Chapter 31: The Winter of Grief

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

Posters were splashed all over town about an upcoming big-band dance event at the arena in September, sponsored by the local radio station in conjunction with organizers from Winnipeg. It was the talk of the town and was creating a lot of hype. They were expecting high attendance with young people coming to Dryden from all over the region, including the town of Kenora, and possibly as far away as Winnipeg. It was a one-of-a-kind event that Marg and I decided we should not miss.

I was now in grade 12 at Dryden High School, and Marg was starting grade nine. She was taking the school bus into town each day, being picked up and dropped off in front of her house on the highway. Some kids were lucky that way. She didn’t have to walk 1.8 miles home each night like I had to in grade nine, as our farmhouse was that distance off the highway. I invited Marg to stay with me in town over the weekend so we could go to this dance together. It was also close to my 17th birthday, so another reason to celebrate!

Marg and I decided that this special occasion should be enhanced with some booze, something alcoholic to drink. So far, my personal experience with alcohol had not been pleasant, so my reasoning was also not very smart. I was not sure why we thought that this would make the dance more fun, but after all, we were teenagers.

The previous year, for my 16th birthday, I asked my mom to buy me a bottle of vodka for my birthday gift. Surprisingly, she agreed to that, but only if I drank it at home and not go out in public. A popular song at the time was “Happy Birthday, Sweet Sixteen” by Neil Sedaka, which made girls feel that turning 16 had special significance. I wanted to make mine memorable, and so it was, but not for a good reason. I spent most of the evening sitting on the floor next to the toilet, retching and barfing into it. I suffered all the next day with a pounding headache.

Aside from that time, I occasionally got invited to a boathouse on the Wabigoon River where a group of us imbibed in lemon gin mixed with Sprite or ginger ale, and other horrible concoctions. That was terrible stuff. I could barely force myself to drink it but I wanted to fit in with the crowd. A few times, my brothers offered me a sip of beer when they opened a bottle, and I hated the smell and the taste.

However, this big dance weekend promised to be special and out of the ordinary, so we thought we should try to be more sophisticated by drinking some kind of alcohol before we went. We were sure that the buzz would help us have more fun.

But we had some problems. We didn’t have much money for liquor. Nor did we have any idea what kind of liquor we should drink, since we didn’t like any of it. And, of course, we were not old enough to buy it or drink it anyway. The legal age for drinking in Ontario at that time was 21.

Marg came up with a suggestion. Her mother had a stash of homemade wine in their basement, Marg figured she could sneak a bottle without her noticing. But there was only one way to transport it. Marg had to bring it into town on the school bus on Friday. So I waited by her locker so I could quickly get the bottle from her, take it home, and run back to school. However, it was our bad luck that the school bus was late that day.

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We decided that we would make this event even more exciting by going to the hairdresser in the afternoon and having our hair done. This was something I rarely did, mostly because I felt I couldn’t afford it. By that age, I had been to the hairdresser only three times in my life. It certainly was a luxury for me. For this dance, I wanted a very different hairstyle. I requested a beehive hairdo, swirled and stacked about three inches on top of my head. This would make me look more mature and sophisticated, and I could escape into pretending to be somebody else for this one night. I was hoping that a guy would ask me to dance, maybe someone from out of town who wouldn’t know that I was a Freak.

Normally, my hair was flat and lifeless. My hair strands were thin and had no body. But with a hairdresser doing it and with lots of back-combing, I could have a whole new look. Sometimes, I could get some bounce and body into my hairstyle by wearing curlers to bed at night. Lots of girls did that back then. The sponge rollers were more comfortable but often left a dent in the hair, so I usually wore hard plastic rollers overnight instead. I didn’t know how I managed to sleep, but I did. Because it was so uncomfortable, I didn’t do this very often.

We arrived to the hair salon on Saturday at about 1 p.m. The hairdresser washed my hair, trimmed it slightly, and then put in the curlers. I sat under the dryer. Next, she washed Marg’s hair while complaining bitterly about how long and thick her hair was. She kept trying to pressure Marg into cutting her hair short, but Marg refused. Her beautiful blonde tresses dangled to her waist. The only reason the hairdresser suggested cutting it was to save her own time and work. She wasn’t paid by the hour. The cost was standard for a cut and dry, regardless of the time it took.

The hairdresser, whose mood seemed to change from pleasant to somewhat annoyed and frustrated, evened off the edges of Marg’s long hair, put the curlers in, and sat her under the hair dryer. The hairdresser finished my styling and I loved my new look. I could hardly believe it was me! I looked very sophisticated and I also looked taller. Marg’s hair took much longer to dry. I sat there for quite a long time waiting. Finally, Marg’s hair was dry and she asked to have part of it braided and arranged on top of her head. It was somewhat old-fashioned, she looked much like a Swiss girl from some advertisements I had seen in magazines. We finally left there around 5 p.m. and walked back to my house. The day had been sunny and bright, and it was a warm evening.

My mom still brought home used clothes for me. Lately, they were given to her by an older woman whose house she cleaned once a week. This woman went to Florida for a few months every winter, and purchased many brightly coloured and stylish tops in the United States. Once in a while, she donated a box of clothes to my mom to take home, knowing that her cleaning lady would appreciate any donations. Some of the tops were outlandish. I could picture them being worn by old women with pancake make-up and costume jewelry hanging all over them. But occasionally, I found a quirky one, different and unusual, but also suitable for someone my age. The one I would wear to this dance was quite different and unusual, with a swirly psychedelic design.

I decided on one more change for myself. I would not wear my glasses this evening. This would make me look even more attractive and alluring, or so I thought. The problem was that I was so near-sighted that I could not recognize anyone if they were more than five feet away from me.

I was all set with my new hairdo and my new outfit — on this special night there would be a new me! With my new hairdo, my bright new get-up, and by applying a bit more make-up than usual, my transformation was complete.

About an hour before the dance was to begin, Marg and I decided it was time to drink our bottle of wine. The wine was thick and syrupy and tasted terrible. Both of us wanted to stop drinking after the first glass. But we had made the effort to get this bottle, so we weren’t going to waste it. We egged each other on until the bottle was empty. We thought we got a bit of a buzz on, but not much.

When we got to the arena, the dance was already packed with people, elbow to elbow, and the place was rocking with music. I saw a few girls I knew, I went up to them and said hello. They were so surprised. They didn’t recognize me at first. They said my hairdo looked really good on me. I noticed some cool-looking guys hanging around one side of the dance area. Some were from Dryden High School but I was sure that some of them were from out of town. It was all a bit blurry without my glasses, but I could still recognize some of them, judging by the hair colour, height, and mannerisms.

Marg and I found some space near these boys where we could watch the band. They kept glancing over at us. They might have thought that we were new girls in town because Marg hadn’t been to many dances and she had just started grade nine. And I was transformed with my complete new look. Freak? What Freak? Where?

One tall nice-looking guy started walking towards us, with two guys behind him. It looked like he was going to ask one of us to dance. I thought it would be Marg. She was the prettier one, though I did look quite good with my new hairstyle, and without my glasses. He came right up to me, about a foot away, and then I could see him more clearly. He was one of the popular football players.

“Would you like to dance?” he asked me.

Then, as quickly as he strode over, his expression became quite startled, then confused, and then he seemed angry. He must have recognized who I was.

Not even giving me a chance to reply, he immediately swung around and walked away in a huff. I supposed he thought he had been tricked. Imagine what his friends, and all the rah-rahs, would have said had he been fooled into dancing with the beautiful new girl from out of town — when it was really just me, the Freak.

Because of what had just happened, it occurred to me that I was actually attractive. This guy was definitely asking me to dance, until something changed his mind. And I knew his buddies were watching. I was sure he thought I was someone else, as the arena was full of new people, lots of teenagers who I had never seen at our school or at any dances in Dryden before. He asked me to dance and then, at the last second, he turned around and walked away. What was it about me that frightened him off? Was it my name? Did that have anything to do with it? Would he be embarrassed to dance with a Freak? Was there a lot of stigma attached to my name? Or was it just me who was considered untouchable? I knew that girls had certain reputations, from hearing boys talk about them, but I did not know why I might have a bad reputation. If that was what stopped him. I could not figure it out. 

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It was a Friday night in February, snowy and blustery outside. I remembered it well, for the immense sorrow and sadness that was about to come.

Marg was staying at Krystyna’s for the weekend, so I looked forward to seeing her on Saturday. Meanwhile, I was biding my time until 9 p.m., when I would walk to a house about a block away to babysit the minister’s children. I always enjoyed that job because they were such a lovely family. The three children were all adopted, one was Caucasian, one Asian, and one was aboriginal. When they first adopted the aboriginal boy, he didn’t speak and spent hours huddled in a corner. Within a short time, he became outgoing, friendly and talkative. It was so wonderful for me to witness such a positive change in him. The minister and his wife were so generous to the kids and treated them so well. It amazed me what a warm loving family atmosphere can do for the wellbeing of children.

It was about 7 p.m. when I heard a knock at our door and opened it to see Eddie, Marg’s brother, standing there. I hadn’t seen Eddie for quite a while. Eddie was now working somewhere in Manitoba, north of Winnipeg. My brother Raymond had been best friends with Glenn and Eddie for a long time. I recalled several times when Glenn drove up to the Minnitaki farmhouse with Eddie in the car, to pick up Raymond. They had plans to meet up with Silvia and her friends in Vermilion Bay, leaving me standing there in the driveway, watching them go. I would have loved to have gone with them.

Eddie asked if Raymond was home. I told him he was in the Lakehead for the weekend. Eddie turned around to leave, but then stopped. Something was on his mind. He said he was somewhat shaken up from seeing a terrible accident on the highway between Winnipeg and Dryden. I told him to come inside.

Most drivers were aware that there was only one railroad crossing on the Trans-Canada Highway between Dryden and Winnipeg, and that the train ran only once a week. It had become a notorious place because there had been several accidents there. The crossing was on a straight stretch of clear highway. People travelled such long distances with not much in between the small towns except trees and bush, and as a result they became complacent and not as attentive as they should be. They did not expect to cross a train track in such a deserted area.

Eddie said he noticed the flashing lights from two police cars and an ambulance, and as he slowed down, he saw a badly damaged car in the ditch. A boot was lying on the highway and other personal items were scattered here and there. He listened to the radio, hoping to find out some news about the accident. By the time he reached Dryden, he had heard that two people had been killed and one seriously injured.

We turned on the TV to see if there was any news about it, but we still had only a few channels and none carried the local news at that early hour. We thought we might find out more later when the Winnipeg news came on at 11 p.m. We wondered if anyone we knew was in the accident. Eddie said he had to go. He would stop in to see Krystyna and Marg, but he would have to leave to go back to Manitoba by Sunday morning. He asked me to let Raymond know that he had stopped in. Then he left.

It was just over an hour later when the phone rang. It was Marg.

“My mom is dead,” she sobbed. Marg was crying so much, she could hardly speak.

She had just found out that her mother had died in that terrible car crash that Eddie had passed by. What a horrible coincidence.

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Just two weeks later, more horrible news came. Things were getting so bad, it seemed they could not be real. Indeed, it was Marg’s worst nightmare come true. Eddie had been killed in a car accident in Manitoba.

Marg was inconsolable. She lost her dear sweet mother, and was still immersed in grief, shock and mourning when the next most important person in her life died. I felt so bad for her. I was depressed, but I knew my sadness was nothing compared to hers.

Another funeral, and it was almost too hard to bear. How could two such awful things happen to one family, especially to my best friend, in a span of two weeks? The family didn’t have time to get over the first tragedy, and now they had to deal with another one. All I could think of to help Marg was to spend time with her, keep her company, listen to her, go for walks, sit together, and talk when she felt okay to talk. Whatever she wanted to do, I did.

I skipped school again, I met Marg downtown, I sat with her, listened, and I gave her many hugs. I spent most of my spare time with her over the next few weeks, but I still felt helpless. There wasn’t much else I could do. These events casted a pall over our world that spring. Marg and I loved to joke and laugh and do silly things. But now, we didn’t even smile. But the world must go on even though we knew it would never be the same. Now I worried even more about Marg. How would she ever cope with all this?

That spring in Dryden was damp and dreary. The rain poured down and never seemed to stop. The sun rarely showed itself. It seemed fitting that the weather mirrored our spirits. I found myself becoming somewhat depressed. I could not imagine how deeply depressed Marg must have felt because of her incredible loss. My heart broke for her.