I came to Mart with lots of baggage. My father was an alcoholic, a nasty alcoholic, who abused his wife and children verbally and physically.

Our mother suffered a mental breakdown in her early forties, was hospitalized a few times and suffered shock treatment during those times. She was often heavily medicated. She loved her kids unconditionally. That helped.

I did not suffer as much as my siblings because throughout much of my pre-school years my father was away at sea during WW II. I was the oldest, working, and was able to get away from most of his abuse when he retired from the navy at age 42. My siblings and mother could not.

No doubt, I grew up too soon and developed an attachment disorder. I became quite self sufficient and independent early on. Too early. Oh yeah, and depression was with me off and on. Nobody much knew that. Not even Martin, I do believe.

Also, occasionally, I suffered anxiety that could bring on some OCD behaviour likely driven by a desire to be a perfect me.

Mart wrote a two page note to me, as we were talking about our break-up. He got upset with me because I made a joke about a guy in one of those oversized trucks with five foot diameter tires, whom neither of us knew. He wrote this about himself and his reaction.

I have never considered that. This letter shows some of those characteristics.

Obviously, he is sad, insecure, and angry. I had determined I did not want to live with this kind of anger any longer. It was unwarranted. He had not always been so insecure about me. In fact, it was quite the opposite, for many years.

That I was leaving was baked in, in my mind. My reaction to this note was he was just being controlling again. Empathy was not on my mind.

Martin before we met.

Cute chubby baby. He grew into a heart throb, over the years.

Three years before we met. He was beginning to look like the Mart I came to know and love.

August 1960

I met Mart, for the first time, in a packed stairwell in Dartmouth High, shortly after this photo was taken. It was the fall of 1960, he was 18, I was 17. Someone pushed me into his chest, he caught me in his arms. I was in love. But I had a boyfriend and he had a girlfriend. We spent some months becoming acquainted before we made the breaks with our “others” and we began dating in February, 1961. Wow! 63 years ago and it is still very fresh in my mind.