Welcome to My Life.

Welcome to My Life.

Hi dear friends and followers. Today I am going to tell you a bit more about me. Take five and relax and have a good read, thank yo my dear web family


I grew up in a little town in central Ontario. I had wonderful, loving parents and my sister and I were provided for. We were not in need of anything.Life was great at home. We had a tourist resort on a 100 - acre lot of forest and had a 1,000 feet of lake frontage. Living there was idyllic.

My problems in life began when I started public school. I was harassed, bullied, and ostracized, for the most part, except when I got on my bike to visit my friends on the reservation that was about five miles from my home.

I became a loner and spent most of my time either in the forest behind the house or out on the lake with one of my dad's rowboats, just spending the day exploring the lake's many tributaries and doing some fishing.

I had very few close friends, but I did meet a girl at school whose name was Helen. She was a street-fighting tomboy. We took to one another and kind of “ran wild” for a time. That made many local tongues wag about the two trashy kids running loose about town.

As I got into my mid-teens I knew that I needed to escape from the oppression and prejudice I was receiving from the wonderful folks of the community, at school, and from the wonderful folks at church who probably thought I was possessed by the devil anyway.

In 1961, at age 15, I ran away from home. Outside of my mom and dad, few people were even aware of my absence during those two years except my antagonists at school.

I took twenty dollars from the cookie jar, slung my bag over my shoulder, and just walked out and left. I hitchhiked my way from the sticks of central Ontario to New York City.

There I joined some so-called “dirty hippies.” That's what most folks back home called them. I had heard so much bad stuff about them but still yearned to learn more about those who appeared to me to be “free” souls.

After arriving in New York, I walked into this restaurant to order something to eat, having to use some of my precious $20.00 which I knew would not last long in the big city. I finished my meal and started to walk out of the restaurant when I heard a couple of girls laughing and I turned to look.

There were four hippie dudes sitting at one table. As I walked by I purposely dropped my small pouch of change on the floor, making a loud enough clunk for one of them to hear. This handsome looking kid with a goatee leaned over gracefully, picked up the pouch, and called my attention. He returned the pouch to me and invited me to sit with them.

After another meal and a good “get acquainted” chat, I was accepted and left with them in their VW microbus. I moved into their commune.

Almost immediately, after I moved in with them in a nearby commune, I fell head over heels in love with this wonderful blond haired, blue eyed boy, Swede, who played the Hawaiian steel guitar.

My greatest contribution towards living and sharing in the commune was making articles of arts and crafts. I would go with a group of other girls to the downtown area to sell our products. It was a rather exciting experience, especially when we saw a policeman coming and we would quickly collect our wares and take the disappearing act in a flurry of laughter and giggles as we ran. Good exercise and adrenal rush, I would say.

We made our way through the many different downtown streets of Manhattan selling our goods to drum up money to use for expenses to keep the commune functioning. The other girls and I worked well together in the commune. Each had their own job to carry out and we just did them.

We were the homemakers, the housekeepers; cooks, dishwashers; washing and mending clothes, and even performing small repairs to the building and such. Working with those runaway girls was a good experience for me for when I would be working as a social worker thirty years later. It was a lot of fun because we could think and do things for ourselves whenever we chose to do so without a taskmaster or overseer. It certainly was a learning experience for me, one I would never get to enjoy again for a good many years if ever again. For two years, I had managed to work harmoniously with both the guys and the girls.

Unfortunately, I knew I had to leave New York in 1963 when the revolts and demonstrations started and the harassment from the law became more frequent and harsh. I had to return home. As much as I loved James, I also knew that I was not ready to make a commitment and had no desire in prolonging the agony of having to move on. Leaving the commune was inevitable and it would only make the situation more painful the longer I waited.

When I got back home I went back to school and upgraded my learning to the level of the first year college. Then I took a course in architectural and mechanical designing through an adult retraining program.

That didn't do much towards obtaining a good paying job for me. I worked at a couple of places in my profession, then everything just dried up, thanks to the advent of computers doing the same work as an engineering draftsperson in a fraction of the time.

So I got a job working at a local dynamite factory. It was good money but heavy work. Let's just say I have at times struggled picking up sacks and containers of stuff that were nearly as big as I was, and I weighed all of 115 pounds at the time. Some of those sacks weighed up to 100 lbs. There was no way I was going to let the guys think I couldn’t do it.

In my early twenties, I had the ambition and honestly tried to get some really unique ideas started. For example, I wanted to open a recreational facility that had go-karts with knobby wheels on a dirt track. At the time, I owned a small resort that I had inherited from my parents. I already had a trailer park, and a boat rental business and forty-five acres of land to develop the go-kart track.

But I was not very experienced in finding investors or startup money to finance such a project and my idea blew away with the wind. I might as well have been whistling in the dark in a hurricane! I was also a copilot of a bush plane with this guy I met who lived across the lake from me. I even drove 18-wheeled transport trucks for a while. Being female didn’t slow down my ambitions at all. I didn’t give a rat's ass what people thought of me or what I was doing for work.

During the 80s I got married and had three children, 2 girls and 1 boy. Five years after that, our relationship just went sour. It had deteriorated to the point of abuse and I had to go, so I packed up the kids and went to my friend's place on the reservation.

It wasn’t long before my ex found where I was and the kids were taken by Children’s Aid. I lost the property, an inheritance left me by my mom and dad, that was evaluated at $500,000.

Finding myself alone with nowhere in particular to go, I went home and picked up a few things then left again, with my drunken, psychotic, bi-polar ex throwing stuff at the car. That was the end of six years of mental and physical abuse, I hoped. I woke up the next day with my feet stuck out the window of my car in some bush area in North Carolina that turned out to be a bear sanctuary.

I worked at a whole mess of low paying, temporary jobs on farms, like mending fences, painting houses, house cleaning, cleaning out barns, fruit picking; I worked in restaurants, and I just wandered about from place to place with my truck and camper like a Gypsy. But I did cover a lot of real estate and I saw a lot of different places and “men” (hee, hee). I met many different folks and found that each place I arrived at had a different personality. I traveled half of eastern U.S. and Canada.

It wasn't until about 18 years ago that I discovered why folks thought I was a mite odd and why they were kind of reticent or uncomfortable around me. I had learned from experience to learn to keep certain seeings, knowings and feelings I picked up from others to myself. It came to a point where the consequences of sharing my knowings with someone was just too frightening, so I kept it to myself, like I already had to do so many times before in the past.

I would suppress it and the best way I discovered to do that was by drinking copious mounts of alcohol. The demon within had to be quieted. I just simply wasn’t aware that not all people had these feelings and not knowing I just had to continue to suppress this sometimes seemingly uncontrollable urgent need and desire to run out onto the street pulling at my hair screaming.

I didn’t know of any other human that could possibly know about this curse, except maybe a priest. I shuddered at that thought. I thought of what I had already thought about, that some would call it demonic possession or something to that effect. I had no desire to relive that again. I met this wonderful pastor at the Anglican church where I worked in the basement in a drop in center for street people and the homeless.

After some deliberation with the pastor she put me at ease, guaranteeing me I wasn't crazy, going to hell, nor was I demon possessed. She recommended me a psychiatrist who was my mentor for nearly twenty years.

Cynthia ©

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