Martyrs' Manse,
Kingsport,
November, 1937

John,

I'm afraid I never did reply to your letter of October – , at least not on the subject of Christmas. We had hoped, erroneously, as it turns out, to have Fred and Naomi would be back for the occasion. Or perhaps Nathan had no such delusions and only I cherished them. They will not be back, and that being the case, Nathan has generously suggested he travel to Kingsport with the little ones. He will have the box room and the children their previous set-up. Increasingly it is ceasing to be the boys' old room and become the Young Arnolds' accommodation.

This also puts Nathan Arnold in the way to help with the Accidental Church, which he's been expressing interest in ever since he first got to hear of it. I don't know what he'll make of it – it really is a very modest affair – but I shall be glad of the assistance. Everyone will. There's always so much to do, you know. Things to mend, knitting to keep people in, food to parcel out, all that sort of thing. And it all has to be done in the most quotidian way, because otherwise it might be charity, and none of my people has ever wanted charity. Funny how that goes, isn't it? We know self-reliance is a heresy, and yet, somehow it's so much more bearable when we think we're doing other people a favour. Why do you suppose that is? Has it to do with wanting to meet our own quota of good works, do you think?

All I know is that it was exactly how I felt when Phil died. Here was everyone around me wanting to help, to box things up, and tidy other things, offering hot meals and more tea than I could ever reasonably drink, and through it all I had the most overwhelming, and no doubt uncharitable instinct to demand to be left alone, because I couldn't bear the thought of sitting by and being waited on. And then, somewhere in the fog of it all, it dawned on me that I had to let them help, or risk hypocrisy, because when it came to a point, it wasn't anything more or less than I'd spent my life doing, and surely I was only as mortal as the people I ministered to. Certainly I wasn't their better. So I did my best to relent graciously about the food and the boxing up and all the rest – I'm still not sure if I managed it, but I really did try. And it was humbling to know how many people there were around to reach out to.

But before I got off on theological diversions about the nature of charity and the holiday season, I was going to say that from helping with the Accidental Church, which really needs a proper name, the longer it goes on, we'll go on to Mount Holly. I have no idea what Nathan Arnold will make of that, either, though I shall certainly enjoy hearing what he has to say on the subject. It has been a long time since anyone was more discombobulated by that grand place than I was on first encountering it. And, of course, Ruthie will enjoy the occasion of it. With any luck Naomi is back in the New Year, though I've stopped holding my breath on that one. If we're really lucky, she'll return with your children in tow. I fear, however, we may have to settle for us two being in the same place at the same time. Perhaps Easter?

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch,

Jo

New Manse,
Glen St Mary,
December, 1937

Jo,

I shouldn't expect my children home any time in the near future, though it's a lovely thought. I wish they would come back – I do not like the news from Nanking at all. As it is, Una's latest letter is all taken up with the antics of the ACS children in preparation for the Christmas appeal, and some winter-season fireworks display that I do not think belonged to our observational calendar, but almost certainly was on Li's radar. There's still more details about an excursion – again with Iris – to the bansawang. It was a good production by all accounts, the kind with brightly-coloured puppets and very singable music. Naturally Iris was delighted and kept trying to join in. I wish I had been there. I am making do instead with several familial accounts and your daughter's third-hand recapitulation of the same. I'd ask if I'd ever mentioned what a good letter Naomi writes, but then, I expect you know.

Carl, meanwhile, is in the throes of wrapping up the semester, which means marking the usual coursework, grousing about the students' handwriting, and polishing the odd article for publication. I think the latest is something to do with the myna population, but cannot be sure.

In altogether more definite news, Miri has had her baby. There are no pictures as yet, though we do know she is called Ursula. This information by way of Mandy, who opines that irrespective of any built-in endearments it might engender, it is exactly the sort of name the girl in question will come to rebel against. Rosemary, Anne, and Nan tend to agree with her, though I think it nice enough.

Miri being Miri, she has already shortened it – after a fashion – to 'little bear', which seems more likely to stick – not least because Nan and Mandy have both taken it up.

This comes to us just as Sissy is beginning to outgrow her name. Gil will be clearer on the how and why; my chief impression, talking to Jims is that she's sufficiently frustrated with the rehabilitation process as to want nothing to do with anything that came before the polio. This includes Cassandra Hargreave's old petname, with a built-in caveat for that woman, on account of her inventing it. Just as well, since all efforts on her part to remember the change have, apparently, resulted in any number of amusing hybrids. All that to say she's Elizabeth now, if I can ever get my mind around it. It's such a long name, and she such a slip of a girl! Elegant too, in it's way, and our Sissy – Elizabeth! – has long disdained elegance. The thought of her in hat, gloves and fancy frocks – can you imagine? I am comforting myself with the fact that neither Gil, Anne, Rilla, Ken nor any of the immediate family can get it right either, though Jims is trying harder than anything. He seems to have compromised on Liddy, though no one else can get away with it. I know, as little Anthony tried and was thoroughly dismayed with the telling-off he got for using Jims's name for her. From Sissy, naturally, not Jims.

You will gather from this that Sissy – whose name I really ought to get right, at least on paper – is home. Or back at Ingleside, anyway, for which much gratitude all round. As I understand it, the family will stay to Christmas before travelling back to Toronto. Gil isn't thrilled about it, but even he admits that Sick Children is a very good hospital and should be able to minister to Sissy – Elizabeth! – should the need arise. In which instance Jims and Rilla have both promised solemnly to be in touch. Though really, with the polio died down, Bruce and Alice seem fairly certain there isn't much to worry about. They've made a thorough enough examination of Elizabeth, as has Gil, and the Kingsport hospital likewise, and all seem satisfied.

But you were asking what made receiving so hard. I owe you a thank you, by the by, as I got rather a neat sermon out of the subject, though I say so myself. I don't know, exactly, that self-reliance comes in to it. Oh, I suppose we want to be capable, but I think more than that, we don't want to be thought vulnerable. And nothing is more vulnerable than opening up to receiving the gifts of others, whether it's casseroles, hospital tea or brightly-wrapped gifts. It highlights a generosity of spirit that we shy away from for fear of falling short ourselves. We learn along the way, I think, that to be open like that is love at its rawest; to put yourself in other hands and trust them implicitly. But it isn't an easy thing to learn, and I'm not sure we ever stop learning. I know I'm still turning it all over.

In the event we aren't in touch again before the season's over, a very happy Christmas to you. Kiss the wee ones for us.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

Ingleside,
Glen St. Mary,
December, 1937

Jo,

The pictures have finally arrived! Miri has even coloured them in a little for a better idea of the subject – presumably this was to appease Mandy, as these come from the surplus Nan sent on. I should like a proper letter from our girl, just to know it went well but am contenting myself with Nan's recapitulations of such missives as she and Mandy get. (I gather that ever since the Kiefer episode, Mandy has been sharing her letters on principle. She really had no idea at the time that she was receiving news the others weren't privy to, or so she says, and Jerry and I believe her.)

She – Ursula – has quite the look of Nan about her. Not much hair of course, but enough fuzz to suggest it will someday be quite as glossy and dark as any chestnut, with no hope of it lightening to red. This fact much pleases Anne, though I confess some disappointment. After all, it has done remarkably well for the women of my acquaintance, and I refuse to hear any contradiction on the subject. Even Rilla cannot argue, with her girl home and the boys all around her.

We have set Sissy up in the old nursery – what was once Miss Abby's room before we moved her downstairs to Susan's room. It was strange walking in again and seeing it all done up differently. There was one of Mrs Lynde's knitted quilts over the foot of the bed, and a Log Cabin design of mother's that I hadn't seen since before Alberta. I thought Anne or Di must have riffled through the attic to find it, but have since discovered the decoration owes to Miss Abby. She's been very concerned about Sissy – our little Elizabeth, I ought to say – ever since she went to hospital. So the other day she begged off her sewing lesson in favour of kitting out Sissy's room. Di had no objection, on account of never having been much for sewing, even before the war. Though she does think everyone ought to know the basics; buttons, darts and something called a French Seam that my mother must have thought would stymie me, because I'd never heard of – much less mastered – it. And Mother did trywith me, you know. I think she had visions of me running half-wild around Alberta otherwise.

Then Joanie came up after school and lent a hand, which is why in addition to the quilts and embroidered pillows there was also a good selection of dolls and cuddly toys to be had. Someone – Jims, I imagine – had anticipated Elizabeth's actual tastes, because there was also a brand-new puzzle of the Canadian Rockies at sunset, and the kind of toy trains one can easily run over a counterpane. I make them vintage of Bruce Meredith.

Reading it over, that makes it all sound rather cozy. When I came in the other day, little Elizabeth was raling against the puzzle for not doing what she wanted. I don't mean that the pieces wouldn't go together – though, as you'll know, that's trial enough – but that she couldn't manipulate them. She had all the edge pieces spread out on Anne's beloved lap-desk and was trying to slot them in place. Only her fingers couldn't get a hold on them and she kept dropping them. As I came in, she tried to throw the whole lot on the floor, but her arms were still less up to that, and she ended up in a heap in my arms.

'It's not fair,' she kept saying. 'I'm good at this. Better than Jims. He says so. But I can't even do the edges!' There was quite a lot else, about wanting to go back to the hospital and into the lung again until it fixed her hands. I tried to explain it didn't work like that, and of course it was entirely the wrong thing to say. But you don't think, do you? In the moment you just want to make them all better. I offered to help with the edges, and got another tantrum for my trouble, and really, Jo, I was asking for that one. But it was the only thing I could think to say, watching her hands twitching like leaves, and knowing I could never give them back to her as they were. Knowing I'd trade my soul to do just that. Is that heretical? Probably. Forgive me. But she was so helpless, and I couldn't make it better.

Eventually she subsided and I asked what exercises Bruce had given her to work on. That got me a glare, and a refusal to comply, because apparently whatever it was was worse than puzzles for things she couldn't do. I said we'd do them together, if she liked, but Elizabeth didn't fancy it at that moment. She wouldn't be read to, either. Only Ken and Jims can read to her. I sometimes wonder if she thinks it's my fault for not making a better job of treating her. I know I do.

It's not just the puzzles, or the exercises. I think that would almost be all right. It's everything else, too. As per the hospital's instructions, Rilla's kept her on soft food. Everything from jellied salads to soups, and none of it is any good, because spoons defeat Sissy worse than anything. Half the stuff ends up on the bedspread, and no one minds, but she does. We had briefly set up a rota to help about feeding her, but have since dropped it, since no one but Jims is allowed that privilege.

Had you realised they were so close? I confess, I don't believe I had. He's always been good with the little ones, of course, but I venture he's never been better than he is now as Sissy's hands. Elizabeth's. I really am trying.

Anyway, we'll see what we can do to make it a jolly Christmas. We so rarely get Rilla and family down for the occasion. It's the McNeilly year to have the Fox Corner family, but Faith and Jem have promised to make the trip, and Teddy. Kitty is tied up with the paper, something about the fallout from that American gunboat outside Nanking. Sorry, it's not Nanking anymore is it? I fear I've fallen rather behind on international news trying to keep abreast of more parochial concerns. John will know. And of course they're running commentary on Alberta's Accurate News Information Act, and Kitty, having umpteen opinions on the legality of the thing, has her fingers deep in that pie. I can't decide if she's heading towards getting herself arrested for sheer outspokenness, or about to take over the newspaper empire. Times like this I think it could go either way.

Love ever,

Gil

Ingleside,
Glen St Mary,
December, 1937

Happy Christmas!

Much of the household are out inspecting what Alastair makes deer tracks in the snow – no one with more gusto than Dulce and Flossie – so I thought I'd snatch the moment to write to you. Though I say it myself, it has been a Christmas to remember. Following the revelation that Meg would still pull the odd cart, Santa made his appearance this year ably assisted by an improvised sleigh and Ingleside's beloved pony. Di even conspired to weave a ribbon into her mane, an endurance Meg suffered nobly. Of course, she wasted no time in trying to eat it, once Miss Abby commenced unplaiting it, but she looked very smart while it got photos, I think. Also, the dogs made admirable sleigh-chasers, or elves as the case may be. Not that we dressed them up, or even conscripted them. They just saw an unsolicited vehicle round the front of the house and commenced to sound the alarm. Needless to say, the children were delighted. Teddy, who had actually been conscripted to the cause of Elf-in-Chief, acquitted himself nobly. He turned one of the greener socks upside-down and wore it as a hat all day, even when Christopher and Helen laughed at him to stop.

Anthony scrambled up onto the piano and promptly forgot that the machine had an off-switch, so to speak, so we had music all round the clock. It wasn't even all carols – or not recognisably. He's getting quite improvisational with it, which Teddy and Jims applaud, but I don't know what to make of. Rosemary says it isn't so many miles off early ornamentation of music by people like Handel, but then, I never knew enough about people like Handel to keep up with Rosemary Meredith, so defer to her on this one. What do you think?

The highlight this year was Sissy's cat. Elizabeth's cat, rather. You know how Rilla has always loved them, and Silver Bush was overrun with them this year, or someone up that way was. What was the name of that chap their Winifred married, do you remember? It's moments like this I miss Susan. She'd have not only his name, but his mother's name and the name of the gentleman she'd rejected before accepting his father. Anyway, the cat came from out the Bay Silver way, and is as fine and smart-looking a Mackerel Tabby as you could wish. Bruce Meredith took one look at her and said, 'Why, it's the inheritor of Stripey,' which of course it was. This prompted Alice to say she'd have the head of anyone that tried to drown it, and Elizabeth to look suitably horrified. As for the cat, it now goes by the name of Mehitabel. This dubious name leads me fervently to pray she does not go out of her way to acquire the cockroach companion, though almost certainly Carl Meredith would endorse any effort to this effect.*

The best part of it though was looking across the tinsel and wrapping just now to see Elizabeth and Hector having a very earnest conversation about something or other. Elizabeth has got the cat on her knee, and he's got her hans in his, sort of examining them, I think. They're tucked up by the window being very solemn and earnest. It's only now, seeing them like that, that it has begun to dawn on me how much they are in a position to understand one another. I'm glad. If I can't always grasp the situation, then it's a comfort to know that they've each got someone out there who does. Perhaps that is all I can ask.

Here's to a lovely Christmas for you and the family.

Love ever,

Gil

Martyrs' Manse,
Kingsport,
January, 1938

Gil,

I have just seen Nathan and the grandchildren off at the station. We passed a lovely – if noisy – holiday out at Mount Holly. I suppose this is where normal people would complain; Mrs Reynolds was doing so volubly as she departed the station with her husband. Apparently childhood lasts longer every year and she doesn't know what the world is coming to. I don't pretend to know, either, but I recall the injunction to make a joyful noise unto the Lord. I take exactly no exception to my descendants – and I really don't know when there got to be so many as to justify that usage – upholding it. It was joyful, too. Chaotic, of course, in the way it always is, but I wouldn't trade it for anything else. There was a bad freeze in the run-up to our Christmas service her at Martyrs' Manse and Nathan and I lost a day to breaking it up so the walkway would be accessible. Jem had gone by then, and Shirley was in the throes – so I have since learned – of persuading Iain and Isobel that they could in fact go on holiday less the Carlisles and the Larkrise people. From the way he tells it, he succeeded by the skin of his teeth. Jake and the boys helped, once they realised - about the shovelling, this is - but that wasn't straight off, because there was a pitched snowball battle happening in the background. I gather there was very elaborate military strategizing going on. Evie was co-opted into helping in the kitchen, Emma volunteered herself, and Joanie made a game effort to follow suit, only to be chased out by the aunts for getting underfoot. She didn't mean to be, but you must know what a girl at age eight - sorry, that's eight and a half, she's very exact about it - can be yourself. Especially because my impression is that Alice Caldicott is more than happy to give them free reign of the kitchen when they're with her. Scrap that, I know this, because I have had it explained to me in exquisite detail by Pip that cooking is really chemistry with a different name. He never got that from his mother.

Since your last few letters, I can't but notice that the Japanese ambassador has been agonising over that incident with the Panay boat. Whatever government they're trying to run from Nanjing or where-have-you, they're clearly uneasy about outside interference. So I infer from Naomi's letters, anyway. She does make some mention about returning home, but I don't think I'll believe that until I've seen her safely off the boat.

At any rate, the children were very good about a Christmas without her. They kept talking about the stories they'd have to tell her when she got back, and while none of our escapades involved a dance hosted by the famed Raffles Hotel, I do feel we can safely hold our own. (This at the invitation of the Ambassador, and I forget how Fred is connected to him. The others were invited too, but Li didn't feel up to the event, and going on what John has said and Bruce's observations of our Chinatown, I can't argue.) Pip mentioned something about a fireworks display in his mother's last letter, so naturally Jake manufactured some, and he and Mark set them off over Mount Holly to spectacular effect. No Christmas trees were fired this year, but there was a popcorn string competition, and some most elaborate pinecone creations.

All told, it's been a lovely holiday. I wish Nathan Arnold all the luck in the world readying those children for school. If they're half as fired up as they were before boarding the train, he has his work cut out for him.

Whereas I am off to do the service for young Iris Carmichael's wedding. She's Grace's daughter, if you're wondering. The one who, years ago, was so integral to a murder Jem was working on. I told him it was on, thinking it would be interested, and his jaw about hit the floor. He'll be there with Faith, as will the Inspector and his wife, and no doubt we will all do a good deal of reminiscing.

Give my blessing to all of yours, but an extra one to your Elizabeth. Tell her from me she has to do those exercises routinely so she can do my share of puzzles as well as hers, in time. And may you ever be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

*If you're wondering what Gil is on about here, it's a comic run that started in the papers around 1916. It featured alley-cat Mehitabel and her cockroach sidekick, Archy. Because of course it did. Mind, you can tell it's fictional, because the alley-cat here does something other than snub everyone else on principle. Of course, if you've got a different experience, write in and set me straight - I'd love to hear about it! Love to all of you from Narnia (which is considering thawing, but hasn't. Maybe for Easter?).