 Page 6
The Continuing Saga
I didn't see the writing on the wall; you're pretty self-involved when you're in your teens. Daddy was becoming more and more reluctant to go to Halifax for what were dreadful
electric shock treatments and Mum was becoming more and more frustrated. With few paying guests at the Hotel
and Daddy unable to help her, money was tight and we owed everybody we knew
for materials we'd purchased to revamp the Hotel.
I was blissfully unaware of anything being wrong until one afternoon, as I came home from school, I heard them arguing.
I was shocked beyond belief; this just never happened. Mum was standing at the top of the stairs, with Daddy below
her on the landing. He was trying to convince her that the trip to Halifax was a waste of time and he was just fine.
Mum was holding a slim blue bottle in her hand and as I watched in horrified silence, she threw it full-force. It
missed him by inches and struck the roses on the wallpaper behind his head. The over-powering fumes of "Evening in Paris" perfume
filled the air as it trickled down the wall, leaving a long yellow streak behind. When she realized I was watching, she
threw the car keys to Daddy and they went out together without another word being said.
It was only a few months after this that they told me they were selling the Hotel back to the government and we
were moving back to Westville. I didn't want to go; I was having a great time and I was just in the
middle of Grade 12, exams and graduation were coming up. But I went, just the same.
We were back to square one, with no money, no place to live, and Daddy unemployed. I remember family meetings with my Aunts Hilda and Bertha and Hilda's husband, "uncle" Stewart,
as they tried to find a solution to the problem. Eventually we rented the English church manse which happened to be vacant and
was available for a pittance of rent. Daddy got a job with Rio Tinto Mines as they started to open up a new uranium mine
at Elliot Lake. To all intents and purposes, he was cured. He was certainly eager to get back into mining and he wanted
us all to move there too. At that time, there was only temporary housing for the miners, not even sidewalks, just mud, and
no families. In retrospect, I don't think I ever knew the rationale behind Elliot Lake as opposed to going back to the Drummond.
He reluctantly agreed we'd have to wait until the next year to move up; by that time,
there would be housing and probably a school. So he went alone and we were left behind.
I picked up, in a sort of a way, where I had left off in Grade 12 but I hated it. They were
way behind where I had been in Tatamagouche; they weren't even taking the same courses - where I'd been studying
Shakespeare's "Twelfth Night", they were doing something by Charles Dickens. I abhored Dickens. They were studying ancient history, Greece and Rome
Many years later when Laurie and I went to Greece, I wished time and time again that I had paid more attention. And I
remember having to repeatedly explain, "No, I'm not the Minister's daughter; we're just renting the manse!".
I discovered I had to take Chemistry and that I was terrible in Math. I was paired off with a hulking great fellow in Chemistry class. I will never forget the
one experiment where you had to keep the chemical we were using under water; (I can't remember if it
was sulphur or phosphorus? it was a waxy-like substance that smelled like rotten eggs and would
ignite if exposed to the air). Anyway, I was supposed to cut it up in pieces for the two of us to use,
so I carefully removed it from the water with a pair of tongs, and sat it on the edge of the big laboratory desk.
Next thing I knew, the room was filled with smoke, the smell of rotten eggs, and the desk was on fire!
The teacher (I almost had his name there for a minute) grabbed an axe from the side of the wall,
chopped off the burning part of the desk, and hurled it through the window. Unfortunately,
the window was closed at the time.
The school was evacuated, it was called an "accident"
(albeit some of the kids chose to add the word "stupid") and I flunked Grade 12 Chemistry.
I truly wish I could remember that teacher's name. He apologized profusely to me for having to
give me a mark under 50. He said I was a joy to have around the class, even if I didn't
know the first thing about Chemistry. I ran into him in Halifax later on and
he told me he had cancer with a timeframe of about six months left.
It wasn't very long before a new English church minister was hired and we were back looking
for a cheap place to live. Way outside of town on an unpaved road, there was a huge, old house owned by a
crochety old man, and it was for rent very cheaply. And so it came to pass that we moved to the Salter Place. On the outside, it was a
simply gorgeous sprawling place, with trees and lawns and rose bushes. It also had no electricity,
no water other than a pump in the kitchen, and no indoor-plumbing. There was a spiffy "two-holer" way down past
the absolutely gigantic ashpile where wild roses grew in massive clumps.
The Salter Place
It had a dark, dank basement at the bottom of steep, rickety stairs wherein lived the monster of a coal furnace. It also came complete with Old Man Salter,
who kept one room for himself, right downstairs, directly off our living-room. He was supposed to keep
the door locked between his space and ours. He did not. He wandered around in an old dirty undershirt, muttering
about how the place was overheated and being sent to "rack'n ruin" by "them folks".
That is until a long, lanky, black & white spotted dog appeared one day on our doorstep and stayed. Spud, who was otherwise a big old baby, hated him and wouldn't let him anywhere near
our side of the house.
On the bright side, I had the attic for myself. It was a long, cold room with slanting ceilings and one small window
overlooking the side yard. It was filled with wonderful old stuff belonging to long-dead members of the Salter family.
There were old books and postcards from the 1800s, a trunk filled with elegant taffeta and velvet
dresses from a bygone era; it was a veritable treasure-trove and I loved it.
I would huddle in masses of Jean's homemade quilts and read by the light of an oil lamp
for hours on end.
It may have been the 50s, but when I left school for the long walk up that dirt road, I
was heading back into the days of old!
There was another bright spot in my life, the "Pictou boys".
I started going to the square dances every Saturday night and it was here I met the four of them...Ed McMaster, Tom, Frank, and Jack.
They were joined at the hip(s) (not literally) and didn't go anywhere without all four being there. Not anywhere. Not ever.
When I started dating Ed, he brought them along. It seemed perfectly natural and without any
discussion (that I heard about, anyway) I became part of the Pictou boys.
"Twilight Time" is the midi playing. It was one of the songs we all sang along to in the car
on our many jaunts. Do teenagers still do that? Drive along back roads singing to the radio, I mean.
I'll bet it's really hard to hum along to hip-hop.
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