PART ONE 1963-1966 AGE 5 TO 8

EARLY CONFUSION

The Avon Lady’s hair was brown when she first came to our house, weeks later, black, then red, and in the end, blonde. I asked my mother how this could be and she told me about dye. Immediately, I wanted this magic solution to change my plain brown hair into something more exciting. I asked my mother to buy me some. She stared back at me, said, “Barbara Ann, only bad women dye their hair.” What I couldn’t understand was why my mother allowed a bad woman into our house to sit and chat with her and make it seem okay. Even more confusing was how my mother’s smile disappeared after the Avon Lady left, how her voice turned loud and mean, how she stomped through the kitchen saying, “A woman’s place is in her home. With her family. Taking care of her children. Not traipsing all over the neighbourhood.” Still more confusing was when the Avon Lady asked my mother to care for her child while she worked. My mother smiled and welcomed the little girl into our home. The three-year-old was tiny, with the lightest blonde hair I’d ever seen; hair I wanted. She napped on the cot in our kitchen, sucking her thumb, while her other hand slipped inside her panties, touching herself like we were never supposed to. When my mother spotted what the little girl was doing she stormed across the room spitting, “Dirty girl! Dirty! Dirty! Dirty girl!” My mother slapped the child, said, “You’re going to grow up to be dirty just like your mother!” I wondered if I, too, would someday grow up to be like my mother. At that time, I had no idea that this would be only one of many confusing mixed messages from my mother. Throughout my childhood I’d learn that when what you say and what you do are not necessarily the same; only confusion remains. It became up to me to sort out the answers for myself, to decide right from wrong, and what to believe in.

We lived by the sea, on the South Shore of Nova Scotia, in Canada, across the water from Mahone Bay. The road twists and follows along the shoreline. I liked staring at the waves. Mother didn’t like the ocean. She said the waves might wash over the road and leave us stranded or drowned. Our house was the first on the left on a dead-end, dirt road. If you turned right, you’d end up in the harbour. When my father drove down our driveway, Mother braced her hands against the dash of the car and asked, “Are the brakes okay?” In a huff my father answered, “Yes, the brakes are fine.” Our driveway wasn’t that steep, but Mother still tensed and held her breath. My mother also didn’t like being alone after the sun went down, or our father working late at night. That’s one of the reasons Dorothy moved in with us. Dorothy wasn’t like the other boarders in our house—she didn’t pay money. She’d arrived in her early teens when I was too young to remember. Dorothy was always there, like part of our family, but Mother said she didn’t have the same blood as us, and blood is what makes a family. “Lucky,” is what my mother often told her. “Lucky we took you in. Put a roof over your head and saved you from a life of misery.” I didn’t know what a life of misery was, but it sounded like my parents had done something good. Dorothy scrubbed floors, washed dishes, made beds, and did whatever else Mother wanted done. Whenever Dorothy mentioned wanting to go out, Mother would tell her, “There’s no need of you going anywhere. You have everything you need here!” “I’d like a boyfriend,” Dorothy would say in a quiet voice. “I’ll soon be twenty.” “Huh,” Mother shot back, “you think long and hard. Men are only after one thing. If you don’t like it here, you can leave.” Dorothy stared at my mother, wringing her hands on her apron. “What if I never marry?” Mother said, “Believe you me, marriage isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I wish I was in your shoes. You’ve no responsibilities, and no man pawing over you at night.” Dorothy said no more. She just turned and walked away, looking sad.