Todd

By Diane Lloyd

Todd is a great story that outlines the hardship many children born in the fifties experienced at a time when children where often needed to help around the home or the family business. While there were many good parents who loved their children deeply there were others who only needed help or felt it their duty to provide heirs or just one more set hands to pitch in. Todd is the storey of two such lonely children who found a way to make up for the lack of love and affection in their lives. It is a story of hard work and courage.

Heather was only seven years old when Todd was born but she stick handled her way through their childhood in a way that gave hope and purpose to both their lives. No problem was too large to handle and no hardship to much to endure. One only had to keep the end result in mind and know that someday things would be better. With an uncanny ability to hang onto what was good and endure what wasn't, she never gave up. Her plan was almost perfect!

This story takes place in rural Ontario and covers four small communities in part. The towns are fictitious but the behaviour is not. The code of conduct embedded!

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781663208040

Diane Lloyd

Diane Lloyd was born in Peterborough and moved to the nearby rural community of Lakefield as a child. She has a social work certificate from Renison College through the University of Waterloo. She is best known for serving as chair of the Kawartha Pine Ridge District School Board and is a longtime activist with the Liberal Party. In private life, she has been a real estate agent and is now Broker of Record for HomeLife Preferred Realty Inc., Brokerage, a company she owns. She has also worked as an accounts receivable manager for Westclox Canada. Lloyd criticized the policies of Mike Harris's provincial government in 2000, arguing that health and education were more important than tax cuts. She was first elected to the Kawartha-Pine Ridge school board in the 2000 municipal election, defeating three other candidates in a rural division. In 2001, she joined a minority of councillors in opposing a motion that deferred passage of an operating budget with strict cuts imposed by the Harris government. She was defeated in her first bid to chair the board in late 2002, and was re-elected as a trustee over a strong challenge in 2003. She was first chosen as chair of the school board in December 2004 and has served the past 7 consecutive years in that position She won the Peterborough Liberal Party nomination in May 2005, defeating councillor Henry Clarke. In December of the same year, she stood down as chair of the board. Her candidacy was supported by the Peterborough Professional Fire Fighters Association. During the campaign, she indicated her support for same-sex marriage. On election day, she finished a close second to Conservative Party candidate Dean Del Mastro. She was re-elected as a school trustee in 2006 and served again as chair to the present. Diane has been married to her husband David for 49 years and has three grown daughters and five grandchildren

Book preview

1

W e’d been in the air for almost two hours, when the pilot announced we would be landing shortly. Looking down, I finally understood the humour in Todd’s ravings about Cornish International Airport, and at the same time, I felt complete terror that the tiny ribbon of runway below could possibly be wide enough to land the plane. The so-called runway and airport were surrounded by trees, farm buildings, fenced fields, swamps and even more trees. The runway now directly ahead of us seemed to divide the farm fields like a fence, coming to a stop only when it reached a small building, apparently Cornish International Airport. The building, from that distance, resembled an aluminum tool shed from Sears, although I knew it had to be the airport, as it was the only building in sight. A road stretched infinitely past the airport, seemingly coming from nowhere and going nowhere. To the west, almost too far away to see, there was a small patch of buildings, probably Cornish itself. In every other direction, there were trees as far as the eye could see.

It amazed me that Todd loved that place so much. Our experience as children had not been good, and the small town we’d lived in had offered no escape. Refuge had come only when we left. However, I was happy for him and, because of our shared past, protective.

To my amazement, the pilot made a surprise announcement. Apparently, there were three small planes ahead of us with prior landing permission. It was hard to believe any plane ever landed there, but he had definitely said three. It could be up to half an hour before we landed. Looking at the runway below, I took it as half an hour more to live.

With the sudden reprieve from death, my thoughts went back to Todd. His wire had said, Urgent. Heather, please come. Todd never called me Heather, always Heddy or Hed, unless something was wrong. I had tried unsuccessfully to contact him when I’d received his wire. It seemed that no one in Cornish wanted to be of any assistance. It was strange in a way. Todd’s letters were always full of praise for everyone he met in Cornish. He told of how wonderful each person he had met was and how helpful and kind they all were. In Todd’s words, they were very friendly people and definitely great neighbours. That was what he had written: great neighbours. The ones I had talked to were less than polite, to say the least. I didn’t want to prejudge anyone, but friendly they were not. However, they were Todd’s friends. Maybe they were different once you got to know them, I thought. Whatever Cornish and its people were like didn’t matter, though. Todd needed me, and I would soon be there.

I’d grown up in a home devoid of love. I was never hugged or kissed, nor was I scolded or shown hatred. I was not praised or unduly chastised or punished. In my growing-up years, I saw no emotion within my home, only indifference. My life consisted of work, school and Todd—especially Todd. Todd’s home life was no better than mine, but he made my life not only tolerable but happy, and I believed I did the same for him.

Neither one of us suffered physical abuse of any kind, unless you count the bullying ways of Lester, Todd’s older brother. Our only abuse was indifference. It was hard to understand why some people chose to have children, when there was no love or kindness in their hearts and no ability to be real parents offering the expected unconditional love to their children. A child was a gift, and those lucky enough to have children were blessed indeed. What a wonderful opportunity to teach what you knew, share love and experiences and guide a small life to maturity and a life of one’s own. I could think of no greater gift in life. I understood that some people needed their children to help out, but even so, was it so difficult to love them as well?

As the plane circled one more time, I found myself remembering the first time I’d seen Todd. I had always wanted a little brother or sister, and Mrs. Donahue had unknowingly provided me with one. Mrs. Donahue was our next-door neighbour. She was a thin, wiry woman with sharp features and a tongue to match. She was the kind of woman who should have raised cows, goats, sheep or dogs—anything but children. But that would not have been fair to the animals.

When it came to raising children, in her words, it was her duty. There was no other reason. Her husband, Lester, was not much better. Children were to work continuously, speak when spoken to and not under any circumstances cause embarrassment or concern to their parents. In return, they would receive food, clothing and an education as much as possible—nothing else. As Mrs. Donahue once told Mother, Mary, I wasn’t really wanting children, you know. They’re a lot of hard work and a lot of trouble. But it’s expected of us. We married good men, and it’s our job to look after the home. We have to keep the place clean, cook proper meals and produce children. Children help with the work, and they are there to look after us once we are too old to look after ourselves. It’s only proper and fitting to do this. I’ll be glad when this baby of mine is born. Carrying it around for nine months is a chore in itself. Take your Heddy, for example. She’s almost eight. She’s in school all day, and when she’s home, she’s old enough to help out and to earn her keep. I hope this baby of mine is a girl. I could surely use some help around the house. As well, Mary, every man deserves a son, and as you know, we have Lester Jr. It’s not your fault you couldn’t have more children after Heddy was born.

Yes, I know, Wilma, Mother said.

Mary continued. Lester Jr. is a fine, big boy. He’s ten years old now and a big help to his father. In reality, Lester was synonymous with walrus.

Mother rarely got a word in edgewise during their conversations, but Mrs. Donahue never noticed. She just continued to talk, never seeming to run out of words or things to complain about.

Mrs. Donahue was harsh and hard to listen to. Mother never spoke that way, although her actions spoke louder than her words, and I believed she felt the same way as Wilma Donahue. She didn’t articulate that verbally; however, she certainly had the same attitude about having children: parents had them out of duty, and children had to earn their keep. Like the Donahues, she felt that children were to work and not get in the way or get into trouble. She reaffirmed my beliefs with her response to Mrs. Donahue: You’re right, Wilma. Children are almost more trouble than they are worth.

After overhearing the conversation between Mother and Mrs. Donahue, even though I had hoped the baby would be a boy, a brother in my heart, I began to secretly pray it would be a girl. I thought it would be the baby’s only chance of being liked at all. Mrs. Donahue wanted a girl to help her, so hopefully that was what she would have.

Mrs. Donahue’s baby was due a few weeks later. Mother hadn’t told me, nor had she included me in any way or thought for a moment that the news would be exciting for me to know. However, I never expected her to. I could not recall her showing excitement in the almost eight years I had known her, so why would she have done so then?

As young as I was then, I tried to understand why she was the way she was and to determine if it was in any way my fault. I tried hard to ensure that it wasn’t. My chores were always done, and I was sure to always be polite and helpful. I did my schoolwork every day, but nothing ever made a difference. For a time, I looked to Father, hoping he would offer the emotional support I needed, but his response was always the same: Mother will look after anything that needs looking after. Sadly, I gave up looking to him at all.

My parents never noticed how hard I tried. They only noticed when I didn’t try hard enough—or when anyone else didn’t, for that matter. They often spoke of Tommy Thompson, a boy who lived across town. He always seemed to be in trouble, whether at school, at home or in one of the shops downtown. It seemed he liked to help himself to things that did not belong to him. His parents were strict. It was hard to understand how he had the nerve to disobey them or anyone else, yet he did. At school, he often said that they would never defeat him and that he was only biding his time until he could leave. Mother and Father had a lot to say about how they would have handled him and what an ungrateful person he was. I thought so too—except for the bruises.

I learned about the Donahue baby’s due date when I overheard Mother and Mrs. Donahue talking, and I was elated. I couldn’t wait to see the lovely new being. No matter how much Mother and Mrs. Donahue spoke of having a child as being about duty and hard work, for me, it was about a wonderful, exciting new life, and I believed everyone should be happy about it. It would not be long before I was able to see the new little baby, and if I was good and worked hard, I might even be able to hold the baby and perhaps help care for it.

It wasn’t that I’d never seen a baby before. Mrs. Snelgram, who lived down the street, had had a baby boy named Albert a few months earlier, but I didn’t know her well, and she wasn’t too friendly. It seemed she thought of herself as high class. The Snelgrams weren’t rich in the true sense of the word, but compared to most of the people who lived in Wilkston, they were well off. As a child, I only knew that they had flush toilets, and I didn’t know anyone else who did. It was the mid-1950s, and although flush toilets were common in most cities, small towns, such as Wilkston, were not there yet. As foreign as it may seem in the present day, back then, almost every home had its own personal outhouse for everyone’s convenience and relief in both winter and summer. Winter was especially difficult, and the middle of the night was almost impossible. Chamber pots were stashed under every bed, and the unlucky were chosen to dispose of the contents each morning. I was unlucky.

The next few weeks were filled with anxiety and hope. I kept busy in an effort to contain my excitement. I wasn’t able to discuss my feelings with Mother. I knew she would not understand my excitement. To Mother, while the baby might grow up to be a good helper, there would be a lot of work that had to be done in the meantime, so there wasn’t much to get excited about right then. Therefore, I tried hard to contain my growing excitement.

In our house, if you had too much energy and it was noticed, there were always more chores that needed to be done. Chores were not handed out harshly or meanly, but the expectation was that they would be done. Mother handled chore assignments in her usual way. She did not get angry, just as she did not get happy or excited. She performed her duty as a mother as she saw it. I wondered if she was capable of expressing feelings, good or bad. It seemed she was not.

Finally, on March 5, early in the morning, Mrs. Donahue went to the hospital. Mother told me about it when I got up that morning. She hadn’t heard any news yet; she just knew that Mrs. Donahue was in the hospital. That day seemed a week long to me. It was six o’clock in the evening before Mr. Donahue dropped in to let us know they had had another boy. Mother said that it was unfortunate because Mrs. Donahue had wanted a girl and that it would have been nice for her to have someone to help her out in the house. Mr. Donahue agreed; after all, he had Lester Jr. to help him.

After giving it some thought, I told Mother I could help Mrs. Donahue around the house when my chores were done at home. I reasoned that if I did so, Mrs. Donahue wouldn’t need a girl. I explained to Mother that the new baby could then grow up to help Lester and Mr. Donahue. I hated the idea that the new baby would ever be anything like Lester or Mr. Donahue, but putting it that way was in line with what I thought Mother and the Donahues’ way of thinking was.

Inside my almost eight-year-old brain, I was building a case for spending a lot of time at the Donahues’ house and, therefore, a lot of time with the Donahues’ new baby. I wanted desperately to be near the baby. I had never seen him, but I loved him, and I wanted to look after him and protect him, even if I wasn’t sure from what. Mother agreed it was a good idea to help out as long as my chores at home were not neglected and were done first.

With that settled, I was over the top with excitement. The baby would be home in a few days, and I could barely contain my anticipation.

I never had money of my own as a child. There was barely enough to buy the essentials. I wanted to buy a present for the baby but had to settle for a handmade card. I spent three hours one afternoon making it. On the inside, I wrote a note to Mrs. Donahue, telling her I would help her with the housework and with the baby. I told her I understood that she had a lot of work to do, especially now that the baby was here, and I said I would be happy to help her in any way I could. I didn’t say much about the happiness of a new baby, because I wanted her to read what I thought would be important to her. Again, my almost eight-year-old brain was trying to psychoanalyze the situation in order to say the right thing to ensure the right result. In that case, what I really wanted was an excuse—any excuse—to be close to the baby.

Thankfully, I was good in school, and deciding what to say and writing the card were not difficult. When the card was finished, I took it over to the Donahues’ to get Mr. Donahue to deliver it to the hospital. Unfortunately, he wasn’t home, and I had to leave it with Lester. Lester looked at the card and turned up his nose. He didn’t say anything, though. I thought he was thrilled that someone else was willing to help, which meant that maybe he wouldn’t have to.

Mrs. Donahue was in the hospital for six days. Today, women bring their babies home the same day, but not then. Back then, new mothers stayed for a week, and in their mothers’ day, they would stay for two weeks.