Pink is for Disappointment

By John T. Peters

Many children are born into poor families worldwide. It is not the same as being born into a family suffering from a poverty mentality... Pink Is For Disappointment is a fictional work about just such a family and a son who was the family disappointment. The main Character John in first person, tells how he spent half his life and went through a hundred years worth of experiences trying to escape just such a life in the 1950's and 60's in the countryside of Manitoba Canada. Having been born into a family of Mennonites in a tiny village where nature rules supreme and preachers rule the people you will go with him on some beautifully memorable excursions in the western style of life. Some books beg you to join in the story, this book however, will not let you leave till the last page where you wonder what his twenties looked like.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John T. Peters
• Release date: Oct 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310793790

John T. Peters

I was born in South-eastern Manitoba, Canada in 1951. My parents were of a supposedly devout Mennonite religion that had beliefs from the middle ages such as education was of little importance and English was only somewhat useful. They were finally forced to send me to school when I was almost eight years old where I exceeded most people's expectations. Math and English became my favorite subjects which brought my overall marks up considerably. But, the poverty mentality and the hypocritical religion became too obvious and constraining so I left our home and family at thirteen years old,Life was difficult in my teens but I met many different characters which have given me a number of interesting characters for my books. Later I would improve my education and also obtain some university courses.After retiring and moving to China, I started writing and putting some of those experiences to paper and found a hobby that I enjoy. I don't know if I'm classified as a true author yet and, for me, it's not my reason for writing or an overpowering goal. I love the writing part and hope others find my books interesting to read.

Book preview

Pink Is for Disappointment

A Novel

A physical and psychological journey attempting to escape a family with a poverty mentality condoned and supported by religion.

By

John Tobias Peters

Email; [e-mail]

Covers by; Thomas Benton

Sketches by; Lang Du

Special thanks to Oscar Benson for his computer/internet advice, his enthusiasm for my project.

Pink Is for Disappointment©

First Smashwords Edition

Published by John Tobias Peters

Copyright© 2015 by John T. Peters

All rights reserved

No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or information storage and retrieval systems without the expressed written permission of the author.

Note 2 – Due to laws governing lawsuits claiming liable and/or defamation of character, I will call this a fictional story. Use of historical events, places, or names of anyone or any similarity of the story line to actual persons, places or events is purely coincidental except where specifically authorized by said individuals.

Other books coming in the near future by author;

John Tobias Peters

Email; [e-mail]

A Kind Word

A fictional account of various characters in the early to mid 1900’s, escaping their dreary existenses to search for a dream in the far northern gold fields. Some perished, while others found love. In between those extremes, were many where surval became their only goal.

A Life Redefined

A fictional story. Jack Thorns after a few divorces during a difficult life in the Alberta oilfields, embarks on a journey to find life. His discoveries force him to reexamine Canadian societies predjudices and concepts of life and health.

Table Of Contents

Forword Page 06

Dedication Page 08

Chapter 1, My First Memories Page 09

Chapter 2, Farm Life & the World Beyond Page 30

Chapter 3, First School Days Page 49

Chapter 4, The Surrounding Environment Page 69

Chapter 5, Difficulties on the Farm. Page 88

Chapter 6, New town, New Life? Page 110

Chapter 7, Frustration Confronted Page 130

Chapter 8, Big City Life Page 153

Chapter 9, More Trouble Page 175

Chapter 10, Running on Empty Page 195

Chapter 11, Staying Alive Page 217

Chapter 12, Getting Off the Street Page 239

Chapter 13, Introspection, Rediscovery Page 260

Chapter 14, Discovering Other Family Page 280

Chapter 15, A Taste of New Life Page 298

Chapter 16, On the Move Again Page 322

Chapter 17, To the Present Page 344

After thoughts and Summation Page 349

Don’t judge me by my past

I don’t live there anymore

Don’t presuppose my future

I have not arrived there yet

I am still on a journey

Still learning, still growing

Foreword

For many years, various people have suggested I write a book of my life, of the experiences along the way. I never thought of my life as being that extraordinary, never giving it much serious thought. From my experiences as a young boy, I had developed a great respect for some of the old story tellers, remembering, possibly copying some of their techniques. Later I would tell stories of my experiences; some people listened like it was a masterpiece of music. Others listened as though my stories were masterly engineered pieces of fiction; others just thought I was delusional or crazy. Now later in life, semi-retired or just unemployed depending on your point of view, more people keep asking for some kind of story to put all the short stories into some chronological order.

At first, I thought, well maybe it would make a good short story. The words, the pages started to add up; pages became chapters. I rethought my strategy, possibly a long short story. I thank the inventors of word processors; they have saved a forest of trees from being made into paper; then foolishly wasted by an inexperienced writer like me. I am not really an author; revisions, additions seem to be a constant exercise. One story leads to another; then I see something in the news or communicate with someone from that time and place. They say well, did you write about that, or that, or that person? The story becomes a book. The book adds up to a reflection of someone’s life. It took me to another time and place, a journey through memories, feelings long forgotten, some hidden, perhaps denied. What happened to the boy that was so fascinated by a butterfly or a cloud?

Some people only hear a few selective phrases, concluding life was a continuous big party for me in my early years. Yet I remember long periods of crushing loneliness. Other people take the opposite view that I was a victim and victimized, ready to extend their heartfelt sympathy, even pity for me which I despise. I am not to be pitied. I can only retaliate with sympathy toward such misunderstandings. Rarely have I ever thought of myself as anything but a normal boy/man looking for the most normal of existences with a few slight differences. I consider many of the ordinary, the usual with the unusual happenings, the negative, the positive experiences, with the fewest of exceptions, to be beyond priceless. All were part of the journey. Except for some slight alterations, I would not trade them for anything.

Later in life I would experience bad relationships, bad marriages, etc; however it is not to find blame with anyone. I made decisions; I take full responsibility for those decisions unlike many people that have surrounded me. Most of the time, I did the best I could under the conditions, options that were my reality at the time. I still do not ask, I certainly do not beg for forgiveness from anyone. Still, after sixty plus years, the journey continues. Who ever thought I could live so long; then write a book? Certainly not my family, my teachers or the street people in Winnipeg but here I am. Welcome to my world as I remember it.

Dedication

I must give my heartfelt thanks and gratitude to the people on the farms in Southern Alberta that took me in after my Manitoba days. Without them this probably would have been a much shorter story, possibly never to be written. For reasons I can’t explain, I doubt I have been able to demonstrate to any degree my absolute and deepest appreciation for their kindness, support, their friendship through the years. They knew little of my past, less of my inner turmoil as I attempted to leave my past behind, entering a modern society. My only sincere apology is, for those people, that I was not able to convey my heartfelt gratitude to them or reward them to any extent. Regardless of where life takes me or the circumstances that surround it, for those few people I will always have the greatest love and respect.

I also need to give special thanks to my Chinese wife who does not understand English and therefore does not understand this book or what I’m trying to do. Still, she has been completely supportive without any complaints. I hope to have this book, and future books, translated to Chinese, if for no other reason, just for her.

Chapter 1, My First Memories

From my earliest beginnings, I should have suspected I was going to have extraordinary challenges. The mentality of the people that surrounded me, begged to be questioned. Without any great effort on my part, pre-existing circumstances more or less dictated that I would be a huge disappointment for mother, father, for possibly many others that I would encounter from my birth, then on to my ensuing formative years. The first child born to my parents was a boy. The second child was a girl, followed by another brother. Do you see a pattern developing here? Mother did. Then I came along, the only blond in the family, a big healthy, bouncing, happy baby boy. Though, mother had prayed for a girl. Therefore she was fully expecting a girl. Then, mother gave birth to three more boys in the following years. She finally gave up in despair, no more girls. Many times I had the feeling she blamed me for disrupting, — then ruining her illusionary pattern of boy girl, boy girl that was started years before my birth. How could mother possibly assign any blame to me if I was never informed of her plan, certainly never consulted?

All the other children had cute baby books with locks of hair, pictures, first dirty diaper (not really), etc, all the silly things mothers collect. My baby book was conspicuously absent. All my siblings had two; three; one brother had four given names. I only had one given name as far as I knew. My brothers would ask for, at times receive their baby books just to hold their precious little books in front of my face as if they were more important, superior to me in some way. Nope, I never saw a baby book that was mine. I never was told of a middle name until much, much later. Had I been slighted or was I being granted unlimited freedom to choose my own destiny? Was it to be a curse or a blessing? Without dwelling on such intellectual questions for long periods of time, or at all, I decided early in life that I would do my best to live life to its fullest, as it presented itself to me. With a few unavoidable difficulties, many more avoidable, I would soon begin to create my own history.

Many years later after mother’s death, sister was digging through boxes of trash trying to find anything of value, anything of mild interest would have sufficed to save from a house totally crammed full of useless rubbish. Every bit of used, outgrown children’s clothing including worn out shoes, boots; jackets were stuffed into boxes as keepsakes for storage. All the children’s books, writings, scribbling, except mine, were there. Ninety-nine point nine percent of it was destined for the garbage dump from a ‘family life’ that at best could only be referred to as being utterly dysfunctional. Possibly to qualify as being dysfunctional, we would have been required to make some major improvements. Mother had also kept massive amounts of newspapers, magazines. Most had been obtained or scrounged out of the town people’s garbage cans at no charge. At the time, newspapers, magazines were used for toilet paper in outdoor toilets. After allowing for the fact she had lived all of her life using an outdoor toilet, mother had accumulated enough newspapers to last five lifetimes, with lots to spare.

Sister emptied another box of many. The box had contained more useless items, old worn out children’s clothing, other ludicrous items. Then, to her complete surprise, there in front of her, lay a baby book, a pink baby book. At the bottom of the cover were the words, Our Baby Girl. Sister’s first inclination was that it might have been intended as a future gift for someone having a baby girl, like birthday cards, bought ‘On Sale’ yet never given, possibly forgotten about, etc. Besides the words, it was bright pink, obviously for a girl. Opening it, to her surprise, there stood my name inside the front cover at the top, only my one given name though, no middle or last name. A smaller notation at the bottom of the first page, read "Pink is for Disappointment". Everything else in the book was empty, no locks of hair, no photos, no writing, just empty. Except for my first name with the four words of wisdom at the bottom of the first page, the rest of the pages were blank. Obviously, my birth had been a great disappointment to mother. Mine was not to be an ordinary existence. The stage had been set; the actors were all in their places as the curtain rose. How could there possibly have been a script change at that late hour?

In writing this story with memories of the past, there could have been other connotations to those four words of rare wisdom from mother’s soul, "Pink is for Disappointment". Was it her disappointment or possibly would it be mine, or both? Were the words a foreshadowing for the many disappointments in my future life, possibly? If only I had known about those four words that were written so prophetic, at a young age! Had I seriously contemplated the meaning of those words, I possibly could have avoided many regrets with women, bad dates, bad marriages, divorces later in life, or perhaps not. Those stories are for another time, another place in my memory, possibly another book. In my youth I was to test life, to taste life for all it had to offer or in most cases, as much as I could afford plus a little bit more. Information, knowledge is only useful if an individual seriously contemplates its worth, considering all the possible implications. Sadly, I had none of those attributes in my early life.

My first memories of life were going to church. It seemed like we were always going to church. Father was seldom home except for going to church. Wednesday evenings, Friday evenings were reserved for prayer meetings. Saturday was reserved for making preparations to go to church, Sunday was church. The church was not apparently connected to any mainline religion. In hindsight I question if it did not border on being a cult unto itself. At the time being a cult or not would have, in any case, been irrelevant to my young mind. The religion dwelt almost entirely on what not to do with very little direction as to what was the right thing to do. The ‘day to day’ religious practice could be reduced to, if it was fun, giving the individual any positive feelings of self confidence or self respect, it was considered wrong. If, individual effort involved hard labor, even pain with little or no benefit, caused irritation with negative feelings of worthlessness, then the religion professed it to be good. Hopelessness, poverty, sacrifice mixed with pain were all considered to be the emotions of a good religious person. Music was not allowed; affection, laughter or demonstrations of happiness were considered frivolous, totally unnecessary, if not a sin.

We were taught, more like brain washed with the idea that only Mennonites were going to heaven, all others would perish in hell. Talking to anyone except Mennonites was frowned upon. Being friends with anyone else was unthinkable unless of course, you were attempting to convert them to the Mennonite faith. Many times even after conversion to the religion, if they were not Mennonite, they would need to find a different church to attend. Our church was for Mennonites only as a religion, also as an ethnic group. It could be said, White Mennonites Only, although that would be difficult to prove. I don’t recall people of any other color living anywhere in the area. The basic problem was we were only one of three, possibly four Mennonite families, counting the minister of our tiny church with his family; living in the area. It greatly restricted our circle of friends. We were not only isolated in location, we were isolated socially. I can’t recall visiting anyone, or having any people visit us except for our church minister. Immediately after church, we would return home to our remoteness. If a combination of church, religion, with prayer solved things, we should have had, at bare minimum, a functional family. It was not to be.

Both parents professed to be deeply religious, perhaps a perception only existing in their own defective minds. Neither parent was affectionate that I can recall. There weren’t any visible signs of love or affection directed at us, definitely not exchanged between parents. There were a few times that we heard father, mother angrily shouting at each other during the night. Perhaps, for them, it was their idea of intimate conversation. Occasionally after their nighttime talks/fights, there would be a dented pot the next morning with mother holding her head. Thankfully the pots were extremely thin almost like tin foil. Who knows, the thin pots were possibly preplanned protection for her head instead of spending the extra money to buy a helmet or a hard hat for mother.

The next day or soon after such an incident, we would go to church again to be indoctrinated with the chanting of LOVE THY NEIGHBOR AS THYSELF. The phrase did not appear to include spouses, family members or anyone else for that matter as I soon was to discover. The hostility between the parents created an uneasy silence in the house when both parents were there together. At times the silence was slightly oppressive, other times it was almost unbearable. After we returned home from church, father would often leave again without explanation. During his stays, we were told that everything we had done or not done the previous week was wrong. After exacting some punishment, then more prayer, father would leave again.

Another ritual with very little variation was being told we were all sinners; everyone sins on a daily basis. Everyone must confess to those sins, begging for forgiveness immediately after, or at every prayer or church meeting. I was forced to confess to everything on a thrice weekly basis or more, praying for forgiveness with all the fervor that a preschooler could muster. Before I was six years old I confessed to every sin imaginable, including committing adultery when I didn’t have the slightest idea what adultery meant at the time, or how to commit it, yet forced to beg for forgiveness on my knees. I can’t state with any certainty that I didn’t confess to, then was forgiven for ‘thou shalt not kill’, murder, by that time. I am fairly certain though that I covered all the other Ten Commandments generally on a monthly basis. The objective of the whole ordeal was to get confessions. Comprehending what I was confessing to was entirely irrelevant to the adults forcing it on me.

It should be a reasonable excuse for later in life when I tried to experience every vice, immoral, illegal or fattening situation I could find. I had already confessed, paid, then been absolved of everything, numerous times. Had I been Catholic, a trivial detail, I should have been granted numerous indulgences. Like a prepaid credit card, I had already paid for every sin imaginable possibly including killing another human being. After that, what restrictions could possibly be placed on me? A prepaid sin that I had been coerced into confessing without knowing what it meant. A sin already forgiven however not yet committed. A sin, like a commodity, previously paid for, yet not taken possession of. The possibilities were almost unimaginable. The time would come to collect, with interest, to enjoy. That time would actually come much sooner than I, certainly many others could have possibly anticipated.

We lived in the country on what can only be described as the poorest of farms, even calling it a farm is a slight exaggeration. During most weeks, the two older brothers, sister and I were left to take care of the farm with little or no supervision from adults. Father was not around. When he did come home, he automatically disapproved of everything we had done. Considering what father might like or not like had become a non issue very early in my recollections. On the other hand on any average day, mother could talk for hours like a politician without offering a single scrap of usable information. Ordinarily, mother’s only contribution to an existing problem was more complaining, more religion. In most cases, we had to make decisions on our own regardless of the problem. The farm consisted of one old milk cow, at times possibly two or three other younger animals, a horse or two, possibly a few old chickens. There was a small barn with a small fenced yard attached for pigs on the place yet I don’t ever remember having any pigs. No one can truthfully say the farm was totally unproductive. They really did produce something on that farm, seven children.

Ours was a very basic existence if not crude, no electricity, no plumbing or running water, so no modern conveniences what-so-ever. Light came from a coal oil lamp. Water was carried from the well up to the house by the pail full. The toilet was a little outhouse approximately one hundred paces north. Heat for the house came from two wood burning stoves, one just for heat; the other stove for cooking meals and heat. At least our little old log house was warm in winter unlike many board houses built in a hurry at that time, in that area. From my earliest recollections, there was never a toothbrush or toothpaste in the house. I would only discover their usefulness after I left home at about thirteen years old or later. I don’t recall going to see a doctor, dentist or other health professional of any kind. Mother had home remedies for most things. Liquid Cod Liver Oil, terrible tasting stuff, was taken daily in winter for our general health. There were Watkins ointments for sprains, salves for scraps, liquid cough syrup or cold medicine for other common ailments. Luckily we never had an emergency that we couldn’t handle.

Our day-to-day routine was also one of minimalism, the most basic of a survivalist mentality. I don’t recall a face cloth or even needing to wash before we went to bed, when we got up in the morning or before meals. We washed when we had gotten unusually dirty, no more. Baths were restricted to coincide with the seasons, one bath to celebrate the closing of one season, welcoming the dawning of the next. Clothes washing seemed to follow the same routine also. I didn’t like fall or winter baths. My new clean clothes made my skin itch. Long woolen underwear was uncomfortable, extra scratchy after a bath. Spring or summer baths were fine since we did not need to wear the long woolen underwear after the bath. It felt like some extra measure of freedom, a relief of sorts.

As soon as possible or sooner, we would also discard our shoes in summer, other unneeded clothing, only to be retrieved under threats of ‘or else’ for Sunday Church. It became a badge of toughness to be able to walk, or run barefoot on gravel without shoes. In late summer or autumn we took pride in being able to walk barefoot through a dry thistle patch without grimacing or whining. Our feet were tough, outside of stepping on the odd nail that actually penetrated skin and flesh; very few things bothered our feet. Perhaps our lifestyle was designed to toughen our bodies, toughen our character to withstand discomfort, the pain of long hours of labor without complaining. It could be said that for some of us, it may have been somewhat effective.

My earliest memory of our actual house was that it was extremely messy, cluttered, yet not filthy as it would become in a few years. If mother never excelled at housekeeping, cooking was definitely not her strong point either. Without fail, breakfast was Cream-of-Wheat porridge from my first memory to my final departure from her house. If we had a live, working milk cow, there was a prospect of having real milk. At other times it was powdered skim milk with some sugar if we were allowed. The other ‘meals’ were of absolute simplicity taken to extremes. If lettuce was available, that was dinner, only lettuce. Meals were a one item thing, potatoes, tomatoes, cucumbers, rabbit; bread with jam. No, not together. Each individual food item was a meal in itself. She invented the single food item meal, fast food before it was famous. There was little preparation, a utilitarian use of pots or pans, even with dents in them. It was an illusion of a meal, little preparation with a minimal amount of clean-up. Mother could have used the contents of a Big Mac hamburger, stretching the ingredients into a week’s worth of meals; first day bread (probably moldy), second day lettuce, third day pickles, fourth day tomatoes, fifth day meat sorry no beef, sixth day cheese, the seventh day being reserved for leftovers if there were any from the previous six days.

Mother had many excuses; nevertheless, justification for her lackluster performance was never found. Talking to others later in life, I discovered she never had a history of excelling at anything, especially work before marriage or before having children. So in fact it would be difficult to say if having a family seriously impaired her chances of success in that way or not. Mother possibly could have gained notoriety for being a near perfect martyr, possibly a martyr without a cause with her constant, relentless negative attitude. According to her, everything anyone had ever done for her was not quite right, wrong time, wrong place or season. Too much or too little, too perfect or not perfect enough, all directly contributed to mother’s failures, ultimately leading to her defeat.

From mother’s perspective, she would have been perfectly happy, almost guaranteed to be successful, possibly achieving some degree of greatness if only everyone had helped her do exactly what she wanted, when she wanted it. Other times, not even stopping to take a breath of air between sentences, she would refuse all help offered her by us, her children. Mother would never consider help from other people. In her words, We were not like those despised welfare cases. If we stayed to listen, were not sleeping in spite of our best efforts to do so, she would continue to inform us that in any case, all her problems were God’s will so she must bear them without complaining. Then without delay mother would start or, in most cases, just continue complaining.

Father had been a pipe fitter for the British Petroleum Company in his younger years, considering it to be one of his greatest achievements. When he met mother, she told him he must be a farmer if he was to marry her or else. Hindsight would say that he made a grievous error in judgment. For him, a far better option would have been to run like a jack rabbit, as far, and as fast as he could without mother, to some faraway place. He was not, nor ever would be a farmer, even on a good day. Nevertheless there are so many ironies in life. How could I possibly fill these pages with my memoirs had he made another decision? Relatives said that father actually had been a fairly good cook, helping his mother at times when she was busy. Besides cooking full meals, I was told he could actually bake pies; possibly even bake bread without mold on it. All things considered, it might have been a good case for role reversal.

Mother would not hear of it, going into hysterics at the slightest suggestion that a man would actually cook. According to her, women were naturally gifted cooks, managers of the house; caretakers of the family. Men were raised to work outside, providing for the family. A man helping in the house was completely unthinkable. According to mother, it would be blasphemy, a sin, if those stereotyped roles were reversed or tampered with, as though they were written in stone. If mother was gifted at anything, she kept her gifts extremely well hidden, more like buried. It was painfully obvious early in my life that wherever natural gifts came from, mother’s gifts had been permanently back ordered. Mother did very little that could be associated with doing housework. Our meals could hardly be called cooking. Most of the outside work was already being done by us children. So, had she allowed father to cook, we might of had some good meals with a probable positive effect on our physical well being, as well as our mental health. As an extra, there was a possibility that good food would have had a positive effect on our outside duties as well. Sadly it was not to be.

Father also had some strange characteristics, a dark side that was not readily noticeable by many people. He attempted to be seen as a scholarly, upstanding religious person with an outgoing friendly personality. He was a Sunday school teacher at our tiny church, also taking over the minister’s duties when required. Father studied the dictionary; then read the bible, perhaps on occasion, vice versa. I never fully understood what his highest priority was. He had many ways of detouring from the truth without the listener being aware of it. He qualified everything with complicated words from the dictionary, using vague references, usually taken out of context from the bible. He was not to be second guessed. As soon as I or other people thought we knew him, father would come up with a completely different scheme to catch everyone off guard.

It appeared he spent days or even weeks on his dreams, his schemes, attempting to make a dishonest ten dollars by misrepresentation. Had he applied himself physically, he could have possibly earned a hundred dollars or more in the same period of time, honestly. He was the wheeler dealer of the impoverished backwoods’ occupants. Father had visions of greatness like being a Donald Trump, however only involving minute amounts of money. On one occasion, we had cut the hay, baling was to begin in three days making the hay ready for winter storage. According to mother, someone offered him an attractive price for the rake and baler. Without any discussion or reason given, he sold the machinery, immediately leaving town with the money. The four older children, that included me, were left to gather the hay as best we could with forks, some with our bare hands so the farm animals would have something to eat that winter. For some unexplained reason, everything was for sale except a Cockshut-30 tractor which seemed to be a permanent fixture on the farm,