Mother and Dad were married in 1946, and for their first four years, they lived a peaceful life in a house they rented in Debert, Nova Scotia. In early spring of 1950, they purchased a farm with quite a bit of land in the nearby community of Great Village. The house had not been lived in for several years, and a lot of renovations had to be made before they could move in, but the price was right.
After the tiny four-room house they had been renting, the extra living space took Mother’s eye, plus it would be a home they could finally call their own. The barn was quite long, with room for animals and hay storage, plus there was another building that could be used for smaller animals such as chickens, and perhaps even a pig or two.
These two buildings were of special interest to Dad, as he planned on farming. They both liked the row of elm trees along the road, which would help shade the house and make it cooler in the summer. First, the house had to be fumigated to disinfect it and to kill any insects or rodents that might have taken up residence. Once that was done, Grandfather, who was a carpenter by trade, and a couple of our uncles helped Dad on the weekends with the renovations.
On March 24th, 1950, a month earlier than expected, Mother went into labour, and they were blessed with the arrival of twins, a son and a daughter. The three of us were in what was known as the annex, which was a separate, three-story building not far from the hospital, basically used as a maternity home. Mother had some complications, so we were kept there longer than expected. The nurses took care of our formula feedings, baths, and diaper changes while Mother was dealing with the complications. Arrangements had been made for Dad, Mother, and the newborns to stay with our grandparents, who lived about a 10-minute drive from the hospital. The plan was for us to live with them for a few weeks after we were discharged until Mother was back on her feet again and able to look after not one but two infants while Dad was at work.
After about a week, Mother’s doctor gave her authorization to go home, provided she would get plenty of rest. Back then, a newborn had to be at least five pounds before being discharged. Brother was now over the required weight, so was allowed to leave, but I was not. In fact, ounce by ounce, I was losing weight and getting dangerously close to dropping below four pounds.
When Father arrived to take us to our grandparents’ home, Mother had her suitcase open on her bed and was in the process of dressing my brother for their departure. With tears in her eyes, she gave Dad the news that because I was still losing weight, I could not be discharged. Mother was understandably quite upset, thinking they would have to leave me there. I wish I could have witnessed Father’s reaction, but as the story goes, at that moment, he lost his temper. He told Mother, “Get her clothes ready to put on her, I’m going to go get her”. As he passed the nurse on duty on his way to the nursery on the third floor, he told her in a stern voice, “Our daughter is going home today. You folks have decided she won’t survive, so if she’s going to die, she’ll die at home with us.”
Mother unpacked my knitted sweater, bonnet, bootees, and mittens, along with a matching knitted blanket identical to the set my brother was wearing to go home in. Father headed up the stairs to the nursery, but before he reached the top, a nurse shouted, “You can’t do that!” All Mother heard next was Father shouting, “Just try to stop me!”
I honestly don’t know whether they tried to stop him or not. What I do know is Mother and Dad took both of us to our grandparents’ home that day. One of our aunts and uncles, were also there. They didn’t have any children of their own, so they were eager to see, hold, and cuddle the twins. We were sleeping when we arrived at our grandparents, but shortly after our arrival I awoke, and my crying could be heard throughout the house. It was diaper-changing time, and Auntie was right beside Mother to give a helping hand if needed. The little knitted outfit was taken off, diaper pins undone, and when Mother pulled down the cloth diaper, both Auntie and Mother gasped. Turning around to Father in a panic, Mother said, “You will not believe this. Come see this diaper rash.” Well, I did indeed have a severe case of diaper rash, bright, angry red. Zinc oxide cream is usually used for diaper rash, but none was available at that moment. Grandmother, who was preparing vegetables for supper, jumped up from the kitchen table saying, “I’ll make some burnt flour.” She placed some flour in a pan and began heating it on the stove, stirring constantly to prevent burning. She continued until the flour turned a light brown colour; I’m guessing like the colour of toasted bread. She then set it aside to cool. Mother washed the reddened area with warm water and patted me dry, then the burnt flour was sprinkled liberally to create a barrier against moisture, potentially helping to soothe and protect the skin. For the next two weeks, Grandmother prepared enough burnt flour each morning to last for the next 24 hours. The burnt flour was a very effective replacement for baby powder. A clean diaper was carefully put on over it, and then I was wrapped in a flannelette blanket.
Since my brother and I were both now awake, Mother and Auntie picked each of us up and fed us the formula Grandmother had warmed in a pan of hot water on the stove. A short bottle for me, and a taller one for my brother. He drank all of his, but I only got a small amount in my tummy before I chucked it all back up. Mother and Dad assumed this had been happening every day in the nursery, the reason I wasn’t gaining any weight.
For the next few days, this happened at every feeding. Grandmother concluded the formula was just too strong for me, and with Mother and Dad’s permission, she diluted the formula intended for me. Low and behold, with each feeding that followed, I was able to drink a wee bit more each time, without bringing it all back up. Ounce by ounce, I gained weight, being laid on the scales several times a day to confirm the progress. From that point on, they knew I was going to survive.
In time, with the diluted formula, the burnt flour treatments, and lots of love, cuddles, and care, I not only gained weight, but was finally rid of the diaper rash. My parents viewed human life as a precious gift, and in their case, they had not one, but two precious gifts.
Almost 2 months later, Mother and Dad took us to the little house in Debert, and by the time we were 6 months old, all the renovations had been done at Great Village. The furniture was all in place, and we finally could move into our new home on the farm.
Looking back to that uncertain time in my life, where I could have either lived or died, I have realized my father’s decision was probably what gave me the ultimate gift of life. My parents gave their time, their love, and energy towards saving me from death’s door. For me, their heartfelt commitment had a profound and lasting impact, providing me with the opportunity to enjoy life to the fullest. Thanks to my loving family, I am now in my 75th year.
If you like Marilyn’s stories I know you’ll like her collection of short stories: The Kendricks of Glasgow Junction: Stories of Life in Rural Nova Scotia in the 1920s.
Her book is available in Kindle, paperback, and hard cover. Find it HERE.