Chapter 13
Some Mothers Do Have ’em!
“No! It can’t be Billy; he’s here with me! I really appreciate your concern.” I was ready to finish my column and get it in the mail, when another phone call penetrated my brain. It was my neighbour, Marian.
“Don’t worry, Ruth, I found Billy by the railroad tracks. “He was bailed up by a big dog that took his mitten, and he was crying. I’ll bring him home - he’s okay now.” Marian’s reassuring voice was making me dizzy. I sat with the phone in my hand, dumbfounded!
There was no recollection of adjusting his earmuffs, cap and mittens, checking to be sure he had been to the toilet before I zipped him into his blue snowsuit, or buckling his snow boots and sending him on his way! That ritual was automatic, and repeated so often that I must have gone through the motions while I continued to edit the column in my head, oblivious to what I was doing. Was that possible?
I had no idea how much time had elapsed since I last saw our son. What on earth was he doing down by the railroad tracks? He was here in the house with me, talking a blue streak. What was he talking about? All the while, I had been thinking: I must get my column finished and in the mail.
Marian and her two boys, Timmy and Brian, arrived at the front door with a subdued Billy, still hiccuping with a sob in his voice after his experience.
Marian was trying to piece together Billy’s story of how ‘I sent him on his way to
It was all so unreal! How could I have done that to one of my children? Was it possible that I could take myself on to another plane and be so completely detached from the present? That was scary! Could it have something to do with the amnesia I suffered in 1946, causing my subconscious to take over my conscious mind and blot everything out of the present? I needed to go see Dr. Charles Wilson!
Once Billy was out of his snowsuit and consoled with cookies and milk with his playmates, he dived into the toy box. For Billy the whole thing was forgotten. Marian laughed about the episode while I reprimanded myself for being a thoughtless mother. What if??? No! He would never have made it to
My family told me later that I had seemed to go into a vacuum many times during my writing periods, and that no one could get through to me. I could hardly believe it! No one else took it seriously, but it bothered me. The next day I had a long talk with Dr. Chuck Wilson. I had confided in him some time before about the fear of losing my memory again, and he had done a great deal of research since that time. He’d often thought of studying psychiatry, his interest in the subject being stirred when, as an army doctor, he had attended soldiers with amnesia. He assured me now that since I had learned so much about amnesia, it was most unlikely to occur again.
I related the story of sending Billy off to buy a horse, and he roared laughing. “You have the unique ability to tunnel your full attention to a situation without any outside distractions. What a wonderful gift Ruth! Think of it that way; I wish I could do it!” That was very reassuring.
Billy always had a nose for adventure. Repeatedly, he promised me that he would stay in the yard and not wander off; by the time I closed the front door he was out of sight. Tying him to a tree in the front yard would be considered child abuse, although I did try it once when I was at the end of my tether. His cries were so pitiful I released him after a few minutes and we hugged each other, with him promising never to leave the yard again and me crying that I loved him and didn’t want to lose him.
Another incident I had recorded in my diary involved Manson’s world famous underground spring, caused by a meteorite, with water ‘softer than rainwater’. The main source of this water supply was harnessed beside the town’s City Hall. None of its worldwide publicity (being written up in Time and Life magazines) could have drawn Billy to the mouth of the well, but there he was, beyond the barrier and looking down into the abyss when he was discovered by one of the water-truck drivers. I frantically phoned his father at the newspaper office, across the street from the well, and told him to rescue his son and bring him home at lunchtime. I was so distraught I didn’t want to see him before noon. We seemed to be always rescuing Billy from some part of town!
He was off again on Watermelon Day, an annual event when the City Fathers brought in several truckloads of watermelons. They set up trestle tables on the side street beside the bank, while community organizations volunteered their services to cut up and serve the delicious treat. All you could eat for free! We let the children eat their fill during the celebrations while I did some shopping, happily certain that I knew exactly where to find them. The girls, that is, but not Billy! He had ‘gone walkabout’, like an Australian aboriginal!
On this occasion, the best thing we could do was stay close to the last slices of watermelon and hope Billy would show, or someone would find him. Before the clean up started there was still no sign of our son, but the word was out and several people were looking for him. Everyone cheered as the fire engine came down the main street, ready to use its big hoses to rid the street of a mountain of watermelon seeds and skins. And there was Billy, large as life, up on the fire truck with the driver, cheerfully waving to all the folks!
Come to think of it, when we say a child is lost, usually the child is having a great time. So, isn’t it the other way around? Often, it’s not the child who is lost, it’s the parents! The child has temporarily lost track of them!
They told me that boys were different. One has to have a boy preceded by a couple of girls to realize just how different they really are. Jerilyn could attest to that - she and Billy would tangle occasionally. He was an annoying teaser, and seemed to find pleasure in picking on Jerilyn. There may have been five years difference in their ages, but their strength of commitment was equal. When one backed the other into a corner, the strongest defence for the cornered one was to bite their way out. The disdainful looks they gave each other, spoiling for another fight! They ignored my threat that I would bite the next one who chose to use teeth as a weapon.
When Billy drew blood on Jerilyn’s arm, I took hold of my struggling son and put my open mouth on his arm and held it there. He froze! I would never have bitten him, although I was tempted, but he didn’t know that! I rushed to the bathroom to purge myself, knowing how close I came to clamping down on Billy’s arm, and I shook for ten minutes while it remained unusually quiet in the living room. It was an extreme measure, and no one was more surprised than I that it worked! Neither child ever tried it again.
Most times we could distract the children when they became ‘picky’ with each other, but it was Mavis who came up with the greatest distraction of all after she heard my voice raised. The children had been especially testy and my last resort was the wooden spoon. I am yet to fathom what it was about the wooden spoon that had them petrified because I had never used it to paddle them. As I ranted and raved on about how they were being so naughty I kept hitting the dining room table till I split the spoon right down the middle. I knew I was too angry to hit the children, I was afraid I’d kill them.
The Partlows, next door, were the first to have TV. From that day forth during the summer, Mavis opened their lounge room window and pulled back the curtains so our children could watch the cartoons from our window. It was mute, but our children didn’t need the sound to enjoy it. The broken wooden spoon hung in the kitchen as a gentle reminder of the day their Mother lost her ‘cool’.
I’ll never forget the day Billy became frightened for my safety while I was chasing a half-dead nine pound rooster around the basement trying to finish it off. I had tried wringing its neck by standing on the only piece of wood I could find, and I had gouged the palms of both hands with the spurs on the rooster’s feet. During this performance, Billy was sitting halfway up the basement stairs crying and yelling that the rooster was going to get both of us.
“Billy! You’re not helping matters. Go upstairs and close the door, just leave me to take care of the rooster. Honey! It will be all right - off you go!” He wouldn’t leave me. I sat next to him, hugged him, and made fun of the stupid rooster, as it squawked and ran around and around the basement - blood everywhere!
If only I had started out with the hatchet, but there was no sign of it anywhere. Bill had left it right where he finished chopping kindling in the yard in the autumn, months before! Soon after, North America was under several feet of snow, and I didn’t have a clue under which snowdrift the hatchet would be. Finding tools when needed is impossible. Is that a male thing?
When Edna Garrels offered the rooster, I was not expecting a live one in a hessian bag, with a warning to be careful of the spurs on the rooster’s feet. Sometimes, I think Edna deliberately did things like that to me just so I would learn how to do it the hard way. She was a devious teacher! The rooster finally dropped dead. With Billy’s help, he did an excellent job of bandaging both my hands. It was impossible to wear rubber gloves to pluck a chook. Marian was glad I called her, she had the rooster plucked and in the pot before lunch.
Janis, at three years of age, caused us some anxious moments concerning her desire to be either a nudist or an exhibitionist. Our reasoning was definitely on the wrong track once we discovered that she removed all her clothing in the front driveway only after good rain. She loved to sit in the mud puddles and smear mud all over her body. At least she kept her clothes clean!
Talking of clean clothes reminded me of when I became the proud owner of a Bendix, automatic, front-loading washing machine, purchased from Mavis after she bought a more modern Bendix - with a new button to press. I was delighted to take the one-year-old machine off her hands. I invited our children to join me in the basement to watch ‘my television set’. They didn’t believe me at all! I placed the children’s chairs around in a half circle, and we all sat and watched my pretend TV, the Bendix washing machine. They soon learned to use their imagination, and my washing became a regular program to watch. We invented games with the coloured load and tried to identify who owned a certain item.
Another favourite game was to watch their father’s work pants thaw while the pants stood in the corner of the kitchen. In winter the washing froze as soon as I took it out of the basket. I didn’t need pegs - just bent the washing over the line. I liked the washing to be outdoors for that lovely fresh-air smell. Later, I always had to hang it in the basement to finish drying it. All this extra work had little to do with a liking for freezing temperatures - more to do with the five senses. The soft touch and the sweet smell of washing that had hung outdoors in the fresh air was a pleasure I never wanted to sacrifice; I had no wish for a dryer.
Something I did want was a timer. Bill gave me one as a Christmas present, and it proved to be the solver of many disputes, especially between Billy and Timmy Eccles. They were always fighting over certain toys, so I would set the timer for ten minutes. When the timer buzzed, the boy in possession of the toy was to hand it over to. It seems they were more interested in waiting to hear the timer buzz – by which time they had forgotten which toy caused the dispute. They would beg me to set the timer again.
The timer paid its way over and over again. When the children were sick in bed they controlled the timer. They had to think of at least three things for which they needed me. I may have been picking vegetables in the garden or washing down in the basement and I didn’t need to make the trip to the bedroom if it was only for a glass of water. They became so fascinated with the honour of being in charge of it that I seldom got to hear the timer ring. My patients reaped the rewards by having a story read to them at my convenience. Since then I have never been without a timer.
The Christmas I received the timer, the children got a huge family wagon, which held all four children with a squeeze and a giggle. After Christmas we all went shopping at the grocery store and the children rode up town. But they had to walk home; the groceries took pride of place. That was a tough job for their Dad, especially in the areas where a neighbor hadn’t yet shoveled their front path.
After the snow thawed that winter, at the insistence of the children I got to ride in the wagon at the front of the house, while they all took turns to pull me. Admittedly, it was a warmer ride than sledding on the hill in the snow. That large, family-sized wagon came in mighty handy whenever we were between cars, which was quite often.
For a person who started out married life with little knowledge of cooking, baking days became some of my most cherished memories. The family was wonderful about my failures: of which there were many! I had at least learned the art of gravy and sauce making. When it was a savory failure, I made gravy, added pasta and called it a casserole. If my cake had flopped, I made custard and called it pudding. Each one was given a new name. The family often requested I repeat some of my failures because they thought they were so good. I had been seriously contemplating writing a cookbook titled, the four F’s. The Frost Family’s Favorite Failures.’
On one occasion, Marian came over to teach me how to make egg noodles. I had a lot to learn about cooking, but all I needed to do when I needed help was ask my friends, they were wonderful about sharing their favorite recipes. The egg noodles were such a hit but, three weeks of noodles cooked a dozen different ways was more than the family could stand, they requested I stop making them; they wanted something like one of my wonderful failures again.
They were some of our lighter moments, but I also remember the harrowing times.
Jerilyn, our first-born, who was smothered, rather than mothered with so much attention, had taken ill. She was an easy child to care for, but as we were learning the new skill of child rearing, Jerilyn bore the brunt of our ignorance. She was our guinea piglet!
I had failed to make sure she had ample fluids when she had an upset tummy, and she was unable to get any liquid past her throat without throwing up. I was devastated at not being able to help her and needed to be hospitalized with acidosis. The spread of infection throughout the hospital made it impossible to stay overnight with her. The next day we found her spread-eagled, tied hand-and-foot to her hospital bed with a drip attached to her ankle. She was so very distressed! “I wet the bed and the nurse yelled at me,” she cried.
I was most upset when I saw her like that, and had a terse word with the head nurse. “What would a four-year-old child understand about being bound by the hands and feet with a needle attached to her foot and then being yelled at for wetting the bed!”
The nurse tried to calm me. I pleaded with the nurse to let me stay overnight; promising that I wouldn’t interfere with hospital routine and that I would sleep on the floor. She was sympathetic, but had to abide by hospital policy; her answer was still ‘NO’!
Jerilyn’s hospital stay was confusing and scary for her. I could help by spending most of the day with her, but it was at night that she needed the reassurance that she was safe. I showed her pictures of the human body and the reasons for feeding the fluids through the needle in her ankle. Her nurse helped me to explain it in very simple terms. She seem to understand the reasons why she was tied down, and felt much better once she no longer needed to have her hands secured. She was able to relax then and read her books.
From a very young age she had her head in a book much of the time. Through Jerilyn I was introduced to children’s books that I never had as a child. When I read to her I was just as fascinated with the stories as she was. After she learned to read, I enjoyed being read to by Jerilyn. I drew the line at the Bobsy Twins, though!
No comments:
Post a Comment