acting tough

I released a new song on February 3rd. All art comes from somewhere and this is the story of how “Acting Tough” came to be. Thanks for reading, thanks for subscribing. 🤍

The Nut Lake Lutheran Church near Archerwill has, on numerous occasions, asked for a photo from my confirmation. It’s from 1994. I’m 14 years old.

It’s not been withheld because of my straight-bangs-permed-mane or because my black nylons are paired with white pilgrim flats, although that’s certainly reason enough. The photo captures my parents and me at a difficult time. It was the start of many years of difficult times: my mom, my brother and I had just left the farm and life with my father.

Mom, Marc and I stayed at my mom’s parents for a few months while they were snow-birding in Arizona. When my grandparents returned in March it was clear to me that we had to move out imminently. Mom must have felt it too, because she found a house in Rose Valley for April 1st: a furnished two bedroom for $200/month plus utilities. I slept on the pull-out couch until my brother went to university and I could take over the second bedroom.

Mom cleaned every square inch of that house. She worked to paint the two bedrooms, and every stick of furniture in them, bright white. She buffed the kitchen floors with paste wax until it was a fall hazard if you chanced wearing socks. She bought bedding and blinds. She gave the kitchen a country-cute refresh with more paint, braided rugs and decor that she made herself — with the exception of a shelf I built in Shop Class. The shelf had to be repaired by a family friend before it was fit to hold its own weight. I was insolent over it, but I did a truly terrible job.

When the homeowners came for a visit that summer they were astonished at what Mom had accomplished in a few months. She asked if they’d repaint the exterior and they agreed immediately, offering to pay the contractor and giving approval of the colours she suggested. She sent me away that summer to babysit for my aunt in Calgary. With Marc and I both gone she had a few months to gather herself while working full-time as a Home Care nurse.

I spent my adolescence in that house. So did my friends. Mom was relaxed about them being there. Sometimes we watched movies, sometimes it was booze and full-on teenage shenanigans. Often someone would forget she was home and intrude into her bedroom where she was sitting up reading.

“Sorry, Mel’s mom!”

If she knew it was going to be a summer rager on the back lawn she’d bring out a tray of hot dogs for midnight lunch. She’d invite a friend over to endure it with her.

I don’t know how she did it, but I do understand why she did it.

Before the start of my grade 12 year Mom asked me if I wanted to move out of town. She had started seeing someone and he must have invited us to live with him on his farm. I wanted to stay put before I left for post-secondary. She understood. That choice afforded me acres of freedom.

Mom split her time between our house and the farmhouse. I had the little house to myself a lot. I had a car. I kept my grades up. As far as I could tell, it was the best case scenario for everyone given the circumstances.

The circumstances were that my dad intruded on our life. He’d park his truck on the street and watch our house. Mom responded to this by installing a motion light. It stopped working and when we investigated, the wires had been cut and were hanging loose inside the wall. Another time I confessed that I couldn’t find my keys. Mom expressed frustration with me — it stands out in my memory because her fear was plain. The keys turned up and we were both relieved, but then items around our house started disappearing – self help books, bank statements. And the cat was acting weird. Try telling that to an RCMP officer and see how far you get. One night we came home after dark and there were men’s shoes in our porch. Dad was inside. He had a flashlight, a list and a duffle bag. He was wearing gloves.

Mom and I left the province when that happened. We reset our nervous systems the best we could and then returned to life as usual. I grew an even thicker skin. Developed a sharper tongue.

In all the years that we spent in that house Mom and I never argued. There was nothing worth disagreeing over.

In the spring of 2023 Blake and I were in Rose Valley for a family gathering. I suggested that we go by the house. It was only occasionally that I’d drive through Rose Valley and this seemed an opportunity to show Blake a part of my childhood.

Never did it occur to me that I would be guilty of trespassing, because it was my house once. I commented on a broken window as we walked across the back yard. The door into the porch was crudely screwed shut. Blake expressed protest, but I went around to door in the front. The stairs there were rotted, so I stepped over them and shoved the door open to stand in the living room. I was beguiled by memory. Blake cautioned me while I went inside, then resigned himself seeing that I wasn’t listening. Generously, he said “We’ll wait outside for you.”

There was black mold covering the walls. The ceiling in the kitchen had opened up from a neglected leak in the roof. I didn’t dare look up into the hole to see what was above. A bare mattress was on the floor in the living room and an undecorated Christmas tree was in the corner. I registered the decay, but my thoughts were focused on what had been there before: a home where Mom and I lived for three and a half years. A woman and her daughter.

That night when Blake and our little boy slept, I laid beside them thinking how the joy of my childhood and adolescence were hamstrung by my family’s dynamic. When my parents were together we’d leave functions abruptly and my parents would fight on the drive home. Every vacation started with an argument and then silence in the car for hours. I don’t remember ever sitting on my dad’s knee. He just had so much anger within him.

I thought about the family gathering we’d just attended and how those people really didn’t know what happened to us. And now it was over. My parents were dead. When I was young I wanted protection and safety, but without having to ask. It was the worst paradox. Also, no one could offer safety to us. The only solution I found was to be tough. Just be tough until I could leave.

While Blake and my baby slept I found a scrap of paper and let myself be a teenager again: softly singing and strumming my guitar. I didn’t try to be nice. I didn’t say anything untrue. I had one friend in school who seemed as sad as I was. I wrote a song for us.

30 years have gone by and I can still feel the ache of my stolen youth. I’m not alone. Dad didn’t talk about it, but I know his father was sick with cancer for a long time. My dad and his brothers were very young. There are so many ways a child is thrust into instability. Uncertainty. A happy childhood seems to me a rare thing.

I have a lot of dreams about that little house now. I didn’t before. The dreams are always the same. I live there. I’m working to fix it up. Sometimes it’s going well, sometimes it’s not. Sometimes my mom is alive, sometimes she’s not. Sometimes my parents re-married and I can’t believe that she went back after everything, but they seem better. No one is angry.

In all of my dreams the house is safe.