Easter 1966

Forty years ago this Easter I was convinced my mom had won the Irish Sweepstakes. I didn't know it at the time but the only way you could get Irish Sweepstakes tickets was on the black market. Mom had been buying them from “a friend of a friend” for years and she'd hide them in the big gilded Bible kept on the dining room sideboard. All of my friend's parents bought Irish Sweepstakes tickets and they were as common as Mickey Mantle trading cards
so I couldn't understand the need for such secrecy. It never occurred to me that my own mother would be doing something illegal. (Imagine that) Mom's rationale was she bought the tickets because she believed that she was helping the cause in Ireland – freedom from those damned Protestants.

We heard a lot about “those damned Protestants” from the nuns at school. Just the month before, for St Patrick's Day the nuns took up a collection to send to the IRA. As good Catholic children we dutifully lined up to drop our pennies into the collection tin and felt very pious that the money was going to help other Catholics rather than for a bag of jujubes at the corner candy store. It was a big sacrifice for a seven year old.

When we returned to our seats, one of the nuns told us the story of the Irish potato famine. She told it with such vigor I looked in the newspaper for weeks hoping to find the story to clip to bring to school for Current Events. With our money collected, the anti-Protestant propaganda was more firmly entrenched by engaging us with rousing music. Imagine this: thirty little Black kids, Italian kids and Puerto Rican kids marching around a classroom, banging on drums and sticks singing Off to Dublin in the Green while the nuns stomped their black oxfords in time. Straight out of a Dali dream sequence eh?

Anyway, we looked forward to the coming of Easter as it meant the end of Lent. Mom always made us give up something for Lent. That year it was chocolate ice cream for us kids and swearing for her. Now I can't say that my mom had a potty mouth but she was sure fond of her French expletives. I couldn't see what the big deal was about her swearing. We lived in the Bronx and no one could understand what she was saying anyhow. That's how I got away with swearing at the nuns at school. I once called one of them a “maudit cochon” (damned pig) and since I was the "cute little French girl", she just smiled, patted me on the head and reminded me to speak English. (Bless me Father for I have sinned.)

So here I am Easter morning 1966. I'd already been to morning Mass and had found all the Easter eggs hidden around the house. Shortly after we took this picture, we walked over to White Plains Road to catch the train downtown. I loved the el and the subway and I especially loved when we'd go downtown because that always meant mom would treat us to an egg cream at the Woolworth's counter. Mom usually bought herself a coffee from Chock Full O' Nuts and we'd split a large soft pretzel bought from a push cart vendor.

There were no egg creams or pretzels that day. Instead we stood in the longest line up I'd ever seen – it went way around the block – outside Radio City Music Hall.
I had never been to a theater before though once, Daddy took us to the drive-in to see The Ten Commandments. Radio City was the biggest place I had ever been in. It was bigger than our church! It was a palace and I figured the only way Mom could afford to take us to such a place was if she'd won the Sweepstakes.

I sat solemnly in the red velvet seat, staring in awe at the great arched stage as the houselights were dimmed and the movie began. It was The Singing Nun staring Debbie Reynolds.

After the movie and a short intermission the Easter Show continued with the spectacle of the Rockettes.
Long synchronized legs and tall head dresses - I was entranced. To me, that was the best part of the show and from that day to now I've had a secret desire to dance in a chorus line.

A few weeks ago while channel surfing I came across The Singing Nun on Turner Classic Movies. I dropped the laundry basket and sat down to watch it. As many Catholic families, we had the record of the movie soundtrack and because we were French, we also had the “real” Singing Nun album in French. While I liked the movie soundtrack, the record we played the most was the French one. My favourite song on the album was Entre les Étoiles and at that part of the movie I found myself singing this French version along with Debbie's English one.

After the movie I had to call my mom. I wanted to share with her the memory I had of that day. The whole outing had made such an indelible impression that I still felt thrilled forty years later. I wanted to thank her for making that Easter so special.

My mom is experiencing the early stages of Alzheimer's and when I talked to her about that day, she had no recollection of it. I have to remind myself that she might not always remember things or even know it's me she's talking to. I find myself wondering if you have no one to share a memory with, does that mean it really didn't happen?

My Frankenstein car

This was my first car. It was a 1969 Chevelle and cost $25. I was dating a mechanic, Pat, at the time and for my 18^th birthday he bought it for me off a farmer in Lunenberg, Ontario. It had been sitting in the farmer's barn for years with a seized engine, missing hood, front quarter panel and driver's side door. My boyfriend's boss gave him an old engine and transmission and over the winter we rebuilt the engine and transmission, salvaged the missing body parts and put the car together.

I couldn't afford to get it painted right away so the next spring I drove it as you see here – lovely shades of dark and light blue and primer. This is a photo of me and my kid brother Ricardo at my uncle's farm in Rigaud, Quebec. On weekends I used to drive from Ottawa to Ruby Foo's in Montreal just for something to do. Gas was still sold by the gallon then and five bucks filled my tank. On the way back from Montreal I'd sometimes stop at Rigaud to say hello to my aunt and uncle.

Pat was into muscle cars. He had a '55 Chevy that was candy apple red. Pat was still riding the wave of the popular film, American Graffiti and in the two years we dated I don't ever remember him taking me to a restaurant where you actually got out of the car and ate inside. Although I begged, if the restaurant didn't have a drive-through, we didn't frequent it.

My Chev had wide tires, mag wheels and an engine scoop in the hood of the car. I don't remember what size engine or type of transmission but I do remember him using the words “turbo hydromatic” in reference to (I think) the tranny. All I knew was that on the steering column “drive” was somewhere between the “R” and the “D” and I had to look closely to make sure I had it in the right gear before I hit the gas. Boy oh boy, when I hit the gas that thing could MOVE. With my white-knuckled hands on that leather-wrapped steering wheel I felt like Steve McQueen in the movie Bullit. Yeee, haaaw!

I had many adventures in that car but two are the most memorable – my first car accident and my first police stop.

A friend and I were on our way to see the movie Norma Rae at the Place du Ville cinema in downtown Ottawa. This was the first time I had ever parked in an underground garage so I didn't know to pull up closely to the ticket machine. When I couldn't reach the ticket, I put the car in “park” and opened the car door to reach the ticket. It was dark in that garage so when I got back into the car I couldn't really see the gear indicator in the steering column very well but I put the car in gear anyway. There was a long line of cars on the steep ramp behind me and I was nervous so I gave her a little more gas than I should have. Well, I had missed that “sweet spot” between the “R” and the “D” and the car flung in reverse, slamming into the car behind me wedging his bumper firmly between my bumper and trailer hitch. We were coupled like rail cars. The only damage was done by the parking attendant as he caused a scrape in the chrome bumper of the car I hit when he pried our cars apart with a tire iron and car jack. That little boo-boo cost me the $167 I was saving for a paint job.

The next incident could have landed me in jail for assaulting a police officer.

I had taken a summer job in Arden, Ontario. After work a few of the gals and I would drive over to Sharbot Lake for a bit of water skiing (or in my case a lake enema). One night we were driving down highway number 7 returning to our billet in Arden when someone in a truck came behind us and flashed their bright headlights. I thought this was very rude so I slowed down so that they could pass me with the intent of flashing them my brights so they'd know how it feels. (I was young and stupid, what can I say?) I remember saying as much to the gals when one of them said I shouldn't do it because it was a cop.

I looked at my speedometer and saw that I wasn't speeding so I kept driving. Being a city gal, I never knew cops drove trucks and didn't believe her. Why would a cop be stopping me if I wasn't speeding? It was pretty dark on that highway and we were three girls in the car and I was a bit scared it might be some locals out for a good time. I kept driving. By now whoever was in the truck behind me was getting insistent, coming up to my bumper and flashing their headlights and I got even more afraid. Finally, they lit up their red police lights and I pulled over.

I didn't know what to do. I had never been stopped before. I just sat there and waited for the OPP officer to come to my car. He tapped on the window with his flashlight. I rolled down the window and he asked for my license and registration papers. I gave it to him and he handed it to his partner who was standing behind my car. I was shaking like a leaf.

While his partner ran my info he asked where we were from and where we were going. He seemed like a nice man so I asked him why he stopped me. He told me my tail light were out. I had been having some little electrical problems with the car so I learned little tricks like pounding on the voltage regulator and stuff like that so when he told me about my tail lights I swung the door open and jumped out of the car to give the tail lights a thump to get them working.

I had just leaned over the rear of the car to start thumping when I heard another thump. I looked over the trunk of my car and saw the policeman writhing on the ground holding his boy bits. The doors on a '69 Chevelle are very long and very heavy. Apparently, when I leaped out of the car, the door hit the officer right where it counts and he dropped like a stone.

My knees wobbled as I envisioned spending the rest of my youth in a gray cotton shift in a concrete cell at P4W (the prison for women). Instead the cop's partner got out of their truck and started laughing. I started crying and apologizing as he helped his partner to his feet and into the truck. He handed me my license and registration and told me to get the car looked at in Perth the next day. Then wished me a good night while he strolled, still chuckling, to the truck. As we drove back to Arden in silence, I knew I must have a horseshoe up my wazoo.

I need to know the words

The other day while in the car, I was listening to a performance of First Nations drumming on the CBC. Caught up in their cadence and the sound of their chants I began to recall the first time I had attended a Pow Wow...

When I knew him, Bill was a tall, thin man in his fifties. He had long, slender, almost delicate fingers and smoked long, slender menthol More cigarettes. He was two-spirited of the turtle clan and was my hairdresser.

Every few weeks I'd visit him at his apartment and we'd drink instant coffee and smoke cigarettes while he cut my hair at the kitchen table and we'd shoot the breeze. After trimming my thick, curly tresses, he'd carefully sweep each severed strand into a paper bag and give me my hair. “A woman's power is in her hair” he'd say. “Never leave your power behind.”

One Saturday he invited my children and I to join him at a local Pow Wow. Having never been, and being curious, I accepted. Apart from the blur of vendors, silver jewelry and food kiosks what I remember most were the dancers, the drumming and the singing. Young girls whose costumes were adorned with little bells that jingled with every step. Young men resplendent with capes of feathers, whirling and dipping in time to the drummers' beat.

As the drummers played for the dancers they sang. With each dancer, I noticed, the song was different. I had no idea what language they were singing in so I turned to Bill and asked him, “What are they singing about?”. “Eagles”, he replied. I turned back to watch the dancers. Yes, the dance the young men were doing did look like eagles dancing. “But what are they saying about the eagles?”, I asked. Bill looked uncomfortable under my questioning gaze and finally confessed, “I don't know.”

In that instant I felt three things: disappointment, sadness and shame. I was disappointed because having felt a connection to the drumming and the songs I felt a need to know the words. I wanted to understand and I was disappointed that my friend could not tell me what they meant. I was sad because Bill did not know what the words meant. I felt a terrible sense of loss that residential schooling had robbed my friend of his language. And I felt shame. Shame of my ignorance and that like a lot of non-native people, I unconsciously expected Bill to act as some sort of ambassador for me.

Later, as we drove back to the city I apologized to Bill and we discussed the consequences of a lost language and culture. He told me that he had been spending a lot of time back on the reserve with his elders. He wanted to re-learn his language and hear the ancient stories of his people. He said he wanted to learn this so that he could impart this knowledge to kids. Bill believed that if young First Nations children knew who they were and where they came from; if they understood the journey they, as a people had endured, perhaps their lives could be better.

I watched the flat, southern Ontario landscape pass by as Bill drove and soon he asked why I had grown silent. “You are so lucky”, I told him. Bill was puzzled, lit another cigarette and then it hit him. “Yes, I see. You too are descended from tribal people.”, he nodded in recognition. “Yeah, and I wish I knew where I came from and what language was mine.”, I said. “I wish I had elders who could tell me the ancient stories because there are some times when I just need to know the words.”

Bill flicked his cigarette out the window, reached over and all the rest of the way home I let his long slender fingers entwine mine.

Health Issues

Got some unhappy news last month so I took a little hiatus to take care of things.
Feeling much better now and have lots to say.
Stay tuned....