by Jeanne Beker
When Denny did leave, I felt horrendously guilty. It was as if I had failed the girls in my inability to hang on to their dad, in becoming so utterly undesirable that he felt forced to tear himself away from them. Some parents may have fought to conceal their pain, to put on a brave face and not let their children witness their heartache. But my girls were everything to me, and I needed them to know that I was crushed, that my dreams, as well as theirs, were being smashed.
The hardest thing for them to understand was why their father, who loved them so much, was leaving home. We would talk about it just before bedtime, up in Joey’s room. I explained that this wasn’t about them. Daddy adored them, I said. It was all my fault: He just didn’t love me anymore, and that was making him unhappy. “He does so love you, Mum!” Joey would insist, desperately trying to make me feel better. And then the ever-astute Bekky would chime in, trying to make sense of the wretched situation for Joey, for all of us. “No, he doesn’t love her anymore, Joey!” she’d say fiercely. And that, of course, would make Joey cry. And I would cry. And this went on for days and weeks and months, until we all slowly began to learn to live with this sudden void in our lives.
My writing became a welcome therapy for me. I had always shared so much with readers in my regular Flare magazine columns, which I began writing in 1994. But in 1999, I had the opportunity to share even more with all those who had grown up watching me when I was given a weekly syndicated column in the Southam chain of newspapers. The columns could be about anything I chose to write about. Often, they reflected the stories I was working on for Fashion Television. But sometimes, I would write about my personal life—about the trials and tribulations of raising my girls, and my observations about this rollercoaster existence I was leading as a mother, daughter, career woman, and impassioned fashionista.
I adored the time I spent writing, especially when it was in my office on the second floor of our house. When I wasn’t pulled away by travelling assignments, I tried to spend as many hours as possible at home with the girls, helping them with homework or cuddling up in blankets on the big comfy couch with our dog, Beau, watching old movies. The most luxurious time for me was when I’d tucked them safely and snugly into bed in their third-floor rooms and then headed downstairs to my office sanctuary with a giant mug of tea, lit a fire in the small fireplace, and wrote into the wee hours. The opportunity to review the accomplishments, setbacks, and insights that crowded my life in this focused, concentrated way always filled me with awe. The columns I wrote about the girls seemed to garner the most attention. Bekky and Joey were intrigued to know which of them—or which particular trial—would become the subject of a column, and they never really winced too much when they saw our personal stories in print. Often, they seemed rather proud, if a little surprised, to think that our family travails were captivating readers of my columns. I had evidently struck a chord with parents who were raising adolescents. I always wrote from the heart—and while I did have to censor myself to some degree, I took pride in the fact that I was as candid as I could be. Initially, the girls were a little uneasy about all this, but as time went on, they accepted my judgment about what I chose to share with readers. The positive feedback we got was always fun and very welcome. It was heartening to know that I wasn’t alone. There were countless parents out there struggling to figure things out, get it right, carry on a rich and meaningful relationship with their kids.
I began writing my column for the National Post in 2001. Then I switched to The Globe and Mail in 2003, when we launched FQ, which was distributed by that paper. Some columns resonated more loudly than others, and I revelled in gauging which stories mattered most by the quantity of reader mail that came my way. The column about my struggle with the girls over their messy bedrooms was a hit. My artist friend Vivian Reiss finally convinced me that we waste too much precious time arguing with our kids over minor issues. So instead of abhorring the tornado-like conditions on the third floor, I learned to embrace the chaos by viewing it not as a disaster but as a kind of art installation—an ode to the girls’ unbridled energy.
The column that described my shock at seeing Bekky’s first tattoo also made an impact. Dozens of parents across the country could really relate to that one. But one of the most popular columns I have ever written—one that people still talk about today—dealt with the issue of entitlement and the theft of a pair of Bekky’s boots at a New Year’s Eve party in 2005. “The Case of the Missing Moon Boots” was told in two instalments, and it taught me a lot about the necessity of speaking up for justice, no matter how banal an episode may appear.
It all started at a New Year’s Eve bash at the home of our young pal Ben Brill, who lived around the corner. Ben’s annual party customarily attracted large groups of private school kids and university freshmen. Eighteen-year-old Bekky had come home from school in Montreal for the holidays, and she had borrowed a pair of my black suede stiletto booties to wear to the party. But because it was a snowy night, she carried them with her as she made the trek over to Ben’s in her brand-new white Moon Boots—those mega-cozy clodhoppers that first surfaced in the 1970s but had made a trendy comeback that winter. The Moon Boots were a cherished Christmas gift from her dad, who bought them to keep her tootsies toasty in the frozen wasteland of Montreal.
When Bekky woke up on New Year’s Day, I asked her about the party. She was dismayed to tell me that the evening had ended badly. “My Moon Boots got stolen!” she glumly reported. She then explained that while no one had ’fessed up, she had heard that one girl had been searching for her own boots at the end of the party, and when she couldn’t find them, she simply put Bekky’s boots on and left. I asked Bekky if she knew who the girl was. She said that she didn’t but there were some kids who did, and these kids had volunteered to help Bekky find her. I doubted these kids would be diligent in their search, especially on New Year’s Day. Bekky was slated to go back to school in Montreal the next morning, and she needed those warm boots. The mother in me was determined to pursue the matter, even though I knew Bekky would kill me. And so the sleuthing began.
I called Ben, and he gave me a name: J.Y., a grade-twelve student at the neighbouring ritzy girls’ school. Apparently, Ben’s friend Mike had seen J.Y. scrounging around for her own boots and then finally leaving the party with big white Moon Boots on her feet. I was incensed that a young lady from such an upscale school would do such a thing. Did she think that no one would notice, or that she was beyond reproach?
If justice was to be done, I would need a witness. I called Mike, who confirmed that J.Y. had indeed left the party in the Moon Boots. Mike didn’t have her number, but he said that Ben knew her best friend’s boyfriend. I got back to Ben, who, after some time on MSN, managed to get me the contact info for J.Y.’s friend.
“Hi. Happy New Year. This is Bekky O’Neil’s mum,” I began, feeling at once apprehensive and a little like a lioness looking out for her cub. “I was wondering if you knew anything about your friend J.Y. leaving Ben’s party in my daughter’s Moon Boots last night?”
The girl was very sweet, and she began apologizing profusely for her friend.
“She couldn’t find her own boots and was freaking out because she had to get home and pack for a trip. So she just put the Moon Boots on and wore them home,” she explained.
“Right,” I said. “Well, maybe we can just call her and get them back.”
“Uh, actually, J.Y. left for Mexico early this morning,” said the friend. “She won’t be back til next week. I’m sure she didn’t mean any harm by it,” she continued. “You know how it is at these parties—everybody’s always taking everybody else’s shoes.”
This did not console me. I was enraged that this J.Y. girl seemed to think that because someone had stolen her boots, she was somehow entitled to steal Bekky’s.
“Do you know where in Mexico J.Y. is staying?” I asked, feeling more like Nancy Drew by the minute.
“I think it’s someplace called Palace … in Pla
ya del Carmen,” she replied.
I was on a mission only a mad mum could relate to, and I started ringing every hotel in Mexico with the word “Palace” in its name, looking for the Y. family. Finally, I struck gold.
“Mr. Y., sorry to bother you on your vacation, but do you have a daughter named J.?”
“Yes,” he replied.
I proceeded to tell him the sordid tale, explaining not only that those boots had sentimental value for Bekky—they were a Christmas present from her dad—but also that she was leaving for Montreal in the morning and all the shops were closed, so we couldn’t buy her a pair of new ones if we wanted to. He told me to hang on a minute, and then came back on the phone a few minutes later.
“Well, does your daughter know where J.’s boots are?” he queried.
“No!” I snapped. Was he insinuating that Bekky had taken them?
Unfortunately, he explained, there was no one who could access their Toronto home to retrieve the boots, but he’d “try to have them sent over in a few days.” As it turned out, the girl had worn those honking Moon Boots all the way to Mexico, and we had to wait for the family’s return to get them back.
I was amazed at the reader response to this story. It evidently struck a chord with people—mostly mothers—who seethed over the injustice of it all. And then there were those who were just happy to see another mum go to battle for her kid. I was thrilled that I had mustered the nerve to take a stand and speak up. And even Bekky seemed impressed. I hope I showed her that the squeaky wheel often does get the grease— or in this case, the Moon Boots.
True to his word, the father did bring the boots back to our Toronto home about a week later, but there was not even a note of apology from the girl who had committed the crime in the first place. As I drove across town to take those darned boots over to a friend of Bekky’s who was travelling to Montreal, I prayed that my daughter appreciated all the hassle I had gone to in the name of justice, and of course, motherly love.
FAMILY VACATIONS
IN FALL 2000, I got carried away at a charity auction and bid on something wildly extravagant: a week’s stay at a magnificent house in the Irish countryside, generously donated by its owners. I had taken possession of our farm that past summer, but my affinity for the Emerald Isle got the better of me. In the summer of 1998, when I was just crawling out of my post-breakup depression, I took a trip to Ireland to visit my close friend, the Irish designer Louise Kennedy. That adventure helped heal me, and got me to believe in magic and poetry again. Since then, I had fantasized about one day taking my daughters—both O’Neils—to the enchanting land that was so instrumental in my recovery. So when this sojourn at a grand five-bedroom home outside of Galway, on the shores of Lough Corrib, was offered, I just couldn’t resist. Besides the satisfaction of knowing the money would be going to a worthy cause, I knew this special house—dubbed Cappagarriff—would provide the perfect end-of-summer getaway, the calm before the inevitable craziness of fall. Bekky and Joey, then thirteen and eleven, respectively, had never been to Europe, and I wanted to initiate them in a way that wouldn’t feel “touristy.”
Our adventure started off in Dublin, at Louise’s swish digs. She lives atop her divine boutique—a restored Georgian rowhouse in historic Merrion Square. Louise had just returned from a jaunt to London, and she filled us in on Elton John’s annual “tiara” party, which attracted a dazzling array of luminaries, from Mick Jagger and Naomi Campbell to Elle Macpherson, Hugh Grant, Kevin Spacey, and Fergie. The girls and I lapped up the celebrity dish, but not before the Irish Independent newspaper showed up to snap us for their Saturday society column. Fashion Television had been on the airwaves in Ireland for years, and apparently, I had a strong following there. We couldn’t get over how down-to-earth and friendly everyone was, and we were especially charmed by the cabbies. That night, we dined at the fabulous loft of Louise’s sister, Caroline. By the end of the evening, we were all dancing around the living room to the Chieftains’ Long Black Veil CD in a fit of true Irish passion.
The next day, on a small plane to Galway, I read stories to Joey from a little Irish folklore book. She firmly believed in faeries at the time, and I did what I could to encourage her, speculating that it was highly likely there’d be at least a few of them living on the shores of Lough Corrib. It was an unusually clear day as we flew across the country, and the girls and I marvelled at the lush and varied shades of green beneath us.
My first big test as the fearless family leader was getting behind the wheel of the rental car at Galway airport. I was terrified of driving on the “wrong” side of the road. With Bekky acting as the navigator, and keeping me in line with sporadic shrieks, we headed out on the highway. It took every ounce of nerve I could muster. I kept telling myself that our lives were up to me now—there was no man to fall back on. It was nerve-racking and empowering at the same time. And even though I dreaded every roundabout we came across, since I was never 100 percent sure how to navigate those suckers, I ended up managing respectably (even though I did almost drive into oncoming traffic on my first turn out of the airport).
We eventually found our way to the bustling little village of Oughterard, where we met up with Cappagarriff’s cheerful caretaker at the Boat Inn, the community’s preferred watering hole. Outside the pub in the sunshine, people of all ages were sitting at long wooden tables, having early dinners and knocking back pints. We followed our leader five kilometres down the narrow, windy Glan Road. On the way, a weathered man in a tattered hat who looked like he’d just stepped out of a travel poster crossed the road with a small herd of cows. The girls were charmed to witness this surreal slice of Irish country life.
Cappagarriff took our breath away. The sprawling pale yellow stucco house featured numerous white-framed windows, French doors, stone patios, and old stone walls and walkways. The beautifully landscaped gardens boasted beds of lavender and black-eyed Susans, and the grandest violet-blue hydrangeas on the planet. Inside, the vast rooms were irresistibly homey, with large fireplaces and antiques everywhere. The yellow-and-vermillion walls were lined with folk art—including some by the famed Nova Scotia artist Maud Lewis—and the entire place was hung with colourful handmade quilts and hooked rugs and yards of patterned drapery. There was a state-of-the-art kitchen with an antique harvest table and an enormous hearth. The sun-drenched conservatory was filled with white wicker. Through the glass, the rambling lawns gave new meaning to the word “green” and a heartachingly beautiful view of Lough Corrib. We knew we were blessed to have discovered such an amazing place. As night fell, our dear New York friends Carol Leggett and Tony Gardner arrived with their six-year-old son, Marley, to share the magic.
In the morning, the kids paid a visit to Rosie and Daisy, the two donkeys penned up on the property. We drove to the picturesque village to shop for hand-knit sweaters and tweed salt-and-pepper caps. The girls looked like they’d hopped off the pages of a fall fashion editorial as we strolled down the quaint streets. We dropped by the Boat Inn for chips and smoked salmon, then headed back to Cappagarriff to build a faerie house out of twigs and twine. And so it went. Each exquisite day presented itself as a gift filled with poetry, adventure, and wonder. And as we kicked back by the fire each night, waiting for the faeries to come, I patted myself on the back, proud as punch that this single mum had the guts to pick herself up, dust herself off, and with her two gorgeous girls in tow, experience the kind of cozy family fantasy she thought had escaped her life forever.
Heartened by our successful and rewarding trip to Ireland, we opted for a very different kind of getaway in March of the following year. I was about to turn fifty, and I longed to be reminded of life’s exotic possibilities. The girls and I thought Mexico might be fun, but we were determined to think outside the box and steer clear of package deals to conventional beach resorts. I had heard of a charming town, San Miguel de Allende, nestled in the mountains three hours outside of Mexico City. My artist friends Marion Perlet and Toller Cranston, the
celebrated skater-turned-painter, had moved there in the early 1990s. And I had just read On Mexican Time, a wonderful book by the Los Angeles writer Tony Cohan about his life-transforming sojourn in San Miguel. By all accounts, San Miguel was mystical, romantic, and inspiring. I could see it, smell it, feel it, and I was certain it would awaken the artist in me. I booked our tickets and searched the Internet for just the right house to rent.
The gods were with us, and the small casa we found was perfect: two bedrooms filled with antiques and local artisanal furniture, with an outdoor living room and a tropical landscaped courtyard, just three blocks from the main square. So that we could share a sense of purpose, and not just spend our days hanging out, resting, shopping, and sampling salsa, I decided art classes were in order for the three of us. Marion put us in touch with a handsome local artist, Gerardo Ruiz, who had a studio on the edge of town, and each day, the girls and I would taxi to his place and spend a few hours painting and printmaking. I worked on a couple of timely self-portraits: one of a glamorous me thrusting a birthday cake and a chicken into the air, and the other of me gingerly walking across a tightrope, parasol in hand—a statement about the delicate balance I have always been obliged to strike.
We scoured the market for just the right straw cowboy hats and carried our precious art supplies in cheap plastic tote bags emblazoned with the faces of Frida Kahlo and Catrina, the famous skeleton lady. I cruised the dusty cobblestoned streets in my faded jeans and fancy green-and-black cowboy boots, while Joey made the radical fashion statement of a twelve-year-old in flannel Paul Frank pyjama bottoms, and Bekky opted for Boho Chic, with vintage silk scarves and the romantic peasant blouse I had bought for her in Paris. But beyond the fun we were having with fashion, each of us took great delight in getting into the Mexican groove and, above all, savouring our sense of family.
