Many people wrongly believe that babies do not notice or remember traumatic events. According to Mother, I never forgot this frightful experience.
Mr. Barkley was in his early 70s and had been a farmer all his life—a lifetime of hard work and dedication. Life for him, his 68-year-old wife, and their two sons, both in their mid-30s, was demanding and required constant effort to make ends meet. Mother and Dad lived in the small community of Debert, N.S. when we were born, and the Barkley family lived a few miles down the road.
According to Mother, Mr. Barkley suffered a heart attack and passed away sometime during the wee hours of a Thursday morning in May. His passing had a profound impact on the lives of his wife, Anna, and their two sons, John and Peter. As his death was sudden, there was no way they could have prepared for the loss.
Losing a husband and father meant that life as they’d known it suddenly changed. It meant starting a grieving process but also holding back their feelings in order to keep functioning in everyday life. Suddenly, activities in Mrs. Barkley’s daily routine seemed pointless when doing them alone. Losing her husband inevitably meant losing the future they had intended to share. However, it also brought feelings of love and thankfulness for the time they had spent together. Their neighbours and close friends rallied around them, talking with her and her sons over cups of tea about the good times they remembered, providing comfort, and sharing the thought that at least he hadn’t faced prolonged suffering. Still, she and her sons were left with questions they couldn’t answer.
Mrs. Barkley was a slender woman, her silver-grey hair swept back into a loosely made bun at the crown of her head, secured with a simple hairpin. Even though her aging face had deep wrinkles and creases, she was loved by everyone who knew her. Mother once told me that Mrs. Barkley was the nicest person she knew. When she came to visit Mother and to see the twins, she would always bring baked goods for Mother and Dad. Even though she was elderly, her eyes gleamed when she saw my brother and me. Since I was only a couple of months old, I have no recollection of the dear old soul, so I am relying on what Mother shared with me years later.
It began like any other Monday. Mother stepped outside, clothes basket in hand, heading to the clothesline, expecting nothing more than a normal day. She would wipe the clothesline with a damp cloth before hanging the laundry to prevent dust from soiling the freshly washed clothes. She shook each item vigorously to reduce wrinkles, using one clothespin to attach two garments together, sharing the clothespins between items to save time. She hung shirts by the tail (not the shoulders) to avoid stretching and hung Dad’s pants by the cuffs. When her clothesbasket was empty, she went back in the house, checked on my brother and me—still sound asleep—and then headed back to the clothesline with a basket full of baby laundry. White cloth diapers and bibs benefited significantly from being hung in direct sunlight, which helped fade stubborn formula stains. Mother always used clothespins for everything to prevent the wind from blowing away tiny socks, bibs, and the little pink and blue outfits.
Mother was hanging the diapers when Mrs. Barkley arrived, carrying a plate of freshly baked ginger cookies. Mother thanked her for the goodies and told her to go on ahead and take the cookies to the kitchen. The twins are asleep in the living room, she said, and she would be in shortly after she finished hanging the diapers. Mother had only a few more items to hang when she heard me crying at the top of my lungs. This wasn’t a normal cry. Mother dropped the diaper and clothespins that were in her hands and raced to the living room as the extreme, uncontrolled, desperate sound became louder. Mrs. Barkley quickly handed me over to Mother, as it was obvious I was in distress.
Mrs. Barkley was visibly shaken as she related to Mother what had happened. I was awake and fussing, so fearing I might cry and wake my brother, Mrs. Barkley had leaned over the twin carriage to pick me up. Just as she started to pick me up, her hairpin fell out, her loosely wrapped hair bun came undone, and her long silver-grey hair hit me in the face. I immediately let the world know I was freaking out! By the time she finished telling Mother what happened, my crying had diminished as Mother held me close and rocked me. Mrs. Barkley was a bundle of nerves as she put her hair back up in the bun while Mother tried to console her and me at the same time. Because of my loud crying, my brother woke up, but he willingly let Mrs. Barkley pick him up and hold him.
During the months that followed, Mrs. Barkley could never pick me up again without an outpouring of cries and fear. Apparently, I had not forgotten the hair episode. Mother could pick me up and hold me until the tears stopped, then she could pass me over to Mrs. Barkley. Mother would then pick up my brother, then both women with babies in hand could chat with no problem. I’m told I was all smiles as we rocked together in the chair, which made the dear old soul very pleased.
Mrs. Barkley enjoyed many visits with us in Debert after that, until we were six months old, when we moved to our new home in Great Village. Even then her son Peter drove her down to visit us several times. Sadly, Mrs. Barkley passed away before we reached our first birthday.