From This Moment On Read online

  Between the distraction of feeling so empty and alone in my mother’s absence and the pressure of feeling that I was about to sing for my life, I was nervous. Screw this up, and I might not receive another opportunity to prove myself to the record industry. Not only that, but I would have just minutes in which to change costumes and catch my breath before singing “Wind Beneath My Wings.”

  I ran down a mental checklist of what I had to do: rip off the previous costume, squeeze into a sleek, floor-length gown and high heels, chic up my hair, and then literally run—in the heels—from backstage down a flight of stairs, through the service hall, up two flights of stairs, along the side of the indoor tennis courts, up a ramp, and into the back of the ballroom, just in time for the spotlight cue. And I had to strike a statuesque pose and look completely poised because the song opens with a low dynamic, when, in fact, my heart was racing from the combination of nerves and having just sprinted from one side of the theater to the other.

  Somehow, I managed to get through the number without passing out or without getting choked up on lyrics like “You were content to let me shine,” “I would be nothing without you,” and, of course, from the chorus: “Did you ever know that you’re my hero?” It could have been a letter from me to my mother.

  This performance would be my first and last showcase. Luckily, I impressed Richard Frank enough for him to play my demo tape of original material for a well-known record producer named Norro Wilson, who’d helmed records by the likes of Reba McEntire, Charly McClain, John Anderson, and Charley Pride, to name a few. Norro, an accomplished songwriter himself, had sharply tuned ears and a sincere love for music. He was enthusiastic about my voice and songwriting, and he relayed his excitement about my potential to Mercury Nashville Records A&R man and close friend Buddy Cannon, playing a key link in the chain of events that led to the making of my first album. Buddy, in turn, thought that the label head Harold Shedd would be interested. He was right, and I was signed. I was told many years later that Buddy was reported as saying about me, “She got signed and I got my picture taken.” He was right about that, too, as other than my own personal recognition of him for his support during that time, he didn’t receive official, professional reward from the company or industry for being connected to my success story, although I’m sure that Buddy’s association with me as a new artist with Mercury Nashville is well known within the industry. But in the end, Buddy was not included on the production of my first record even though he was a big believer in me.

  Within a matter of months, Harold and Richard Frank had hammered out the details of my record contract, and just like that, I went from being a small-Northern-town girl with little chance of ever making a career anywhere outside the borders of my own country to signing an international recording contract at a record company that sat smack dab in the middle of Nashville, Tennessee. Nashville! Home to giant singing stars, top record producers, megastudios, hit songwriters, world-class musicians, and, basically, the crème de la crème of the music industry. This was it—the big time—the only place to be if you were trying to make it as a country recording artist. My mother’s dream was coming true at last.

  14

  My Little Corner of the Wild

  But first, I quit Deerhurst. PolyGram Records at the time, later becoming Mercury Nashville, hadn’t advanced me any money yet, and I couldn’t afford to move to Nashville. Before knowing I would land a record deal, out of necessity, I managed to get a mortgage at the CIBC Bank and bought my first house after leaving the remote, no-water bungalow rental. Winter was approaching, and we needed the minimum of a hot water shower and flushing toilet. We moved to Melissa, a small district just outside of Huntsville. Our new pad was a one-bedroom bungalow made into four bedrooms, with two-by-two divider-type walls to break the one existing bedroom up for each of the boys and two makeshift bedrooms downstairs for Carrie and me. The house was one story with a walk-out basement and one bathroom. We squeezed a washer and dryer underneath the stairs to the basement and called it a laundry room.

  Although I was technically the house “elder,” responsible for the bills and running the household, the place probably had more the feel of a clubhouse overrun by a bunch of kids. Carrie, Mark, Darryl, and I were in a new town, trying to make our way alone together.

  My boyfriend at the time, Paul Bolduc, also from Timmins, moved in with us and helped man the house. With a mortgage, two teenagers, a house that needed maintenance, and a winter’s worth of firewood to chop, Paul was a tremendous support, and we made a good team. I’d met him in Timmins not long after my parents died. He was only eighteen, four years younger than me. We would be together for more than five years.

  My sister Carrie’s new boyfriend, whom she would eventually marry and is still married to today, was also around to help out with the boys at times. Jeff reminds me now of the heavy load that was on my shoulders during the first few years after our parents’ passing. He sometimes talks now about his observations of my challenges at the time, of running the household at such a young age and trying to deal with my grief at the same time. Jeff, by the way, is the guy who inspired the lyric “You’re one of those guys who likes to shine his machine / You make me take off my shoes before you let me get in” in the song “That Don’t Impress Me Much.” We all remember Carrie explaining that whenever Jeff drove her somewhere, she had to take off her shoes before getting in the passenger seat. He kept his vehicles sparkling at all times and was very impressive and a perfectionist in many ways for a nineteen-year-old, especially compared to us Timmins bushwhackers, who were definitely not worried about dragging in a bit of mud here and there.

  Both Jeff and Paul were unusually mature, responsible, and cool for their age, and there were times when their presence was especially comforting—such as when the police came to the door in the middle of the night with one of my teenage brothers in tow, picked up for underage drinking. I’m small in stature, and a strong, intoxicated male teen can be a handful. I’m just grateful that the police never knocked on my door without one of my brothers, as that would have meant the worst. It was moments like these that I was thrust into instant parenthood and the worrying that comes with the territory; those sleepless nights when it’s three in the morning, and the kids still aren’t home. Sometimes I drove home from work at Deerhurst well after midnight, hoping that when I got in the door, both boys would be safe and sound, asleep. These were my genuine worries at the age of twenty-three, and I was relieved when they were where they were supposed to be.

  My routine during the cold months was to stock up the stove with wood that would burn for about four hours before it needed to be fed again. At six in the morning, I’d wake up and refill it, then wake up the boys for school around seven once the house had warmed up again.

  My brother-in-law, Jeff, says today, “I think back on those times, and I don’t know where you found the courage.” I’m not entirely sure myself, but a particular dream I had back then boosted my strength. It couldn’t have come at a better time, because the weight of taking on two teenagers, working, homemaking, and trying to keep my career on track was beginning to seem too heavy for me to carry.

  Here’s the dream: my parents come to me, but only my father speaks. He floats close above me; actually, just his face. In a gentle voice, he tells me that he doesn’t have much time, as my mother is waiting for him. I see her floating up behind him and want her to come forward, but she doesn’t.

  My father says to me, “She was already on her way out of this world and is just now waiting for me to come.” He then reassures me that I am doing a good job, that everything is under control, and that I shouldn’t worry. Both of them want me to know that they know I am doing my best, and this is exactly what I am meant to be doing.

  In my dream, and after I wake up, I feel so relieved and encouraged by his words. I needed to hear them so badly, because I felt guilty that I wasn’t doing a good enough job and that I was letting down my siblings after all they’d already
been through. I’d turned my life upside down to keep us together, put a roof over our heads, and support us, but I still felt I couldn’t make them happy, and I believed it was my fault. But of course they were still unhappy: our parents had been snatched from us, along with the life that they had known in Timmins.

  Back to my dream: The whole time my father is speaking to me, my mother is telepathically tapping him on the shoulder that it is time for them to leave. I desperately want them both to stay and to not leave me alone with all of this pressure, but it is as though they are about to cross a threshold, and there is no time to waste. It’s almost as if they have to catch a plane, and if they miss it, they will be stuck in some kind of holding pattern or purgatory. My father explains that if he doesn’t go now, my mother will have to leave without him.

  It was very symbolic to me that they both went on together, as it confirmed their destiny to me so clearly. Not only did they die together, my dream was implying that they really would be “together forever.” That actually brought me peace as well, since they’d both suffered so much throughout their lives, and I felt energized to hold up the fort for them, to not give up and to provide their other children with a measure of stability. I felt that I owed my father something in that sense, considering that he’d taken on Jill, Carrie, and me as his own children, and although he was not perfect, he was sincere and selfless to have done that. My respect for him was profound.

  The time came when we Twain kids would go our separate ways, and there was no reason for me to stay in Melissa. The boys were over sixteen and seeking out their own independence, and Carrie and Jeff were getting more serious as a couple. Besides, I couldn’t afford it anymore, not without a job. I could no longer handle the monthly mortgage payments. Selling the house would take too long, so with Paul’s help, as he was an amateur carpenter at the time, I gutted the basement by hand and renovated it into an apartment with a kitchen, bathroom, and living space. Renting out both the upstairs and the downstairs enabled me to cover the mortgage. But once again I was a gypsy, with nowhere permanent to live.

  I couldn’t help but find irony in the fact that I’d quit my well-paying gig at Deerhurst to pursue my career as an international recording artist—for free! That is, at least until I could prove myself. The odds of finding success in the music industry is said to be on the order of 0.005 percent. That’s right: point-zero-zero-five, at best; if one does the math on the success rate of American Idol, it’s even lower. One hundred thousand people audition for each season, so over ten years, that’s one million people. Only one singer wins each season, making ten winners overall. Only two have gone on to have genuinely successful careers, which makes the percentage of success 0.000002 percent. Lucky for me, back then I had no idea how slim my chances were. You can’t be discouraged by what you don’t know, so ignorance truly was bliss in my case. I had optimism on my side, and with the newfound freedom from domestic responsibilities, I thought that I might have the opportunity to make up for lost time. I was in my midtwenties; it was now or never.

  I had a recording contract, but with nowhere to live, I moved back to my parents’ old house in Timmins for a short time. We were renting out both the downstairs and the upstairs until we could sell it, so I took the temporarily vacant upstairs apartment. As the family member responsible for managing my parents’ estate, I really needed that apartment to be rented to cover maintenance bills on the property, but the short window between renters was a blessing during the pit stop I made back at 44 Montgomery Avenue. I was grateful for the chance to take refuge in the empty nest my parents provided for me even in their absence when I had no place else to go.

  I spent those weeks holed up in the apartment, intently writing music and feeling sad and melancholy, for the house evoked so many family memories. Nothing had changed in the five years since my parents’ death. I could practically smell and taste the past lingering in the air, and I could still hear everybody’s voices. At times, I imagined their footsteps clunking up the stairs and half expected them to barge in through the door any second. My stirred emotions there produced a lot of songwriting.

  Along with the sadness, however, I felt at peace. Unlike the other places where we’d lived, the Montgomery house hadn’t been tarnished by violence. I’ve always maintained that financial woes accounted for most of my parents’ fights. Well, things were looking up when they bought this place, and while my mother and my father may have squabbled, the arguments never turned physical.

  Once I had to leave the apartment for the renters who were about to move in, Paul’s parents, Larry and Helene, generously let us stay with them for a while. I was signed to the label and hoped it was only a matter of time before I would be more stable professionally, but for now, I was still in transition, with one foot in my old world and one in the new one. I worked part-time at Sears three days a week, and when Paul and I had time off, we’d head to his parents’ camp on the shores of Kenogamissi Lake. There in the bush, we built a tiny ten-by-twelve-foot cabin made from scraps of wood and recycled bits from demolished homes. Paul was a skilled builder, and I designed the layout so that we could actually cook, sleep, bathe, and stay warm in this small space. With no electricity or plumbing, the cabin was the equivalent of a circus clown car; we squeezed a lot of living into it.

  I enjoyed my time alone in the bush during the stretches when Paul was working in town and I couldn’t get any shifts at Sears. He’d drive me out to the cabin with a week’s worth of food supplies, then join me on the weekend. I loved the solitude, especially during the gorgeous winter. The road leading to the campsite would be snowed in and impassable by car or truck, so Paul would have to haul the Ski-Doo with a trailer pulled behind with supplies for a couple of miles off the main road. Once in the cabin, I felt isolated yet safe, and very much at home. I wasn’t afraid of staying alone in the bush in the middle of winter. Bears hibernate in the winter, and road access is much more limited, so humans were nowhere in sight, either. I had nothing to worry about other than freezing to death if I ran out of wood. Wolves are no problem, as they are timid toward humans and they can’t knock doors down, let alone blow a house down. A bear could have ripped through my windows or doors, but like I said, they were sound asleep at this time of year.

  The experience stamped me with the joy of aloneness. By that, I mean the chance to dive into a space where time has little importance, and the divine right to feel, think, or say whatever you want is yours. All yours. Lost in the bliss and simplicity of less, with all the time in the world to reflect and turn those thoughts and feelings into music. I was very productive in my little corner of the wild and enjoyed every minute of it. I miss that cramped hideaway! The basis of many of the songs that I would eventually complete and record with Mutt Lange a few years later were written there. I still enjoy listening to my cassette tape recordings of my writing sessions from that time, as you can hear the wood stove fire crackling in the background.

  I spent the days chopping wood, clearing snow from my door and path, listening to the silence of the snow, taking in the view, and writing music as it came to me. I had a well-organized routine to my winter days alone in the cabin. Before going to bed I’d prepare chips and slivers of wood and kindling near the stove for quick access in the morning. I’d load up the stove with large, dampish pieces so it would burn as slowly as possible through the night, then I’d go to bed wearing wool socks and a sweater, and a heavy down sleeping bag draped at my knees ready for pulling up over my head in the middle of the night once the fire died out. The wood stove wasn’t airtight and the cabin not insulated, so it didn’t take much time for it to get cold out there in the winter woods with the average temperature anywhere between twenty and forty below zero. I had no radio or communication with me, so I never had any idea of what the temperature would drop to at night, but I had a good feel for what was coming naturally. The stars, the color of the sky, the wind, and the snowfall all provide clues of what to expect. The calm and clear nights in Northe
rn Ontario are often the coldest ones. Clear, crisp, and cold. I loved those nights but knew I had to be ready for an uncomfortable morning.

  With my fire goods handy and my wool socks and sweater already on, I was ready (or as ready as I’d ever be) to leave my cocoon and restart the fire around four o’clock, then wriggle back into my sleeping bag to enjoy a few more hours of warmth before the cabin cooled down too much again.

  For bathing, I’d place a pail of water on the wood stove. Once it reached just the right temperature, I’d stand in a basin on the floor and use a cup to douse myself with the warm water as I soaped and rinsed in my makeshift shower. Melting snow into water was an all-afternoon affair, as it evaporates to nothing. But I had the time, so I didn’t mind.

  Once Paul and his family got there on a weekend, they’d fire up the sauna near Paul’s parents’ cottage, and there’d be enough heat and water for everyone. I secretly preferred my cozy method and would often pass on taking my turn in the sauna. I’m sure they thought I was nuts, but I loved the rustic system I had going. It was exactly how my parents and I used to bathe in the large prospecting tents in the bush during tree-planting season once the cool of the autumn air made it too cold to jump in the lakes. The workmen used to hang out at my parents’ tent in the evenings, but when it was time for my mother’s sponge bath, she’d kick everyone out. I remember walking up to their tent one time to find a bunch of men standing outside, shivering in the cold. “What are you guys doing out here?” I asked. “Your mom’s having a bath,” one of them harrumphed, his breath forming a tiny cloud in the cold air. Not all the tents had stoves, so my parents’ tent was the place to gather till it was time to go back to their own smaller tents.

  My days were simple and happy at any camp, and the one on the shore of Kenogamissi Lake was special. Staying warm, clean, fed, and creatively productive was all I had to do every day that I was alone there. It was heaven.