Késsinnimek - Roots - Racines

CONFESSIONS OF A FORMER ENFANT TERRIBLE
by Louise Dubrule

It’s a wonder my mother kept me. I wrote about the time my sister accidentally dumped me in the gutter behind the cows, and how my mother debated whether it was easier to clean me up or simply have another baby. Over the next few years, I gave my mother lots of reasons to doubt her choice.

One of my earliest memories is of attending Mass in Richford. We had a family pew reserved with our name on a little tag, and for this privilege a “pew rent” was paid. There were five of us, and the pews were designed for only four derrieres. This meant that I sat on Mama’s lap. Mama’s one item of elegance was a fur piece of stone martens, and even her ten-year-old blue cloth coat took on an air with the fur. There were three or four animals, each stiff mouth clutching the tail of the next one, and they were complete with gold glass eyes and their tiny toenails. This was the day of Latin Masses, which I didn’t understand any more than the readings and sermon that were in English. Add to this the fact that I couldn’t see over the tall people in front of me and you can understand why I became restless. When I was sitting on Mama’s lap, notably during the sermon, I played with the martens, examining the little feet and tiny teeth, and eventually tickling Mama’s nose with the tails. Mama gave me the gros yeux (big eyes) and mouthed “Toi, tu reserat a la maison la prochaine fois” (You stay home the next time). Then I behaved…until the next Sunday.

While we lived on the farm, I had the run of the immediate area around the house, within reason. When we moved to “la ville” I figured that the same freedom prevailed. I quickly found the right neighbors to visit. Mrs. Mayhew made the very best two-layer sugar cookies with date filling; Mrs. Benson’s grown-up children had left behind many jigsaw puzzles that she was willing to lend; and Mrs. Wilson, the seamstress, always had colorful scraps to give me to make clothes for a little yarn doll. Even the “big kids” around the corner gave me their old comic books when they were done with them. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t read them…there were plenty of pictures.

I’m sure Mama had a time keeping track of me, and she must have despaired. One fine day I was intrigued to find her sewing strips of a discarded oil cloth tablecloth. These strips became a harness that Mama put on me and tied to the front porch with a length of clothesline. She went back into the house with a smile, back to her chores, sure that I was safe at last. It didn’t take me long to undo the big knot and off I went again to one neighbor or another. The harness never reappeared.

On another occasion, Mama and I went “downstreet” with Mrs. Mayhew to the Ben Franklin five and ten. This was the most fascinating place I’d ever seen. To please me (and probably to keep me quiet), Mama bought me a book of paperdolls. I stood on one foot and then the other while the ladies looked over the wide assortment of goods. Finally I just left and headed down Troy Street to Reynold’s filling station, up Center Street, then around the corner onto Thomas Street and to our house. I don’t recall being scared or lost, but merely anxious to get busy with my scissors. I don’t know how much time passed, and Mama must have panicked, thinking her four-year-old with blond pigtails had been kidnapped. Suddenly, here she came up the street at a gallop with Mrs. Mayhew trying desperately to keep up. And there I was, calmly sitting on the porch steps, happily cutting out paperdoll clothes. Instead of getting angry, Mama shed a couple of tears of relief and asked how on earth I had found my way home. With a child’s logic, I replied that I had come back the way we’d gone.

The next event happened in first grade. I started school speaking only French, and when I began to learn English words, I heard about birthday parties, though I was not invited. One day I must have decided that it was time for me to have such an affair and I came home with two little girls, announcing to Mama that they had come for a birthday party. It was nowhere near my birthday, but gentle soul that she was, Mama arranged cake, ice cream and Kool Aid; and for an hour we had a grand time. When the guests had left, I hid under my bed and waited for my fate over the invented celebration. Papa came home, I came down for supper, and nothing was said. Perhaps that was the worst punishment.

My brother is fond of telling the story of how I embarrassed him. He had arranged to have friends come for dinner, and one of the guests was Chinese. Putting it simply, Richford had no cultural diversity at all, so when the neighborhood kids heard that a person of Oriental heritage would be at our house, they were mightily interested. The night of the dinner arrived and at some point in the meal we became aware that several youngsters were sitting on the porch railing, clearly looking through the curtains into the house. I volunteered that they wanted to see someone Chinese, and the young lady was startled. “What do they think I am, a monkey?” she demanded. Fortunately, she didn’t hold it against me. My brother has never forgotten; I wonder if she has.

My sister did not escape unscathed. I was curious about her diary and the love letters from boyfriends. I was the little sister, and we shared a room, a situation that led to many confrontations over something I did…or didn’t do.

All other transgressions pale compared to a day in 1949, a day that is etched in my memory like a bad nightmare. My brother had returned from a stint in the Army during World War II, and after a period of adjustment, he settled in Burlington, Vermont and met Barbara who would become his wife. When the engagement was announced, his parents invited us for a Sunday dinner. For such an important occasion, Mama outdid herself and made me a special dress. I felt like a princess in a confection of aqua taffeta trimmed with narrow black velvet ribbon, even if I did have to wear bobby socks with it.

We went to early Mass that Sunday so we could leave right afterwards for the sixty mile drive to Burlington, a trip that usually took close to two hours. I sat in the front seat between Mama and Papa with some of my best comic books on my lap so I’d have something to look at, for I couldn’t see over the dashboard. We had gone only 15 miles or so, when a familiar churning began. Did I mention that I was prone to motion sickness? We were in the middle of the Sheldon Bridge when the disgrace began and I tried to avoid hitting anyone else. Papa screeched to halt, pulled the soiled comic books out of the car and hurled them over the railing into the Mississquoi River. He was quite discouraged, but Mama indicated the house on the far end of the bridge, a farm that belonged to friends. We could clean up there.

The friends were not home, but Papa pulled into the yard that served the house and the barn. Mama wet Papa’s handkerchief in the horse trough and went to work on the dress. But this was not washable fabric, and every drop of water left its mark and took away crispness and luster. When Mama had done her very best, she turned to rinse the handkerchief once again. At that moment, a couple of kittens came out of the barn. I couldn’t resist the adorable faces and picked up one to cuddle. Mama gave a gasp of horror, for the dress now bore new stains: tiny kitty footprints of very dark cow manure. Mama redoubled her efforts, but these spots refused to budge. The dress was a total disaster.

There was nothing for us to do but go on to Burlington. Barbara’s parents were expecting us, and Mrs. Yandow had surely worked hard to prepare a lovely meal. When we got there, Mama made excuses for me, and I found a corner where I wouldn’t offend anyone. I reeked of sour and barnyard; what a first impression I must have made on John’s in-laws to-be.

Mama had kept me, but I am sure that on that day she would have traded me to the first peddler who came to the door with a leaky copper pot. We all think our mothers are sainted. Mine truly was.

Késsinnimek - Roots - Racines
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Created 1 Feb 2003