3) Everyone has a story. This is mine.
In my day, it didn’t matter if you were rich or poor; growing up in the 30’s depression wasn’t easy. So imagine the chances of my mom, a single mother and I surviving the cold, the hunger and the hardship. After dad had died in the Great War, mom grew ill, and I was faced with terrible notion that if I didn’t take charge we would not make through Montreal’s winter. By chance I was hired to clean the aisles of a theatre; not a classy theatre but one where at least the orchestras came to play every Saturday night. The week’s pay was no more than enough to purchase the bare necessities, but I pulled through. I did not have the clothes, the schooling nor the money, but I had music to fill my soul.
Mom died soon after my 21st birthday.
Alone and terrified, I married Scott one of my fellow co-workers whom which also shared a passion for music. Like me, he was just a poor boy from an even poorer family, but did he ever have the talent to play the violin. I would write the concertos, he would perform in town. As time went by, we were asked to join a musical ensemble from Toronto. News was, there was much prosperity in the music business in the nearby province, so we gathered the few belonging we had and left the ghettos of Montreal to try our luck in Toronto.
Then, everything took a turn for the worse. My concertos were not good enough for the big city. The ensemble grew apart. Scott and I spoke very little English, and we knew we didn’t have what it takes to make a living. Scott began drinking. When I was pregnant...