The Early Years 1948-1955

Chapter 2

The Early Years: 1948-1955

It all started in the General Hospital in Ottawa on April 5th, 1948 where I was born, the daughter of Ian Bowles Fripp and Gertrude Elizabeth Thompson. I arrived a few scant months, thirteen to be exact, after their first born, Karen Elizabeth. Karen sensed my arrival was not a good thing for her and I don’t think she ever really got over my sharing the spotlight that she had learned to love and think of as her own. 

My parents already had a baby, so you might say the blush was off the rose with my arrival.  I realized this, years later as an adult, when I saw the birth announcement on a yellowed piece of newsprint about three quarters of an inch by one and a half inches: “Born to Elizabeth Thompson and Ian Fripp, a girl. General Hospital”.  As in ‘The postman delivered the mail’.  The lack of ardor was stunning. But the announcement was framed in a little black frame.  This effort convinced me that they really did care after all.

I know they truly were delighted with my arrival.  How do I know this?  My mother told me.  She also mentioned that my father’s father, Herbie, thought it would be okay to have another baby so soon after the first, if it were a boy.  My great grandfather on my mother’s side, Dr. Robert Law,  thought my mother should consider not having this baby because the babies were just too close for her comfort.  Back then there wasn’t a way of determining the sex of the unborn baby. And that’s how my life started, sort of like an accident of fate.  

I was an affectionate baby and I had a placid disposition. So I wasn’t too much trouble for my Mom.

After my parents were married, my father left the airforce to become a full time student at Carleton University. The babies came and he found being a student didn’t work well with having a family so he left Carleton to sell ‘Filter Queen’ vacuum cleaners.  

However, this career came to a grinding halt the day he strew corn starch atop the rug to demonstrate the virtues of his product to my mother’s bridge club.  In spite of her pleas to stop, he continued.  Well, it turned out that she was right. There was no way the corn starch would come out of the rug despite his vigorous efforts with his superior product.

My father applied and was accepted back into the Service. 

My father’s military career was to have an enduring impact on my development. Moving every two years, I learned to be very adaptable in dealing with new situations. The resilience I developed was one of the advantages, the primary drawback being lack of roots. 

My father’s military career started in Ottawa but soon got us on the road when he got his first posting to Centrailia. My earliest childhood memory is when I was 5 years old and in kindergarten. My parents are scolding me for biting the teacher.  I vehemently denied it because I knew what they’d to do me if I admitted it.  But it was true.  I did. 

This was akin to the story my parents told me about the visit to the post office when I was two.  A nice gentleman squatted down before me to say how cute I was, adorned in my smocked dress. It was at this moment that I chose to kick him in the shins. My mother was acutely embarrassed.

Keep in mind that I was really a very loving child.  I don’t know for certain why I did these bad things, but I have a good idea that I was reacting to something and acting out.  

I have few memories of living in Centrailia. One I do remember is when some kid threw concentrated bubble soap in my eyes. It really hurt. It was one time I remember feeling  my mother’s concern.  

Another time was when I was learning to ride my bike.  I fell off on to the gravel on the side of the road and landed on my face.  My skin was scratched all along one side of my body. I was unconscious and I remember waking up on the couch in our living room to my mother crying, ‘My baby, my baby’.  So I knew she loved me. But, unfortunately for me, she didn’t seem to feel the same way when it came to defending me from my father. 

Two years later we moved to Portage La Prairie in Manitoba.  The images that stick in my mind are the mountainous snow drifts along the drive way and the house being buried in snow. I remember the cold in the winter, the wind. I remember the heat of the summers being so hot you could fry an egg on the sidewalk and you couldn’t walk on them in your bare feet.

My mother didn’t work then, but she was industrious.  She had the job of making ends meet.  That’s why she made a snowsuit for me out of an old quilted raincoat.  Looking back on that now, I think that was pretty clever.

She was a genius at the food budget.  Our fare consisted of a Béchamel sauce on eggs, on tuna, on salmon, on peas, on carrots and on onions, all served on toast; fried baloney, spaghetti and ketchup, (that became an all time favourite), liver and onions; hamburger in pasta, in tomatoes, in Spanish rice, Shepherd’s pie, chilli and spaghetti;  eggs in sandwiches, fried egg and onions, omelettes, cream sauce and eggs, pickled eggs, and the famous egg-in-the-hole: egg in a hole in the bread and fried.  It was a favourite too.  

We had a wonderful roast beef dinner on Sundays.  That’s when my Dad would rush at the end of the meal to soak the blood of the roast in bread.  I don’t remember any one else wanting this, so I don’t know why he was so covetous. I found it absorbing the way he delighted in this ritual.

After two years in Portage, we were to get a posting that would be the highlight of my childhood.  We went to France.

Spare The Rod and Spoil The Child

Spare the Rod and Spoil the Child

Who would expect these teenage like kids, my parents, to know anything about parenting?  They must have been part of a generation who got married, had kids and just hoped for the best, not really having any idea on how to build relationships or bring up a kid. Maybe things have gotten much better. At least these days people get married when they are older and hopefully are a little more discerning.

Patterns repeat themselves and continue to do so until the cycle is broken.  My father only knew a strict dad and so he was strict too.  Being in the military didn’t do anything to heighten his sensitivities, either.  So it was, “Do as I say not as I do”, and, “If I tell you to jump, don’t ask why, ask how high.”  Or, “If you do that again I’ll knock your block off.” Or better yet, “I’ll kill you.” How about, “I’ll knock you into next week.” Yes, these were the words that reverberate through the memories of my childhood. 

Since the age of two, I was spanked and punished for doing things that my father was sure I did intentionally.  One time when I was two and Karen was three, Mom had just got us all dressed up in our little smock dresses to go out.  Well, I wasn’t quite toilet trained and I had an accident in my pants.  My father was sure I waited for the moment I was all prepared to relieve myself and so gave me a beating to teach me a lesson. 

The physical abuse started around this time.

Both my grandmother and my god father found my father’s treatment of me deplorable.  My god father, Eric Kenny and his wife, Joey were close friends of my parents.  We grew up knowing their kids, Dixon, Deirdre and Naomi.  They wanted to adopt me by the time I was four.  But my parents wouldn’t give me up.  

I grew up to be  totally convinced that I was adopted.  They didn’t love me. How could real parents treat their kid this way? I don’t remember my father having a conversation with me, but he was quick to back hand me if I said or did anything that didn’t meet his approval.  They wouldn’t treat their real kid that way.  Karen was their real kid. 

By the time I was twelve, I grew to hate him in proportions not right for that tender age. I had learned to refuse him the satisfaction of my tears.  I promised myself that when I grew up, I would kill him.  I wasn’t strong enough yet, but I fantasized that when I was older, I would somehow be that much stronger and I’d just knock him off. Revenge would be sweet and righteous. I had no way of winning now because his force was mighty.  He may be more powerful, but my will was greater.

When I was 15, my birthday present was no more beatings, with the strap on my hands or bottom or just flailing, nor with the wooden spoon or with his back hand swing. 

I never did get around to writing my father off, but I swore I would never feign a happy childhood with either of my parents. They would live with the knowledge that I carried a heavy emotional burden during my childhood and I was miserable.

After I left home at 17, I passed through about 10 or so years, resenting my parents and how they treated me as a child. I had tried to forgive my father, but the words were empty. I couldn’t get it into my heart.  However, after years of pleading the suffering victim, I got sick of hearing myself go on. Then something happened. 

I started to see the problem was within me. The only way I could truly forgive my dad, and my mom for not defending me, was to relinquish the victim mentality and take responsibility for my life. I was the only one suffering the hurt.  They had gone on with their lives and probably never thought about it.  I saw I was wasting all that energy on self pity and I was done with it. I was able to truly forgive them both and in the doing of it I discovered, “I forgave  the prisoner and set the prisoner free and the prisoner was me.”

Once this shift took place, I could understand that my parents were really kids when they had us, trying their best and wanting the best for us.  They just didn’t know how to do it.  I began to see them in context of their lives and not just mine. 

My mother was brought up in a hotel in New York and hated it.  Her mother was a glamorous, bright, feminine but unmotherly, socialite who worked as a hotel social director, and her father was a hotel manager. She quite hated it.  Fortunately, she spent some of her childhood living in Ottawa with four uncles and an aunt. There, she was spoiled, adored and indulged in.  So Mom learned to be the centre of attention and never, completely, learned how to be a doting mother.  

My father had a short father who certainly suffered from the small man complex.  ‘Herbie’ favoured my father’s older brother, John, who was the ‘white haired boy’.

Thus my father never felt accepted by his dad and some of the stories he would tell would raise the hair on your neck.  For example, Dad, an ardent animal lover, had to shoot his own dog because the dog was suspected of having rabies.  Another time he had the chance to go to Florida with his best friend.  His father punished him  for some forgotten mishap and wouldn’t let him go.  My Dad certainly suffered from the influence of his father who had committed transgressions against him and left him with unresolved frustrations, insecurities and a nasty persecution complex mixed in with feelings of inferiority.  

My Dad’s mother adored him though.  This would explain Dad’s attachment to older women later on in his life.

Don’t get me wrong. Mom and Dad were a great couple.  They loved to laugh and party and people loved to have them around. They were attractive, fun and charming. Its just that the kids of these kids were just an appendage to them, orbiting their busy lives. Children were to be seen and not heard.

My messed up name because my parents were like teenagers.

It wasn’t long after that that these kids, barely out of teenage-hood, had a baby; that’d be my older sister, Karen.  One month later, I was conceived. 

I don’t think my parents ever grew up, right up to the time of their divorce 25 years later. They certainly hadn’t matured much when I arrived. I know this to be true because of the way they named me.

Parents-to-be have nine months to pick one boy name and one girl name. But did my parents have this necessary and essential task accomplished? Noooo!  A good time to them, was when my Mother first held me in her arms.  However, she was not inspired and  couldn’t think of one. This was unfortunate because the regulations at that time, stated a name had to be determined and registered with the government before leaving the hospital.  So my mother looked up into the air and picked the first name that came to mind.  Joanne.  So it was Joanne Fripp.

By the time they got home, my parents decided, in their as yet undeveloped wisdom, that I wasn’t a Joanne at all.  I looked much more like a Christine. The other name that came to her was a name she lived with all her life, that of her mother.  Dorothy.  So I became Christine Dorothy Fripp.  

I don’t think it even occurred to them that this wasn’t a legal name and that they should maybe let the government know about the change.  It wasn’t until I was 21 and applied for my birth certificate that I learned my name wasn’t Christine Dorothy Fripp at all; it was Joanne Fripp. So from that time on I carried my legal name and became Christine Joanne Dorothy Fripp until I was married.  Then I became Christine Joanne Dorothy Fripp Murray.

My name changed many times after that.  I eventually dropped ‘Joanne’ legally and became Christine Dorothy Fripp Murray.  I dropped my married name, ‘Murray’ when I didn’t need it any more and then thought I’d drop ‘Fripp’ as well, and my legal name became ‘Christine Dorothy’.  

Since all these name changes happened in the same time frame, the government did an investigation on me, thinking I was somehow on the lam for some illicit reason like drugs or some such.  It all got straightened out and my name was secured, Christine Dorothy.

My Mother couldn’t understand why I settled for ‘Christine Dorothy’.  She thought if I were going to change my name, I should change it to something more exciting, like ‘Paris’ or some such.  I explained patiently that I didn’t actually change my name to something else, I actually just used the names I already had, and readjusted them a bit.  She said ‘Christine Dorothy’ sounded like a nun.  I blurted in frustration at her that she named me and that’s what I was stuck with so that was it and we wouldn’t talk about it anymore.

Through all these name changes, I never forgot who I was, although my mother often introduced me as “I’d like you to meet my daughter, whatever her name is……”

My Parents Marriage

Chapter 1

My Parents' Marriage.

In those days, in the forties, there was no birth control and teenagers had to deal with their surging hormones without having sex.  That is why kids got married early. Any time after 16 was socially acceptable to wed, although late teens or early twenties was better.  Too much longer, say at 28, and the young lady would be regarded as a ‘spinster’, an ‘old maid’. 

My parents fell in love when they were 12 so it was a long wait to get married at 17 or 18.  But the war came along and wedding plans had to be postponed until my dad came back from action. Four years later, at 20 and 21, they tied the knot. 

My mother was Catholic and because she was marrying a Protestant, the church excommunicated her.  

She’s very much the type to say, “You can’t fire me. I quit!” 

Insulted that her faith rejected her, she turned her back on it and never thought about it again.  I’m very glad she did this.  To be raised Catholic is to grow up with haunting guilt and unfounded fears of God and of the ever after.  I was happy not to have to deal with any of it. 

I could never understand, however, that the Catholic church excommunicated my mother for marrying a Protestant, but not for marrying her first cousin. Catholics today are much more fortunate as they get to go to Heaven if they marry outside of their faith (or even if they marry their cousins).  Just rotten luck for my Mom that she missed this window of opportunity by being born in the wrong era.

The wedding took place at the lodge at Mont Tremblant, a ski resort in Quebec.  Both my Mom and Dad were active in the ski world up there and it seemed the perfect setting for their wedding. It was small, just family and close friends. So small and out of the way, I got the feeling of ‘clandestiny’; but I may be wrong. My Mom’s Dad and his sister, who was my Dad’s Mom, were there with their spouses, my Mom and Dad’s aunt and uncle. I still get cross-eyed trying to figure it out.

My Life in a Poem

My life in a Poem

I was born in Ottawa; I was one of two,

Anything my sister had, I got when she was through.

Since we weren’t rich or spoiled, luxury I never knew,

But life has taught me plenty, as we moved each year or two.

Best thing the air force ever did, it did when I was seven;

We stayed four years in sunny France, came back, I was eleven.

When we crossed the ocean, t’was four our family

When we came back to Canada, we two sisters now were three.

When we left France, I left behind, the first true love I had.

He was my real life darling, to leave him now, how sad.

I never would forget him, and there is no turning back,

I never would forget him, that cute little guy named Mac.

So it was to school in Ottawa, north, south, east and west,

But it was Woodroffe high school, that was the very best.

Friends and teachers, clubs and books, the memories are cool,

But it was Art, who stole my heart, for five years in that school.

Then the ring made my heart sing, the wedding it drew nigh.

My father’s voice said “it won’t be, you must first get your degree”

And Art he passed me by.

I spent three years at Carleton, then back to France I went,

This time with sister Karen, hitch hiking, Spain to Kent.

We came back home in seventy full of new found knowledge

But it was not enough for  me;  I went to Teachers’ College.

There were no jobs on graduation, much to my distress,

What was I to do? I know! I’ll be a stewardess.

It was rather unexpected, while I was flying high,

Came an offer to teach French, I bid my job goodbye.

I met a handsome man named Tom, not a doctor or a preacher;

Just found him looking rather pale, next to my French teacher.

I was in the city and it became a drag,

So it was that time again, time to pack my bag.

Look out Europe, here I come, this time, no destination.

Decided it’d be Champery, saw a sign in a train station.

Switzerland is really pretty, the Alps are tops you see,

Got a job, as luck would have it, in the Hotel Champery.

A year later I returned, to the city of Montreal.

I met anew Don the pilot, he was my all and all.

We were married six months later, but with a wedding couldn’t cope.

So in our enthusiasm, we decided to elope.

We had three sons, ages one to five, in that city of Pointe Claire,

Damon, Tyson, Brandon, three boys we loved so dear.

In environmental issues, I had found my niche.

Passion flowed to save the world, I worked with ‘Greenpeace’

Fourteen years of Cadillacs, Mary Kay and this and that;

Time to move to Glengarry, a new place to hang our hat.

Through all the world that I did roam,

When I found Glengarry, I found my home.

Teaching, strategic planning, Property Standards, to name a few,

Investment Club, chair, secretary, t’was so much I did do.

Took a course in facilitation, they called it ‘Open Space’,

Tried it on my baseball team, and we came in first place!

I liked taking photos, and writing stories too,

Was a photograph-reporter for the Gleangarry News.

Ah! Time to move, another chance, to go back to Paris, France.

In ’89 a time sublime, we packed our bags one more time.

We stayed three years and traveled, saw the best of Europe then.

The kids learned French, we all made friends, and we’d do it all again!

Were ten more years in Glengarry, what precious years but few.

They were the last Tyson was with us, there was nothing we could do.

Physics, math, computer science,  you could say he was a brain;

But it was for  his spirit that the “Award’ was in his name.

The other boys went off, to chase their visions and their dreams.

For Damon it was flying, for Brandon, movie themes.

Now the house was empty, there was left but me;

The boys were gone and so was Don, so I was fancy free.

Life gave me a new beginning, for the stars now I could reach.

And what do I do, between me and you? I move to Wasaga Beach!

For my Mom and sisters, I left my Glengarry.

Life is full of surprises, of that I was going to see.

With the loss of Tyson, my step brother thought it’d be,

Nice for me to go to France, France across the sea.

So I spent the next spring season, in Provence and Italy,

With Ian teaching artists, me feeding them pate and Brie

‘’Twas July when I came back, to buy a house so wee.

 An apartment in the basement to supplement my fees.

The first thing I accomplished, in that house thats not a ‘looker’,

Was end the writing of my book, called ‘The Happy Cooker’.

Although the book was finished with lots of vim and vex,

I was not prepared at all, for what was to happen next.

My father lived in Spain, you see, for 35 years or more.

Now he wanted to return, to this far-off, forgotten shore.

He sold his house and bought a ticket, for his wife and he to fly

To Montreal or Toronto, how was he to know she’d die?

So I went over to retrieve him, a sadder sight was never seen.

He came back with me to my house; the basement was for me.

The two of us were doing fine taking care of one another;

Then my mother’s husband died. Where was she to go? Oh Brother!

Ever not to be out done, fate had yet more in store.

Her husband died, although she cried, she asked Dad to move over.

So our family was together, after all these  years gone by.

Mom and Dad in my house; how life can be so wry!

Dad could not remember what a coffee or a toast is;

My Mother couldn’t move as she had osteoporosis.

They meant well, and they tried hard, but work was not their ‘fortay'

After several months of this, I knew we had to ‘abortay’

A move was necessary, a house or two I bought.

Became a property manager, a new home for them I sought.

Now every one is happy, at least that’s what they claim.

Each of them in their own home, and me alone again.

Damon married Tyson’s nurse, and when they got together,

They had three fine wee children, made me a grandmother.

I moved back to Montreal, after 6 years over there,

To help my friend Jay Jansons fix his home up in Pointe Claire.

When that was done and finished, I was ready to move on;

I went to my apartment, from Montreal I was gone.

I was back in Glengarry, the home I hoped to find.

I was to see its not the same, as the place I left behind.

I couldn’t see my grandkids, because of their mother’s wish.

This broke my heart, and then some, as they were sorely missed.

I didn’t think, I could take more, of life’s cruel blows to me.

When Damon drowned I really thought, ‘I can’t even be.’

Alone in my apartment, life’s burden was too heavy,

For me to carry by myself, then Damon sent me Peppie.

Now we are together, and the earth we often roam.

We take cruises go to Florida, and write when we are home.

Between home, the cottage, Tampa, we are pretty happy;

We take life’s hardships and make something like kersnappy.

My Life and Me, My Memoires

My LIFE AND ME  

My Memoires

Introduction

Background info

For those of you who know me,  you are aware that I had three beautiful sons.  I lost two of them.  Tyson, angel that he was, died in 2000 from melanoma, a lethal form of skin cancer.  He was only 23.  He was graduating from Laurier University with majors in physics, computers and math.  His whole life was ahead of him but a thief took him in the night.

Damon was 35 when he drowned at his father's wedding in 2011. He was a Major in the airforce with a brilliant career ahead of him.  Damon was the rock of Gibraltar, the salt of the earth. He fell madly in love with Tyson's nurse, Carla, whom he met at the hospital where his brother lay dying. She was pretty and seductive.  She was smart and with her career, she was a perfect fit with him, because, in the air force, he would be moving from time to time. He was emotionally vulnerable and she was ripe to start a family. He was hopelessly in love. This was the girl of his dreams. Or so he thought.

They were married for 9 years and had three children. Damon carried on like a true soldier as his personal life unravelled around him.  We could see it from the outside, but he was in denial, denial to accept his true love didn't love him truly any more. He gave up everything for her including a career in flying.  He belaboured  that she had to put up with his working in Kingston, a two hour drive away, amongst other 'hardships'. I beseeched him, "But who's taking care of you?" The question fell on deaf ears as he unselfishly continued on the path that was to lead to his personal devastation.

If Damon were the kind of person who could accept failure, this wouldn't have been so completely devastating.  When he could no longer hide from the lack of love she had for him, he agreed to separate.  This meant to him, loss of his family as a unit, loss of the promise of everlasting love, the loss of being a father, the loss of his home, the loss of his kids growing up in a family. It meant total failure. He was destroyed.  I think his job must have given him a reason for living and he trucked on, alone, living in a basement apartment near the base, visiting his kids in their life apart, on the weekends.

As his parents, Don and I felt his wounds more deeply than he.

Carla had a male 'friend', and even as just a friend, he caused Damon much pain and untold suffering.  We all did our best, Carla, Damon, Don and myself, but it turned out everyone's best was the best for no one. Damon wasn't cold in his grave when this 'friend' moved into Damon's side of the bed.

After 6 months, Damon  had barely found his new love when fate intervened. Why is telling you about Damon's life important?  Because of the impact Carla's character plays in my life. She was the wife of my son. Never being accepted by her was as shocking as it was painful. It was like I lost the daughter I never had. She is also the gatekeeper to my grandchildren. Since she didn't care for me, she meted out the time I could see them. I feel she has committed the worst kind of theft, the theft of a relationship between a grandmother and her grandchildren. They know who I am but they don't know me.  We just didn't have enough time together, just the way she likes it.


This has been an arduous adjustment for me.  As you can imagine, life with out my boys is enough of a  trial. It would be such a blessing to be able to be a wonderful grandmother to my three grandchildren.  It would feed my soul.  However, I have to learn to live with it just as I have to learn to live without Damon and Tyson.

But then this is not about Damon or Tyson, This is about me. I am writing these memories for my three grandchildren and for my son Brandon.