered on the Becel and low fat Hellmans, topped with the tomatoes; I had a snack fit for a king.

2012-08-12T16:51:00.001-07:00

No one asked my about a dowry

My youngest brother, Bruce Vail, was married on Friday August 10^th, 2012. Bruce and Trudy Broad were united in a civil ceremony at the Woodstock court house. While the service might have been undemonstrative, the emotions were not. Bruce and Trudy were, and are, high on love and the promise of a bright future together. Assembled family and friends were there to support them in that goal.

love Trudy's hair and bouquet

While it is still summer for us, the newlyweds were planning ahead when choosing their attire. A fall theme was in place and the bride looking smashing in full length mocha champagne, two piece gown. Trudy carried lush orange roses which were repeated by the ones carried by her maid of honor and worn by the groom and groomsman.

Broad and Vail family members

After the ceremony, and a few candid photos in the court room, we adjourned to the couple’s home in Fielding. Now Fielding is Bruce’s birth place and he lives next to the ancestral land. As we pulled into the driveway I could view the hard work and careful thought that preceded the event. There were containers of flowers and balloons, the lawn was manicured and the road sign scrubbed. Even the vegetable garden was picture perfect and included flowers as well as veggies.

A lovely picnic reception was served from the deck, the food prepared in advance by the bride and the groom. There was cake and a speech or two. Then my brother called for the Bride’s Father. Bruce proceeded to explain dowries, their history and use. (There is not a Vail or Rogers, our Mother’s family, who cannot make an impromptu speech at any public occasion.) “Usually a dowry would be a horse, or several cows, or a flock of sheep”, Bruce explained. “But I have no horse, no cows no sheep. However I truly want Mr. Broad to understand how much I value his daughter Trudy, so here is my dowry of a pair of chickens!”

Like is not always happy, love does not always come early (Bruce is now fifty), but laughter and a sense of humor will see you through. Many happy returns Bruce and Trudy; there is no doubt in my mind that your marriage will stay the course. And if you have an argument – go fishing!

And no one asked me about the dowry.

why they serve Syrian food in a Lebanese restaurant!

2012-05-12T08:48:00.000-07:00

Muhamara - walnut dip

We were hungry, no correct that, I was starved. It felt like hours since Barb and I had wandered into this empty restaurant. The waiter/owner/ host brought a basket of pita, (still in the plastic bag, no napkin) and a plate of olives, hot green pepper pickles and the red pickled turnip that I love. I wasted no time and was soon munching. With my mouth filled I returned to my surroundings. A portion of the ceiling had been lowered and was swathed in a velvet curtain complete with tassels; their colour matched the amber crystals on the chandeliers. And while they were over the top they were stunning. The room was large and filled with a eclectic collection of formal Middle Eastern furnishings, couches, chairs. A darkened corner to the right seemed to contain traditional tables and chairs. Barb had already asked for the volume on the music to be lowered, yet here it was again, a Middle East melody weaving its way through our meal.

The cold mezza arrived, too many plates for our tiny table so we piled some on a chair. There was Tabbouleh, Fattouch, Labneb (a yogurt dip), Hummus, Baba ganoush, Cheese rolls, Shanklish (Syrian cheese with toppings) and my new favorite Muhamara (Walnut dip). Muhamara is another Syrian dish made of crushed walnuts in a spicy paprika bread base, (Yes, bread!) and drizzled with Pomegranate Sauce.

And you guessed it, we were not in Saint John, NB; but rather in GTA, think Mississauga, at ZANOBIA. I have been visiting my best friend Barb Dunning and this was a spur of the moment dinner choice. Located at 1565 Dundas Street East, this is a Lebanese restaurant, night club which was to have their official opening the next evening. We had been the sole dinners. Then four young women who came in to smoke a hookah pipe, and lingered to eat. Back to our meal, I would like to you were quaffed a traditional Lebanese drink however both Barb and I are alcohol handicapped. The hot Messa arrived, Tawouk (grilled chicken kabobs} and a grilled beef kabob with more sauces and accompaniments including pita slathered in a red spicy, not hot, paste. We ate and ate; we packed two containers to bring home.

Zanobia was an experience we are still enjoying. Cost of our dinner approximately $45.00 thanks Barb! And no one asked me why they serve Syrian food in a Lebanese restaurant!

about the homeless teens in Saint John, NB!

2012-04-19T17:12:00.000-07:00

Our doorbell rang last night, it was eleven o’clock. My granddaughter Marcia went down to answer the door. As suspected, the caller was Marcia’s friend, a teen who is living on the street. The teen was in rough shape, crying and coaxing to spend the night. Marcia refused and sent her friend on her way.

Homelessness is an extreme form of poverty characterized by the instability of housing and the inadequacy of income, health care supports and social supports. Homelessness includes absolute (living on the street or chronic) homelessness, sheltered homelessness, hidden homelessness, and those who are at-risk of homelessness or unstably housed. from

A PORTRAIT OF HOMELESSNESS IN GREATER SAINT JOHN’, Written by: Belinda Allen, Published by: Human Development Council March 2008

This was an emotional difficult action for Marcia; to turn her back on her friend. How does this happen in our small city that there is a homeless teen? The scenario from my viewpoint is rebellious teen does not get along with parents, begins using drugs i.e. smoking pot. Now some of my acquaintances tell me that smoking pot is not doing drugs and that everyone does it. Well I don’t! It has been my experience that in many, many cases pot is a gateway drug. For this teen, that was the case. The teen was smoking cigarettes, then pot, then drinking and soon they committed an illegal act. Then off to a residential drug facility. But the teen did not last there and was evicted for not following the rules. Fast forward a year and the teen has been in an out of every facility and sinking further. Yet there is so little acknowledgement of teens living on the street that I could find only a few images for my blog. The teens move from shelters to coach surfing with friends. But as the friends are also teens the hosts are actually the parents. The couch surfing teen invariably wears out their welcome by their actions.

Some twenty years ago my youngest daughter came home crying that one of her friends had been “kicked out” of his home. She said he was a great guy, an excellent student, had a part time job etc. I had an extra room and he moved in. We had no real problems but this fellow’s first and foremost interest was drugs. Yes, living with us made it possible for him to finish high school, however some twenty years have passed, he lives in a major Canadian city and his first loyalty is to his habit. With the wisdom of time and adulthood my daughter feels we did nothing to change the course of his life.

And why did Marcia not bring her friend in, or at least coax us to let them stay? Because Marcia knows her friend is not to be trusted. The friend has a habit of theft and upset and Marcia does not want that for her grandparents or herself.

Homelessness for teens starts the minute a parent says “you’re kicked out”. If you or someone you know is having difficult times with your teens I beg you to consider alternate solutions. However, should you came home and find your house demolished, the teen physically attacking other family members or stealing/selling your possessions there is probably no other option that making them leave. Never worry about others knowing of your problems, there are many families in the same circumstance.

We love these children so, so much. The last thing we want is to see them sleeping in the Market Square Parking garage. Every parent shall act as their conscious dictates. Remember children and teens pattern what they see. It is impossible to preach abstinence in a home where parents are abusing substances. There may be some cases in which non using teens from well-rounded families go off to live on the streets as a lark. That is not the case in Saint John.

But no one asked me about the homeless teens in Saint John, NB!

About Eggs for Easter

2012-04-09T18:37:00.000-07:00

When I was a child we had a unique Easter custom. A contest to see which family member could eat the most eggs at our Easter Sunday Breakfast. We must have had some small treat, and some years we dyed hard boiled eggs, however it was the egg eating competition which fired our imagination. All of the family participated, however everyone knew that Dad, Rodney and I were the real contenders. To train for the competition Rodney and I would eliminate eggs from our breakfast menu at least a week in advance of the event.

We had moved to my Mother’s home community when I was eight. Soon after the move, we discovered that some families celebrated holidays quite differently than was our custom. For the family of my best friend, Easter was a second Christmas. They would receive a large toy, like a bike, smaller toys, clothing, a large chocolate item and many Easter Eggs. Rodney’s best friend also received a similar haul. But were we envious? No, we had our Egg Eating competition. As an adult I decided that Mother had started the competition so we would have our own special ritual. In our church community eggs were tied to Easter as symbols of spring and new life. What better symbolism could she have chosen?

Easter morning would arrive and we gathered at the table. For the contenders there was no bacon/ham, toast or juice. Rodney and I only ate the eggs. We would start with boiled, usually I preferred soft but then I would need toast to dip in the yolk; so hard boiled it was. We would eat about three.

Then we would move on to the fried, over easy eggs. But they are also best with toast so it was fried with a hard yolk; ketchup helped them down, I could eat three – Rodney could do more.

Fluffy scrambled eggs would be our final method. Even after six eggs it is easy to finish a plate of four or five scrambled beauties. I aimed for a total of ten and once made it to eleven! Dad ate fifteen that morning complete with ham and toast.

Rodney Vail - champion egg eater

Rodney claims he only had seven but I am sure he outnumbered me. He had a hollow leg and he always followed our breakfast with a second one at his friend Brian’s. In the Egg eating competition there was no question, my brother Rodney Vail was king.

My Mother was here yesterday for Easter Dinner and I asked her about our childhood competition. Imagine my surprise when Mother told me that ours was not original, it had also been a ritual in her childhood. Their competition had been done with a twist. A pail of their own farm eggs would be boiled… Yes a milk pail that held two and a half gallons; so I am thinking they used four to five dozen eggs. When the eggs were cooked they would assemble at the table. As Mother was remembering a time before the Second World War there were probably ten of the twelve children home, plus Grampy and Grammy. Then the race would begin. Anyone who could peel an egg fast had an advantage. The contest continued until the eggs were eaten or everyone had their fill. Mother could not remember a winner but was sure it would have been one of the older brothers.

It has been many years since our family held an egg eating competition on Easter morning. Perhaps next year I will re-establish the practice.

if Jesus is Risen

2012-04-08T06:07:00.000-07:00

It was Easter Sunday, a glorious morning, I am in church and the sun is streaming through the stained glass windows. There is a sense of anticipation ………. then the trumpet sounds! As one the congregation rises to their feet, the trumpet fanfare fades and the song begins, “He is risen”. Did someone sing or did I hear the words in my head? “He is Risen here today, he’s no longer where he lay, He is risen for I feel him in my soul!”

Is that Christ Is see? Raised once more from the dead and floating here before me? I am ten, I am crying, I turn to my Grandmother.

Rewind, my Grandmother Lottie Rogers and I were visiting the Pentecostal Church in Plaster Rock, New Brunswick this Easter season. The church was having special meetings, accommodation was provided on the church premises and Grammy and I were roomies. Grammy had a long affiliation with this church,( more about that in future blogs), for even in the early 1960’s the Plaster Rock church was “out there”. One of their teachings was that woman must cover their hair before God, (I am thinking, not so different from our Muslim counterparts), and there were beautiful and absurd bonnets in the congregation on that day.

Not the bright blonde space of my memories and no stained glass, but there is a balconey - of sorts

The church building was rather grand compared to our rural churches. In my mind it was blond wood, stained glass, sunlight and balconies. The images available do not support my concept. There was either a physical remodel or my fifty year old memory has blurred the image. However a church is just a building, a real church is the people and the interaction. My interaction was with a party of one.

I turned to Grammy and sobbed that Jesus had risen, or had come back (we called it the second coming), and I was not ready. Grammy gave me a hanky, told me to blow my nose and that I was witnessing the Easter pageant. I learned much later that the congregation was known for their theatre. My beliefs started to waver that day. It took fifty years before I could reclaim them as my own. For ten year old Valerie Vail, Jesus did arise that Easter morning, complete with trumpet, sunshine and streaming sunshine. How do I know? “I can feel him/her in my heart”.

Happy Easter

about a gift for Vavielle

2012-03-24T14:55:00.001-07:00

March 25^th is Vavielle’s birthday and I would like to bestow on my eldest all manner of gifts. However I am hampered, first by lack of funds. Were money no object my first gift would be a glamor photo shoot. Vavielle is so beautiful and photogenic the photographs would be outstanding.

Then I would throw a party. As Vavielle and Peter’s home is so beautiful 2131 Berwick Drive would be the venue. The theme would be family fun and flowers. Imagine the pool with one hundred beautiful flowers floating on the water, balloons and Chinese lanterns dancing overhead. Children cavorting on the lawns, Yummy finger food and snacks and did I mention I would fly in all her favorite people – Leisa and crew, Steve and I too, Grammy Edna, David and family, Julie plus three and Anissa with her brood. Of course Allen and family would attend. And then there would be all the wondeful Schlacter family and the Onraio Vail/Rogers contingent! What a party we would have.

However that is all a dream so I shall give what I can, reminiscences and a small object that is associated with those memories. This is a little Noritake cream pitcher.

Noritake Tree in the Meadow pattern

The creamer was given to me by Aunt Bell some thirty odd years ago. Aunt Bell was a younger sister of Burl Brooker. Burl Brooker was Vavielle’s grandfather. Aunt Bell told me that the pitcher had belonged to her mother. I have attempted to weave the memory trail between that statement and the facts. Bell and Burl’s mother, Dora Howland Brooker, died when Burl was just seven and Bell less than five. Dora was an American from the Presque Isle, Maine area. When Dora died the Howland family came to Fielding for the funeral. When they left Bell, another girl who I think was called Inez, and the baby Donny went with them. I can only imagine this little creamer; did the child Bell clutch it in her hand as she left the only home she had known? Or did Bell acquire it later in life? Had Dora at one time had a set of the Noritake? That does not seem realistic as this china was always considered expensive and they were a poor family. Or was the creamer a gift to Dora? She was known for caring for the sick. In fact Dora had been caring for a community on the other hill (she lived on Brooker hill and was nursing on Bell Hill) who were sickened with diphtheria.

When the call came for Dora’s nursing skills her husband Earlin pleaded with her not to go, citing her young baby Donny and the fact the disease was so contagious. Dora replied that she had survived diphtheria and so was immune and that she must nurse her neighbours. Dora was gone several weeks, many of the adults and children succumbed to the disease but for some Dora’s nursing skills proved successful. When the epidemic had passed Dora returned home. Unfortunately it was a cold rainy day when she trudged those miles of wooded trails from one hill to the other. Dora arrived home soaked to the hide, chilled to the bone and very weary. She took to her bed. Dora Howland Brooker was dead in just a few days.

When our daughters were young their father Ronald and I loved to visit his Aunt Bell who lived in Fort Fairfield, Maine. She was such a presence that I remember her as Aunt Bell and cannot recall a surname. In our visiting time frame Aunt Bell had already been widowed, there was much talk of Uncle Harry – I think he was a character. And her one foster son lived far away however their presence filled her mobile home. As much as we enjoyed our visited to her, I think Aunt Bell treasured them more. The girls were content to eat, listened to the adults reminisce and watch fuzzy TV on a rabbit ear TV. Aunt Belle often showed me her prize possessions. I like to think that the lovely Noritake creamer was Aunt Bell’s light. That she would pour the half and half in the pitcher and remember her Mother. A memory held by a five year old, warm and fuzzy. I was so honored when Aunt Bell gave me the pitcher. I have treasured and guarded it. Now it is time to pass it on. The creamer is from 1930’s and valued from $17.99 to $70.00. But for me it is priceless, Happy Birthday Vavielle, love you forever.

Why I loved my time in Rankin Inlet

2012-03-17T19:59:00.000-07:00

Many of my life adventures have been a result of serendipity. Not familiar with that word? Serendipity means a "happy accident" or "pleasant surprise"; specifically, the accident of finding something good or useful without looking for it. A British translation company has voted Serendipity one of the ten English words most difficult to translate.

So not to be labour the point, in the spring of 1990 I attended a Library conference where I complimented a woman on her attire. Later, over drinks, I learned she was the Director of Public Libraries for the North West Territories. Just a few weeks later, I was on a plane to Rankin Inlet to interview for the position of Regional Librarian for the Keewatin region. Even though it was a large plane there were only seats for twenty, as a partition had been put in place and the rest of the plane was for cargo.

When we landed in the North I was holding my breath in anticipation. The first thing I realized was the cold. It might have been June but the weather said December. That is why the Inuit were still wearing their parkas. I had not packed warm clothing. Luckily I had several blazer style jackets and I soon acquired the layered look. As for the Inuit parks, they serve many purposes. Mother carries their babies in their hoods until they are two or three. As infant s the babies are snuggled in the hood wearing little more than a diaper, or the traditional moss, and when it is time for lunch Mummy somehow moves the baby from her hood to the feeding station without going onto the cold!

The first night in the hotel was an experience. I went off to my room around eleven pm and it was still bright and sunny. The travel and latitude change had left me hyped to the max. At three am the sun was still streaming in through my window. That was when I discovered the blackout blinds. The days flew by, I had a tour of the village, walked out to see the sled dogs (scary) and set for interviews. I was treated as if I had accepted the position and one day was spending in receiving instructions regarding employment with the government of the North West Territories.

village of Rankin Inlet June still ice floes!

One evening while I was cat napping in the bar two of my companions asked if I was free for the next day. Sure. Come with us they invited. They were going to make a medical in-and-out to Iqaluit and thought the nurse would enjoy another white face. I inquired about transporting medical patients and they said there was lots of room. What an experience! That little old plane was like flying inside a tin can. The only plus was the noise made it impossible to talk; their medical stories were truly terrific. I was happy to get back to Rankin in one piece, and my ears rang for days.

A high light of my stay was the reception in our honor. I neglected to tell you that I had a counterpart in this process. The government of the North West Territories invites the two top candidates from a competition to the position location. There the candidates can meet the hiring board and together come to a collaborative decision re who to hire. My counter was Marc from Quebec and we developed an easy friendship. The reception was at the home of Michael Martchenko, for those in the know he is the illustrator of Murmel, Murmel a picture book by Robert Munch. Marc and I were thrilled by the attendance and the food was specular. Our favorites came from the barbeque, garlicky caribou marinated in soya sauce and arctic char in a secret marinate. And I think the first time I had Quinoa was in a salad served that night. I found the food as sophisticated as we would have in the south.

Out on the land

Our week was action packed yet seemed so relaxed. One day some of the elders invited us to go out on the land. What a motley crew we were, Marc and I in what we could borrow and throw together, the elders (male and female) in their parkas riding ATV s and the young men dressed in camo wear, $200 sneakers and trotting along beside. From the air I had observed thousands of little mud puddle like lakes, how different they looked from the ground. We were above the tree line and all the vegetation rose no more than a few centimeters. Yet the land was diverse and beautiful. We passed a number of inukshuks and the elders often stopped to check that they were intact. They explained that these food caches, marked with their distinctive stone shapes have often saved a life.

But no more talking, it was time for action. Our entourage stopped, all gathered round and the fishing roads and rifles were unloaded. Soon an elderly woman was pulling char out of this little hole at an alarming rate. Several others grasped the flapping fish, drug them to another hole and dressed them out. The fish heads were tossed in a pile. Several of the fish were so wiggly that they escaped back into the water and were long gone. There is a scientific explanation why this is so, but I will not get into it at this time. The rifle – to shoot the sea gulls who tried to poach our fish!

At the end of the week, our decision was made. Marc would take the position. (He stayed eight months then ended up taking a library position in Campbellton, NB!) There were many factors, I was not disappointed. I was not sure that living in isolation was for me. And Marc did not have a current position, I did. They were hoping to get someone who could learn the Inuit language. That would not be me.

The Coop Store - everything was available just 300% more !

Sunday morning was bright and sunny, as had been every day of my stay. I packed and went to check out of the hotel. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you”’ said the desk clerk, owner, bartender and morning cook. “But we fly out today!” I replied. “Maybe”, was her answer. We went to the airstrip for our ten o’clock flight, at two they sent us back into town. They suggested we come back at 7:00pm. Did. Waited. 10:00pm they send us back to town. I was getting very irritated and inquired why they could not just call and see when the plane was going to come. I was told “That is not our way”.

Wednesday the plane came, I was playing cards in the bar with the desk clerk, owner bartender and mornings cook. I jumped up to pack and dash to the air field. “Set right down there and finish this game and then have something to eat”, she said “they need to unload that cargo and then load what is going from here, you have lots of time”. And she was right.

Rankin to Winnipeg, I was only three days late. I waved the paperwork they gave in Rankin and I had a hotel and flights for Thursday. I had missed three days of work thus far and needed another day to travel. The people in Rankin had, in advance, cleared that with my library manager. A week or so after I arrived back in Saint John I received a letter from the government of the NWT. There was a letter formally stating Ihad been unsucessful in the competition; and a cheque to compensate me for my time and trouble.

how David amputated his ear

2012-03-13T18:07:00.000-07:00

When I was a teenager we moved to my mother’s family farm in Fielding, NB. Since we had been living in the neighbourhood it was an easy transition. And my four younger brothers soon found many areas for play.

Right to left - David, Bruce, Allen and Rodney

One was the lumber pile situated on the top of the knoll between the house and the barn. I am unsure of how the pile was started, perhaps when the sheep pen was constructed. What was left was a pile of finished lumber that could easily have filled a haft ton truck. I use the word pile loosely as the lumber and boards had been pulled and pushed until they had doubled in width and reduced in height. Mother continually admonished to boys not to play on the lumber pile and she suspected that nails or worse might lurk in the depths.

On the day in question, my brothers were cavorting around like a flock of kid goats. I was outside doing some chores when I heard the screams, then “Mummy, Mummy ….David has cut off his ear!” I called for our mother and then ran to the lumber pile. David was sitting up, his head in his hands and blood was pouring out through his fingers. Mother appeared, did her usual little chicken hop (her reaction to all things stressful) then called; “Where is his ear. Where is his ear?” Mother was practical and resourceful but she could also be a bit hysterical. I thought she had finally lost it.

The severed ear was found, still clinging to the hatchet (or sharp rock, there has always been a question over the implement.) Mother instructed me to run for ice, a wet face cloth and a towel. She loaded David in the back seat of the car, smacked the ear back in place, covered it with the wet facecloth, the ice and the towel and set off to the hospital. I stayed home with the rest of my siblings.

When Mother and David returned the bleeding was stopped and the ear reattached. When I asked how she knew what to do Mother replied that everyone knew that ear is just muscle. Mother was a registered practical nurse. We were all pleased that David had regained his ear, David most of all as they were quite prominent. And that is the story of how David cut off his ear, almost!

David a few years later

A few days Mother was visiting and we recalled the incident. Mother remembers it thus. She took David in the house, washed his ear and head and put them back together; she does not remember stitches or tape. I asked how she kept the ear to his head, David was not a kid to stay still, and she said with the wash cloth. Sounds suspicious to me, yet we both agree the ear was totally severed.

about driving the bookmobile

2012-03-12T20:15:00.000-07:00

In 1975 I accepted the position of Manager at the Florenceville Public Library. At that time the Florenceville Library was part of the York Library system and supervised from the upriver headquarters in Woodstock. In addition to the branches a bookmobile also operated out of that location.

I was always one to enjoy new experiences so after I had been employed for a few months I had the opportunity to go out on the bookmobile. The crew consisted of the driver and a Bookmobile librarian, a role I willingly played. Many of the patrons on the bookmobile route were housebound and we were their main contact with the outside. Although the bookmobile could only hold a thousand or two volumes these books were chosen with care. There is adult fiction of all genres, nonfiction, teen and children’s novels, children’s nonfiction, picture books, paper backs and magazines. The selection is rejuvenated before each outing to reflect the interests of the patrons on the route. In addition patrons can make requests and some would have as many as a dozen titles to sign out.

The winter of 1985/86 was cold and snowy in Carleton/Victoria County. My seven mile trek to work could be a challenge. Then one morning I received a call from my supervisor inquiring if I still had a Class one licence. I replied that indeed I did, I had acquired this some years ago when driving truck with my husband. “Good”, said my supervisor, “You are taking out the bookmobile today”. She went on to say that both the bookmobile driver and the librarian were sick with the flu. Betsy herself would take the Bookmobile but she had sprained her ankle and did not think she could navigate the snow packed back roads. Soon she arrived at my library and hauled herself up the long flight of stairs. Betsy had made it up the TransCanada from Woodstock but there was no question of her driving further.

I received my instructions, I reviewed the route. This was long, long before cell phones. I was on my own. I backtracked from Florenceville and headed out toward Mount Pleasant. Now Mount Pleasant is a community only a few miles from my old home in Fielding. The village was apt named, I thought of that winding stretch of road with a sheer precipice on the right side. The side I would be travelling.

I made my scheduled stop in the center of the village and between patrons took the opportunity to eat my lunch. Each person’s description of the roads was more ominous. It started to snow. I put the big, awkward vehicle in gear and continued on. As I rounded the curve by the school I noticed something amiss, sawhorses were blocking the right lane, I was forced to drive on the wrong side. As I drove farther I realized the road had been salted and sanded, and then I saw a group of men by the side of the road. I stopped. They told me that their wives had received a call from my supervisor. They were worried about me so they had arranged salt and sand and a shutdown lane for the tricky seven miles of my route. There would be men all along the road should I need help. No one offered to drive the bookmobile.

Vavielle and Leisa summer 1976

I made it through the tricky part, navigated down over the West Gordonsville hill and turned on to the Black Brook Road. All level road here and only a few miles from my home. My last stop was at the Fielding Baptist church. How proud I was to pull over and serve my neighbours. As I was busy stamping out books I heard a cry “Mummy!” and there were my daughters Vavielle and Leisa, just eight and three at the time. I never knew who told them I would be there. It must have been their father who brought them to see me. The patrons were delighted to see the girls and they enjoyed their time playing librarian. My truck driving husband did offer to take the Bookmobile in to the library. I refused his offer.

I cannot remember if I was called on for repeat engagements. However this one performance so stood out in Vavielles’s memory that she asked me to write a blog about when Mummy drove the Bookmobile.

About seeing Whitney Houston

2012-03-11T18:52:00.000-07:00

On February eleventh, I like the rest of North America, heard that Whitney Houston was dead. Not of some lingering illness or an unforeseen accident but of an overdose of drugs and alcohol. She was 48.

Houston was a mezzo-soprano,and was commonly referred to as "The Voice" in reference to her exceptional vocal talent. Her vocal range extended from G below middle C (G₃) to high B-flat (B♭₅); she could belt out to treble F (F₅). Whitney was third in MTV's list of 22 Greatest Voices. At her peak Whitney was worth $150 million, it has now been released that at the time of her debt she was $20 million in debt. It is sad to see someone who rode so high crash so low. Then I remembered, I had seen Whitney in person.

The year was 1989 and I was one of four women who visited New York on a whirlwind “show” tour. One of our shows was Diana Ross in concert at Radio City Music Hall. Our tickets were for the midnight show. Diana was awesome, more about that later. About half way through the show she mentioned there was someone special in the audience and called Whitney to the stage. I was sure Diana called Whitney her niece; however they are no relation whatsoever. Whitney’s mother is a singer, Cissy Houston who sang back up on several of Diana Ross's Albums!

Whitney floated on stage; she had that ethereal fairy dust quality. Towering over the diminutive Diana, Whitney sang one number. Although we were in nose bleed seats I put my opera glasses to good use. One number and she left, drifted off the stage and out of my life.

Diana resumed her concert. She was magnificent, making at least seven costume changes with matching vocal selections. I had not realized how tiny Ross was and many of her costumes were very heavy. The program said that one weighed twenty pounds. We were also informed that Diana often lost up to ten pounds in a performance. It was a magnificent show; we enjoyed the audience almost as much as Diana. Many had arrived in stretch limos and wore evening clothes glitzed with what we now call bling. We wore casual clothing and sneakers and enjoyed the evening immensely. I had not thought of the Diana Ross concert for many years.

Is it the quest for riches that drives these entertainers? Does signing one contract for a cool million make them salivate for more? Are possessions really so important? I wish I could have told the young Whitney Houston what her future would hold. She would not have been deterred.