Chapter 8: Rags and Riches

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

My grandma Freak died in March 1959, exactly four years to the day after my grandpa Freak died. I felt very sad about that. We lived in British Columbia, she lived hundreds of miles away in Ontario. It was too far away for us to attend the funeral. My childish and selfish reaction was to realize that there would be no more Christmas or birthday presents from my grandma. Her gifts were always such a big treat for us.

In grade four, when I walked to school, I often stopped in at a house just the other side of the smelter plant, a grand old mansion on the Columbia River. A boy in grade three lived there, and we had become unlikely friends. I’m not sure how it happened, perhaps we walked side by side one day and then he asked me to walk with him. We were both in the same classroom, though his desk was far on the other side. I had a sweet affection for him. He would have been the perfect younger brother.

I cannot remember his name so I’ll call him Richie, as in the comic book, “Richie Rich, poor little rich boy.” He was as cute and smart as the Richie character and his family had money, too. His father was a high-ranking employee at the smelter plant, perhaps a manager or maybe even the president or CEO.

Their house was enormous. Richie had his own large playroom on the second floor, with a loft that overlooked the mahogany-panelled library, which was full of leather-bound books lined up perfectly inside windowed cabinets made of bevelled glass. The expansive windows in the living room offered a pastoral view of the lush, green lawn, large trees with thick branches, and the fast-flowing river.

Stopping in at Richie’s house was always a pleasure. I knocked on the door and the robust housekeeper greeted me with a huge smile, brimming with affection and kindness. She reminded me so much of my grandma Freak. Richie sat at a small booth in the kitchen, which was large but cozy, with an old-fashioned wood fireplace as a centrepiece. It was evident that he was a pampered child and I could see that his housekeeper loved to dote on him, serving him toast and milk and whatever else he wanted. Richie was such a darling little boy and he looked up to me as one might look up to an older, wiser sister. I truly felt it was a privilege to be his friend. I enjoyed soaking in the warmth of that idyllic scene, which seemed to be taken right out of a Norman Rockwell painting.

When Richie finished breakfast, the housekeeper helped put on his coat, tie his shoes even though he was old enough to have managed that on his own, put his lunch into a backpack, and place the backpack onto his shoulders. Then she wrapped her arms around him and gave him a big kiss on the forehead. It was so obvious how much this housekeeper adored him. Richie must have been the family’s pride and joy. He always made me smile and he must have brought much pleasure to his family as well. I loved to watch these touching moments of care and tenderness that Richie received.

Whenever Richie asked me to play with him on the weekends, I always accepted. I felt special when he asked me because he could have played with boys his own age who lived closer to him. I wondered if his family realized the economic gap between their family and mine. I doubted that they knew where I lived. I marvelled at their majestic house and spacious rooms. His playroom was filled with all the latest toys. I always had fun there.

Afternoons were always pleasantly interrupted by a snack, usually tasty hot chocolate and cookies, served by the housekeeper, of course. One time, in amongst Richie’s toy blocks, I found a dollar bill. I showed it to him. He had no idea it was there. I was astonished by that. Whenever I had a dollar bill, I knew exactly where it was, and kept it in a very safe place where no one else would find it. He told me to keep it, he wanted me to have it. He didn’t need it. He had everything he desired and much more. I was humbled by such spontaneous generosity. I quickly put it in my pocket before he could change his mind. Richie was a treasure to have as a friend, in more ways than one.

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As those three years in BC went by, I became somewhat aware that there was discord in my family. I figured my mother must have given up on the marriage when she asked me to move into the downstairs bedroom and sleep with her. My father moved upstairs to sleep in my room. I was delighted with this new arrangement. I loved sleeping with my mother. It gave me such a feeling of security and love. I never once considered my father’s feelings or what effect this bedroom separation had on their relationship. I was concerned only about how happy I was sleeping downstairs with my mother.

From what my brothers have told me, my father could be mean and harsh with them. He was never that way with me, except for one time. The only reason I even remember that is because the police were called to our house one evening when my father had been drinking with his friends.

My mother sent the men home and then my mom and dad started arguing. While I was watching this, my father slapped me and I didn’t know why. I wasn’t upset about it at all. Perhaps I said something rude or inappropriate and I deserved it. It didn’t hurt very much, but it did surprise me. He had never hit me before.

I joined my brothers watching TV in the living room, but we could hear the commotion in the kitchen with loud accusations flying back and forth. My mom closed the kitchen door and we were not allowed in. My mom must have called the police. We saw the flashing lights outside. The noise from the kitchen became much quieter once the police arrived. A policeman called me out from the living room and asked me to come into the kitchen.

“Did your father hit you?” the policeman asked me. I looked at my father who stood there solemnly, with very sad eyes. I didn’t want to betray him, but I felt I could not lie to the police.

“Yes,” I said shyly. I wanted to add that it didn’t matter, I didn’t care, and I wasn’t hurt, but the officer quickly shooed me away, closed the door, and went back to dealing with the situation in the kitchen.

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A few weeks later, my mother announced that we were moving back to Ontario to live on a farm. I asked her about my dad’s job. She told me that he was not coming with us. For some reason, I wasn’t concerned about my dad. Maybe I didn’t think that this living arrangement would be forever. I don’t know why I didn’t care more about my dad. Probably I was still too young.

I got so excited about this idea of living on a farm. I kept babbling about it to my friends Nina and Patti. Even though I didn’t think they wanted to hear about it because it didn’t involve them, and I was sure they realized that I would no longer be part of their lives. They had a big family, they probably wouldn’t miss me.

In my mind, I created an idyllic picture of this new place we were going. I imagined the ranch on the TV show Bonanza, and the pictures in children’s books of cows and horses grazing peacefully with backgrounds of country farmhouses and bright red barns set amongst rolling hills, beautiful green forests, and winding dirt roads.

Such a fantasy world. If I had any inkling of what would happen to me in the next few years, I would have been shaking in my hand-me-down boots.

A new and very dark chapter in my life was about to begin.

If someone would have written the next few years of my life as a short story to be included in one of our grade school readers, they might have entitled it “The Blackest Hole of the Universe.” And if a teacher would have asked me to illustrate it, I would have drawn a thick, black smudge about the size of the planet of Jupiter. Because that would have been the best illustration to show how I would feel.

With no exaggeration, that was how bad it was about to get.