On the farm
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Fiction
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Moral rights
S.E. Saunders asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
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S.E. Saunders has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
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Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.
Authors Note:
While the assertion above states the stories found in this book are fictional, I will include notes where the stories aren't fiction. The following is based on events from my life.
Indelible marks on one's life cannot be erased, but the outcome can be mitigated. You can salvage what pieces are left and knit them into something of beauty. I genuinely believe this. How could I not when I exist for this very reason?
As my mother told it, her elder sister began dating the man who would eventually become my uncle, and they introduced my mother to his older brother. While I don't have all the details, I was told that my newly introduced parents went out for the night with them and shared some champagne and half a glass of baby duck champagne. I was born nine months later.
I stopped typing as I examined this because I'm relying on recollections of conversations more than forty years old. What Mom described doesn't sound as innocent as it did then. Especially knowing the parties involved as I do now. Father was born in 1951, and mother in 1955. She was seventeen when I was born. A naive girl from an abusive background meets her sister's boyfriend's brother. He gets her drunk so he can sleep with her. It actually sounds a lot like date r*pe. My mom was always the type of woman to gloss over the ugly though, so maybe there's more to this than I'll ever know.
Four months later, Mom and Dad are getting married. A single black and white Polaroid photo of her on the steps of my grandparent's house shows mom in a mini skirt dress and platform go-go boots. On her head is a tiny little puff representing a veil. She looks happy enough, like a newly minted penny who doesn't know it's about to be pressed beyond its shape on the railroad of life.
I recall her stating my Papa (grandpa) asked if she was sure she wanted to marry my father and that there was no shame in living at home and raising me on her own. I sometimes wonder how life for her would have turned out if she'd chosen to do this instead. But, my grandfather was also exceedingly harsh. The type of man to beat his children for eating a can of peaches. My mother's soft, non-confrontational nature likely saw an opportunity out of the life she was in, and she married my father to escape. She thought better times lay ahead because my father hadn't shown her who he was. She also tells me she worked until she was eight months pregnant at the A&W on 97th Street in Edmonton.
Nine months later, I came into the world after several hours of hard labour and I recall her words from the time. "I didn't want a baby." These words scarred me, and I held them in my heart with sorrow for a long time. At least until I stepped into her shoes sixteen years later.