Marguerite was born in Messina New York just over the border from Cornwall Ontario. Although her early childhood was never told to me I well tell you what I know. Her father died young in the war as a pilot and it was up to Iris to raise her, the oldest and the twins, Cyril and Cecile. From what I remember they came to Canada and Iris fed them by working in resorts of northern Ontario as a house cleaner and cook. When I was young Marguerite showed me their old home in Woodbridge Ontario where they finally settled. Iris never remarried as she was a Catholic. Marguerite excelled in school while Cecile wasn't as promising and Cyril had to quit school to work the farm, a career he took on for his life.
When I met Marguerite she was in her twenties. She was married to Peter who was a tool and die maker working in the aircraft business. They had met when she worked as a 'Rosie the Riveter' and Peter building the Lancaster bomber. Peter went on to work on the Aro Arrow in Malton. She raised two boys in their new home in Rexdale about thirty minutes from the plant.
She was a kind woman with a great laugh and coffee always on the stove to receive anyone who walked through the door. She was a wonderful cook dating back from when she helped Iris in the kitchens that weren't theirs. I remember the radio on from early morning until supper. She always wore dresses with flowers and nice prints. Never a dark hair out of place, her lips a red I can still see. She was a doting mother to the boys and stern when needed, but always fair. She saw the brighter side of things. She sang in the mornings as she cooked breakfast for Peter. She called the boys down to sit with their father to have the first meal of the day. She felt it important that the family be with their father before he started his day at work. And she sang in the morning when the boys were sent off to school. Her days were spent with the house and the garden. They had a lovely vegetable garden with runner beans and carrots, beefsteak tomato’s. Peter worked on the house during the weekends. The basement turned into a small shop and in the big room was a place they hosted parties complete with a wet bar. These parties were something fun for me to watch, everyone drinking and dancing. The music never stopped. I remember waking up hearing the laughter and giggles coming from their bedroom in the next room after the parties were over. She loved Peter very much.
Peter loved to fish and when I got older he taught me. We fished up north while camping. We would head out in the morning and by the afternoon when we returned Marguerite was at the Colmen stove baking a cake form the oven Peter had designed and built to put over the gas flames. She didn't eat fish but would dress as many as we caught, throw them in the pan with butter. We all ate well, picking blue berries while exploring around the different lakes we traveled to.
These are my early memories of my Marguerite.
She died at the age of sixty seven after fighting Leukemia for three years. It was a hard time when my mother passed, for all of us. My dear father Peter I think died that day too. He was never the same. He lived for a few years after but he wasn't the same. They both died too young for me.
