When me an Sister Irene was back inside her car I suddenly felt awful tired. I hoped nobody’d moved into Mabel’s place under the stairs. It was a cold an rainy night an it sure would be a nice place to sleep.
“Ruby Jean, I was wondering if you’d tell me something?”
“Yup, I’d do anythin for you, Sister Irene. You helped me an Mabel.”
“Well, then can you tell me how you ended up living on the streets?”
That was a hard question Sister Irene asked me. But I did my best to tell her the answer. “It’s not that I wanna be homeless, Sister Irene. I jus dint never wanna go back to Woodlands. Bad’s it is to be cold an hungry an have no home — it’s bedder than bein yelled at an called names, or bein bossed round all the time an hit — and it’s specially bedder than bein touched in places where ya don’t wanna be touched.
“I had a nice home when I lived with Gramma. But she went to heaven. Nex best place in the world to live was with Nan an Pops. But when Pops went to heaven I was fraid of goin back to Woodlands. So I made myself a promise. I told myself, ‘Ruby Jean, you never goin back there — nope, no matter what.’ So that’s why I sleep on the streets, Sister Irene.”
“Hmm, I see.” Then Sister Irene put her hand on mine. “Well, for tonight — would you come and sleep at my home?”
Sometimes I can jus tell bout a person — if they’re good or bad. And I could tell Sister Irene was a nice lady — yup, awful nice.
“Okay, I’ll sleep at your place tonight, Sister Irene.” I was secretly glad I dint have to sleep outside cause it was awful cold an wet.
I dint member ever sleepin so good as that night on Sister Irene’s sofa. Sides bein real tired, I think I jus felt safe there. I slept all through the night but all mornin too.
“Good afternoon, Ruby Jean,” Sister Irene said when I woke up. “My goodness, but you were tired. You must have needed a good, long sleep. Are you hungry?”
I was still tired an could’ve slept some more, but I liked to eat. Yup, probly my favourite thing to do in the whole world. “Sister Irene, do you have toast an tea?”
She laughed. “Yes, but I’d be happy to make you something more interesting — like an omelette or porridge.”
“That’s okay. I like toast an tea best.” I dint have toast an tea since I left Nan an Pops’s place. Sister Irene let me make my own breakfast in her liddle kitchen. An it turned out to be the best breakfast I ever had in my life — yup, the best.
“Ruby Jean, I hope you won’t be upset with me …”
Sister Irene looked jittery — like the way I got sometimes. But I dint think I never could get mad at her — nope, never.
“I called Social Services this morning while you were sleeping. They put me in touch with Mrs. Gentry — your caseworker. She says your family’s been very worried about you and have been looking for you.”
“But, Sister Irene, I got no family, cept Mabel.” I got a sudden sad feelin cause I loved Nan. But she an Mrs. Gentry was gunna have to take me back to Woodlands. An no matter what I was never gunna go back there — nope, never.
A liddle later somebody knocked on Sister Irene’s door.
“Ruby Jean, would you get that, please?” Sister Irene asked.
I dint mind, cause I liked to be helpful. But when I opened that door I got a awful big surprise — yup, it was Nan. She rushed in an gave me a hug — the kinda hugs my Gramma used to give me when I was liddle an she’d wrap me up inside her arms. But then I could tell there was someone else huggin me too — an when I looked up I saw who it was.
“Pops?” I cried. “Yer here. I thought you went to heaven in the amblance.” I dint think I been so surprised in my life — nope, wasn’t sure if I was sposed to laugh or cry so I did both.
“Is that what you thought, Ruby Jean?” Nan asked. “Did you think Pops died?” I nodded cause suddenly I couldn’t say nothin on account of the cryin. “Pops did get sick, honey — very sick. That’s why the ambulance came and took him to the hospital.”
“The hospital? Jus like Mabel?”
“Who’s Mabel, dear?”
I was too busy huggin Nan an Pops, so Sister Irene told em all bout Mabel.
“It seems Ruby Jean misunderstood what happened to Mr. Williams. Then she overheard you and your son and thought she’d be sent back to Woodlands. That’s the reason she ran away.”
Sister Irene told em all bout how I got food from the soup kitchen an slept hind the Bamboo Smoke Shop in Chinatown or in the toilet at Pigeon Park or under the stairs of Pioneer Laundry — when Mabel let me.
“I had no idea you thought I’d send you back to Woodlands, Ruby Jean,” Nan said. “I’d never do that … you’re family now. And as you can see, dear, Pops is quite well. He didn’t go to heaven in the ambulance.”
Pops laughed. “That’s for sure. I’m right here for you Ruby Jean … and I want you to come home.”
So I went home that day with Nan an Pops an got to sleep in my own bed. Nother thing — I had toast an tea three times fore I went to sleep that night. Nan an Pops took me to see Mabel the nex day — she looked lot bedder too. She tried givin me back the present I gave her. But I told her she had to keep it to member me by. She cried some more after that — I dint mean to make her cry. I told her I was sorry.
“It’s all right, Ruby Jean,” Nan said. “You made her very happy.”
I told Mabel I wasn’t gunna be homeless no more. I told her Mrs. Gentry could find her a good home too — like mine. But Mabel dint like that idea.
“Just so ya don’t think I’m not grateful, let me explain something. I’ve been on the streets for a long time. I know it’s not the best life, but it’s mine. I’m like one of those pioneers who came out west and opened up new territory. I live off the land, take what I need, and don’t owe nobody nothin. I come and go as I please and don’t do anything I don’t want to — that’s because I’m my own boss.”
I think I knowed zackly what Mabel meant.
“A long time ago, before I was sent to Riverview, I used to have a job sorting letters for the post office. Most letters fit into the slots just fine — that’s because they were all the same size. But every so often one came along that was too long or too wide and had to be put in the oversize drawer. For a letter sorter that was a nuisance — created more work, more effort.”
I thought bout how nice it was that Mabel used to have a job at the post office.
“What I’m trying to say is I figure you and me are kind of like those oversize letters. We didn’t fit into any of the usual places — we weren’t like the others — so some people thought we had to be put somewhere separate. With you it was Woodlands. With me it was Riverview. But we got lucky — we got away. And just like you, I ain’t never going back. That’s why I chose the streets … it’s where I want to be. So don’t worry about me, kid. I’m a survivor.” Then Mabel smiled at me. “Doesn’t mean I’d say no to a little money now and then.”
I never sawed Mabel again after that. Sometimes I thought bout her an bout goin to the soup kitchen to see how she was doin. But then I membered what she said — bout bein fine an bout not worryin bout her. Nan helped me to mail her some money care of Sister Irene. Got a letter back one day an Pops read it to me.
Dear Ruby Jean,
It was very kind of you to send money for Mabel. She is very fortunate to have a friend like you.
We’re getting ready for winter and passing out blankets and coats every day to the needy. The church is setting up beds in the basement too for those willing to come in out of the cold. I’m glad you’re not one of them.
Now that you’re safely back home, dear girl, it’s time to focus on the future. In the Bible there’s a passage — it’s one of my favourites: “I will restore to you the years that the locusts have eaten.” Joel 2:25. Just remember, Ruby Jean, that good things come to those who trust and wait.
Your friend,
Sister Irene
I dint understand that part bout the
locusts. That’s cause I never learnt bout those kinda things before. Nan esplained it to me.
“I think what Sister Irene is trying to say is you’ve had some very difficult times in your life, but from now on things are going to be better — much better.” Then Nan hugged me tight.
chapter 10
All that happened long time ago — yup, long, long ago. But then somethin else happened jus last week … somethin I dint ever think would happen. I went back to Woodlands — yup, jus for a visit. Nobody lives there no more on account of it closed in 1996.
At first I dint want to go, but Nan said it was important us ones who survived be there for the celebration. They was openin a special garden — called the Woodlands Memorial Garden. There was speeches an singin an people cryin too — yup, a awful lot of cryin. The part I liked best was the cake an seein some of em kids who use to live at Woodlands. Cept they wasn’t kids no more — some even had grey hair an wrinkles too. Dint see nobody from Ward 33 — nope, it was jus me. Wished I coulda seen Susan, but I dint knowed what happened to her. I never spected to see Norval on account of he died — yup, died long time ago. I always wondered if he ever got his wish to see a real-life hockey game — somehow I dint think so.
In that memorial garden they had a big monument with some of em old headstones — the ones the worker men dug up long time ago from the cemetery. Nan helped me find Willy Bennett’s headstone. Norval would’ve liked that. Jus when I was bout to get myself nother piece of that cake, Nan said I had to meet somebody.
“Ruby Jean, I want you to meet Don Turner,” she said. “He’s a reporter from the newspaper. He’d like to talk to you about Woodlands.”
Mr. Turner smiled at me. “Hi, Ruby Jean. Nice to meet you.”
Nan an me walked with Mr. Turner to the bench cross from the headstone monument. We sat watchin the people. Some were readin the signs, others walked long the pathway to that sculpture of barred windows too high for anybody to see outta. I liked watchin the kids best — they was laughin an chasin each other round. Some was eatin cake. I hoped I was gunna get some more of that cake later too.
“Ruby Jean, it’s been sixteen years since you left Woodlands. Do you think you could tell me a bit about what it was like growing up here?”
That Mr. Turner had a liddle tape recorder — it was so small it fit inside his pocket. I looked down at his hands — he was holdin a notepad an pen. He had real nice hands — yup, skin was smooth an fingers long an straight. Not a’tall like my hands with their red bumpy scars from all em years of scratchin an wrenchin em. An he sure looked like a nice man. But all the same I dint think I wanted to tell him bout my old life. I mostly tried not memberin so much bout it. Nan said I shouldn’t never forget — she said I gotta member for the ones who can’t.
I looked round the garden some more. I knowed it was the same place, but it dint look the same as back then. For one thing all em prickle trees have fat trunks now that make em look like big-bottomed ladies. And at the end of the garden, the old oak tree looks like a green ghost from all the moss coverin its branches. Jus then a train whistle blowed down by the river — jus like it use to when I was a liddle kid.
Down the hill was em old buildins — they looked same as they always did. Well, not zackly the same — they was empty an some of the windows was broken an the paint was peelin too. I had a funny fellin bout em buildings. Nobody lived there no more, but I kinda wondered if maybe there was spirits still inside. Ya know, spirits of sad liddle kids who died long time ago … kids like Jimmie T … who got trapped inside forever an ever. Were they still lookin out those barred windows, hopin to see someone who cared bout em? I looked hard at all em windows an waved — jus in case.
I told Mr. Turner he could turn on his recorder. I dint wanna be eight again, dint wanna walk through all em locked doors in my head — down bare hallways or into the bad kid room or the cold showers — but I knowed I had to. Yup, had to say somethin for all those ones who dint never get a chance.
“My name’s Ruby Jean Sharp an I growed up in Woodlands School,” I began to tell him. “That wasn’t a nice place for a liddle kid — nope, not a nice place a’tall. Sometimes the uniforms was happy with me an called me Sharp-as-a-Tack. Then some days they wasn’t happy cause I’d scratch an bite an wet myself. When I was bad the uniforms shouted at me an called me names, like retard. I sure dint like bein called that. They called me that on account of they dint think I was too smart, but they was wrong. I know lots of things. An I sure am glad people don’t use that word no more … ya know, the word retard. That’s cause it’s not nice … hurts people’s feelins.”
I told Mr. Turner all bout the bad things at Woodlands an the good things too — like my friends Susan an Norval … bout Christmas Day, when we got to eat turkey an soft lumpy tatoes an watched movies with lots of singin an angels an happy families. An bout some of the uniforms an volunteers who tried to help us kids.
“But Woodlands is all hind me now, Mr. Turner. I got a good life now livin with Nan an Pops. I knowed not everybody likes people like me … an sometimes I don’t like them neither. But we all gotta right to be here … to be happy.
“Best part is I got a job an earn my own money. I make birdhouses an flower boxes at Cranfield’s Nursery. How do ya like that for apples? On payday me an Ronald — that’s my boyfriend — we take the bus to town to see the movies every Saturday night and I treat. An nother thing — I’m the one who decides what I’m gunna wear every day an what I’m gunna watch on TV an when I’m gunna go to bed. Now with all that good stuff wouldn’t you be happy too, Mr.Turner?”
He laughed an switched off his liddle tape recorder. “Yes, I guess I would, Ruby Jean.”
Jus then a liddle blond curly head popped up from hind the bench. “Aunt Ruby Jean, look! My shoe’s undone again.” Issie is Nan an Pops’ granddaughter — she jus turned four. “Will you show me how to do it up again?”
I lifted her onto my knee an squeezed her tight. Couldn’t help rubbin her soft hair the way I used to do to Barbra. “Boy oh boy … you sure growed a lot, Issie. Is that cause you been eatin too much?” She smiled at me with eyes as big an round as sunflowers. That made me feel warm inside an I jus had to kiss her. “Say hello to Mr. Turner, Isabella.”
Issie shook her head an pointed at her shoe.
“Okay, give me your hands an I’ll show you how to tie your shoes.” Then I sang the liddle song Mrs. Gentry taught me long time ago. “Criss cross an under the bridge, got to pull it tight. Make a loop but keep a tail, that’s how to do it right. Then you take the other string, wrap it round the loop. Pull it through the peepin hole, now ya’ve got the scoop.”
Jus then I noticed there was an old crow on the lawn not far away. His head was bent to one side like he was awful interested in what me an Issie was doin — yup, awful interested.
“Look, Issie, that’s old Mister Crow.” She jumped off my lap and tried to catch him. But he was havin none of that. He jus flew away — yup, flew off into the bright blue sky — free as a bird.
author’s note
When I was a kid, there was one word that grated on my nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard: retard. That’s because my older sister, who was born with Down syndrome, was often stared at, made fun of, and called names like retard by others who didn’t know any better. When I was thirteen, I looked up the word in a dictionary and found that one definition simply read: “slow or delayed learning.” I didn’t think that sounded so bad — after all, everyone has something they find difficult to learn or master — and that took the sting out of the word for me.
At the time of Jane’s birth in 1954 the attending doctor told my parents there was a good chance she would be blind, would never learn to walk, and wouldn’t likely live beyond the age of five. He also explained there was no support available to help care for her and that she would be a burden to the family. His recommendation was to have her placed in an institution for the “mentally retarded” — a term used back then. The d
octor’s limited knowledge and attitude were quite typical for those days.
I’m grateful my parents weren’t influenced by the dark predictions for Jane’s future and instead brought her home from the hospital. As she grew, she had perfect vision. And she not only learned to walk, but to run, skip, and jump, too.
Jane lived into her mid-thirties. By the time of her death, she had a job and a boyfriend and lived in her own apartment. She had a full life and was loved by many. What more could one ask for from their time here on earth?
When I was younger, I had a fierce desire to defend my sister against the ridicule of others. Then, as a young adult, I enrolled in a college training program for special needs children and others with learning disabilities. One of my first jobs was working at Woodlands School. My employment in that bleak institution in New Westminster, British Columbia, lasted six long months. While I was there, I realized what my sister’s life might have been like if my parents had taken the doctor’s advice. I’m certain she would never have reached her full potential had she been one of those fifteen hundred people who spent their lives hidden out of sight and locked behind doors.
I left Woodlands to work for the Community Living Society, an organization started by parents and caring staff who fought to get residents out of Woodlands School and into group homes in the community. The Community Living Society and other associations like it were instrumental in bringing an end to the institutionalization of disabled people in British Columbia and seeing to it that Woodlands closed forever.
The characters and events in this novel are fictitious. However, Woodlands School, as mentioned earlier, actually did exist. There were many similar government-run institutions throughout Canada and the United States, but like Woodlands, many of them have been closed. Unfortunately, there are still such places to be found both north and south of the border.
Woodlands began in 1878 as the Provincial Lunatic Asylum. Soon after it opened, a report was written with the following description of the facility: “The place is gloomy in the extreme, the corridors narrow and sombre, the windows high and unnecessarily barred…. The establishment exceedingly overcrowded…. The patients being herded together more like cattle than human beings” (Commission of Enquiry Report of the Provincial Asylum for the Insane, 1878). The name of the place was changed in 1950 to Woodlands School, though at best there were only twelve teachers for more than fifteen hundred “students.”
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