Chapter Seven Memoir by Jacqueline D'Acre

Chapter Seven

Hovering Above Myself

A Memoir

By

Jacqueline D’Acre

Every so often we were all invited to dinner at Auntie’s. She was quite different in personality from her sister, my grandmother. One hugged. The other folded her arms.

The sisters looked a lot alike. Both were five foot one inch, with porcelain skin and blue eyes. Gram was a little heavier than Auntie. She was perpetually dieting. Tightening the stays on her corset. Yep. She wore a corset, but it laced up in the front, because in this day and age the wearer did not have a maid to yell at and demand it be pulled: “Tighter, tighter!” Camp was the only place she didn’t wear it. Instead, she wore huge panties that resembled bloomers.

Auntie greeted everyone in the dark little foyer of her house, first by taking our coats, then hugging us! I can feel her arms around me right now. No one ever hugged at our place. I still smell the violet scent she wore and the powder on her soft face.

            We all trooped in and walked past the living room, the dining room—set with a lace tablecloth and fine china— to the kitchen. Window sills everywhere held blooming purple and pink violets. The floors shone, curtains flounced abundantly, lemon-oiled furniture gleamed. The smell of roasting beef permeated the air. Our house was very clean of course, but it lacked the hominess that Auntie’s house had. It never seemed to smell so good and so welcoming. Nor look so good and welcoming. As soon as I got to Auntie’s I felt safe. My little black cloud evaporated under the warmth exuded by Auntie.

            Uncle Ted, Auntie’s husband, sat in the kitchen smoking his aromatic pipe. He was a tall handsome man with dark hair and very fine features. He was a son of the Nicholetts clan. It was said that his grandfather had emigrated to Canada from England to seek his fortune. He was supposedly the seventh son of a baron, and as a seventh son, eliminated from inheriting any of the family estate. Well he didn’t make his fortune, but became a farmer. Then Uncle Ted worked on the other railroad, the CNR—the Canadian National Railroad.

            I always sneakingly thought that the Nicholett’s had more fun than the Mongomery’s and the Cryderman’s. They drank, not just at Christmas but all during the year. Maisie played the piano and Uncle Ted played the fiddle or they played records and danced in their living room. It was at Auntie’s that I first heard Hank Williams—Your Cheatin’ Heart. They seemed to laugh a lot. We seldom did. No one ever danced the living room, and drinks were not served year round. (Although years later that changed when some of us kids discovered the joys of drinking. Now a visit to one of my sisters is much like those visits to Auntie’s.)

            We ate dinner, talking and laughing. After we were well fed, the men went into the living room and soon a record was playing. We women gathered up dishes and managed the clean-up. One night Auntie washed dishes and handed them to me to dry. For some reason Mother and Gram weren’t there. Just us two. Auntie handed me a dripping, sudsy plate and said, “Let me tell you a story about your grandmother when she was your age. You’re a lot alike.” As soon as I arrived home, and down into the basement room, I got a pad and pencil and wrote down Auntie’s story.

            It goes:

Gram, age ten, was deeply asleep one winter night when Grumma, her grandmother, shook her awake.

            “Ida. Wake up. We need you.”

            “What, Grumma, what?”

            She spoke in a loud whisper. “Roy is sick. I can’t get his fever down. He needs a doctor, quick. Ida, Grumpa and I want you to ride for the doctor. Grumpa can’t. His arthritis is acting up. Will you?”

            Ida reared up in the bed, into the cold air. “Of course, Grumma.” Her breath came out in smoky puffs as she spoke, the room was that chilled.

            “Well, good. Get up and get dressed. Warm things, eh? I’ll see you in the kitchen.” The main source of heat was in the kitchen, the wood cookstove. “I’ll make you a cup of cocoa.”

            “Thanks, Grumma.” And Ida slid out of bed quietly so as not to wake little sister Delly asleep beside her. When she arrived in the kitchen dressed in long pants and a heavy cable-knit ski sweater, and the cocoa was ready. She gulped it down then pulled on her overcoat, toque, scarf, gloves and winter boots.

            “Bye, Grumma,” she called and dashed from the house.

            In the barn, Grumpa was in the stall with Nick, the family’s all-purpose horse: Plowing and farm work weekdays, ridden by Ida weekends. Nick chomped down oats. He finished. Ida picked up his bridle and entered the stall. Grumpa moved aside to let her pass. Ida slipped the bridle onto Nick, who obligingly lowered his head so she could reach up behind his ears. She would as usual ride bareback. The family didn’t own a saddle that would fit big Nick. She backed Nick from the stall and walked out into the cold clear night. The moon was full and flooded the white yard with light. It shone on Nick’s silver-grey coat. Grumpa reached down and gave Ida a leg up. Then she was on Nick’s back and she called down to Grumpa, “We’re off.’

            “Okay. But don’t kill the horse. Give him breathers, Ida.”

            “Of course, Grumpa.”

            Then she squeezed Nick’s sides and galloped from the yard.

            Waggon wheels had rutted the snow on the road and she galloped along one rut, moonlight lighting her way. It was a ten-mile ride to the doctor’s. She was tiny up on the big horse’s back. A fluttering bundle of old clothes stuck to the horse’s neck.

            Nick settled into a steady rhythmic gallop. Ida held the reins and also clutched his mane, leaning close to his neck. Her legs were warmed by his body, but the rest of her was chilled. After a while, steam rose from Nick and trailed out in two streams from his nostrils.

            Every so often a farm dog raced out barking at them, but Nick never faltered. He carried on, gallump, gallump, gallump. The dog pursued them for a while then gave up and trotted home.

            Thick bush lined the road in parts, while other sections opened up to farmer’s snow-covered hay fields. The moon hung above all, a perfect white glowing disc. Ida was alone on this farm sideroad and it was so cold. Suddenly she felt very young.

My back is acting up again. I can’t write anymore. I wish the medical marijuana would hurry up and come through.

            Better now. Just a dull ache. I can write!

Nick’s shoulders were beginning to sweat, but his breathing was still steady. Ida thought of her little brother Roy, so small, racked with fever. She didn’t slow Nick down. She rounded a curve in the road, and passed from bush to open meadow on either side of the road. Then she heard them. Howls, piercing and high rose up in the still night air. Goosebumps erupted all over her body. Wolves! And Nick couldn’t outrun them. All they could do was to continue onward, keeping their steady pace. The sweat had expanded from his shoulders to his back and she slipped around on it. It made it hard to maintain her balance. What if she fell off? And the wolves came? The howls seemed to be drawing closer. Oh! To have a saddle! She pulled on Nick’s mane and humped herself forward until she was almost riding on his withers.

The howls were closer. Please God let me get past these wolves safely, please. Then with loud crackling sounds a huge dark animal broke from the bush. It hit a large patch of glare ice on the road and slipped, fell and skidded toward her. It was lying on its belly, legs splayed fully apart. Moonlight outlined the animal’s shape: A moose! The wolves had been in pursuit. Then Nick hit the patch of ice and slid forward and bumped into the moose. The moose let out a bellow and scrambled to its feet. It leaped away from them just as the wolves cleared the bush and emerged onto the road. Ida laughed in relief. Dogs. Farm dogs, out for a night of adventure. She couldn’t have them bothering Nick though. She passed from the ice onto snow and she reined up. Nick reared, and held this position, just like a dressage horse performing a levade. Ida reined Nick around to face the dogs. She recognized them.

“Rover, bad boy. Bad boy. Get on home. Get.”

And Rover, a black spaniel, stopped, cowered and turned away. The rest of the pack hesitated, dancing in excitement on the spot.

“Jimmy. You too. Bad boy. Get home. Go on now! Get!” and Jimmy, a blue-tick hound, slinked away. Gradually the other dogs, one by one, cringed and turned away. When they were all trotting homeward, Ida reined Nick around and after a few steps at the walk, kicked him up to a gallop. She couldn’t let Roy down.

Shortly, a white-railed fence on her left came into view. The doctor’s property! She slowed to a trot. In minutes, his driveway hove into view. She swung around into it and rode right up to his front door. She slid from Nick and ran up the steps. Nick dropped his head and breathed heavily. Ida banged on the door. In minutes it was answered by Doctor Murray carrying a lamp.

“Ida! What are you doing here at this time of the night?”

“It’s Roy, Doctor! He has a high fever Grumma can’t get down. Can you come?”

In minutes the doctor’s fast mare was hitched to his buggy and he was gone. Ida watered Nick. She knew he needed walking to cool off so he might as well do it on the way home.

The sun was just pinking the sky and the snowy yard when she arrived at her farm. A rooster posed on a fence post and, tossing his orange and green head back, crowed. The house was still. Was Roy alright? Did he make it through the night? With trepidation she trudged up the steps and pulled open the door. Laughter and the tinkle of teacups greeted her. She almost fell through the door in relief and exhaustion. She walked into the front parlour where everyone was gathered drinking tea. They looked up. There was a silence. Then Grumma called out: “Ida! How are you?”

“I’m fine. How’s Roy?”

“The fever broke just a little while ago. He’ll be good as new in a few days,” said Dr. Murray.

Ida ran to see him.

The story got told at the store in Murillo and soon it was all over the township. How the little girl rode for the doctor in the middle of the night. Ida May was famous.

Years later I reprised this story and submitted it to the international horse magazine, Equus. It was published.

The dishes were finished.

“Your Grandmother was an exceptional little girl. Jackie. I could never have done what she did. The courage it took. The skill. You, too, are exceptional. I heard from your grandmother that a teacher accused you of copying a composition—he didn’t believe you were capable of writing that well. People like him have probably never done anything exceptional in their entire lives and they can’t stand it when someone else does. Especially if it’s a girl.”

But Auntie was just one among many naysayers who was applauding me. I couldn’t believe I had any talent for writing. I was in awe of great writers. But that didn’t stop me from writing.

When I was eleven, UncaBill got a movie camera. He shot endless footage of us water-skiing. Over and over people reared up out of the water and skimmed along on their ski or ski’s. I saw the movie camera as a possibility. Why not make a movie? So I sat down and wrote a Western, a spoof of Westerns, the cast my siblings. I don’t know if it was any good or not, but it managed to be funny in a couple of places. At the very least it would be a break from the never-ending montage of water skiers. I was very excited about this. I could shoot: It shouldn’t be too hard. One problem: UncaBill would not let me use the movie camera. And neither would he shoot it. Didn’t he care about nurturing our talents? Apparently not. No one in our family could ever hope to make movies for a living. (James Cameron—Titanic, Avatar, etc.—must have had very different parents from mine. Like Steven Spielberg’s parents, who gave him a movie camera when he was a pre-teen, James Cameron’s parents probably also gave him a movie camera. And he was born in Kapuskasing.)  So, give up. Don’t aspire. It just isn’t practical. Best to root out these ideas quickly. Be a teacher, be a nurse. Never be a waitress! And don’t marry a truck driver.

            One thing UncaBill did allow was my assistance in processing the 8 mm footage. It was darkest in the basemen so we set up the chemicals down there. I remember the spools of film, the tiny pictures unrolling. Of course, the tiny pictures were all of water skiers. It was a challenge to stay interested. I never gave up. I hoped he would give up and let me use the movie camera. He never gave up.

            Meanwhile I was well into my campaign to learn more about Weimaraner dogs. Dog breeding, genetics and dog training. Every day I eagerly checked the mailbox to see who had answered my letters of inquiry. The house felt empty without Rusty. Would we ever get another dog, and if we did, could it be a Weimaraner? As usual, with one of my enthusiasms, I was ignored. At least I believed I was ignored. One person was watching, as I found out later.

            One day, Carol, a girl who lived down at the end of Wiley Street, took me around the corner on Southern Avenue to visit a lady named Fern. Fern, herself, opened her front door to us. We walked in. Then I stopped and stared. The house was full of fish! Beautiful, colourful fish, unlike any I had ever seen. The rooms were dimly lit; The atmosphere was hushed. The only light emanated from the huge fish tanks lining the walls. Each tank was landscaped with wavering plant forms, as bubbles rose from aerators. Fern, a small, dark woman in her forties, motioned us in. She was never without a cigarette in one hand, smoke floated around her like a corona.

            “What beautiful fish!” I exclaimed. “Is there any way I can get some?” I asked as I tiptoed past the tanks, pausing long enough to study the species within the tanks.

            “Of course you can. Get a tank and I’ll sell you some fish. Get you started.”

            I was enchanted by this new-found form of beauty. I scrounged around and acquired a second hand 10-gallon tank. There was an empty table under a window in the short hallway between the kitchen and the basemen door, perfect for my tank. Everybody would get to see the beautiful fish as they walked by.

Then I somehow scrounged money to buy fish.

            I started out with guppies, on advice from Fern. Little silver fish, the males having colourful, flowing tails. I had an aerator but I couldn’t afford an aquarium heater, which I needed for more exotic fish, like angel fish and black mollies. But blue gourami’s could stand it, so I got three of those: Two females and one male. Of course I had to have a catfish to keep the tank cleaned. I also got several tiny neon tetras, a couple of zebra fish, and a red swordtail. I had covered the bottom of the tank with a special aquarium mix of tiny turquoise rocks and planted various aquatic plants. All supplied by Fern. The lid of the tank contained a light. I was all set up.

Shortly, the guppies were birthing babies, live. But as soon as the miniscule fish swam away from their mother, a gourami swooped in and ate the little thing. Then it was the gourami’s turn.

First, the male turned a purple-black colour, much different from his everyday pale blue. Then he began to construct a nest of bubbles. He blew bubbles until he had a raft of them in the upper corner of the tank. Then he chased all the other fish to the farthest corner from his nest. Finally, he lured a female under his nest. He wrapped his body around hers and squeezed until eggs popped out. He unwrapped himself from the female and dashed madly to collect the eggs before the other fish could eat them. It was a real little drama. He caught an egg in his mouth and then he blew it into a bubble in the nest. The other fish ventured out of their corner and waited for their chance to snatch an egg. The male gourami viciously drove them back into the corner. When all the bubbles were filled, he stationed himself under the nest, urging away any fish that dared come near. Then the eggs hatched all at once. Dozens of tiny specs of light roamed the tank—gourami offspring. The other fish went crazy, catching gourami babies. Daddy gourami went crazy too, trying to keep them all away from his school of infant gouramis, but to no avail. The other fish ate all the babies. Mother nature is cruel!

My troubles with Miss Loney, my home room teacher in grade seven, were making my daily school life miserable. This was so unsettling: I had always loved school, it had been my sanctuary. Now that was gone. Daily, Miss Loney found something to criticize about me. She also taught the dreaded Physical Education—‘PE.’ Most of this took place in the gym, but there were a few classroom lectures. One was Sex Education. The boys were of course separated from the girls. Miss Loney also taught this class. She blushed the entire time. This gave us all a great foundation for future sex lives. The message was obvious: This was something shameful—why else was she blushing? Unless she was a virgin. She probably was.

            There was an animated movie which showed no shame. It presented the material in a straightforward way. Here I learned that I would soon begin to do something called ‘menstruating.’ Actual blood would come out of me from a place between my legs called the ‘vagina.’! (There was no mention of the clitoris. I didn’t learn that word until I was in my twenties and read The Feminine Mystique, by Betty Friedan. Not that I knew what to do with it.)

Menstruation! God sure bungled this one. Of course God, being a man, never considered how inconvenient it might be to have blood pouring out of you for several days, every single month, for years until you were an old lady. How men could use this against women: Make it seem that they were sick during menstruation, thus unable to perform any challenging tasks. So they got away with paying low wages and never promoting women. Because of Miss Loney’s shame, I didn’t ever let on to anybody when I had my period—except as an excuse to get out of PE.

I was miserable in the gym. It seemed that all we did was play volleyball. I hated volleyball. One day Miss Loney announced to the class as we were all assembled in the gym:

 “Jackie does not know how to catch or throw a ball. We will teach her.”

            Oh, no. There was nowhere to hide, just that shining expanse of hardwood gym floor.

            “Form a circle, Class,” called Miss Loney. We did. Miss Loney pointed at me.

“Jackie. Go to the middle of the circle…” Head down, I went.

            “That’s it.”

Deeply embarrassed, I stood in the center.

Miss Loney continued.

“Now class, we are going to throw the ball at Jackie. We will keep on doing it until she learns to catch the ball. Ready? Throw!”

A ball crashed into me. I put my hands out, but the ball entirely missed them and hit me in the head. The ball was retrieved and was thrown again. And again, and again. It kept hitting me and I kept missing it. The world was full of the shrieks of sneakers sticking to the gym floor. I almost passed out. Finally, finally, Miss Loney called a halt.

“Jackie didn’t catch the ball. She is a dud.”

One thing I missed was the only form of affection Gram gave. Ever since we were little, Jeffrey and I clambered onto her lap in the rocking chair in the living room. Gram pulled us close and rocked. She did not have a good voice, not like Mother or Auntie, but it was comforting to hear. We begged her to sing the very Irish song, “Over in Killarney” and she did.

            I often puzzled over Gram’s heritage. Grampa’s mother (Bridget Lydia Hannan or Hanna) came from Ireland, we knew that much about him, but knew nothing about Gram’s background, except that she had been raised by pioneers. Every St. Patrick’s Day I wanted to dress in green.  Gram was always hostile and taciturn about this. I never got anything green to wear. I think Gram’s heritage was Irish back from the time when people posted signs: ‘No Irish or Dogs Allowed,’ and she was ashamed.