I feel like I’m a prisoner in my own home, the neighborhood's just not safe enough anymore. One day a little while back, a friend of mine took a walk to the corner store––she’s older, you know, and it took her a while because she had to cross the busy street, with cars whizzing by and the shouting of street kids from each end. She was crossing the parking lot when a car headed straight for her. Paralyzed with fear, all she could do was holler and scream, her feet planted in the parking lot entrance as if they had grown the roots of a thousand year old tree. That experience was scary enough to keep me from going out there by myself. She didn’t get hurt or anything, but she very well could have.

When I first moved to Lowell from Canada, I started a new, very different life with my newly found husband. I would always walk down to the corner store that my uncle owned. Whenever I went there, I would continuously have one problem or another trying to communicate what kind of groceries I needed, as well as the quantity. No matter what I needed, there always seemed to be some kind of confusion. One day I wasn’t feeling too well, so I decided to make only a quick visit.

“Oh, everybody, here comes Rita. You guys ready to have a few laughs?” The store door closes slowly behind me as I make my way to the counter.

“I need a box of tomatoes, Emile.”

“A box of tomatoes. OK… WOW. What are you going to do with all those tomatoes?”

“Well, I’m going to use them to make some dinner. What do you think I’m going do with them?” Philip goes in to the back room of the store and arrives with an entire crate of tomatoes.

“Here you are, Rita. One box of tomatoes.”

“Are you crazy? What am I going to do with all those tomatoes? I just asked for a box.”

“This is a box.”

I begin to get more and more frustrated. “You mean you don’t have any small containers of tomatoes, in a small can or something?” Everyone in the store starts to laugh.

“OH! You mean a can of tomatoes.”

“Well, that’s not what I call them.”

“Rita, you are a funny little woman.”

“Well, I’m not in the mood for jokes, so just leave me alone. I also need one pound of butter.”

“What kind of butter?”

“What do you mean what kind of butter?” I begin to grow even more infuriated with the men.

“Do you want good butter?”

“What do you mean? Of course, I want good butter–– what are you going to sell me bad butter?” Giggles and stumbles of laughter begin to leak from the spectators to the point where I am starting to get angry now.

“No, Rita, here in the U.S we have regular butter, and we have a cheaper version called margarine that tastes kind of like butter, but isn’t quite the same.”

“No, I just want butter! You should all be ashamed of yourselves. A sick woman goes to the store to buy groceries, and all you can do is make fun of her. YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED!”

That night when my husband finally arrived home, I told him I was never going to talk to those people again. “Those men have no respect for me. They just think I’m a source of entertainment, and if I’m going to be the butt of all their jokes, I’m never going to speak to them again,” I told him, but my husband assured me they were just having a little fun with me and they didn’t mean anything by it. I wouldn’t put up with that kind of nonsense just because I was from Canada.

When I lived in Montreal, I did whatever I wanted to. I went out every night dancing with my girlfriends, enjoying the town. Every Saturday night was a ritual. Upstairs in my room I would slip my freshly bathed body into a floral linen dress and fasten my dancing heels to get ready for a night on the town. I secured my hair so the curls could fall loosely and shake a bit as I danced. Barrettes pinned the front back, though, making sure I maintained decorum. The girls would meet me at the soda parlor down the street, and we would saunter off from there to a night of fun in Montreal, laughing and giggling, carrying ourselves through those streets like it was our haven.

The Copacabana was often our choice for the night. Stepping into the door of this new world, a world where we could leave everything else behind, we just danced the night away. The bright, exuberant lights flashing from one end of the room to another, from our margaritas, to the floorshows, it was nothing short of mesmerizing. Not a moment of time was wasted from the moment we arrived to the moment we left; there was barely enough time to absorb this wonderful atmosphere before we jumped right in and started to dance. We would wear ourselves out from dancing with each other and the occasional man (though we would always end up back with each other).

My relatives were split between the United States and Canada due to my mother’s family being from Lowell, and my father’s family being from Canada. Upon arriving in Lowell on that early Saturday morning, my cousin Gina told me she had a man for me to meet. He took me out that very night and brought me to a drive-in. There wasn’t much talking because of the movie, but we had a light dinner and a very enjoyable time, which turned into our keeping in touch. A magnetic hold seemed to bring us together which inevitably led to a wedding in Canada with the rest of our family. This was a wonderful gala, even though weddings in Canada are not usually as extravagant as the productions in the States. I knew about the customary traditions in the United States; maid of honor, bridesmaids, a best man, and groomsmen, which turned my wedding into a most developed, more involved production. Due to my time spent within Lowell I was able incorporate the traditions into my own life in Canada, ultimately making my wedding into a most enjoyable event.

I sit in my oversized rocking chair with my legs crossed and hands folded over my legs, with a cozy wool sweater wrapping up my entire body. The other day I was home all alone because my son had went out, and my daughter upstairs was out for the night. Everybody had plans so I was just sitting by myself. Well, I felt like I was a prisoner in my home just then, and I thought, hey, I don’t want to spend all night watching TV, or staring at the walls, so I called my daughter Carol. There’s no reason for a seventy-four year old woman to have to stay inside for the rest of her life.

“Hi, Carol, what are you doing?” I said.

“Oh, hi, Mom. I’m just raking some leaves. What are you doing?”

“Oh, nothing. I’m stuck in the house all alone. I hate being stuck here all alone.”

“Do you want to help me rake? That’s all I’m doing today.”

“Sure,” and she came right over and picked me up. When we got there, she wouldn’t let me do anything, but I didn’t care, I just picked up those leaves with my bare hands. Yep. No sense in just sitting around.