Our father died in 1935 when I was 13 and my sister was nine years old. He left no insurance, so our mum had to work to support us.
Mum was born in Vernon, B.C. in 1898 to English parents who taught their two daughters they were “little ladies” and far too well-bred to play with the “commoners” outside their gate.
That was mum’s upbringing, and in retrospect, I realize what it must have been like for her to raise my sister and me in “one room bed sitters” on every street in the West End of Vancouver from Thurlow to Denman and Robson to Harwood.
It must have been hard for her to share bathrooms and cooking smells and other smells with strangers. My sister and I didn’t know any better.
As a child, mum learned how to arrange flowers and set a table for guests, but she knew nothing about the work world. Nevertheless, when our father died, she found herself in the middle of the Depression with two kids to support and jobs few and far between.
Fortunately, she had been a good student and taught herself in high school to type and become proficient in Pitman’s shorthand. She landed a job in the Stenographer’s Pool at the Vancouver Courthouse. She was never late and never took a day off. She didn’t dare because there was always someone ready to take over if you were found lacking.
She adored my sister and me and dreaded leaving us alone. We children had a huge long list of do’s and don’ts and first and foremost was not talking to strangers. I remember one day I stepped on a nail that was still attached to a shingle and I hopped around with it on my foot until she got home because I wouldn’t let anyone help me.
We seemed to move a lot. I don’t know why because she always paid her rent and other bills, but we did cover many West End streets. I guess she was always looking for something better. Once, when we couldn’t afford to pay, we moved at night with a wheelbarrow. Mum said it was “an adventure.”
Looking back on it, there might have been a male tenant she didn’t trust with us girls; once we moved because of bedbugs.
As time went on, mum’s diligence at work paid off, and by the time we had grown up, she had become the private secretary to the Supreme Court Justice of the time and held the job until she retired.
Mum was an attractive woman and only 38 when our father died, but she never went out at night when we were young (I guess she was too tired).
She finally met someone when she was in her 60s and was very happy for only a year when he had a heart attack; she cared for him for a few years until he died.
Mum died in l989 at age 91. She was bedridden after a stroke and being kept alive with medication. One day she told her doctor, “I’m not going to get any younger or any better, so I want to stop taking medication. She did stop and was dead within weeks.
She died as she had lived, with strength and bravery.
Nobody had a better mother.
Nadine Jones is a former journalist for the Vancouver Sun
