Next Chapter in a Life

Halloween during our year of living next door to Grandmother and Granddad was memorable. Grandmother sewed, with minimal assistance from Mother and myself, a costume for me. When asked who I wanted to be, I answered immediately, “Laura Ingalls!” I had read most of the Little House books to Mother by then. The costume we chose consisted of a dress, a smock, and a floppy white hat. The colour scheme was red and white, with touches of beige and dots of brown. The red was the kind one associates with country living: a “practical” hue that will not show fading readily by not being brilliant to start. Originally, Mother had intended to sew the costume, but after studying the pattern, she realised that it was much too complex for her to complete in the forty-eight hours between buying the materials and Halloween. One thing she did do, however, was carve our pumpkins. Her husband bought a woodworker's awl and gave her a small woodworking saw from his shop with which she maimed the squashes. The jack o'lanterns were placed on our rarely-used front stoop and the tea-lights within were lit with long fireplace matches. We set off, then, into town, to find me some treats. When we arrived at the first house, I stood at the road's edge, at the end of the concrete walk leading to the front door of the modest residence. The resident opened her door, took one look at me standing in the twilight, and exclaimed, “Laura Ingalls Wilder!” That moment made my night almost before it had even begun. Mother was happy to see how happy it made me. She never failed to express pleasure at my happiness. She obviously wanted me to have a happy childhood. I never had a doubt that Mother loved me, even when she was cross. Not that she was often angry, at least not with me. She would, at times, become enraged at her husband, whose deep green eyes would stare at her uncomprehendingly from beneath the sometimes wild mane of blonde curls that cascaded down his strong, lithe back when not neatly braided. He never fought; he would take hold of her from behind and hold her arms to her sides in a firm embrace. She struggled. Then, after having spent all her physical strength, the anger would pass, and she would wilt. I learned that anger can flare up suddenly and violently, yet die a quiet death that, for her, often led to deep slumber. Her sleep was lengthened, and presumably deepened, by the more sedative medications. Her anger seemed to spring from the same well as the Voice that so often immobilised her with self-loathing and hopelessness. She never spoke to me of the Voice, but I remember times when it was clear she was losing an oft-repeated conversation in her head: her shoulders sagged, her head bowed, and her eyes were hollow, defeated. It was at those times when I wanted to comfort her. She, who had given me life, and who had, at times, I'm sure, wondered whether she'd made the right decision to go through with it - with me - was fighting an internal battle I could not fathom. Not at that age, anyway. It was only later when I'd realise that she needed me in her life as much as I needed her.