The Power of Family Stories

Writing the Lansdowne Letters was a daunting, but ultimately healing, process for me.
The more time I spent with my family's letters and photos,
the more I felt my parent's love wrapped around me.
Despite the challenges and hardships of living in an isolated northern community,
my time in Lansdowne House was some of the happiest in my childhood.

Happy Days in Lansdowne House

Mom, Gretchen (dachshund), Roberta (clockwise), Donnie, Roy, Barbara, and Louise (me) 

Shore of Attawapiskat Lake, Northern Ontario, Canada

June 4, 2018

© M. Louise (MacBeath) Barbour/Fundy Blue

All Rights Reserved

When you are a small child, the life you experience is normal for you.

You may not realize that your life is different

when compared with the lives of your friends and neighbors.

I had no idea how different my life was.

Sixty plus years ago, before television became common,

before computers and cell phones, before the internet and social media,

children were more sheltered from events beyond their doors.

And in many families, children were shielded from problems

that affected their parents or their extended families.

Sheltered Days in Charlottetown

My Brother Roy, My Sister Donnie (on sled) and Me (Louise) 

Edward Street, Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island, Canada

Likely Winter 1955-56

© M. Louise (MacBeath) Barbour/Fundy Blue

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There is no question our parents sheltered us from their problems.

We heard the good, and the bad was hidden.

My childhood was filled with wonderful stories,

told by compelling storytellers on both sides of my family.

Family stories passed from generation to generation and were repeated over and over.

It didn't matter if we had heard them before.

Comfort, reassurance, and love filled us as familiar stories were retold.

On one of the last nights of my mother's life,

while she still in the hospital and before she came home to die in palliative care,

my brother Roy took the midnight shift by her bed.

He had just flown in from Kuwait and had slept some on his flight.

Those of us who had been there for many, many hours

asked if he could stay overnight with Mom, so we could go home and get a little sleep.

Roy willingly agreed, even though he admitted that

he was nervous about spending long hours alone with Mom. 

Her tenuous state and all the unknowns were unsettling.  

When we returned early the next morning, I asked Roy how it went.

He said, "It was one of the best nights of my life.

I'm so glad that I got to be there with Mom."

Mom and Roy

Christmas Hug

Calgary, Alberta, Canada

2001

© M. Louise (MacBeath) Barbour/Fundy Blue

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"What happened?" I asked, surprised and relieved.

"When Mom came to, she was shocked to see me, but so happy I was there.

She wanted to talk, and we shared all the old family stories.

We laughed and cried and had so much fun.  It was the best time, Weese."

My mother made a brief and miraculous recovery.

"Resurrection," was her doctors' term.

Medical staff kept coming by all day to visit.  

They couldn't believe that our mother was alive.

She was discharged and spent several exquisitely precious days with us.

I think that shared retelling of our family stories

helped propel my mother out of that hospital bed

to come home with us, even briefly.

Such is the power of family stories.

Holding It Together for a Last Family Photo

Bertie, Roy, Me, Barb, and Donnie

Mom with Daxie on her lap

Calgary, Alberta, Canada

May 19, 2002

© M. Louise (MacBeath) Barbour/Fundy Blue

All Rights Reserved

Not all family stories are filled with fun and love.

Some are darker stories, whispered about through the years.

Often they are conversations among adults overheard by curious children like me,

children who grow up, ask questions, and pass these stories along.

My family has its share of dark stories handed down:

tragic fires, religious strife, betrayal, alcoholism, and jealousy,

families ripped apart and devastating illnesses, even a possible murder.

The whispered story that frightened me most as a child

was the story of the mental illness that plagued my father's family.

This illness had struck each generation beginning with my great grandfather Pratt.

Beyond that we couldn't trace, for he had arrived in Prince Edward Island

as a young and unknown orphan on a boat from Scotland. 

It struck my father who grappled with manic depression throughout his life,

and I worried that this darkness would come to me.

"Don't worry, Weesie," Mom would assure me.

"You have all my good MacDonald blood to protect you."

My Mother and I 

(Me ~ perpetually tied on, because I was a runner)

Smith's Cove, Nova Scotia, Canada

Summer 1951 or 1952

© M. Louise (MacBeath) Barbour/Fundy Blue

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Despite my mother's comforting assurances, the same illness

with its wild emotional swings, depression, and suicidal thoughts passed to me.

I have struggled over whether or not I should address this in my memoir.

But a memoir is about truth, and my story wouldn't be truthful if I omitted this.

Throughout my life my feelings toward my father and his illness changed.

As a small child I learned to read his moods and know when to lay low.

As a teenager I was angry with him because of the impact of his illness on our family,

then frightened as I began to recognize his illness in me.

As an adult I struggled with my depression, anxiety, and suicidal urges on my own,

watching helplessly from afar as my father's mental and physical health spiraled down.

A decade after his death in 1984, I finally sought treatment.

It changed my life for the better and continues to do so.

I spent a lot of time thinking about how different things might have been,

if my father had had access to modern treatments like me. 

When I retired, I decided to confront my past,

and I began to read my family letters and other documents.

I started a blog and began to post The Lansdowne Letters,

sharing family stories of our time in the North.

As I worked through my father's letters, I excavated my personal muskeg,

discovering things that I longed for and others unlooked for and unexpected.

I began to see my father's life and mine through the lens of maturity.

I began to understand the magnitude of my father's struggle

and, despite all his misfortunes, the depth of his love and sacrifices for his family.

I found my hero again.

Most importantly, I came to understand my younger self,

my Lac Seul self, to be kinder and gentler with her.

Such is the power of family stories.

Two Unforgettable Brothers 

Fritz and John with Bertie and Barbie

(and likely Roy behind Fritz)

Lac Seul, Ontario, Canada

Summer 1961

© M. Louise (MacBeath) Barbour/Fundy Blue

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My Father with a Furry Friend 

St. Peter's Bay, Prince Edward Island, Canada

Circa 1930

© M. Louise (MacBeath) Barbour/Fundy Blue

All Rights Reserved

     

Till next time ~

Fundy Blue

On the Bay of Fundy
Nova Scotia, Canada
July 31, 2014  
© M. Louise (MacBeath) Barbour/Fundy Blue

All Rights Reserved