Patricia Barton - Why God Hates Me

www.bigskypublishing.com.au

Copyright Patricia Barton 2013

First published 2013

Copyright remains the property of the authors and apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission.

All inquiries should be made to the publishers.

Big Sky Publishing Pty Ltd

PO Box 303, Newport, NSW 2106, Australia

Cover design and typesetting: Think Productions

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry (pbk.)

Author: Barton, Patricia.

Title: Why god hates me: a memoir / Patricia Barton.

ISBN: 9781922132215 (pbk.)

Subjects: Barton, Patricia.

Runaway children--Canada--Biography.

Runaway teenagers--Canada--Biography.

Fathers and daughters--Canada--Biography.

Canada--Social conditions.

Dewey Number: 920.720971

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry (ebook)

Author: Barton, Patricia.

Title: Why god hates me [electronic resource]: a memoir / Patricia Barton.

ISBN: 9781922132222 (ebook)

Subjects: Barton, Patricia.

Runaway children--Canada--Biography.

Runaway teenagers--Canada--Biography.

Fathers and daughters--Canada--Biography.

Canada--Social conditions.

Dewey Number: 920.720971

In memory of Bryce Courtenay

Dedicated to my sons
Michael Sean Patrick Hackett (19622007)
Timothy Liam Seorus Patrick Hackett

CONTENTS

TESTIMONIALS

This is a very moving story, told with vivid detail. The facts are unforgettable, related without melodrama simply as recalled.

Cath Hammond, writer and editor

A remarkable and heart-warming story, well told. This story of a struggle against difficulties is told with honesty and generosity, and will resonate with a great many people.

Dr Barbara Brooks, writer and teacher

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book was completed with the help of people whose advice and knowledge have been invaluable. Patti Miller, Cath Hammond, Beth Yahp and Dr Barbara Brooks.

Bryce Courtenay coached me and in his last email said, Never give up. Keep writing. The time I spent under his tutelage went all too fast.

Thanks Bryce, it was grand. Wish you were here.

Thanks are also due to Patti Miller, my writing teacher in Paris for her encouragementIn 2005, my first Writing in Paris course, Patricia Barton was one of the most enthusiastic students! Patti Miller.

There were friends who have encouraged me and kept me going especially my loving husband who always knew I would get there. And thanks to my beloved son Tim who is always in my heart, and his wife Emilia for translations and for being the first one to read the book straight through, finishing on a park bench! Thanks to my granddaughters whom I adore, Lucinda and Isabella who said Grandma, did you write a book?

Thanks to my sister Lillian in Canada who enjoyed the chapters I sent her. Terry OBrien who said that he wouldnt miss the book launch. And to my friend Bev Misner who said, What took you so long?

Thanks to Pam Bradley who has read, assessed, explained, and encouraged me, telling me not to give upmy best girlfriend. Thanks Zelda.

My step-daughter Dijana Dawe already knows how much I thank hershes funny that way. And she said to me If you dont go to Paris Ill never speak to you again.

Les Massey was there at the beginning and made me take that first step. Thanks Les.

Thanks to the Paris girls, especially Mary Strachan and Thalia Stevens. And to my friend Dr Maria Hill who guided me and made me laugh. Coll Casey, whom I feel I grew up with and whose father adopted me as an honorary Casey. Edita Diamante who gave so freely of her expertise and talent with typing and publicity advice in large doses. Patsy Rowe who got me so close and promised to be there cheering at the book launch. Blossom Adams cheered me on and so did Trudy Chopra and Anne Langdon. Lynn Sweeney read chapters and so did Robbie Funston. Susan Blank and Julie Durrant wanted to know when I finished and John Robinson read it and loved it.

Merci.

IL FAUT SOUFRIR POUR

ETRE BELLE

SUMMUM PETIT

The route through childhood is shaped by many forces, and it differs for each of us. Our biological inheritance, the temperament with which we are born, the care we receive, our family relationships, the place where we grow up, the schools we attend, the culture in which we participate, and the historical period in which we liveall these affect the paths we take through childhood and condition the remainder of our lives.

Robert H. Wozniak

PROLOGUE

I remember the excitement I felt as my mother buttoned my white dress. I was seven years old and had never worn a white dress before. My mother and I walked slowly to Holy Rosary Church and the wind caught my veil blowing and dancing like a kite.

My mother wore a white blouse, blue skirt, and a black felt hat. She always wore a hat when she went out.

Today was the day of my first Holy Communion, which meant I was to be united with God. I was nervous. It was Sunday, 22nd May 1944. After a bleak Canadian winter, I was happy to see the daffodils, tulips and crocuses in the gardens of the houses we passed on the way to the church. Thorold was a small, quiet town with only one Catholic Church and school. I learned to read in that school. I memorised the Catechism and used to recite it under my breath, on the way to school in the morning.

One of the questions in the Catechism was, Why was I born? The answer was: To know, love and serve God in this world, and be united with Him in heaven, after death. As a serious child who seldom laughed, I knew how important it was to obey rules and do as I was told.

Today was an important day. A day I had waited for. The night before, I knelt on the wooden floor of my bedroom and prayed five Hail Marys and five Our Fathers so that I would be worthy of the honour of receiving the holy host into my little body.

Walking up the grey stone steps of the church I felt frightened. I didnt know what to expect. Sister Imelda, looking stern, waited at the back of the church as the children arrived. No one spoke. The boys wore white, long-sleeved shirts, with a navy tie and navy blue pants. The girls were dressed like immature brides with white dresses, long white stockings held up by a garter-belt, and white veils, some secured with fresh white flowers. There was the smell of incense and spring flowers coming from the altar and the sound of the choir singing