By Bernadette G. Barrett
Submitted by her Granddaughter, Jocelyn Barrett

 These memoires are dedicated to my children, grandchildren, great grandchildren, and on down the line.  Maybe some of you would like to read about how your grandmother lived back in the early 1900's.  

 October 4, 1912 was the day I made my entrance into this world.  I'm quite sure my appearance did not cause a delirium of excitement and joy, seeing there had been ten blessed events before I came, and two tag along younger sisters after me.  In those days, according to our religion, when you married either you had no sex at all, or you'd let nature take its course, without interference, which resulted in large families for the parents to raise and support.  I'm sure it must have been very hard at times, but we survived.

 I was born on a small farm near the city of Drummondville in the province of Quebec in Canada.  I was one year old or so when our parents decided to go back to the village of St. Liboire where most of their families lived.  There my father took over the operation of the grist mill which had been in the family for generations.  It catered to all the farmers for miles around, grinding their wheat oats and whatever had to be ground.  I vaguely recall going to that mill one day, accompanied by an older sister to visit our father.  We could hardly see him through the thick white flour dust.  He was covered with it from head to foot.  It was a messy job. 

 My very first recollection is of my mother bundling me up one early spring day and taking me out on the front porch for a good airing.  I might have been between 2 and 3 then.  In the frigid Canadian winters, parents kept their little ones in the house, hibernating more or less, until springtime.  How wonderful to sit out on that porch.  The sun warm on my face, snow melting, birds gaily singing up there somewhere, and long icicles on the edge of the porch roof dripping rainbow drops splashing down below.  I might have acquired my love of nature starting that very day.

 Our next door neighbors were my paternal grandparents, two dignified and proud old persons.  Our grandfather was a quiet man with thick snow white hair.  I might have been about four when he died so I did not know him for very long, but I have a few memories of him.  I don't remember much of my grandmother when we lived in the village, but later, after we had moved on the farm, she lived with us for a while.  She was old then and the noise bothered her so it was hard for us to keep our play low toned when she was around.  My mother's parents had died before I was born.  There are a few episodes I remember of the three and a half years we lived in the village.  There was this boy who was friendly with my older brothers, he must have taken a liking to me, quiet, timid, little Bernadette.  Well, that particular day he showed up with a pretty red wagon he had outgrown, and gave it to me.  How happy and excited I was!  Toys were quite rare for us.  Anyway, my happiness was short lived.  A cousin who lived nearby arrived a few minutes later and whether it was intentional or an accident, he sent my wagon crashing down the cellar stairs wrecking it beyond repair.  I suppose I had what you could call a mini broken heart at the time.

 We were out at play one day when our mother called us in, pronto, and locked the door after we were all safely inside.  She had spotted a covered wagon full of gypsies coming down the road, and whether it was truth or rumors they had the reputation of having kidnapped children in their days so mothers did not take any chances.  

 Our means of transportation was a horse and buggy which was primitive enough.  The era of the covered wagon was years before my time.  In their wandering all over the country, those gypsies must have acquired those wagons in the west somewhere.  

 Therese, the baby of the family, was born when I was three and a half.  What I recall of the event was our parents and older children discussing what to name her.  It was a toss up between Therese and Beatrice.  How I loved that name Beatrice.  I was pulling at my mother's sleeve trying to make myself be heard and register my choice, but nobody was paying the lease bit of attention to me.  How frustrated I was!  As I grew older, I was happy they didn't listen to me and they named her Therese.

 There was, in the village, a mother and daughter who were the talk of the town.  They lived in a dirty, filthy house and treated the villagers to rounds of fighting, screeching, and pulling at each others' long hair.  They certainly were not an added attraction to the community.  The daughter was so huge she couldn't sit on an ordinary chair.  When she died they could not fit her specially built casket in the hearse, which wasn't too wide I'll admit.  They had to transport her to church on an open work wagon.

 When I was four and a half, our dad, who was a farmer at heart, bought my maternal grandparent's farm which was situated three miles from the village, so farmers we would be again.

 Don't give up yet, keep on reading, it might get to be a little more interesting as I go along.

 We moved in the summer.  I don't remember much of that day, it must have been hectic I imagine.  Our parents and older children were so busy they didn't have time to pay too much attention to us who were too young to help.  I must have wanted to go back home to the village.  I started to walk in that direction, nobody taking notice of it.  Well there was a railroad track about a quarter of a mile from the farm.  As I walked across it, I sat on one of the rails not knowing a thing about trains and such.  Maybe I was debating if I should go on or turn back.  A train was coming, I didn't see it, still sitting there like a dope.  The farmer who lived right across that track was coming out of his house, saw me, and the train approaching.  I was told that he ran and gave me a swift kick, and I went flying, landing on the other side in the nick of time.  He claimed he didn't have time to pick me up.  I don't recall that day.  Maybe I landed on my head and erased it from my memory.  I wonder what's true and what's not about that incident. 

 One year after, when I was five, I went to school for the first time in a one room schoolhouse with a big black stove set in the middle of the room.  The teachers had maybe the equivalent of a high school education, but were very dedicated and did not put up with any nonsense.  If a child misbehaved or didn't do his homework, punishment followed.  We had one teacher for the six grades.  It was divided in six small groups according to our age.  She would call each division in front of the classroom and would question us on different subjects.  If a child didn't know the answer, he'd move to the tail end of the line and the better students were usually at the other end competing to be first in line.

 The teachers we had for the five years we lived there were pleasant and good teachers, but one was a witch.  She was tall, big, strong as a horse, and quite sadistic in her punishments.  If there had been psychiatrists then, she surely could have used one.  One of the first things she did when school started was to order an older male student to chip away at a piece of fire wood until it was a rough half inch thick, approximately fifteen inches long, and two inches wide.  When that came down on our open palm or knuckles, it sure stung for a while.  Today, I'm quite sure that would qualify as child abuse.

 There was a girl who was a slow learner.  She was continually under some form of punishment.  She shed more tears in that classroom -- it was pitiful.  It was that teacher who tied her tongue with a length of sewing thread one day, and insisted she untie the tight, wet knots still around her tongue.  Poor Ernestine was crying, her nose running and drooling trying to do the impossible.  Before we left to go home in the afternoon, she'd threaten us with worse punishments if we were to report her crazy doings to our parents, so we did not dare say too much.

 There was this blonde curly haired boy who was a real handful.  Her favorite punishment for him was to make him sit all scrunched up in a corner under her desk.  She'd leave him under there for hours.  One afternoon he was in his familiar corner with the teacher sitting at her desk busy with a class.  The boy very carefully untied her high laced shoes, unlaced them, and tied the ends together.  When the teacher stood up, she lost her balance and her top half went down forward and landed on her desk and the rest of her stood tied up on the floor.  I'm sure that boy had the devil to pay for his mischief.

 Spring and autumn were not bad weatherwise to walk to school.  Although, in the spring when the ground thawed out, there was a stretch of road that was very muddy.  What a mess.  The soil was black and we'd sink past our ankles in that muck.  So not to get our shoes and stockings ruined, we'd walk barefoot in icy cold mud.  Winters were rough.  We didn't have meteorologists in those days to predict or tell us how cold it was or would be, it could have been thirty below zero, but except for the worst of blizzards, we made it to school.  My father or brothers and the neighborhood farmers would take turns every week picking up all the school children from the surrounding farms.  We'd sit in the bottom of a long, low work sleigh.  We were packed like sardines by the time we picked up the last of the kids on the route.  We'd cover with some blankets and a buffalo robe.  To protect our face from freezing we had long scarves wrapped around our neck and head leaving only our eyes visible.  Even at that, our noses would start running, freezing stiff, the scarf covering our face.  How I hated that.  Well, anyway, that was our mode of transportation to school in the winter.

 One morning I recall there had been a fresh snowfall in the night.  We were on our way to school when the horses went off the road spilling us all in one of two four foot deep ditches that ran on either side of the road.  The snow had been swept in those ditches, making it level with the adjoining fields.  With no telephone or electric poles to guide us, we tipped over lunch buckets, books, slates, kids, what a melee.  We were all struggling to get out of there.  We shook off the snow the best we could, helped put the sleigh back on the road and continued on our way.  In back of the school there was an outhouse.  Believe me, it was no picnic in the winter.  We got to be pretty good at holding back nature's commands until we went home.  One day in class I just had to go, no holding back, so I dashed out there, opened the door.  Snow had been drifting through the wide cracks in the wall.  It had piled over the seats, with only two small holes visible where the seats had been cut out.  I didn't have time to wipe it clean, I sat down in that snow, leaving the imprint of my two little buns deep in the white stuff.  I don't remember any ill effect from that cold little incident.

 Even though there was very little money to buy toys, when Christmas and New Year's came closer, we looked forward and dreamt of those beautiful holidays and the little doll or toy we might get.  Christmas in the early part of the century was mainly a religious holiday for French people anyway.  There was midnight mass on Christmas Eve.  As many adults in the family who would fit in the sleigh would ride the three miles to the village to attend that mass.  My mother would stay at home with the rest of us.  She'd prepare the reveillon (the equivalent of a hot buffet) in our big black stove to the crackling sound of burning wood.  She'd fill the oven with tourtieres (French meat pies) and other goodies to warm up for our cold church goers when they came home.  The tantalizing aromas coming out of that oven were sure to give anybody an appetite.

 The first time I went to midnight mass was the night I made my first communion.  I had just about turned six at the time, the custom then was that when you reached the age of six or so, the parents, with the approval of the pastor, would set a date for your first communion.  For me it would be Christmas Eve at midnight mass.  My older sister Adrienne prepared me the best she could for that great event.  I understood I was to receive Jesus in my heart, but not much more.  There was no pretty lacy white dress and veil like little girls wear today for such a special occasion.  I was wearing a hand me down beige woolen coat with a sheepskin fur collar and a matching fur hat with built-in ear muffs neatly tied under my chin.  That outfit wasn't especially designed for the occasion, I'm sure, but it didn't make much difference to me at the time.

 That Christmas Eve I couldn't wait to leave for church.  Finally we were on our way.  It was so exciting to be out so late at night, gliding along on the hard crusted snow to the sound of our sleigh bells jingling merrily in the crisp, cold air.  We'd pass snowy fields and shadowy maple groves out in the distance, farm houses here and there, their windows lit up with the soft dancing light of kerosene lamps.  The whole scene so serenely beautiful under a bright moon sailing up there in a starlit sky.  When we reached the village, it was alive with people on their way to mass.  Some walking, some like us with their horse and sleigh, all converging to a brightly candle and lamp lit church to worship the Lord.  How nice it was to walk in that warm church out of the cold with the smell of burning candles and the organ softly playing.  There was the creche all beautiful installed in the aisle facing the altar.  My First Communion at that midnight mass was a night to remember.

 Christmas Day itself was a quiet day.  Maybe a couple of aunts and uncles would pay us a visit.  There was no Christmas tree or decorations of any kind.  I imagine there were decorated trees in the cities, especially the English speaking families.  For us French people, New Year's was the day for gifts and celebrations.  For days before the event, us little ones were all excited in anticipation of what baby Jesus would bring us that day.  No mention of Santa at all.  We knew vaguely of him and his sleigh.  We'd seen pictures of it on cards now and then.

 Came New Year's Eve we were sent to bed early.  We had hung a stocking along the steps of the stairway.  What a long night it was.  We kept waking up, tossing and turning on our corn husk mattresses making quite a crackling noise in the silence of the night.  We listened for the sounds of our papa starting a fire in the stove downstairs.  Finally around six o'clock or so, after the fire was going, he'd call to us.  We could come down.  It was a mad dash down those stairs, but before anything else the custom was we'd all kneel down around him and he'd bless us.  Then, we'd wish our parents a Happy New Year and scramble for our stockings and their contents which usually consisted of one small toy.  Even though it was only an eight inch china doll with shiny painted hair, or whatever toy we had in our stockings, we treasured it like it was made of gold.  Some wrapped hard candies, a big orange - a once a year treat, a banana, and an apple would more or less fill the stockings.

 I remember one New Year after a particularly bad year of droughts and poor harvest, Maman had warned us that baby Jesus would be very poor with his toys that year, but somehow she must have scraped a quarter or fifty cent piece somewhere and bought a little baking toy set and divided it between us younger sisters.  We sure weren't jumping for joy that morning, and our faces were a bit on the long side, I imagine, but later on in the morning an uncle and aunt who were my Godparents stopped at our house and joy of joys, my aunt gave me a beautiful China toy dish set and a pretty hand-knitted green scarf.  It sure was a morale booster and generously I gave my sisters my share of that baking set.  As I'm writing this I think of the hundreds of dollars spent by parents to buy toys for their children this Christmas of 1988.  I don't believe they'll be happier with the pile of gifts they'll find under the tree Christmas morning than we were back in 1918 with that one little toy, that handful of hard candy, and that big juicy orange.  Nobody could have accused us of being spoiled I'm sure!

 It was on a New Year's day I had my first taste of liquor and never touched the stuff since.  My father always kept a bottle of gin to treat guests - especially on New Year's day when so many dropped in to wish our family a happy New Year.  Well, that morning I had watched those men gulp those small glasses of gin with such satisfaction.  I was curious to find out what was so special about it.  When I found myself alone in the dining room where the tray of empty glasses had been left on the table, I spotted one of the glasses had enough gin left in the bottom for me to take one good sip.  I was choking.  My mouth was burning, my eyes were crying.  The saying "curiosity kills the cat" certainly applied to me that morning. 

 Winter was the slow easy living time of the year for the farmers.  They fed the animals morning and evening, kept the barn clean, and if some farm equipment needed repairs it would be attended to and made ready for the busy season.  After the holidays had come and gone it was party time.  Neighbors and relatives would take turns organizing get togethers or "veillees".  Almost every week there would be a party with singing and dancing of quadrilles to the lively music of a fiddler.  A caller could always be found to guide the couples through that somewhat intricate dance.  There would be a few waltzes thrown in for a bit of variety and a couple of rounds of liquor was served to keep the guests in a jolly mood.  A good evening was had by all.  Although children weren't included in the festivities, when our turn came for that veillee, we were excited for the break in the monotony.  When the first guests would arrive we were sent upstairs to our rooms.  The ladies were led to our older sister's bedroom to remove their coats, fur pieces and fancy hats.  They'd rearrange their coiffure a bit, then join the other guests downstairs.  When the party was in full swing, we'd sneak out to the top of the stairs and peak at what was going on down below.  Then we'd cross to Irene and Yvonne's rooms and had a ball trying on the ladies coats twice too large for us and furs which consisted of the whole animal skin with bushy tail hanging over one shoulder, and the head with it's fake amber eyes hanging down from the other side.  The most fun of all was trying on the hats.  Our small faces practically disappearing in the ostrich plumes and egret feathers.  I imagine today's children wouldn't consider that kind of fun very hilarious, but then we grabbed at whatever we thought would distract us and give us a laugh.  Those parties relieved the drabness of the cold snowy days of winter.

 Let's move on to early spring and sugaring and maple syrup time.  Around the middle of March, my father and brothers would head for the maple grove standing at the end of our field.  They would get things ready at the sugar shack, then the trees were tapped and the sweet sap would drip in tin buckets.  When the buckets were full, my brothers would make the rounds emptying those containers in a large wooden barrel sitting on what we called a "suisse," a flat sleigh with the front turned up a bit.  A team of horses would drag it on the still snow covered ground to the sugar house entrance where the sap would be brought in and poured in a large rectangular tank.  It would boil over a red hot stove and would evaporate to a golden brown, very sweet liquid.  At that stage it would be transferred to a smaller basin on a smaller stove to boil some more to the consistency of syrup that poured clear and golden.  Sometimes when the weather was just right, the sap was running so fast that they would have to go back in the evening and boil until late in the night.  One of those evenings, Papa wanting to give us the treat of a small adventure, had taken Simonne, the boys, and me with him in the bright moonlight.  We crossed the field riding on horseback, which in itself was a good part of the treat.  When we got there the men got busy hitching the horses to the suisse and Raoul and Emile left to collect the sap.  Our dad kept busy feeding the fire and whatever had to be done.  All there was for light was a small kerosene lamp hung up on the wall adding its feeble light to the reflection of the flames coming through an open grille in the stove door.  There was an old sofa in there where we had laid down after a while listening to the crackling logs and the occasional hooting of an owl out in the night somewhere.

 During that period of syrup making, our parents would give a party for the adults at the sugar shack.  Come one, come all!  Cousins, boyfriends, aunts, uncles, and friends would all gather and have a great time making toffee to start with.  That was between the syrup and sugar stage of cooking.  The hot thick liquid was spread on the snow until it was just hard enough to pull with buttered fingers and pull and fold in long strips and continue until it turned a golden yellow and chewy.  With a pair of scissors it would be cut in pieces.  What a treat.  They'd set a table outside to eat, weather permitting.  In a pan of hard boiling syrup, Maman would drop maybe a dozen eggs at a time, being careful not to break the yolks.  It would cook hard in less than a minute, then would be served with what Maman called "grosses crepes," large thick pancakes baked in an oven.  It would come out fluffy light and would disappear fast.  A beautiful day was had by everyone.  Nobody knew then what the word calorie meant so no guilt feelings at all.  A few days later it was repeated for us children.  We sure looked forward to that party.  Simple pleasures, but the kind that builds memories.

 Came the month of May.  A month dedicated to the Blessed Mother and still is in 1989.  Well one year way back then, my sister Yvonne had decided to make a shrine to honor Mary.  She transformed a room in an old empty house that came with some land our father had bought adjoining our farm.  She had done a beautiful job with a life size statue of Mary that had belonged to our grandmother and had been in our attic.  The hands were missing to it so Yvonne cut out cardboard hands, glued them on and camouflaged them with fresh field flowers in tall vases.  The whole display at one end of the living room was very effective.  Around seven o'clock in the evening, after working the fields all day, came farmers, wives and children.  We'd say the rosary and sang beautiful French hymns to Mary.  In my memory I can still see the golden sun's dying rays slanting through the open kitchen door with the greening fields in the background.  How peaceful it all was.  After our prayers and singing it was an occasion for friends and relatives to visit and discuss the latest happenings.  

 There was this well off farmer (how he had gotten to be well off, I wouldn't know) who would come to May devotions now and then.  Well he was the first man in the neighborhood to buy a car, an "automobile" it was then called.  It was one of those first touring cars with a canvas top, all open on the sides, high on its wheels with a few cross bars joining the top to the body.  One evening, before he went home, having observed how we were all dying to have a ride, he turned and said come on children, climb in.  He didn't have to repeat the offer.  With hearts thumping fast, we piled in the back seat.  He took off with us kids hanging onto those crossbars for dear life.  He could have been going twenty five miles per hour, top speed, but for children use to horses and buggies, it was fast and exciting.

 In that same old house, in one of the upstairs rooms, Maman had Papa installed a big wooden loom.  Maman loved to weave colorful blankets from the wool of our sheep which she had spun in the winter.  I liked to watch her do that on her old spinning wheel.  I still have one of those rough blankets.  I keep it in a chest as a souvenir.

 That old house was useful for many things.  My father grew his own pipe tobacco.  When it was ready to cut, he'd bring it there to dry and store.  One morning he had to go to the village on errands so he harnessed the horse and as he was going by the school he gave Anna and me a ride to class.  As we were going by that old house which stood right across the tracks, my father stopped for a couple of minutes to get a supply of tobacco.  He had given me the reins to hold.  He had just gone in when a train came around the bend and the noise scared the horse and in a panic took off at full gallop.  I was pulling on the reins with all my might and no matter how I kept yelling whoa, we were going like the wind.  Anna was crying next to me hanging the best she could to the side of the seat.  Our dad having heard the commotion had rushed out, but too late to stop the horse.  A farmer a distance up the road had seen us and ran to try and get a hold of the bridle as we went by and thank God he managed to do that and finally stopped us.  He waited for my grateful father to catch up with us.  It was two tearful little girls my father had to quiet down before he delivered us to school.  

 June 31st was the last day of the school year.  A few days before we were let loose for the summer, we had what you would call exams which decided if you were promoted to a higher division for the next year.  This white haired, very distinguished old gentleman we called "Mr. l'Inspecteur," Mr. Inspector, would come to our school this particular day.  We were dressed in our best clothes for the occasion and were all a little nervous.  He'd call each division in turn in front of the class and would ask us questions.  Depending on our answers he'd decide if we were promoted or not.  Then good old summer time, which wasn't too free for us to do whatever we pleased.  After a couple of days out of school we were on our hands and knees in the field picking wild strawberries to be turned into delicious preserves.  That lasted for two to three weeks, then it was raspberry time.  I hated to pick those.  Adrienne, who was in charge of us, would bring us some distance in the woods where mosquitos would eat us alive, but supposedly there was more raspberries there.  I was so busy slapping mosquitos I wouldn't even pick enough berries to cover the bottom of my container.

 We had chores to do around the farm, but we had fun too.  Like playing in the hayloft where one afternoon we were pushing hay down on the floor below for the cows evening feed.  There was a good size pile down there when Simonne or Gabrielle suggested we take a jump on it.  My sisters had tried it before, landing on the pile, which they thought was fun.  I was always afraid of heights and had never jumped.  That day they were making fun of me being afraid so I decided to jump.  I was standing on the edge of the hayloft floor counting to ten at least ten times, when finally I jumped, but not far enough to hit the pile.  I landed hard on the floor against the wall eight feet below.  It was a miracle I didn't break limbs or get hurt badly.  I don't remember ever trying that again.

 Now I'll tell how I learned that planes had been invented (12 years before the next incident occurred).  One morning after a high wind during the night my mother delegated Simonne, one year my senior, and me to go to the orchard to pick the fallen apples for more preserves.  Off we went pulling a wagon and carrying a couple of burlap bags, when we heard a faint sound at first, growing louder every second.  We stopped, frozen in our tracks.  We were looking up in the sky where the sound seemed to come from.  At first we couldn't see anything, then Simonne spotted that large moving object coming straight toward us.  That's when we found out how fast we could run.  We dropped our bags, apples rolling in every direction, gripped with terror.  We hardly touched the ground we were running so fast.  I could say we were almost flying ourselves.  We barged in the house so out of breath, it took Maman a minute or two before she made sense of what we were saying.  She explained to us it was a plane.  Our parents had heard about it being invented, but had never seen one until that day.  I believe it was one with the open cockpit, very flimsy looking.  So that was my introduction to the space age.  To this day I've never flown in a plane due to my fear of heights and being closed in up there and such a long step to solid ground.

 Even though my father couldn't very well afford to build a new barn, the time came when he had to replace the old one which was too small and in need of much repairs.  In those years of long ago, there was a great custom.  If a farmer needed a new barn or house, due to fire or other misfortune, word was passed around and when the foundation was in and the lumber ready, all the men from the neighboring farms would show up early in the morning with hammers and saws for what they called a "bis," or barn raising.  In a day or two, our barn's four walls were up and the roof was on, ready for the next step.  My mother and older sisters sure had a busy day or two feeding all those men.  My father had hired a carpenter to finish the work.  I'll never forget an incident on a hot summer afternoon while it was being built that could have had a disastrous ending, but for our faithful shepherd dog.

 The back part of the barn was practically finished with the floor newly put in and the ramp that led to that floor for the horses and hay wagon to climb on the hay would easily be pitched on the hay loft.  So that day, after our noon meal, Anna and I decided it would be fun to go play in that new part of the barn.  So we were in there having fun at I don't remember what, but I thought I heard sounds coming from the field in back of the barn.  I looked out to see our herd of cows coming in our direction.  I figured they had broken the fence from the pasture they were in.  Our dad had recently purchased a bull not realizing, I'm sure, how vicious it was.  He was in front, ahead of the herd, pawing the ground with the dirt flying up in the air, snorting and bellowing slowly getting close to the ramp with us trapped on that floor.  He was too close for us to make a run for it.  No door had been installed yet and the main part of the barn past that floor was still unfinished with a drop of about eight or nine feet down to the bottom with layers of rocks, which were put there for a filling I imagine.  We were quite at the mercy of that long horned, enraged bull.  Anna was crying, hanging on to me, and I was yelling as loud as I could.  It was far enough from the house and my mother, busy as usual, couldn't hear us.  At that moment Adrienne came out the back door and saw the predicament we were in.  She flew back in to tell Maman who ran out ringing her hands not knowing what to do.  In desperation she started to call our dog, knowing he had followed the men who were haying at the far end of our fields.  That dog was the only living thing that could scare that bull.  He'd snap at its legs and made it run.  The men didn't hear a sound when Maman was calling, but the dog did.  They had wondered why, all of a sudden, he had taken off like a flash toward home.  Not slowing, he turned in the driveway and reached the bull.  Barking furiously and snapping at its heels finally made the bull turn and the dog chased him a safe distance in the field.  Adrienne came for us.  We were frozen with fear on that barn floor.  It sure was a relief for everybody to have us back safe and sound.  Our dog enjoyed all the fuss made over his bravery.  So, this is the story of the adventure of the bull.  Soon after that episode, my father had to get rid of the animal.  It just couldn't be tamed.

 When my children were small and in the evening at bed time, I would tell them stories.  The ones they liked the best of all were those adventures on the farm in Canada when I was a little girl.  It was such a different way of life we lived then without electricity, telephones, radios, cars.

 A favorite entertainment for us children was to have Adrienne, if she was in the mood, tell us fairytales.  She was a good tale teller.  She knew them all.  Of course it was the French version for us.  It helped to create a bit of fantasy in our young lives.

 In early September, one important event of the year took place.  We called it "l'exposition," or the fair in plain English. 
Everybody was competing for blue ribbons for the best animals, preserves, pie making and what have you.  It was a the first fair I went to that I had my first ice cream cone.  I had homemade ice cream before.  On a summer evening sometimes, Maman would decide to make a freezer full of vanilla ice cream, everybody taking turns cranking the handle.  Finally, when it was done, we were served quite a small portion in a dish so we'd all have a taste of it.  As small as it was, it was still a treat.  But cones, I had never had or heard of, so at that fair my brother Raoul, who was in charge of us, went and bought us each an ice cream cone.  I thought they served their ice cream in that kind of container instead of a dish.  I very carefully licked the inside of the cone, trying not to break the edge, believing it had to be returned to the vendor.  When I was about half done Raoul finally spotted me trying to lick as far down as I could so he set me straight.  He told me to eat the whole thing, and it was so much easier too.  You might think it was pretty stupid, but allow for my very young years.

 I'm an ice cream lover since childhood and today at seventy five, I always have a half gallon or two in the freezer and a box of cones handy.  On a hot, or not so hot, summer afternoon you'd see me come out the front door, sit on the porch in my favorite wicker rocker, savoring an ice cream cone, often sharing the pleasure with a neighbor or two while we visit.

 I remember at one of those expositions my rough and tough sister Eveline, who always wanted to be outside working with the men, had been elected to herd a few selected cows to the fair.  She didn't want to do it because she was embarrassed to walk by the school where we were all peeking at the open door when a herd of cows or other animals would pass by on their way to the village.  Finally, we saw her come by with her cows, a straw hat perched straight on her head, and a stick to keep the animals in line, with a scowl on her face, looking straight ahead.  She passed by as if the school wasn't there.  She had been excused from class for the day, but she sure wasn't too happy about the whole affair.

 Raoul, the youngest of my two brothers was fun to be with.  He was seven or eight years older than I was.  He enjoyed playing jokes and pranks whenever he had the chance.  I remember one Saturday morning Maman had gone to the village to do errands and had left our strict sister Yvonne to supervise us in her absence.  We behaved quite well when Yvonne was in charge.  She was a teacher in another small school about five miles from home.  She had a two room apartment behind the classroom and lived there on school days and came home on weekends.  Raoul had been training a ram, one of a dozen or so sheep we owned.  How he had managed to get that dumb animal to climb five steps, push down the latch on the back door, and walk right in the kitchen, I wouldn't know.  That Saturday morning after Maman left, Yvonne had gone upstairs to her bedroom for a while.  Some of us were in the kitchen when we saw Raoul heading for the back entrance with the ram.  We knew what he was up to so we took off a bit afraid of the darn sheep who was always ready to charge at anybody.  When a ram charges, it's in a straight line, so you dodge it quite easily.  Yvonne, being at school most of the time, might have been ignorant of that ram's tricks.  After a little while she came down the stairs which opened into the kitchen and found herself face to face with that ram.  We didn't see what was going on in there, but we could hear quite a racket.  Yvonne was fit to be tied, screeching threats at Raoul, who had made himself scarce, hiding somewhere.  She knew it was his doings.  I don't recall how she got the ram out of the kitchen, or what happened to Raoul when she finally got a hold of him.

 Raoul could con us into helping him do his chores.  One day my father had told him to go pick up rocks in a certain field to make it ready to cultivate.  Raoul cornered Gabrielle, Simonne, and me.  Next thing we knew we were sitting in the work wagon heading for the field with our smooth talking brother.  When we got there he put us to work praising our strength.  And who would pick up the biggest rock?  I was the youngest of the group, he'd encourage me saying, "come on now Bernadette, you can do it, show Gabrielle and Simonne you're as strong as they are."  There I was, full of pride, straining on my tiptoes, pushing with my belly to get the darn rock over the edge of the wagon.  What dummies we were to fall for that.

 One winter day, Raoul could have been twelve or so, he had been sent to the barn to do some chores.  While in there, he spotted a red chalk on a window sill, what possessed him to color his face with it, who knows!  As he was cleaning a stall, a cow shifted its weight and pushed him backward toward a wooden tub full of freezing water, topped with ice.  Losing his balance, he fell in it, water splashed all over him.  As he was pulling himself out of there, gasping and shivering with cold, Papa walked in the barn.  He ran to Raoul, fearful the cow had kicked him in the face, which was dripping red wet chalk.  Papa took a closer look.  That made him realize his mistake.  He had a good laugh at Raoul's expense, who, with hurt pride went to the house to change and clean up.

 Once in a while my mother would kill a rooster for Sunday dinner.  She would twist the bird's neck a certain way and there is was, a dead bird.  One day she decided that Raoul, a young teenager then, was old enough to do that unpleasant job.  When Saturday came along, after giving him a few instructions on how to do the job, Raoul, who didn't like the idea too well and was not too sure he could do it, but with Maman standing there encouraging him, he finally did as instructed, gave it a twist, and the rooster fell like it was dead.  Raoul, quite proud of himself stood there for a minute, when all of a sudden, with an awful raucous sound, the rooster stood up running crazily every which way.  Raoul grabbing his head with both hands was running too, shouting, "he's not dead, he's not dead!"  Maman managed to get a hold of the rooster and quickly gave it the "coup de grace."  I don't remember if my brother finally got the job permanently.

 My brother Emile was the opposite of Raoul in character.  He was a quiet man of few words.  He didn't have the patience, and didn't bother with us smaller sisters as Raoul did.  He was as handsome as they come, in his quiet way.  He was a wonderful brother.  Therese, the baby of the family, was his favorite.  He had nicknamed her "Cirlette" which would translate maybe to "little one."

 There are a few episodes of the second half of the World War I that I remember.  The adults in the family would discuss the events happening in Europe which were reported in the weekly newspaper.  Living close to the railroad, we'd see many trains full of soldiers passing by on their way to a hellish war.  We'd wave to them on our way to school sometimes.  On Armistice day, one of those military trains had heard the good news that the war had ended.  They purchased fireworks somewhere and in the night had stopped behind our maple grove and celebrated with a beautiful colorful display that shot up in the dark sky.  The noise had awaken the adults in the family who were treated to a beautiful, unexpected show.  I'm quite sure it was a first for some of them.  The war ended in November of 1918.  I believe it was that same winter that the Spanish influenza epidemic broke out in America and many parts of the world.  After it was over, it was estimated that it had killed more people than the war had.  We were all confined at home.  Nobody dared to visit or talk to anybody unless it was absolutely necessary.  I can imagine how our parents must have felt, but we were luckier than many families who lost sons, daughters, or parents.  Now and then we heard of whole families being wiped out.  Where we were concerned everyone fell sick except papa and me.  I wasn't more than seven or so then, but I could feel the tension and the gloom in the house.  Thank God they all had a milder case of it.  Papa was so busy going from room to room trying to keep his sick family comfortable.  Many trips to the wood shed I made during that period to help keep the house extra warm.  Whatever my father thought I could do to help, I did.  It sure was good to finally see everybody back on their feet.  I recall a sad episode of that tragic flu period.  One of my mother's cousins lived a short distance from our place.  He had a beautiful farm he managed with the help of four strong sons.  The eldest was struck down and died from that killer flu.  When a member of the family died, you were practically on your own.  Nobody dared to offer their help for fear of infecting their own family.  I can imagine that grieving father building a wooden casket, a plain rectangular box, for his son.  They had to bury their dead as soon as possible.  The next morning he was coming down the road on his way to the cemetery.  We stood at the windows watching him ride by.  He was sitting there alone on the front seat of his buggy, the casket protruding out of a built-in small open trunk in the back of the seat.  He was looking straight ahead, tears streaming down his face.  What a sad, lonely scene that was.  That winter was a terrible nightmare for everyone, I'm sure.

 When the weather would turn warmer in the spring, we'd soon see the first of the previous year beggars come knocking at our door, holding a burlap bag containing their few possessions over their shoulder, and extending the other hand.  They would usually say, "charity please for the love of God."  When we were out playing sometime we'd spot one coming down the road, we'd call to Maman, "a queteux is coming."  Then we'd argue for the privilege to hand him the big Canadian copper penny Maman always kept handy for them.  Sometimes, if she had a bowl of soup or a bit of food to spare, which couldn't have been too often, they would sit under one of our maple trees and eat whatever there was.  One cold night this straggler hobo, or beggar knocked at our door.  It was unusual for them to walk the roads in winter time.  My compassionate parents wouldn't leave him out in the cold night.  After giving him something to eat, papa didn't have the heart to make him sleep in the freezing barn, where in the summer, sometimes if a beggar showed up at sunset, he'd let them sleep on a pile of hay.  So this time they put him up to sleep in a small room we had upstairs.  Actually it was a large closet at the back end of the house.  Today I'm sure no one would do such a foolish thing.  Of course, crime was rare then.  Even so, that was pushing trust a bit too far.  Thank God we were still all in one piece in the morning when that hobo left after many thank yous.  My mother went upstairs to clean the daybed he had slept on.  The mattress, sheets, blankets, and pillow were alive with lice.  We knew better than to misbehave that day, our mother was in a rough mood.  She had to burn everything.  I'm not sure if papa hadn't made himself scarce that day too.  It must have been mostly his decision to let him sleep in the house.  It was, I'm sure, the one and only night we had a queteux for a guest.

 Our outhouse stood like a sentinel between the barn and the wagon shed.  Tall on its 4x4 foundation, always ready to welcome to its two seaters whoever came to its gray weathered door.  A six inch nail on the inside wall held an old Eaton catalogue.  The Canadian version of the Sears Roebuck.  Charmin tissues it wasn't.  The outhouse wasn't used full time in the winter due to frigid weather and snowdrifts that would pile in there.  That brings me to the story of Irene and the chamber pots beside a portable toilet in a room over the kitchen.  We had the pots, some cheap gray enamel, some thick porcelain, used in the winter mostly.  Every morning it was the oldest girl's job to go out to the privy to empty and clean those pots.  That particular morning Irene was coming out the back door with a pot in each hand, not realizing the steps were icy.  She fell on her derriere from the top and bumped down each of the five steps, holding on to those pots handles with her arms spread out trying hard not to spill.  That should have been bad enough, but as she started to slide down, our pastor turned the corner of the house just in time to see her and the pots coming down.  Irene stood up as red as a beet and mortified to no end to have had monsieur le cure be a witness to that disgraceful spectacle.  It was too much to bear.  It took shy Irene a long time to live that down.  

 1921 was a year of decisions and heartaches for our family.  With the expenses growing as the family grew older, a few bad years with the farm not producing as it should have, the situation was far from rosy.  Our parents, who had hopes to give us all a higher education and had sacrificed to send my older sisters to boarding school for their teaching diplomas, just couldn't afford the extra education expenses.  Our parents knew they had to find a way out of their dilemma.  That's when one of our uncles, married to our father's sister, knew our parents were in bad financial trouble, forced them to a hurried solution.  That crooked horse trader rich uncle, afraid he'd lose some money he had lent our dad some years before, came to him with an ultimatum to pay what he owed him or lose the farm.  There was no money so the farm would be sold at auction a few months later.  This was a period in our life where I'm not too sure of some of the facts.  I was not quite nine years old when it happened.  I knew there was something very wrong going on.  It was only after some years of hearing bits of the story now and then in the family conversations that I can piece with some accuracy, details of this episode which would change our lives drastically, and after a year or so would bring us to the United States.  After our parents knew the farm was lost, they had to find a place to live.  It was decided we'd move to the city of Drummondville, forty miles away where the older girls might find employment.  Our dad found a large Victorian type house there in a nice section of the city and the rent quite low and affordable.  Emile, Raoul, and papa would stay on the farm for a couple of months, until the auction, to care for the animals and run the place as usual.  Our mother and the rest of the family left by train one morning on our way to become city dwellers.  Even though it was sad to leave the farm, us young ones were also excited at the thought of the adventures ahead of us.  For a start, to climb aboard that old train, all of us sitting quietly on its faded green velour seats, waiting for it to get on its way for that long ride to the city, was the beginning of our first adventure.  Finally, with a noisy swish of steam, it started chug chugging slowly away, leaving behind us our happy, and sometimes not so happy, childhood days, bringing us to a very different way of life.  After what seemed a many hours ride, we finally reached our destination.  As we made our way to the house that would be our home for a while, the youngest ones of our group, who had never been more than a five to ten mile radius from the farm, were in awe at all the stores, so many houses, and high buildings (no skyscrapers) four and five stories high.  We had never seen these in our village.  After what seemed like quite a walk, we arrived at the corner of Lindsay and Brook Streets where the house was situated.  It was large, no denying it, with a wide porch almost encircling it.  I loved the balcony on the second floor which I intended right way to make a favorite spot of mine.  We followed Maman inside.  It was fun to explore the sixteen rooms it contained.  We'd get lost a little at first, but we had a great time acquainting ourselves with our new home.  I had found my balcony and went out on it.  I stood there imagining my self a rich girl looking out over her domain.  It wasn't my domain, but right across the street was a beautiful brick residence surrounded by a large well landscaped park, grasslike green carpeting, flowers blooming everywhere, bridle paths to ride horses, it was quite a place.  How we had managed to land in that ritzy part of town I don't know, but we were there and it was nice.  Most exciting of all that day was the anticipation to see electric lighting for the first time.  Finally it got dark and Maman pulled a chain hanging from a small ceiling fixture in the kitchen and wonder of wonders, it was instant daylight flooding every corner of the room.  Maman and some older sisters had seen electric lighting at sometime or other, but for the rest of us it was new and exciting.  I had wondered many times at what electricity was like, now I knew!   Then, just for the fun of it, I went from room to room pulling chains, wondering how such a small bulb of thin glass and thread like wires could produce such brightness.  That was the end of the kerosene lamp and candle era for us.  It was also the end of the outhouse and chamber pots.  It was great to have a toilet in the house.  It was a fairly new invention at the time.  It had a lined rectangular wooden tank installed close to the ceiling with a longer chain attached to it which you pulled to flush.  What a racket it made.  Every one in the house knew when it was used, but it was surely a vast improvement over the outhouse.

 Finally, exhausted from the events of the day, we managed to find some blankets and pillows and found ourselves a comfortable corner to sleep our first night in the city.  A few beds had been put up but us kids would have to wait for the next day to sleep in our own beds.

 The next day we started to get acquainted with the neighbors a little.  For some of them who had seen our group of ten marching down their quiet street and land right in their midst the day before seemed to have recovered from the initial shock and accepted our family graciously enough.  Most turned out to be friendly and helpful neighbors.  There were two little girls who lived in that beautiful house I mentioned before.  It didn't take us long to get together.  One was my age, the younger one made friends with Therese.  She was a beautiful, lovable girl.  Therese and little Rita got along fine.  The older one, Pauline, was a nine year old, red haired, freckled face hellion.  If things didn't go her way, she'd kick, scratch, bite, you name it.  At first we tried to dodge her, but we soon learned to fight back.  After a while it was a bit easier to get along with her.  Those girls had so many beautiful toys, we could hardly believe our eyes.

 Papa, who couldn't come with us the day we left, joined us the next day to help us get settled before going back to the farm.  In a short while, even though we missed the farm, we were adapting well enough to city living.  Irene, Yvonne, and Adrienne had found jobs in a shop where they made silk stockings.  It helped a bit financially, but the pays were so low we just about survived.  It covered the bare necessities, that was all.

 We had joined the Catholic parish, the only one in the city.  St. Frederique was a beautiful stone church up on a hill.  Drummondville's population was at least one third English.  It was unusual in the province of Quebec which was over ninety percent French.  Canada was an English colony, but the French hated its domineering government and stuck to their French customs and language with a passion.  

 For a number of years now, Canada has its own government and has very little to do with England.  Quebec province is as French as ever, and due to higher education, the language is now spoken to perfection.  Therese, her husband, and I go to Canada almost every year to visit our sister Adrienne, an old missionary nun retired there.  I like to visit my native land and I feel at home there.  After so many years in this country, last year we went to visit the old farm of our childhood.  What memories it brought back.  The young couple who owns it now keep it ship shape.  The wife is the great granddaughter of the first owner who bought the farm when we left.  Her husband is the great grandson of my mother's cousin I mentioned earlier who had lost a son in that flue epidemic.  It's good to think the land is still owned by a descendant of the de Grandpre family.

 I better get back to Drummondville and how we went adapting to city life, when I got sidetracked to a bit of Canadian history and pumped sixty-five years to today's visits to Canada.

 So back to my story.  That September we went to class in a city school.  We were taught by nuns.  After passing a few tests I was put in the sixth grade.  At first I was quite shy of those women dressed in black and white, with only their faces and hands showing, but they were very kind and caring and I liked my teacher.  It took a little while to get use to so many children in one school.  As shy and self-conscious as I was, I soon made a couple of friends.  There was a small incident in class one day that sure didn't help to cure my shyness.  To start with, all good Catholic children in those days wore a couple of saints medals on a chain or string around their necks.  I don't know how I had acquired so many medals, but I had at least a dozen or more hanging on a string hidden under the collar of my dress.  In class one day, I stood up to answer a question the nun had asked me, and my medals string broke.  Before I could catch them, they fell clicking and rolling in all directions.  I must have turned all colors with embarrassment.  All heads turned in my direction and giggles soon followed.  I wanted to sink in a hole.  Kids were on their knees to retrieve my medals.  I'm sure the variety of my saints was reduced considerably after that happened.

 Papa would come now and then for a day or two to see how we were getting along.  Finally the day for the auction arrived.  Papa, who had come to the city to be with his family for a few days was getting ready to go to the sale of the farm where he had worked so hard and loved so much.  When we left for school he was standing in the kitchen looking out the window to hid a few tears maybe.  We were young, but we could feel the sadness, humiliation, and turmoil churning inside that good, honest, proud man.  I felt I wanted to get close and try to show him how I felt, but I didn't know how to show affection and we weren't shown any by our mother who I believe thought it would have interfered with her authority over us if she did.  I remember only one instance when I was little and we had visitors one evening.  Maman and her sister were chatting together.  I was sitting on a low stool in front of Maman.  She drew the stool closer, lowered my head on he knees and softly started to stroke my hair while they talked.  We had a kiss from Maman New Year's morning because the custom demanded it.  I'm sure she loved us in her own way, but showing affection or receiving it was taboo to her.  It must have been residues from that stupid Victorian era.  Our father was more affectionate, but a bit limited also.  Well that morning I left for school with my sisters, not wanting to leave, feeling we should have stayed with papa until he left.  We were on our way, all feeling low, when under the pretense I had forgotten something at home, I ran back wanting to see if our dad felt better maybe.  He was there still, I faked going up to my room.  As I crossed the kitchen on my way out, he turned and asked me to pray for him that day.  I went out close to tears and started to run to try to make it to school on time.  As I ran, I stumbled on something and went sprawling.  I picked myself up, not hurting much, bit it gave me a good excuse to start crying for the sadness of that day.  Our father and brothers came home to stay that evening after it was all over.  When we had gone to bed that night we could hear papa and Maman talking in low tones about the events of the day.  

 I imagine, papa and my brothers started to look for jobs, which were very scarce at the time, and without experience it was almost impossible to find one.  In desperation, our parents finally decided to come to the United States where they knew there was plenty of work available for whoever wanted to work.  Maman got in touch with one of her uncles who lived in Central Falls, Rhode Island.  It was arranged for papa and Emile to leave ahead of us and live there while looking for employment and search around for a place large enough for our family.  After they had left, Maman started to plan for the day we might have to leave if things worked out in the U.S.  Finally after a month or two, our father wrote to Maman.  He had found a tenement, today it's called an apartment.  Both he and Emile had jobs and it was time for us to join them.  The evening before we'd leave, Maman would have an auction at our house to sell our furniture and most of our possessions.  She would only keep nine practically new mattresses she had had made when we were still on the farm.  Those would follow us in the freight car to the U.S.  (Because of those mattresses, we almost didn't make it to the US.  We had a problem when we reached the immigration bureau.  I'll explain more when we get there).  The date was set for our departure.  The day of the auction, quite early in the morning, Simonne and I were sent out to distribute flyers our mother had printed to advertise the sale.  We each took one side of the street and went from house to house through practically the whole city.  Our mission accomplished, we returned home dead tired.  In the house it was a beehive of activity preparing for the evening sale.  After resting a bit, we joined in the turmoil and were put to work putting in our two cents worth.

 Many people showed up that evening.  It went pretty well.  Almost everything was sold.  We were left with an empty house except for a very few things.  I remember that evening being so tired and sleepy I hardly realized what was going on.  All I wanted to do was lie down somewhere.  I went upstairs to our bedroom, which by that time was absolutely bare.  I stretched out on the floor and slept.  I imagine Maman and my older sisters did their best to make us more comfortable after everybody had left.  We were awakened early the next morning.  It was time for us to get ready to leave.  It was chaotic that morning.  The eleven of us running around to make it on time.  Early in the afternoon we were all sitting in the train waiting to leave.  Everybody was quiet and subdued, sensing it was a great sad day in our lives.  It was on a June day in 1923 that we left our native Canada for the unknown United States where we knew we'd have to learn a different language and adapt to new customs.  They weren't fun things to look forward to.  With a feeling of dread and a little hope mixed in, we slowly started on our journey.  Our mother, as strong as the rock of Gibraltar, at least she seemed to be, was sitting with her head held high.  She looked very much in control of the situation.  We rode through the night sleeping the best we could under the circumstances.  Maman was carrying with her a beautiful old mantle clock she couldn't part with.  Carefully wrapped, she had slipped it under her seat.  In the dead of night we heard the muffled sound of our clock chiming the hour.  It awakened most of the passengers in our car.   They were looking around trying to pinpoint where the sound came from.  Maman sat still, looking as innocent as could be.  Through the night the clock faithfully kept us posted on the passing hours.  It must have started ticking with the movements of the train.

 The next morning, we finally landed in Newport, Vermont where we were to pass at the immigration bureau.  That was the critical point of our journey.  Our mother would have to answer all kinds of questions.  They were very strict at the time.  There were so many immigrating families.  They passed you through the wringer.  Well around ten o'clock that morning we anxiously awaited our turn to be called.  I'm sure the couple who was ahead of us didn't do much to allay my mother's anxiety.  They had been turned down and had to go back to Canada.  The lady was crying.  Like us, they had sold everything.  They were crushed.  Then it was Maman's turn.  It was going well enough but for those darn mattresses in the freight car that seemed to bother them to no end.  They kept asking our mother what she intended to do with all those mattresses.  She'd answer they were for us to use considering the size of our family, but they kept at it.  Could be they thought we wanted to start a shady business in the U.S. with my attractive older sisters standing in a group with Maman.  Well, anyway, they detained us until the next day.  That night we slept in the town jail, the only place they could find large enough to accommodate our family.  A couple of my proud sisters never wanted to admit they had spent a night in jail.  Where else would you wake up in the morning lying on a bunk with bars in the windows.  They must have found better accommodations for our mother that night.  I don't believe she was with us, but wherever she was I'm sure she hadn't slept much, worrying about the next day.  There was more questioning that morning.  Maybe they finally saw our very innocent faces in a different light than the previous day and convinced themselves we were not law breakers.  They put us on the next train to Boston.  I'm sure we all thanked the Lord from the bottom of our hearts that morning, especially Maman.  Back in Central Falls our dad was worried to no end about us.  He had gone to Boston with a cousin the night before to meet us as scheduled.  When we didn't show up, he returned to Central Falls with a heavy heart convinced we had been sent back to Canada.  With communications as they were then, Maman couldn't get in touch with him to let him know about our situation.  The next day they went to Boston again, hoping against hope we'd show up.  They kept going from North Station where the Vermont trains arrived to South Station across the city were we were to take the train for the last forty miles of our trip.  Late that evening they had given up.  They were getting ready to board the train to go home, when after trials and tribulations, we had managed to make it across the city.  We were heading for the same train when we saw each other.  Talk about a joyful reunion.  Our dad, with tears in his eyes kept repeating, "thank God you're here."  It was after midnight when we finally landed at the Central Falls station, carrying suitcases and baggages.  We started walking down the city's main street, which after a few turns would bring us to the home of those kind and brave cousins.  I suppose there were taxicabs then, but who had money to waste on cabs when we had two good legs to walk with.  That night, if someone would have looked out their window while the city slept, they would have looked twice to see our small parade silently walking by twos or threes in the semi darkness of the few street lights.  Maman was carefully carrying her precious clock.  All we had left at the depot was our darn troublesome mattresses.  The pile of them resting in a corner of their car to be picked up in a day or so.  Talk about an invasion in the middle of the night for the Durands to awaken from a sound sleep.  Their six room tenement was bulging with all of us.  I'm sure our parents slept in bed that night, but for the majority of us, it was wall to wall children sleeping on the floor, but thankful we had a floor to sleep on.  We were exhausted to the core.  The next morning was no small feat to establish order out of chaos.  Mrs. Durrand, our cousin's wife, was quite a character.  She was a tall, thin, not too pretty woman, but did she take charge of the situation like a general would.  She fed us breakfast, lunch and dinner, in complete command.  She made a large pan of clam chowder.  We had never tasted seafood.  Some of us liked it, some didn't, but hot dogs we had never had either, we liked.  A young cousin about my age took us kids to show us the neighborhood and brought us to see the school we were to attend in September.  It all looked pretty similar to the city we had just left.  The tenement our dad had rented was right across the street from that uncle and cousin's house.  The problem was the present tenants were supposed to have been out shortly before we arrived but for some reason they wouldn't leave for another two months so for temporary lodging a much smaller five room apartment was found.  Our parents decided to wait to buy furniture when we'd move in the promised tenement.  In the meantime we lived out of boxes for our clothes, a used table and chairs.  Our mattresses made the floor a bit springier for us, knowing it would be temporary, we'd manage for a couple of months.  One night I was sleeping with Simonne, our pillows were a couple of unbleached cotton bags filled with towels, blankets, and things of the sort that too had followed us with the mattresses.  Carefully wrapped in the center of Simonne's makeshift pillow were a few bottles of precious maple syrup papa had made the last year we lived on the farm.  Well toward morning Simonne was whining in her sleep.  When she woke up her head was partly floating in maple syrup.  Somehow one bottle had broken during the night.  Simonne sure was a sweet sticky girl that morning.  Her jet black hair a shiny mass of drippy syrup.  I was lucky to have picked the right bag to sleep on that night.  There was a playground around the corner of the street we lived on.  One afternoon after some coaxing from Maman to go try it, we timidly went.  Of course English was spoken, when a nice girl about our age having heard us speak French came over to us and speaking French herself, took us around naming all different things to us in English.  That was our first lesson of the language.  I always remembered that kind little girl.  Some twenty years ago I was taking care of a sick old lady.  When talking to her neighbor one day I discovered she was that same girl who so many years before had befriended us at that small playground.

 Finally we moved in our large tenement.  By that time everyone in the family who could work had jobs, the future looked a bit brighter.  Our parents furnished the house very comfortably.  Everything was new and beautiful.  A dining room set, a large overstuffed sofa, chairs, tables, and lamps for the living room.  Bedroom sets for the adults, the works.  Soon after we were settled in, it was time to start school.  It was a Parochial school conducted by French nuns who taught both English and French on equal time.  Our first day in class was a problem for the nuns to decide which grade we should be assigned to.  Simonne and I were put in the sixth grade for French but for English they temporarily put us both in what was called the baby room or first grade.  We were told it would be only for a few days until they found a more appropriate classroom for our age and size.  The first grade desks and chairs were much too small for us.  We couldn't put our legs under the desk - we sat sideways with out legs sticking out in the aisle.  Talk about hurt pride.  Two big eleven and twelve year olds with little first graders, while waiting for a more suitable room.  We helped the nun to teach the little ones to learn their alphabet and write.  After two or three days of that we were transferred to the second grade where we were still out of proportion, but at least the desks were large enough to stretch our legs under them.  We were in that class for a good part of that first year.  Then there was a vacant desk in the fifth grade.  They made me jump from second to fifth.  I was scared stiff, the children in that class were more my own age.  Quite a few were our neighbors.  I was desperate not to show my ignorance too much.  It was a small nightmare until the end of that school year.  I didn't make friends very easily that first year of school due to my miserable shyness and self-consciousness.  In spite of that I became friendly with a school mate and neighbor.  She was the complete opposite of me.  There sure was no shyness in her make-up.  She could have faced the devil himself.  The only person who intimidated her a bit was my sister Yvonne who didn't like my chum Beatrice at all.  Every time she'd show up at our house, Yvonne did her best to get rid of her.  I admit she was a nuisance at times, but we had fun and arguments too.  We threatened often not to speak to each other ever again, but we remained friends until she died of cancer eight years ago.  She was a nun and teacher.  She fought that cancer with teeth and nails and survived many years longer than the doctors had told her she would.

 There I go getting a bit sidetracked again.  So back to Central Falls where life wasn't bad at all in the twenties.  For part of the twenties at least there were plenty of jobs to go around.  People in general seemed to live carefree and happy.  That small city's population had quite a high percentage of French speaking families.  It made us feel more at home.  My older sisters and brothers made many friends who must have liked our noisy lively household.  Almost every evening a number of them would come over for a few hours of fun and singing around our new player piano.  One in the group would sit on the bench and start pumping those pedals like crazy to keep the music flowing out of that unwinding roll of pierced parchment like paper.  Every week some of my sisters would get one of the newest songs out, like "Baby Face" or "The Prisoner's Song," that was a real tear jerker, and "All Alone by the Telephone," to name a few.  That piano was played to the limit.  The radio was just being invented about that time.  They had built what was called a crystal set which could only be heard with earphones.  If there was more than one person present, who wanted to listen to it?  You passed the crystal set around so everyone could hear a bit of scratchy, full of static music.  It wasn't great, but it was a start.  
 Before the farm was sold, our dad had been naturally cheerful and outgoing in spite of his struggles to keep us afloat.  After that happened and our move to this country, he just couldn't adjust, although he really tried, especially to his employment in a noisy, smelly textile plant.  He was completely out of his element in there.  After the peace and quiet of his whole life on farms, we never heard him complain and he did his best at the work he was assigned to do.  I still picture him sitting in an old rocker near the stove, after his day's work, quiet, staring into space at times like he was hundreds of miles away, with such sadness in his eyes.  Now and then his old cheerfulness would surface for a short while, but not very often.

 Raoul was also working at the same plant with papa.  He was learning a mechanics trade.  There was an incident one day while they were at work that almost ended in tragedy for Raoul.  Coal was used instead of oil then in mills and shops.  They ordered freight cars full of coal for heating and other needs.  It was dumped in a deep cemented basement.  Raoul was helping at getting a car ready to empty its load and somehow he lost is footing and plunged into emptiness.  At that moment the coal was let loose, dumping the whole load over Raoul, with papa watching in horror.  The other men who saw it happen were positive Raoul was a goner.  After the minute or so it took the car to empty, they spotted the black form of our brother spread on a beam that had got in his way while falling and he was hugging it for dear life with arms and legs wrapped around it.  That night in our prayers we sure thanked the Lord for having spared Raoul that day.

 Maman had adjusted quite well to her new surroundings.  When she was young she had spent some time with some relatives who lived in the U.S. and she had liked it.  I'm quite sure she was the first to suggest this country when our parents had to make a decision of where to go to find better living conditions.  One summer day in 1927 everybody in our neighborhood was outside looking up at the sky watching a small plane fly by.  We had been told Lindenberg would pass over our city that morning on his way to his famous flight across the Atlantic, alone with only his cat and radio for company.  That plane sure looked small up there to accomplish such a feat, but he made it to Paris and back and went down in history for it.  Even though we didn't shake hands with him, it was exciting to know we had seen him fly by.

 I finished the eighth grade in 1926 and was to start two years of commercial courses in the fall.  It turned out differently when September came along.  Maman wasn't well and needed help at home so I was elected to be the helper.  I wasn't quite fourteen then so that was the end of what could be called an abbreviated education.  Today nobody could get away with that sort of thing.  You had to be fourteen to quit school at the time, but not much of a fuss was made to let me out at thirteen.  Then I became an assistant housekeeper and that meant work!  Our mother had taken in three boarders, as if there wasn't enough to do with our family of thirteen.  Piles of dishes you wouldn't believe.  Ironing covered a solid day's work and then some.  There was no wash and wear fabric then so you ironed every last piece of clothing including a gross of hankies.  Tissues hadn't been invented yet.

 One of our boarders was a cousin who had come from Canada to stay with us for a year or two.  There was another girl acquaintance, also from Canada who boarded with us for a while.  That one turned out to be bossy and quite disagreeable.  Nobody in the family liked her much.  My older sisters and cousin couldn't stand her.  They knew one of her weaknesses was a fear of visiting the dead and she believed in ghosts.  So, one evening my sisters who had been planning for a while to get even with her, took advantage of her leaving the house for a few hours.  They decorated the room she slept in into a mortuary room with black draping over the bed's high headboard, around windows and wherever it would be effective.  They had placed candles here and there.  They formed a rough human shape out of blankets and other odds and ends they had on hand.  It was arranged in the center of the bed and covered with a large purplish cloth.  In the dimness of candle lights it would create the effect wanted.  About the time our boarder was expected home, the candles were lit.  Yvonne slid under the bed and waited.  Finally Imelda arrived.  She went straight to her room.  As she opened the door Yvonne let out an unearthly moan.  That girl jumped back with a terrified shriek, bounced off the hallway wall and almost catapulted back in her room.  Our dad and Maman who didn't know about the prank came running while Imelda was hollering threats of revenge to my sisters who were hiding.  Papa walked in the room and was a bit startled himself at the quite genuine funeral display.  Later he reprimanded my sisters with a hint of a grin at the corner of his mouth.  The whole family was happy when Imelda finally headed back to Canada. 

 In the late summer of 1927 our father wasn't well and was losing weight.  When he finally saw the doctor, it was diagnosed that he had cancer of the stomach.  It was far advanced.  At first they wanted to operate, but changed their mind and sent him home to die.  While in the hospital he believed he wouldn't survive the operation they were to perform.  He had written his family a farewell letter to be read after his death.  It was written in French, but was translated very accurately by Therese some years ago so I'd like to include it with my old memories.  Here it is:

"In the name of God, my dear children, I bless you.  Our stay on earth is so short.  Let us accept hardships with the fervent hope of attaining a better life.  Love one another.  What is more sad than a disunited family?  Banish self pride and vanity.  Be assured that each one of you measures up to the other.  Help one another.  One never knows when hardship will strike.  It is indeed good to have someone concerned to turn to, to help you, to sympathize with your sorrows.  If your mother should ever become in need, help her without ever an afterthought, never begrudgingly.  I do not leave you any fortune.  You must not suspect me of ill will.  I might have lacked foresight in certain dealings, but I always acted in good faith.  If I am poor today it is God's will.  If in some circumstances I seemed stern, even unjust perhaps, I take God as my witness I always acted for your best temporal and spiritual welfare.  As for loving you, I'm not very demonstrative, but I challenge any father claiming to love his children more.  I know that as the years pass you will realize that fully.  

Your father, who loves you, whose only wish is your happiness."

 Papa survived only a few months and died at home New Year's Eve 1927.  He was 52 years old.  We missed him so much.  We were still in such need of his understanding, his fairness and guidance, most of all his love.  There was a change in our lives after his death.  Maman, who had always relied on our dad to make the more important decisions, was not too well prepared to take over the burdens that were awaiting her.  She got a bit panicky to be responsible for nine grown and half grown daughters.  She had always been a scrupulous and strict person, but got much worse.  She was obsessed, it seemed, with the fear we might stray from the straight and narrow and end up on the way down to perdition.  She took command and held the reins so tight it was almost impossible to conform to her authority.  I was fifteen at the time and not dating yet, but older sisters could hardly set foot out of the house when their boyfriends would come over to take them to a movie, or maybe a dance.  She'd make it hard for them, to the point where she wanted a chaperon to accompany them.  Even at that time chaperons had been extinct for a good many years.  She made it hard for all of us in that department until we got married.  It was difficult for us to understand her attitude.  After we had all left, except for Irene and Anna who stayed single, she let go of the reins, didn't interfere in our lives, and always seemed happy when we visited her.  

 I was fifteen when I started my working career in those stinking textile mills.  I hated it with a passion.  I was learning the honorable trade of a weaver.  There were twelve hundred looms in that weave shed flick-flacking in unison.  I hope none of you has ever been in those places, but if you were, you'd know the noise is comparable to a dozen trains roaring by at the same time.  The first day I worked there, when I went to bed that night, I was still hearing that awful flick-flacking noise, not wanting to believe I'd be back in there the next morning.  We took it for granted.  It was no use to complain.  We hated our job.  You had to work and that was it.  I was still at that job when the stock market crashed in 1929 heralding the great depression which was to last for ten solid years until World War II.  Just before the crash we had moved to Pawtucket, twin city to Central Falls, but much larger.  Our mother had bought a property there.  It was an older house, but nice with a large lot, well landscaped.  There was a high mortgage to pay on the place.  With half of the family working but a couple days a week (due to the depression), Simonne and I out of work completely, how she ever managed to keep up her payments was hard to understand.  She had made up her mind she wouldn't lose her newly purchased property to the depression and that was that.  The payments came first.  It made it hard for us to buy clothing we needed badly.  We had to make due until it almost fell apart.  It was a major problem to get 39 cents to buy a pair of ugly, shiny, slippery, rayon stockings.  We had to wear garters so tight to hold them up it practically cut off the circulation to our legs.  Rayon, or woodsilk as it was called at first, was invented around the middle twenties.  A few years later nylon came along to finally set us free from the wrinkled clothing and ugly stockings.  Back to my subject of how scarce money was during that period.  Ninety percent of the population was in the same situation it seemed.  There were very few jobs to go around.  We'd walk down town and on street corners we'd see strong, young and older men standing there holding big shiny red apples to sell for a nickel to whoever had the nickel to buy them.  So many people trudging along as best they could, quiet despair in their eyes, but going on somehow.  I recall one day going to the basement with a strip of rubber that I had dug out somewhere to attempt to put new soles on a pair of shoes that I couldn't afford to have repaired.  I had cut the rubber to the outline of my shoes and managed to nail it down somehow.  It had lasted but a few days, but I had tried!  That brings to mind the time I had caught Therese doing the opposite on a pair of hand-me-down shoes from an older sister.  They were too tight and hurt her feet and she hated the looks of them.  She was filing away at the soles to make holes to get rid of them, hoping to get a new pair.  It's very doubtful she had got away with that.

 Simonne and I had a hard time finding jobs that were practically non-existent.  Every day was a merry-go-round walking the streets of Central Falls and Pawtucket, morning, noon and sometimes night, going to all the mills.  There were plenty of mills.  Maman would send us, hoping against hope, we might find something.  Once in a great while, we'd land a small job which would last a week or so.  When the order was done out we were again making the rounds in all kinds of weather - pouring rain, snow, windstorms, you name it.  After a while we started to rebel.  Many mornings when the weather was bad, we'd leave as usual.  We'd go around the block and walk back home to the side entrance.  Very quietly we'd sneak up to the third floor where we had a spare bedroom.  We'd stay up there reading for a couple of hours, then went down and walked in as if we were just coming home from job hunting.  It wasn't absolutely the right thing to do, but we "dood" it.  I believe we weren't that much to blame or were we?

 Hard times went on year after year keeping people in misery.  During those years now and then I would find jobs that lasted for a while.  The pays we'd get for the slave work we performed were ridiculous.  The lowest I ever got for a forty eight hour week was a bit less than five dollars.  The average was seven to nine dollars for that particular kind of work.  There was rejoicing for low paid workers when President Roosevelt passed a law where the employers would have to pay their employees a minimum of thirteen dollars per week.  It was a morale booster and helped to some extent.  Social Security passed a law too during those years.

 The first half of the thirties was the only period in my youth when I had a bit of fun during its summer months on Sundays of its weekends when a group of friends and acquaintances would pool our quarters and pay this man we knew who owned a good size open truck.  We'd all pile in it and he'd drive us to Goddard Park, a beautiful spot in Narragansett Bay some thirty miles from Pawtucket.  We'd sing at the top of our voices all the way up there.  I still visualize my friend Aline's sister who had a good strong voice and a long neck with its veins protruding more and more as the notes got higher and higher.  She sure sang with gusto.  Once we got there we'd remove our outer clothing revealing our bathing suits we had put on at home to avoid paying a fee to change at the park.  We also brought sandwiches from home as a money saver too.  When we'd head back for home in early evening dead tired and singing quite feebly, we sure had our quarters worth of fun in the water and out.  It certainly was a welcome respite from our very dull life.  One of those Sundays I had a mishap with a pretty red bathing suit.  I had made it from a piece of jersey brought home by either Yvonne or Eveline who worked in a knitting mill.  Sometime there would be defects in the material and they had to cut the piece off.  Instead of throwing it away they'd bring it home.  When I made my suit I didn't realize that after the knitting stage it went through a complicated process to make it firm and just the right stretch to make it ready to sell.  Anyway that particular Sunday, I was proudly wearing my new suit.  I jumped in the water to my neck.  That was all it took for the darn suit to stretch at least one third its original size.  When I stood up fast with my upper half out of the water my shoulder straps were hanging down below my waist.  Woah!  Did I sink back in that water in a flash to re-adjust myself and come out trying to make myself as inconspicuous as I could, holding up the miserable suit the best I could so it wouldn't part company with me completely.  I went to hide in some bushes to dry myself a bit.  My friend Aline and Therese who were near me when I bounced up glistening in bright sunlight were having a fit of laughter at my expense.  After a while Therese had brought me my clothes to cover my ruined bathing suit.  Those Sunday outings ended in wedding bells for two couples who had met and fallen in love at those parties.  How Therese and I had managed to convince our mother to let us join those fun Sundays, I'll never know.  Except for Irene and Anna who remained single, and Adrienne who left us in 1930 to become a missionary nun, it left six of us sisters who were all married during the depression years.  Emile had married in 1926, and Raoul in 1930.  Therese and I were the last two to get married in 1937, still in the depth of depression.  When we decided to tie the knot, your father started to save one dollar or two from his meager paycheck toward his goal of a hundred dollars to get married and then hope for the best.  He had made it to eighty and seemed to have reached a plateau where he couldn't save the last twenty dollars. So, we started married life with that paltry sum to our name and ten dollars I had borrowed from good old Irene so I'd have some money in my handbag to go on our honeymoon.  I had spent the little money I had to buy clothes and other expenses. 

 We did have a short honeymoon driving a quiet old 1929 Chevrolet.  When we came home from our trip I returned my borrowed ten dollars to Irene and we went to live with sister Yvonne and her husband who had an extra bedroom to board us.  It was quite common at the time to live with another couple, usually relatives, to share expenses.  The first winter we spent there was a rough one.  Yvonne and her husband were both completely out of work with two little ones to support and us newlyweds worked a couple of days if we were lucky.  We managed to bring home about twelve dollars a week between the two of us.  We all survived on the food it bought for the week.  It went on that way for quite a few months.  Yvonne was a good cook and somehow stretched that bit of money where we all ate fairly well and didn't go hungry.  We lived with them about fifteen months.  After a year we were married I became pregnant with our first born who would be you, Armand.  We found a four room tenement one flight of stairs up in the same house where Gabrielle lived with two of her eventually three children and husband Wilfred.  During those depression years so many families lost their homes to the banks for unpaid mortgages so you could buy a beautiful five and six room house for $2,500 - $3,000.  How we wanted to get a place of our own, but we couldn't even afford the quite low down payment it required.  Your father found a small three room cottage in South Attleboro, Massachusetts.  The bank wanted $1,600 for the house.  It was fairly new, well-built, with a large attic and full cemented basement.  We bought it and scraped hard to raise a $250 down payment.  We had the intention to add two large rooms to the property the following year, but didn't for lack of lumber due to World War II, which started one year after we bought our place.  It was years later and four Barrett children richer, that we finally could buy what we needed to add those blessed rooms to our cramped quarters.  Son number two, Bernard, known as Ben or Benny, had been born a month after we had bought our home, two and a half years later came Muriel, after another five years, Gerard was born and still in our three rooms.  Talk about togetherness.  We were never far from each other whether we wanted to be or not.  The walls were bursting at the seams.  Finally after avoiding for far too long what your father knew would be a long project, he tackled it and put in many extra hours after his days work at his place of employment.  He labored hard and so did I, helping all I could.  It was slow going and took a long time to accomplish.  It taxed our patience, fortitude, and whatever could be taxed to the limit, but eventually we could enjoy our beautiful large living room and bedroom.  Today, decades later, I live alone in a cozy three room house and at times when I wish for a bit more space I remember our crowded years in the forties.  That wish disappears and my three rooms seem adequate enough for one alone.  

 Well I believe it's time to stop reminiscing of my childhood days and years of my youth.  I hope some of my stories might interest you to some extent.  I'll spare you writing the events of the last 53 years, it wasn't always very happy years, but with God's help we plowed our way through thick and thin.  There was some happiness and many tears also.

 Before I say amen to these old memories, I'd like to add a couple more pages for you grandchildren who live so far away and descendants who might want to know a bit more about me at this late stage of my life.  I'll be 79 next week, October 4, 1991.  I'll share that day with son Benny, born on my birthday in 1940, 51 years ago.  I live alone, by choice, in a small white cozy house in the town of Glocester in north western Rhode Island.  There's a small lake across the road from my property.

 Fifteen years ago, 2 years after your grandfather died, I moved here at Lake Washington, leaving our South Attleboro home.  I moved in a spacious winterized summer home we had built in the early 50's.  It had large knotty pine finished rooms, three wide French windows overlooking the lake, a beautiful floor to ceiling white quartz stone fireplace.  It was and still is quite an attractive place.  We had a wide beach with a wharf, diving board, and good fishing.  It was a fun place to be.  We all enjoyed the weekends we spent there.  It was built for a summer home, but was winterized some years later.  Sometimes I sit on my porch and I get nostalgic looking at our old place and thinking of you children who had some great times there.  After I moved here permanently your children loved to come on vacation at the lake house and had their fun too, swimming, boating, fishing, in and out of the water.  There hardly ever was a dull moment.  It sure kept me, their grandmother busy, but I enjoyed it and wish they hadn't grown so fast. 

 After five years of living in my house on the lake and well into my 60's, I figured it would be more of a problem every year for me to keep my property in good repair so I got interested in a smaller, quite dilapidated summer cottage across the road.  It had possibilities for restoration and the owner was willing to sell.  I bought it for a song, restored it to an attractive three rooms, closed in front porch, a giant picture window in my living room with a great view of the lake.

 So many beautiful sunsets I have admired from that window.  I enjoy my small house in the woods.  I love the birds singing.  Canadian geese flying over in perfect formation in the spring and fall, some landing on the lake, a few liking the surroundings and staying permanently.
 When I moved here fifteen years ago, I made it a habit to take a daily walk around the lake and 15 years later I'm still walking, weather permitting.  I believe it has a lot to do in keeping me healthy.  I walk a couple miles a day with a dozen hills to climb.  The other day I figured I walked over 5,000 miles in the past 15 years.  If that's what's keeping me well, I'll walk on and keep avoiding doctors like I avoided them for the last 3 decades.  I never have pains of any kind so why go to the doctor?  To let him know I feel fine?  I might be wrong not to haunt doctors offices, but anyway I go my merry way, with my three caring loving sons and their loving caring families, living within a radius of 7, 10, and 25 miles from here.  As for you Muriel, how I wish you were still around, but it wasn't in the cards when you and Dale decided to move to Washington state.  It was hard to see you leave with your five little ones.  You manage to visit us every summer for a couple of weeks.  I sure look forward to your trip every year and with your brothers letting us use one of their family cars we sure gallivant around, don't we.  And come the weekend we hit lawn sales and flea markets to which we're both addicted.  It's fun and what treasures you find at those places sometime.  I can't let lawn sales and flea markets be my stories ending.  I have to find something a bit more appropriate to end this manuscript.  Now that I'm almost finished writing these old memories, I intend to start working on a painting and do some repairs on a few antique pieces I've neglected for too long.  I like to keep occupied, it banishes loneliness and gives me a sense of accomplishment, especially when whatever project I'm working on ends well.

 With you dear sons and your families close by, and even though you are far away Muriel, I live my old years quite peacefully, taking care of myself and my property.  I count my many blessings and thank God for you children and grandchildren whom I love so very much and who love me in return, I know.