Betty Gillis
was a mother who stood out in our suburban neighbourhood.
Her
husband Robert was a serious
alcoholic, something we did not need to refer to by any words. The
couple managed hotels and
motels for their living, and Betty
owned real estate as well. She called herself a business woman. So she
worked, and the
burden of the work was more upon
her.
She
read extensively, and all types of novels, biographies, and
nom-fiction.
She was smart. I remember seeing
books by Jean Paul Sartra, Albert Camut, Tolstoi and Dickens among the
hundreds of classics
lining her living room shelves. That
was unusual in those days, and maybe even now.
She
was independent, and took holidays
separately from her husband and her
children, flying off to Mexico, and talking about handsome the men were.
She especially
liked the movie star Clint Eastwood,
and talked about him to us.
She
was devout, a Roman Catholic,
saddled with a heavily drinking
mate, never abandoning him or her children, except for her much needed
tropical vacations.
She
was generous, baking German bundt
cakes for Barbara and me, bringing them over to our Selma Street house
in Burnaby, on a
weekly basis, artistic looking
creations that looked even better than they tasted.
She
had a salty, down to earth, practical
way of talking, and a feminine,
elegant way of dressing - clothes that went out of style for a while,
but are now coming back
with a vengeance. Sleeveless
sundresses with boned bodices, and flaring full skirts. Rustling
taffetas, and fabrics without
an ounce of synethics in them:
wools, cottons, silks.
Mr.
Gillis was never really violent nor abusive, but his drinking caved
a hole in the unity of their family
life, just as the promiscuity of my father sunk my own family, as the
iceberg sank the
Titanic.
After Barara's parents bought their motel on Kingsway Boulevard, I used to take the bus over there on the weekends
to hang out with Barb, sleeping overnight on a rollaway cot in her bedroom.
In
the mornings, we made French toast,
piles of it, a favourite breakfast
food, with endless coffee, to discuss crucial interests, like our latest
infatuations on
boys and what to do about them.
One
memorable and poignant visit, I remember arriving to discover that
Mr. Gillis, in a drunken state, had
killed the family's pet budgie the night before. We were all so shocked,
we were as speechless
as the now departed bird.
And Betty continued on, baking her German bundt cakes, a
good Canadian
woman, a wife and a mother.
She was as stoicical as my own mother was verbiose, two
responses to difficulties
in marriage.
Both loving mothers who had tried their
best at wedlock, and perhaps deserved more.