Chapter 7: One Little Joy at a Time

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— Full chapters will appear in the printed published book. —

My brothers were my heroes. Whenever I could, I played on the floor in the big bedroom while Bruce and Raymond sat on their beds reading Mad magazines, or were huddled at a table doing interesting things. They spent much of their time experimenting and creating. I was always curious to see what they were doing.

My brothers bought the chemicals and learned how to develop their own photographs. Most of the time, they viewed me as a nuisance little sister, but they often used me as a prop. For example, they threw a sheet over me and then created a double exposure manually, so that my sheet was see-through and I looked like a ghost. I thought that was brilliant.

Each of my brothers had a chemistry set and I watched what happened when different ingredients were mixed together. They collected stamps, so I did, too. I was intrigued the most by the colourful stamps, the ones from Madagascar and Fiji, places like that. Some countries produced stamps in a series showing the leaders of the countries, such as Queen Elizabeth and Hitler. Through that, I learned about history and foreign places. Now I had another use for my weekly allowance: to buy stamps. My mind was constantly being stimulated by my brothers’ activities.

Dolls were, however, by far, my favourite toys. I saw a beautiful bride doll in a department store and I desperately wanted it. It was about 10 inches tall and the price on it was $9.99. In order to buy it myself, I would have to save up several weeks of my allowance and then I wouldn’t have any money for anything else. I could ask for it as a Christmas present, however. I wasn’t sure if that price was too much to ask, but I decided I would try.

I begged my mother to come to the store with me so I could show the doll to her. It was on the top shelf so a sales clerk needed to find a ladder to take it down. She said it was the only bride doll they had. I examined it very closely. A tiny wedding ring with a glass bobble on it fit snugly on the doll’s delicate finger. I thought that was the most wonderful thing. My mom seemed somewhat put off by the price so I lost some hope, though she did not emphatically say no. As Christmas came closer, I went back to the store a few times to look for it, hoping it wouldn’t be sold. I was so pleased to see it was still on the top shelf. I didn’t get there the last few days before Christmas to check on it, though.

What a delight and surprise it was when I unwrapped my presents on Christmas eve. My mom had bought the doll! It is difficult to describe how overjoyed I was to get that doll.  

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I cherished every little doll or toy. If I had too many, then they wouldn’t mean as much. I was happy with what I had. I could dream of having more, but one thing at a time. One little joy at a time.

I tried to save up money from my allowance, which was 50 cents a week, so I could treat myself every now and then, buying little dolls in the $2 to $4 price range. This was within my realm of possibilities. I enjoyed having my little pleasures spread out over time.

When I had nothing else to do on the weekend, I sat at the kitchen table and watched my mom prepare meals. She made her own bread from scratch and let it rise. When she baked cream pies, she always made three of them. One pie was reserved especially for Bruce. My mom justified this by saying there were certain foods that Bruce could not, or would not, eat so he got the extra pie instead. The other two pies were shared among the rest of us. I was not sure if my other two brothers liked this special treatment for Bruce, but it did not matter to me. I did not feel deprived for food and I knew that my older brothers required much more sustenance than I did.

While watching my mother prepare dinner, the radio played in the background and often she sang along in her off-key, high-pitched voice. I didn’t care about that. I just enjoyed the time together with my mom. 

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Sometimes while I sat at the kitchen table, I complained light-heartedly that I was bored or upset, or that my brothers picked on me, or something happened at school that I thought was unfair.

“Quit feeling sorry for yourself,” my mom always quipped back to me.

My mom was never interested in my complaints and showed no sympathy, or even empathy, to me. She did not try to cheer me up, protect me, or suggest any remedies that might have helped me to solve my little issues. My mother was somewhat hardened that way. Some mothers might have given their daughter a simple hug and shown them some compassion, acknowledgement and understanding, but that wasn’t the way my mother was raised. Some kind words would have been soothing to me, but perhaps that would have made me soft.

I knew from that point on that it would be solely my responsibility to sort out my own problems.

“Quit feeling sorry for yourself.” My mother’s stern statement would resonate with me and echo in my head, not just throughout my childhood, but for the rest of my life. These words would now live in the back of my mind, and would be automatically triggered anytime some sadness set in. And especially when a lot of emotional and physical pain came crashing down, much of which would be inflicted by my mom herself.

I would try to follow my mom’s advice, even during the darkest of days. And there would be many of those days. Days when it would be completely normal, and even expected, to feel sorry for myself.

It wouldn’t be easy. It hasn’t been easy.