Whitehall Ave,
Toronto,
Sept. 1923
Jo,
As promised a note to inform you of the safe arrival of one William Maxwell Aitken Ford. I have no explanation about the name whatsoever, so don't ask. It's moot anyway. The grandmothers shortened it to Liam hours ago, and you'd better believe it's sticking.
It wasn't an easy delivery. There was a bad hour when we talked of hospitals and haemorrhage, and Anne looked white, never mind Rilla. There was a very bad quarter-hour where I wondered how I would ever look Anne in the eye if anything took her baby from her. Far worse was the way she looked at me and knew as much.
All that's past; Rilla is asleep. I gave the new grandmothers free reign to fuss over her, and they've run with it. I've told Ken plainly that nothing of this kind can happen for another two years at least; Neither mother nor child would survive if it did.
Now, I'm sitting vigil, the baby at my elbow, and meditating, as it seems I always do on these occasions, on St Luke; Behold, ye are witnesses of these things. And behold, I send the promise of my father upon you.
It's Una Meredith's habit. She quoted it back in that sun-saturated bedroom at Larkrise the day little Christopher Blythe was born. I haven't yours and John's knack for demonstrative faith, but that resonated. After what seemed years of watching my children fight to reassemble their world, I looked down at that boy in my arms, still blue and soft and smelling of new life, and thought Una had the right of it; We had witnessed the forging of some new covenant that afternoon.
It was the same when Helen was born and I held her, and it is the same now. Probably it will be the same again when Di has her baby in the spring.
Looking at little Rilla's child, I cannot help thinking how much progress we've made towards that ideal Walter envisaged – even if there are days, as this one, where I'm reminded we still fight for it with blood and the sweat of our brow. You will say that is a legacy much older than the war; You are probably right.
In the event you couldn't tell from the name, Ken is pleased as punch and parades his son up and down the nursery corridor in a fashion that vividly recalls you with young Sam – how many years ago? (Don't answer that. It will make me feel still more ancient than did the delivering of William Maxwell Aitken Ford of my youngest child.) It left me with a strong impression of what Ken's military drills looked like.
Returning briefly to the theme of names, one thing I can explain is the notable omission of Walter's from that list on the birth certificate. Susan and Cornelia might well harangue Rilla over it, but can you imagine the weight of that inheritance? A dark-haired September baby? Never mind no one could bear to say his name, we'd all expect him to be a poet – and think what would happen if he wasn't. Or worse – if he were no good! Jem found it bad enough squaring with my shadow – and I was only ever our village doctor! Walter's The Piper put our Island on the map. This is better. (Albeit the littlest bit absurd.)
See you soon.
Love ever,
Gil
Ingleside,
Glen St Mary,
Nov. 1923
Jo,
I've just returned from the house of Olive Kirk, who fancies herself ill with pneumonia. What she has is a bad head cold, for which I recommended a peppermint rub and a prescription for Redfern's pills. She wanted neither, and I'm newly awed by the way Rilla held her own against her in the Junior Reds era.
I know you expressed concern over Susan, but rest assured she didn't listen to me about not travelling to Toronto; She simple declined to set foot in such an unlawful, heathen city. (I paraphrase only slightly.) Trains will crush houses, the air is poisonous, and such blatant modernity will quash the church, is Susan's otherwise staunch belief. If you have a spare moment, write Susan a reassuring letter on this last point. She's always liked you, and you have the advantage of both a parish and a citified existence, which John and I lack.
I enclose a food parcel for your mission. Forgive the lack of variety; The Taylors paid me for setting young Danny's broken leg with more potatoes than is sane. As there is no earthly way we will ever get through the bounty before it goes soft, green and develops shoots, I thought you had better have some.
Love ever,
Gil
New Manse,
Glen St Mary,
Nov. 1923
Jo,
The purple is out at last. Every year I think the Trinity Sundays will never end, and every year they do. I confess to you, and my fellow members of the body of Christ (the ones reading, anyway) that finding original ways of describing the Trinity that are neither green nor leafy but are accessible grows wearing after about week 15.
As you almost certainly discovered while she was in attendance at Patterson Street, Una loves the penitential seasons. I suspect that's because they come easily to her; You and she are the only people I know who make acts of faith look as easy as words. So, I was surprised to find myself thinking not of her over the sermon notes, but Jerry. I blame Nan's latest letter; We shared it at Ingleside over an applewood fire earlier this evening.
Our Wandering Merediths are now in Crow Lake. It's less remote than the Kippewa was. Nan writes that they won't be home this holiday. Instead, they'll spend it with Poppy of Swallowgate fame. She's closer, you see.
As I read, I started thinking about how different Jerry and Nan's lives turned out to their youthful castles in the air. They were no great secret. But when I said to Rosemary over Jerry's war letters that he would have to rebuild his world with his hands, I never meant it literally.
If you had told me in yesteryear that Faith would be a doctor, or Una serve the body of the church, I wouldn't have been surprised. I think I would not even have blanched, in that golden-leafed chronicle, at the thought of little Carl appointing himself Una's protector. But Jerry's need to reach for, even to restore beauty, I never anticipated. I don't know what I meant for him Jo, but landscape paintings of the Canadian wilderness never made the list. But, as I sit here and look at his watercolour of Mandy dismantling her mother's cake stand, I wouldn't change it for anything. God moves in mysterious ways, His wonders to perform, and all that.
See you at Christmas. Thank you for offering. It means so much to catch Carl and Una before they leave for that Foreign Mission School.
Love and blessings,
J.M.
P.S. We did indeed receive a share of the Taylor potatoes. Gil grinned like a Cheshire cat, and said as he handed them over to call it tithing. I don't need to tell you we haven't had tithing in years.
Martyrs' Manse,
Kingsport,
January 1924
Gil,
Happy Christmas!
Forgive the belated salutation; The children were visiting. Mundanities they embroiled us in include, but are not limited to; the absorption of Culross's Knox Church into our parish, a carol concert in aide of our sister parish in Calcutta, the setting of the Manse Christmas tree on fire by Jake's lads, and the falling into the fire of Sam's little Evie. Don't ask. I'm still not sure how it happened. I think the surest explanation is that she is Phil in miniature – but I didn't say that and you never read it! (Evie was fine. Phil's reflexes are what Jake's sons call 'aces.' It was her parents who were beside themselves. Remember that feeling?)
John, Rosemary, Carl and Una made much tamer company! After Operation Combustible Christmas Tree, I was almost disappointed. Bruce was excellent with the boys – must be the result of leading a Scout brigade. Troupe? Pack? Please advise.
Phil, when not doting on the tumble of grandchildren, is eternally grateful that neither weddings nor baptisms can go forward in Advent. So, frankly, am I. There was a bad strain of influenza going round, and Ruthie says I visited more with the sick than with my family this holiday. Tell Faith we missed her keenly.
Off now to referee a hockey game between our young folk. If I don't go now, there won't be time before our Food Ministry supper.
Be well, do good work, and keep in touch,
Jo