Monique was a little 6-year-old French girl who was a bundle of energy and endless curiosity. Her dad was in the military and travelled back and forth to Camp Debert every day. That fall, the family of three had moved into what was known as Ed and Earns old house. The brothers had lived there for years, but after one passed away, the other was moved into a senior’s home. Their family had cleared out the brother’s belongings and furniture and had freshly painted and wallpapered throughout. Then they had put the house up for rent. The Ranger family had moved in, and I met Monique when we both started grade one at the Great Village school.
For the first few weeks she struggled for acceptance, as her broken English seemed to turn some students away from getting to know her. I don’t remember exactly what drew me to her, but she was a sweet little kid, even though at times she could be a bit stubborn. Maybe she reminded me a bit of myself. We became instant friends, even though there were many times I had difficulty figuring out what she was saying because of her accent. She was full of questions, which surprised our teacher, and she loved to tell stories even though she struggled with some of the English words.
Although I liked her a lot, she had occasional mood swings as she tried to cope in an all-English school. Generally, though, she loved everything and everyone around her. She loved her family; she loved the simple things that I gave her, and she saw everyone completely the same. Her world was filled with happiness and love. I can’t remember just how this all came about, as Monique’s mother spoke very little English, but one day Monique was permitted to come home with me after school, to play, and have supper with us, after which Father would drive her home.
Together we had fun times during that summer and the following few months of fall and winter. Then, in mid-January, things changed. The school bell rang, and we were all ready to start the day’s lessons. But Monique was absent. She had never missed a day of school before, so I just assumed she was sick and her mother had kept her home. Perhaps in a day or two she would be better and return to class with the rest of us. When school was let out for the day, I got dressed in my winter coat, hat, mittens, and boots, as I normally did, grabbed my lunch can and started the walk home. When I passed their house, it looked different. The flowery curtains were no longer in the windows, and there wasn’t any smoke rising out of the chimney from their wood stove. I continued walking and when I got home I mentioned it to Mother, who in turn mentioned it to Father when he got home from work. That evening he drove down to the general store to pick up a few groceries for Mother, and when he returned, the news he shared was so upsetting. One minute I was fine and the next minute I was crying. He had inquired about the Ranger family and was told that during the night an army truck was seen in their driveway. Their furniture and belongings had been loaded, and then the truck had left the yard. For many days I dealt with the profound sense of loss of my best friend, little Monique. I now realize that throughout the days that followed I was experiencing grief, but I didn’t fully understand that at the time.
I will always think of mittens when memories of Monique come to mind. During those winter visits she would arrive wearing a cute coat with a matching hat, little boots with fur trim and reddened bare hands. And when it was time to go home, Mother would give her a pair of her hand-knitted mittens to keep her hands warm. Monique didn’t visit us very often during the winter months, but when she did, it was always the same: no mittens when she arrived, and another pair of mittens on her hands when she left. As I write this story, all these many years later, I wonder where she might be, and if by chance she still has a pair of those mittens to remember us by.
Born and raised in Nova Scotia, Marilyn and Bill met and married in 1972. Having raised 3 boys and accumulated a respectable number of grand-children and great-grand-children, she wrote her first book and published it in 2024. A collection of short stories titled The Kendricks of Glasgow Junction. She is contributing short stories about growing up in Nova Scotia to this website and will be publishing a collection of them in the near future.