Forces in the Air: An Autobiography of a Canadian Forces Brat
by Gaye Louise Trumley Parisotto
“There’s no life like it,” and Ms Trumley-Parisotto will attest to that. In the days before the recognition of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, life could be miserable for a family in the Forces. Ms Trumley tells of a post-WWII childhood with constant moving, ostracization by classmates, a strict father who drank to excess to cope with his own inner demons, and a subsequently low self-esteem in herself. This could be a dark story, but Ms Trumley-Parisotto tells it with humour and hope, cathartic for both writer and reader. 108 pages, ISBN: 978-0-9811737-8-8, published by Crowe Creations. $11.95 + S&H Available from the author at gayetrumley@crowecreations.ca or from Crowe Creations at info@crowecreations.ca.
EXCERPT
I imagined a normal home where you were raised up in the same city or town, same church, same grocery stores, same school and high school, same neighbours, relatives, a small piece of property with a fence or not — maybe a dog or cat — where everyone knew each other and when they passed by they acknowledged their children maybe with a hello Gino or Lena, how’s the family doing.
No, I soon found out not for everyone. We were The Unit, a unit of seven. Officially labelled Air Force Brats. Nomads.
I was baptized in Fort St John, British Columbia, Canada, in the United Church in 1947. I was born August 7, 1946 in Toronto at St. Mary’s Hospital on Jarvis Street.
Quite a different focus, eh?
I was a born dreamer. Mom said Dad and she would hear me talking through a skylight of their apartment for hours.
Dad left on a training session two days before I was born. Mom went into labour and there was no doctor available at the time. The nurse could not deliver me so she closed my mom’s legs up and waited for the doctor to arrive. They conked her out with a mask of ether and when she awoke, no baby. She said she went into panic mode and asked where her baby was. I was brought to her with a pointed egg head and she had to rub oil all over my head to smooth it out. Dad held me two and a half months after I was born and was bedazzled.
She said her first born was by a midwife in a house. He was her easiest, but with the last one she almost crossed over to the other side.
My very first memory of Fort St. John was my older brother coming home and telling my mother his upper arm hurt. He said a dog had bit him. She was quick on her feet, pulled his jacket sleeve away from his arm and from the look of horror on her face, I knew something bad had happened. His flesh was hanging from under his arm and he went for stitches. The next thing I heard was she was going to “kill that dog.” She told my dad to report it, but because he played with the CO’s (Commanding Officer) children, it was their dog. Case closed.