the 40's and 50's

In those years of war and post-war times, people got on with life with upside down smiles. Favour was shown to those who grew up fast and accomplished much. There was little praise for a job well done. It was expected. And so it was with Elisabeth. At 16 she was self-sufficient, in many ways wise to the world. Her accomplishments were reflected in the eyes of her aunts and uncles and without words it was clear she had met their expectations. Pretty, intelligent, cultured, mature, practical and successful socially, by only modelling the behaviour of her heroes,  she met the standards set for her.

The Mailloux and Quenneville hierarchy had standards of their own. They had different rules for judging accomplishments. Higher education and beautiful vocal skills weren't high on their priorities. Elisabeth searched for goal posts in these murky waters. Unfortunately, I think, practicality was the only attribute which came to the fore. She strived to maintain her other skills, and to a great degree she did, but it was against an avalanche of domestic chores; children to dress and feed, a house to maintain, and soon 5 more children to diaper.

Charles took pleasure in her beauty, but did little to see that her other talents were nurtured.

Elisabeth loved clothes and shoes. I remember two or three outfits in particular. One was a yellow sleeveless dress with a little bolero jacket. She had a hat to match. She had another dress, green or blue in the same style. She loved shoes. In the 50's spikier heels came into vogue. She would walk to Balfour and Tecumseh, take the bus and go downtown to shop. I remember her walking towards home with her purchases. I was eager to see what she had bought. I remember the first high heels with the pointy toes. She also had a pearl grey winter coat which came down to her mid-calf. It was loosely flared and had  raglan sleeves. The colour and the style suited her perfectly.

Later on she took me shopping in Detroit.

She had a flare for fashion and believe this was something we had in common.

Awarenesses

Elisabeth was born posthumously to her father's death. While her mother was now obliged to earn a living, she lived with her grandparents and a slew of aunts and uncles. Because her mother was one of the older sibling, some of her aunts and uncles were not too far off from her in age. Her mother remarried. But the new father was was not reliable. From what I understand there was no love lost there. I believe he became estranged from his family. Essentially Elisabeth grew up fatherless but within her mother's family. I cannot overemphasize  the importance of extended family with regards the overall dynamic of this family and indeed in all of our French Canadian families.

It was a large French Canadian Catholic family. There was much laughter and love in this family but there were also the heart aches of the times. They would have been affected by the 2 world wars. As they were our step-family (the older 6) we did not know them as well as our dad's and our birth mother's family. We called these aunts and uncles and indeed all our aunts and uncles "matante + name or mononcle+ name". We identified  the grandparents by their last name "so mémé Gagnon or pépé Gagnon, Mailloux, Quenneville"

As a young child I recall the respect and admiration Elisabeth showed to her aunts and uncles. We learned their names, Georges, Georgina, Adele, Phil, Adelard, Ambroise, Helene and Norm, Alma, Lena. Despite our numbers and ages, they more or less took us in, accepting Liz's decision and new life. They also respected and admired her. We visited them, and occasionally they visited us. I remember that Georges and his lovely wife Therese came by one day. He gave Elisabeth a beautiful hand painted cushion cover. It was black silk with white flowers (magnolias). They were all so different from the Mailloux, Quenneville clans even though we were all of French Canadian Catholic extract, they seemed more pious, more French. Looking back, I feel Elisabeth missed their very civilized way of life. In the Gagnon family (her grandparents) education was highly valued, the arts and music were appreciated. There were teachers, priests, nuns, lawyers and the like. Not so in the same generation of the other two families.

Elisabeth herself, was on the road to becoming a teacher when her mother passed away in 1949 and she was obliged to return to Essex county from Ottawa for lack of funds to continue her education.

She had two sisters, Rosemarie and Cecile and a brother Eugene. She was very close to them as well. She was the youngest sibling, but the first to marry and her children were the oldest of the next generation. They often visited and we also visited them. We were seen as uncivilized ragamuffins. But they made do. Tables for 18-24 people were set for meals. In the Gagnon clan discipline was paramount. In the Quenneville clan, fun and warmth were of more importance. The Gagnon's found us undisciplined, unruly. I found them fascinating and a bit scary.

Aunt Adele and uncle Alphonse Levesque were Elisabeth's godparents. They lived not that far away. They had one adopted son a little younger than Liz, maybe by 7 years. He was a spoiled, lonely, unhappy but beautiful child. Adele was instrumental in the upbringing of Liz and her siblings as she was closest to their mother in age. So Paul was like a brother to Liz.  They had a beautiful and quite modern home. On one visit when I was about 5, so, very early on in the new marriage, while we were visiting and Liz was trying to control her adopted brood, and prevent them from wrecking this beautiful home, I climbed upon her lap and promptly peed on her lovely dress. I remember this as a deliberate decision on my part. I really can't say why i would do such a thing, except for it all being a little overwhelming. 

After nearly 30 years I have reconnected with a long lost friend and fellow foreign student I went to art school with in France. She seems to have advanced her artistic passions, continuing to paint in the serious abstract style she was developing at that time. I see by her website that she is quite accomplished and represented by many galleries. She too has raised a family while pursuing her other creative side. But her artistic leaning seems to have dominated her career choices.

I have also been in touch with my therapist from many years ago. I cooked and cleaned and looked after her children during those years. I was good at that. Of course I was good at that.
This renewing of contact has made me reflect on choices I have made and regrets I sometimes feel as well as the harsh judgement I make of my successes and failures in the art domain.

I had an insight.

I grew up in a household where practicality was paramount. Each penny spent was carefully considered. There was no room for whimsy, for philosophical discussion. This included education. All learning was with earning potential in mind. My father was oblivious to artistic or academic advancement whereas my step-mother did her best to address the issues of education. Still, her overriding goal was to see that money could be earned with learned skills. 
She could see that I had artistic leanings and encouraged art classes paid for by myself, but with the goal of eventually becoming a cartoonist for the paper, not an unheard of ambition, but hardly likely as I never thought anything was that funny. On the contrary I took everything to heart.

I see now that for my whole life I have hesitated before choices of unabashed passion for what I want and the practical returns for such abandon. They  clash in my mind and I am paralyzed before my id and my ego. Is it worth it? Is it worth the risk? Will it pay off? Is it practical? Will it cost me the approval of my family, my mother, my sisters and brothers who were and are more methodical and practical in their outlook. Because safety in childhood rested with the practical, safe choices, I conceded or reverted to these. 

During my lifetime, I stepped outside the box for short periods, but conformity has usually outweighed the unknown. The constant tug of war continues. I hope this insight gives me some freedom from the yoke of mortal sin and waste which will undoubtedly ensue when I follow my dreams.

Mom you are not to blame!

stormy teenage years

Imagine a teenage girl of 18 taking on 6 needy children and then giving birth to 5 of her own, all by the age of 23 and staying the course. I mean it, think about that! That is Elisabeth (nee Patenaude) Mailloux. When Theresa turned 14 she was 24. She did not have the luxury of being a young, willful, curious rebellious teenager. She was therefore totally unprepared for the girls. When I was 14 she was 29.

It began with Theresa, then Doris and then me. With each one of us there was a battle of the wills. Be it clothes, friends, outings, makeup, or quality and quantity of work, there was very little middle ground to be found. As we looked for our independence and our voice we butted up against hers. There was a lot of arguing, shouting, foiled attempts at disciplineand some running away. I think with Theresa and Doris it might have been easier as they were more practical than I. In some ways more stubborn, but generally more predictable and thus more ready to compromise. I on the other hand was extremely idealistic and argued on ideas like how to raise her children. My arguments were crueler and hit closer to home.

By the time I hit 18 she had had enough of me telling her how to handle Gary and it was time for me to leave. It was a bitter day. I felt utterly unprepared for the world. Looking back, I see it was the only decision she could have made. I was the last of the first 6 to leave the nest. My father did not intervene, but left the burden on her shoulders. With no one to blame for my unhappiness, I came face to face with myself. Of course I still blamed her. Why couldn't she understand my need to talk, to share with her my hopes, fears, dreams. Talking of these lofty ideas was out of the question.

Many years later, when my father was undergoing bypass surgery, and many of us where visiting him in hospital, she spoke of this period. I was the only one who witnessed her confession. She spoke of it in indirect terms saying that she bore the sole responsibility regarding post secondary education. In a tearful state she admitted to being overwhelmed by this momentous responsibility, determining who would get university or college and who would not. It wasn't fair. My father did not participate but left it to her. By now I was aware of how much she had influenced and shaped my life. What she regretted had taught me to be strong and self-reliant. It had taught me that I was no longer a child at 18 but someone old enough to hurt and be hurt, to love and be loved.

Knowing myself now as I do, it would not have been good for me to stay at home another 2 years. I did, more than all my siblings, need to face the world. It would only have been more contest of wills.
I don't want this blog to be sentimental. My ambition is to really relate the strength of character and tenacity demonstrated by my mother. Unfortunately she was often unhappy. I equate much of this unhappiness with that basic decision to marry my dad and take on his 6 kids. She could be judgmental, unfair, unbending, and partial to her own children.

In my next blog I will talk about our adult life.

early days

The best way to begin is at the beginning. The day we met. I was soon to be four she would be 19 that year. It was summer. They, my father and new mother had only just returned from their honeymoon. My dad had fetched me from my aunt and uncle's where I had been living for two years to bring me to to meet my new mother.

She was in the kitchen. I was in my father's arms. He transferred me to hers. I loved her at once. She was so beautiful. Beautiful, with black shiny hair falling softly around her creamy complexion. Long wispy lashes framing her large hazel eyes and a dazzling smile. She was my fairytale queen. She was happy then.

After that day I went back to live with my aunt and uncle off and on. My brother Dennis and I were still not in school. But during that year or two, there were quiet sunny mornings with just her and I when we didn't speak. She made toast and jam and made them like a sandwich so the flavour of the jam was overwhelmed by the bread. She didn't sit and eat breakfast with us. I sat at the end of the long wooden table my father had built and quietly opened my toast to get the full flavour of the jam inside. Dennis and I had to nap in the afternoon. We slept in separate beds, in separate rooms upstairs in our wartime house. I could not sleep and asked every five minutes if I could get up.

She was expecting Gary. I picked her bouquets of dandelions which she informed me were weeds. She was young and didn't know any better. I begged and pleaded and was finally able to dry the cutlery while I stood on a chair in front of the sink. She was still beautiful. She wore the maternity clothing of the time. I was lonely. She waited for her baby.

We prepared the bedroom downstairs for the new arrival. She loved to sing and so did I. I could read. We sang from the song lyric books one could buy at the "Five and dime". "Stagger Lee" and "Misty". She folded clothes. I was perched on a ladder in the closet with the song sheets. I had tonsillitis off and on and finally was taken to Chatham by Al and Ilene to have them removed.

There are many scattered memories of the five babies which were born in five years. Difficult years for all of us.

She doesn't remember this, but I do. She could ride a bike and we had a red men's bike. She would ride it to her aunt's or meet her aunt to go and play bingo at St. Theresa's Church. Later these memories would inspire me, reminding me of how independent and creative she was.  She was my adult, but she was really just a child. By then she would be 21 or 22.

the middle years

It wasn't long before we resented her intrusion. A product of her strict religious upbringing she was nothing if not practical and efficient and she brought to bear these attributes in our environment. Physically capable of the huge challenge she undertook, the taking of responsibility for six children ranging in age from nine to three , we were soon required to adapt to her restrictive disciplinary ways. Those six children had only just lost their own mother and though some two years had passed, were still bereft.

Hindsight helps us understand that our new mother did not possess the skills required to comfort sad and unruly children. There was an overriding need for efficiency and obedience. Although terribly unhappy, we were living in a safe predictable environment where chaos was not tolerated.

Our young mother rose to her new role by assuring a meal on the table three times a day. Considering the size of the family and my father's small and sometimes non existent income,  a small miracle was performed regularly.
Although we resented it at the time, we lived in a well maintained house, floors and surfaces were very clean, dishes were done at each meal, laundry was washed and hung to dry, ironed and put away. We each had a job to do and play was not an option until the job was done.

Despite our chores there was lots of time for play. And later after Lise the last baby was born, mom played with us. She could really slug a baseball and often hit balls out on the side-lawn for us to catch. None of my brothers could hit as good as her and I sure couldn't. Other days we would have a real neighborhood ball game. It was really thrilling to have her play with us as she was our adult too. My father rarely joined in.

Elisabeth was reliable, loyal and disciplined. She insisted that we develop these qualities. She was an excellent role model. No matter how she felt, she saw to it that we were clothed, sheltered and fed. Though my father was the breadwinner, my mother managed her meager budget like a banker. Because she could, we learned to cook and clean, to bake, to sew, to fix things to persevere. We learned to become independent and reliable and contributors to society

As the younger ones got older, she took on some community roles. She became the president of the PTA for the French children, and held that role for several years. The principal and the other teachers respected and admired her. She was an important member of our church choir, singing the soprano part. Sometimes she sang that part alone. She had a beautiful clear voice.  I loved to sing but was admittedly somewhat tone deft. Even though she vehemently discouraged me from singing at home, I think she hoped that my singing in the choir would improve my skills. We went to the weekly practices together through many a cold winter night. (I was placed in the alto section, but I couldn't read the music so couldn't remember the melody or hold my part). These experiences were the shaping of me. I loved the choir loft at night and being with that mostly adult choir. She knew I had an artistic leaning and tried to nourish it, but there really was no money for lessons or training.

It's so hard to write objectively because she was my mother. I know that somewhere I always hung onto that niggling awareness that she wasn't my real mother and so it didn't matter if things were bad between us. I thought she would never understand me. I was moody and melodramatic. I loved show, she loved containment.

So now it's the time of reckoning. There is no running away from this. I thought all my life, if I didn't love her she couldn't hurt me. If I admired her from afar, she wouldn't have my vulnerable feelings in hand to contort and misinterpret. When all is said and done, forgive or not, her child or not, hurt or not, I love her, loved her and will always love her for the human she is, for the sacrifices she made, for the visions she had, for the sorrow she endured.

I am so fortunate to have had and to have her for my mother.
My children say that I am the best mom. I believe I owe so much of that to her.

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