To continue my story about my mother...we moved down to Victoria in 1929 when I was five years old. We rented a house on Johnson Street. I'm sure mother must have been thrilled to have indoor plumbing and electricity.
We thought I could start school in September, but as my birthday was not until December, I had to wait another year.
We moved to another house on Minto Street at the foot of Moss Street hill. Because I had started school at Girls Central, I wanted to continue, so I trudged up and down that hill every day. Mother shared a cup of postum with me at the end of the day.
I can still see mum in her flowered house dress.
She often stood in front of our old wood stove, stirring scrambled eggs while our big kettle steamed contentedly nearby. The familiar sound of toast being scraped will forever be embedded in my memory. We didn't own a pop-up toaster, consequently the toast was nearly always burned. Dad insisted charcoal was good for us.
My poor mum was more concerned about finding money for the next meal than she was about 'finding' herself. She couldn't afford to pamper herself with perms, have her hair set or coloured.
Mother walked the long distance into town in order to save streetcar fare and then, laden with essentials, she'd head for home, stopping part way in Pioneer Square to rest on a bench. Dad rode his bicycle to work. I often wonder why she didn't drop off some of the groceries at his place of business. He could have used the basket on his bike to carry them home. She probably didn't want to 'bother' him.
Wash days took up most of the morning because there were no automatic washing machines. The following day was devoted to ironing. Everything had to be ironed. No such thing as perma press or 'wash and wear'. At least she now had an electric iron instead of one she had to heat on the top of the stove.
I tried to help mother as much as I could, including washing the windows of the house.
During the summer, our big treat was a trip to the beach. Loaded down with picnic basket, bathing suits, towels and blanket, we first had to plod to the nearest streetcar stop. But it was all worth it, at the end of the day we returned home sunburned, sandy and satisfied.
Another event we looked forward to was the Easter Sunrise Service atop Mt. Tolmie. The streetcar, loaded with chattering families, finally ground to a halt at the base of the mountain. We must have resembled a pilgrimage as we struggled up the steep incline. This was a real adventure as we were 'out in the country'. (Little did I realize that eventually I would marry and live near the mountain).
Once we reached the summit, we clambered over rocks collecting lilies, shooting stars, scuffing our knees in the process. After the service, we kids would run down the hill laughing and clutching our booty of flowers. No one pointed out that we were damaging the environment!
Mother struggled on, day after day. The idea of a 'holiday' belonged in a fantasy world. There were no trips to Hawaii or Disneyland in the offing. A trip 'out' meant taking the baby out in the buggy. Family allowance cheques from the government were yet to come. Most people couldn't afford a babysitter and daycare was a vision for the future.
If a wife was depressed or being abused, she suffered in silence. To my knowledge, there were few support groups. Nowadays, people with just about any problem have somewhere to turn for help. Occasionally Dorothy Dix, a newspaper 'advice' columnist, wrote veiled, very discreet references to 'sex', but only when talking about married life.
My dear mother has been gone a long time now. She died at the age of 68. I am so glad that near the end of her life, Ken and I were able to take her on a real vacation, to Knott's Berry Farm, California.
where she could pick oranges from trees
What a dream come true that must have been to her! I think of her often and, as I said before, especially on Mother's Day.
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