Edna's Kids

By Wishie McIsaac

A  story of a tremendous family challenge  told in the present all the while drawing strenght and courage  from my boyhood memories. These  memories enabled me to survive and even grow as a human being.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wishie McIsaac
• Release date: Oct 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386104797

Wishie McIsaac

Born and raised in Glace Bay, NS,Canada and educated at St Francis Xavier University. The son of a coal miner who became a UMW union official. Came from a family of 10 kids, didn't sleep alone until I was married.

Book preview

Introduction

I often wondered what type person sits down and writes a book. When I was a child I thought only a genius could do such a thing. To put down all those words on paper must be close to impossible. The way I saw it, this person would have to be able to spell all those words, just for a start. (Thank God for spell check). Then comes the task of expressing your ideas in a way that makes sense. It is one thing to reel off a story or two, when amongst family, but to put it all down in a way to convey what has transpired in an understandable way, well, that’s tough.  And then there’s compiling enough words to fill a whole book. I thought maybe I could have written a few short stories, with a little bit of luck, but the way I am, it is go big or don’t go at all. I can usually get straight to the point in a few words, and that’s the end of it. Or so I thought. When I got on a roll in a story, I found it was a little like tickling. The trick is to know when to stop. Once I got going on one topic, I found there was more to it than just stating the events. You have to set the stage, the atmosphere, so to speak. But, alas, the real trick is putting your own feelings into it. A story is just a story unless you put something of yourself into it. And this is like; no it is, showing your tender underbelly. You know that your family will read it. They have to. It’s like a rule. In each of these events, there are places in your heart where you would rather not go. But, to be in that safe place, where only the events and the people involved are told, is comparable to writing a newspaper article. The names, places and events are important, but there is so much more that can be realized. When you write a book about a major portion of your life, there are no second chances. It is one kick at the can and that’s it. If you don’t bare your soul, you never will. Yeah, you can write about something else but you will never revisit those events again. And to put it all on paper is like walking naked among everyone you know. When I was writing this I tried to get into the detail of every event, and to do that, I actually had to go back there. I had to feel the way I did then, taste it, be traumatized, all over again, and cry over it. I didn’t think I had to when I started out on this project, but I now know different.

Sometimes when I would begin a chapter, I had to stop and give myself a kick, realizing I was letting out secrets, about the real me that I didn’t want to let out. Ultimately, I decided I would just let it flow, and whatever came out was what I was meant to put down on paper.  Maybe divine intervention. Or not. In doing this project, I realized that education and learning are not the same thing. I found the real learning comes from experience, and asking even the so-called stupid questions.

The reason I wrote this book is twofold. Firstly, in conversation with my family, while telling stories and relating our experiences, someone would inevitably say, one of us should write a book. In actuality, we were all kidding. How could one of US produce a book? That is only for other people to do.  So I asked myself the question who DOES write a book, and why, and the answer is, anyone who has a story to tell. In other words, anyone at all. As for the why, the other reason is that I want to pass on my experiences and stories to my children and grandchildren, and beyond the end of my life. I wish my father had put his feelings down on paper. I was so interested in the stories he told us when we were kids, and he had a genuine flare for it. I know I would enjoy a book he wrote.  People naturally have an interest in their family’s past events, and this is one way of preserving it. My goal is to capture these events in my life, that helped shape who I am, and also, those of some of my family. This is not a masterpiece. I never intended it to be. As books go it probably isn’t that good. As a matter of fact, it may get no further than my son and daughters' hands, and my siblings. Regardless, I am glad I wrote it. So, brother Johnny, yes, someone should write a book. Well yeah, the Gawk did.

1  WAITING

I didn’t think it was so, but it happens just as it does on TV, or in a movie. They have taken the patient in and are doing a number of tests on him. They have put me in this room and I am told to wait here until they get the results and they will get back to me. They do this so coolly that it is hard to believe it is actually happening. The room is set up to be conducive to this.  It has powder blue walls and a navy blue couch spotted with very tiny yellow flowers to contrast the darkness of the couch. I wish they could offset the darkness that I have in my gut, sitting here, just waiting. But that’s all I can do. The small chair matched the couch. There is a lamp in the corner and a small coffee table in the middle. I think it is supposed to mirror someone’s living room and set people at ease. But the subject of conversation that occurs here should not happen anywhere in the world. But it does and it is.

He is 5 years old and as smart as a cricket. Everyone who meets him agrees and I am afraid to admit it, less the old adage of being too good to be true should prevail. He is a pistol, is all. I remember baby sitting on Friday nights, and lying with him on the couch. He was only two or three then, but the things he would say just blew me away. I would tell myself I should get a tape recorder and put it under the couch, so I could have proof of what he said.  He is my first son and the first grandchild on her side. We live immediately next door to his grandparents.  And they love him over the moon. At every opportunity my siblings come to visit and get him wound up.

We had a Christmas party soon after we moved into our house and everyone came to see it and wish us well. Even my saint of an aunt and her husband, who walked with a cane, showed up. He was only four then. All dressed for bed in his red pajamas with the built in slipper feet in them, he decided he would be Alex Trebek, a man he admired, a proud Canadian, and the host of Jeopardy on TV. He took Tony’s cane and went from person to person, interviewing each one, asking them if they were enjoying the holidays, what they got from Santa Claus, and how they liked the party he was having. Then he asked them some questions, as would Alex Trebek. If anyone forgot to answer the question in the form of a question, he would reprimand them, and say he wouldn’t take any points away, but next time he would.

After this he persuaded me to put on some music, so he could sing along, still using the cane, upside down, as a microphone. Again he went around the room giving everyone a turn at the microphone. But there was no way he was going to give it up. He had a firm grip on it, and anyone who looked like he may try to steal his spotlight, would be passed over. Yeah, a pistol. He is energetic and at times hard to handle. He isn’t prone to obedience and very strong willed. It is a chore to keep him occupied, in that he tended to get bored with the usual things a kid his age would enjoy. We have to be careful around him when talking about big people stuff because, although he pretends not to be listening, he will join in the conversation, making comments on what we are talking about. And spelling words isn’t foolproof. As he sometimes says, All I need is the sound. The classic was the time I spelled out Oreo cookie. He started to laugh saying it spelled exactly as it sounded, so, that time, we had to give him a few, even though it was just before supper.

We visit his grandmother, my mother, Ma, at least once a week. One night Ma had to run to do some shopping, and she said she wouldn’t be gone long. She knew we would still be there when she returned, which was true, and continue the visit. She raised ten kids, so she when she finally had a chance to have some freedom, no one was going to restrict her movements.

My oldest brother Joe was living there at the time, and he commented on how difficult he could be to handle. I agreed. Then Joe stated that if he were to be alone with him for an evening or so, he would be able to straighten him out. All he needed was someone to show him who was boss. Joe didn’t think he was listening, but I knew he was. In a flash, he jumped up from playing with his dinky cars on the floor, picked up a chair that was in the kitchen, and pointing the legs at Joe, as would a lion tamer, started to methodically move close and closer to him. The chair was a chrome one, and had no back on it, only being used as a spare in the event too many of us landed for a visit. It was light enough for him to pick up. All the while he was pushing forward; he berated Joe, saying, come on, come on, telling him he wasn’t his boss, and he should mind his own business, and just worry about his own kids. Joe was so startled; he didn’t know what to do. He backed up till he was behind the kitchen table. It was heavy and he couldn’t move it so Joe was safe there. I had to intervene and settle him down, but once we had him again interested in the dinky cars, I couldn’t help but burst out laughing. I asked Joe when he wanted to take a couple of hours to straighten him out, but he decided against taking on the challenge. He knew Joe was only a big bluff, so he called it. I didn’t let him know it, but I had to admit, it was funny.

But, at five, one of his eyes started to turn in. At first we thought it was from lack of sleep because he was a tough kid to get to bed, but it got worse. His beautiful brown eyes. They didn’t miss anything. We bought him a Duke’s car, an orange contraption, that he could sit in and pedal, fashioned after the car on the Dukes of Hazard. He loves to drive it on his grandfathers paved driveway.  Once he came stomping into the folks’ house. We were all sitting down, having Sunday dinner, as we did every Sunday. In an explosive array he said, Whoever owns that god dam green truck in the driveway better go out and move it, because if they don’t, I am going to ram it with my dukes car. His grandfather was the owner of it and parked it there long before he was even born. But that was his way of getting a rise out of his Poppy. Of course I will move it but you shouldn’t be swearing. Ok, Poppy, but hurry up. His beautiful brown eyes.

So I sit and I wait for the doctor to find out why one of his eyes is turning in. Time seemed to stand still. I pick up a magazine and try to read but can’t concentrate. Instead my mind wanders back to a simpler time. A time when I was a kid.

2  Edna

The earliest recollection I have of anything at all in my life was when I was four years old. I was lying on the dinner table in the dining room, just off the kitchen, sucking away for all was worth on a bottle of milk. It was in a returnable soda pop bottle with a nipple that was secured over the end somewhat like a stocking cap on a person’s head. It was a beautiful summer day and I was about to go to school that September. Needless to say, my mother, Edna, was not too pleased that I was still taking the bottle at this stage of my upbringing, but she was the first one to admit that she was soft as shit. Although most parents of the day used some pretty strong-arm tactics to get their kids to conform and do what they were supposed to do, Ma didn’t have it in her nature to be drastic or abusive. The worst she would say was, Wait till your father gets home. And that was usually more than enough to curb our actions.

She always wore a housedress, as they called it then, and when we were having a meal...any meal, she would never sit at the table with us. For one thing, there was usually not enough room. She would stand with her backside against the old kitchen coal stove, leaning on the oven door. When she turned around, you could see a distinct gray-black line across her lower back from the coal dust that accumulated on the handle. On the front, she always had a big stain. This stain was made up of a variety of things, from baby food to baby pee, and anything kids could produce before and after these two processes. Leaning against that stove, she was like the quarter back of a football team. Often the girls would start a conversation about so and so, in school, who thought they were so special, or we would complain about a teacher or a classmate who was a pain. She would always put things in perspective. We were taught to be tolerant of others.

One of her favorite questions was, What’s wrong with you. It took awhile to figure this out.  I would always blame someone else when I got into trouble or when things didn’t go my way, just like the rest of the world does. She had to sit me down and explain what she meant. In our day-to-day dealings, we tend to think that everyone is supposed to conform to our needs and wants, and if not, there is something wrong with them. But that’s not how it goes. To get along, you first should take a candid look at yourself. If you find that everyone is avoiding you, and they don’t want to be around you, chances are that you are doing something to piss them off. Sure, you will get your way sometimes, by scaring or bullying people, but in the long run, you will catch more bees with honey than you will with vinegar. If things aren’t going as you would like, if the world isn’t treating you right, maybe it’s you. You still aren’t going to win them all, but you will get along much better. Hence the question. What’s wrong with you?

When we told her we didn’t want to do a certain thing, whether it be going to school, or doing homework, her pat answer was always the same. She would say, Who likes it?"And that was pretty much her philosophy. It was her version of the serenity prayer, paraphrased, short and sweet, so it wouldn’t be misunderstood. And she was right, who likes it?

When I was born, I made number seven, and three more followed me, so space, at the table, was at a premium. She also had three more pregnancies, but the babies didn’t survive. She said they were born with a problem she called opened back, meaning the spine didn’t develop fully, and so the spine could actually be seen outside the body.  I was told it was a severe form of spina bifida but I am not sure if this is true. We could easily tell, approximately, which years these occurred by looking at our own birth dates. Wherever there is a long gap, usually 3 years, between our birth dates, that is where she lost one. My brother and I are 16 months apart, so there was not one there, but my sister is 3 years younger than me. Ma said she had a baby in there somewhere.

We once asked her how she felt about the losses. In her way, she just recanted that when she came home, she had a feeling like there was something missing, that her arms should have been full. In her day there was no talk of postpartum blues or counseling after childbirth. You just got up each morning and did what you had to do. She was so busy with her brood that she did not have time to mourn her loss. As she often would say to us, if we started crying over something, You will have to cry tomorrow, you don’t have time to cry today. In later years we once asked her if she minded going through menopause. She thought for a second and then told us she didn’t even notice it, that she was so darn busy that it just happened, and one day she was on the other side of it, and that was that. I can understand it. She had her last child when she was 45, and it happened right in the bed at the hospital. As she told it, it felt like a fart caught crossways, and a little pain, and there she was.

Oh yeah, me on the table.  All of a sudden the door swung open and Mary, the lady from across the street, came hustling in. She was a big woman and not the type to win any Miss Congeniality prizes. She was much younger than Ma but they had a lot in common. For one thing they were totally immersed in raising kids, and for another, both their husbands were trade union officers. Many a night they would get together, either at our house or hers, and hear the trials and tribulations of union politics. This was the late fifties and unionism still had a long way to go. There wasn’t a lot of compensation in being on the executive, but one thing you could count on was getting phone call after phone call from members who had problems. And it wasn’t restricted to just work. They would get calls from people who had other types of woes.

I will never forget my father getting a visit from a young man who had only one eye. Apparently, the motor vehicle people were going to take away his driving license. He said he did not know where to turn so he came to see my father. He wasn’t even a UMW member but, true to form, Da, did some work on his behalf. I was so young I don’t remember if he got his license back, but I do remember the strained look on his face as he was talking to this man. And what did he know of this. He was certainly an intelligent man, but Da only had grade nine. He learned the union movement through reading on his own, and from seat of the pants experience. For this reason, he always preached the value of education to all of us.

So Mary and Ma were sort of UMW friends first, and then, as time went on, they found they really did like one another. They complemented each other in that Mary was gruff and Ma, although no pansy, was not as outspoken. Also, Mary confided in Ma about things related to the kids. God knows, Ma did have experience in that department. Mary had a son of her own that was two months younger than I was, along with three smaller ones, and she was coming in for a well deserved cup of tea, after doing her morning chores.

When I saw her come through the doorway, all I had time for was to whip the bottle up against the wall. It made a big noise but luckily it didn’t break, surprising too, given that it was as thick as a coke bottle. Jeez, it was a coke bottle. I turned to the wall and pretended to be asleep.  Mary was not yet in the house far enough to hear the bang but Ma sure did. She told Mary to sit and relax and that she was just putting the tea on.

As the kettle slowly boiled, Mary offered to make tea, and it was then that I first got Ma’s ever so famous look. For a second I thought, She is going to rat me out , and Mary was NOT the person I wanted to know that I was still on the titty. For one thing she would have taken it and thrown it in the ash pile. And that would have been the least of my woes, because she may have told her son, and God knows who would have found out about it from there.  With that one look, she let me know that I had better give up the bottle, and it worked. That was her way, to gingerly let you know that you were doing something that you shouldn’t have been doing. It was on that day that I reluctantly gave up my link to babydom. She never did tell anyone about that. God love her. And that look put me in my place on more than one occasion in future years.

Growing up in a coal-mining town seemed very normal at the time. I thought everyone lived like that. But once I left and saw how the rest of the world lives, I came to appreciate the compassion that just doesn’t exist everywhere.  If you got in a bit of trouble and a grownup caught you, any grownup man anyway, he first would give you a boot in the arse, and if it was serious enough, that meant maybe a bawling out, too. But the worst of it was when you got home. The man would make a phone call to your father, and this is when you paid. It wasn’t that you received a beating, or any great punishment, but the knowing that he was disappointed in you, constituted the suffering. You knew your father’s name meant everything to him, so you wouldn’t want it tarnished in any way. And the town is still the same way.

One New Years Eve, just a couple of year ago, I had been home for Christmas and doing a few errands. At about 5 pm I was driving on a side street in town, when an elderly gentleman veered towards me in a rather large car. I moved as far as I could on my side of the street, when suddenly, my car’s entire right side was buried into a ditch at least 3 feet deep. The snowplow had widened the road with the wing, and what looked like solid road, was just a ditch filled with soft snow. A friend who was with me couldn’t open his door, so had to climb across and get out my side. We surveyed the matter and decided that the only cure was a tow truck. But it was approaching 5 pm on New Year’s Eve, so how long would it take before we got one? A few teenagers were walking up the street, and they stopped and tried their best to push it out, to no avail. Then a guy stopped with a four-wheel drive truck. He didn’t have a rope but another guy stopped with a van, who was taking his sons to a neighbour's to spend the night, and offered us a rope he had in the back. He even crawled under my car to attach it to the axle. The truck pulled the car easily, but it only scooted along, and stayed in the ditch. Not at all discouraged, the same guy who attached the rope to the axle, crawled under, took it off, and attached it to the other axle. Then the truck towed in the other direction, on an angle, because he now had more room than he did before. After a few moments he was able to pull the car on to the road again. I was certainly relieved. I thanked them, and thought I should offer them some money.  But I knew better. That is not why they did it, and that would have been an insult to them. The guy with the two boys was a hero to them, as I could tell by the grins