Regent St,
Charlottetown,
April 1925 – late
Jo,
The latest of our chicks is here. She is perfect. Absolutely perfect. They all are, but in a combination that we haven't had before, little Abigail Laura has Anne's hair and changeable eyes. You may notice she has my mother's name; You won't notice she has my sister's, too. Our own Miss Abby; That's what Uncle Dave called my mother.
I don't remember telling the children about Laura, and Anne, sneaking a look over my shoulder, says I didn't. I mentioned Laura to her when Nan's Miri was so ill. She passed the name on.
It was an unlooked for tribute, and one I hadn't realized I wanted. Di's the only one of my children to trade in family names. I don't mind; It's been a pleasure learning the logic behind the names the others chose. Hearing how the Latin that coloured Nan and Jerry's courtship spilled over into the twins' names, or how the doctor that championed Faith during the war gave his name to her boy. All wonderful legacies.
The acknowledgement of Mother though – trust Di to intuit how much I've missed Mother. Laura I scarcely remember; She's a name in our family bible, a nut-brown daydream.
Mother was an anchor. The letters she wrote to me out west wore through long-ago, but I kept them anyway. They line the secret drawer of what was her jewellery box. It's empty, otherwise. I long-since divided her treasures between Anne and the girls. One of them should have got the box, too, but I'm selfishly attached to it. Even now, it smells of Mother, her rosewater and the cinnamon she baked into everything. The lining is worn to ribbons, and the inlay Dad painted on it dissolves as the varnish peels off; I have touched it once too often for reassurance, I suppose.
If it comes to that, I have made an altar of it over the years, in a peculiar kind of unnamed heresy. Mother was still alive for Shirley's birth, and never was I more indebted to her. Maybe that's part of it. Afterwards…When Anne had that brush with pneumonia I sat in front of it and prayed. Really prayed, Jo, the desolate, guttural prayer of the desperate. I returned to it in gratitude when Rilla was born and Anne didn't die. I took it with me when I visited Walter at the hospital and couldn't have Anne with me. When he died – not of typhoid but the war – I traced that old, hand-painted inlay with exhausted fingers and wept into the lining because Walter was dead and Anne miles and miles away. To lift the lid is to remember my mother's peculiar blend of humour, warmth, and no-nonsense advice. How, for instance, she moved seamlessly from giving me a spectacular tongue-lashing to pulling me into a hug and handing me tea the day I called Anne Carrots. To say I have missed her throughout the latter part of my adult life feels inadequate; To have written her name on the birth certificate of the latest of a fine line of young women is an unlooked for gift. It's a glorious inheritance, and I have every confidence Di's girl will wear it well. I may even re-varnish that jewellery box. I know why I've held onto it and who inherits it, now.
Shirley hair, Shirley eyes, that same delicate skin doomed to burn under the noonday sun. Admittedly, her nose only has four freckles to Anne's seven but that is nothing Glen summers can't rewrite. Anne's predictably apologetic, over Miss Abby's hair, but also over the baby looking nothing like her namesake. Anne feels she ought to. I see nothing wrong with combining all the best of my favourite people in this slip of a girl; Mother's name, Anne's hair, the first hints of Di's smile.
Besides, Mandy glories in her red hair. I like to think she leads by example.
More from me later; Miss Abby is awake, and I have a new altar to worship at.
Love ever,
Gil
Ingleside,
Glen St. Mary,
April 1925
Jo,
Home again, after a blissful interlude, and I return to find Miss Cornelia shocked. Our manse is whispering of things with Latinate names (I'm quoting) that do not sound hygienic (I am still quoting; Explaining the washing part of a Mandatum failed fantastically). Worse, Cornelia is certain she saw your daughter on the arm of the Methodist Minister's son. She probably has; He walks her back to Ingleside as regularly as the faithful go to church. Actually, more often than that. I have the devil of a time stopping Anne and Susan from ambushing our young people. Di doesn't bother with ambushes. When she and Alastair come for Sunday dinners, we abscond with the babies and the young people make a chummy quartet. If you want the fine details, write to Charlottetown.
With your permission, I am holding you personally responsible for the Mandatum, supposing it takes. I would blame Naomi, but she is actually present, and Miss Cornelia a force to be reckoned with when at full sail. You, on the other hand, miles away, should weather it fine. It might even be enough to stop the community rebelling against the Lent appeal. Though if not, what does Una say the Anglo-Chinese School needs? I don't doubt she tells John, but he tends to forget in favour of anecdotes about the monkey. I secretly suspect he rather fancies one himself.
All well here, except Susan, who suffers from dizzy spells. It's all I can do to tactfully diagnose them. Perhaps when Shirley's here for the summer he can persuade her. I hope Phil's Aunt Hetta is in better health. I didn't like the symptoms your last letter described.
You asked for news of our Wandering Merediths; I have none current. John sets out for Crow Lake next week, so look for news from that quarter imminently.
Love to you, and whatever it is one wishes a minister mid-Lent. Two ministerial friends and I've yet to parse that conundrum. What's the answer? Write and tell me.
Gil
Easter,
Crow Lake,
April, 1925
Jo,
A joyful Eastertide! The custom here is a sunrise service, which I plan to adopt next year. The town has a vast, sprawling foundation down on the lakeshore that's said to be the foundation of the first Crow Lake church, St-Andrew-on-the-Lake. It was demolished in – , and the one on main (only) road took over. But they resurrect old St-Andrew-on-the-Lake each Easter for tradition's sake.
We amassed at dawn, complete with community brass, and I've never witnessed anything like it. It was bitterly cold; You could see your breath and feel your fingers whitening.
Jo, you'd have loved it. People stood on the bones of the old church shaking gloved hands and haling one another, oblivious, apparently to the ice raining down around us. When the sun rose over the frozen lake, it sparkled like diamonds. The ice was so thick the band stood on it; I stood with snow up to my knees and gave the liturgy full belt over the wind. There was no formal order of service, but there was God.
Afterwards, we handed out bacon rolls to the congregants, and they ate them rapturously, still in the cold. They were pink-cheeked and damp of sock, but I have never known fellowship like it. I got talking with the local doctor, a man called Christopherson. It turned out he knew Faith from the war. He couldn't believe it when I said he had a namesake way out East, and fired so many questions at Rosemary and I that Nan invited him back for Easter dinner.
Later, Jerry and I went snowshoeing around the lake, and he pointed out the places he went to paint. We didn't say much, so for great swathes of the ramble there was only the crunch of the snow through the snowshoes, and the snap of twigs overhead. Perhaps the cry of a cardinal. We stopped, halfway 'round the lake, and Jerry fed some with seeds from his pocket. The walk put colour in his cheeks, and I understood suddenly why Nan often takes Jerry out of crowds into the woods when they visit us. And I understood reluctantly why they rarely come home. There are times I look at Jerry and think there is no telling the toll of this war of ours; This visit I looked at him and was deeply grateful Nan knew him so well. They had Ruth at their wedding, and whatever gossips tell you about how Nan Blythe married Gerald Meredith, no one can say she hasn't honoured the text. Wither thou goest, I go.
They're off to the St Lawrence next. It is further from Poppy and her family, but not so far as to preclude visits. The black flies will be less in summer - well, they can't be worse! - which makes Jerry's work more comfortable. Nan says what she always does; She can write anywhere. It wasn't so long ago she balanced Johnston's dictionary on her knees and wrote from the Quebec wilderness.
Foreign correspondence tells me Carl's attempting to organize a jungle excursion for some of Una's ACS pupils through Raffles before the school breaks for the summer. As Una's letters frequently remind me, there a plethora of snakes, fighting spiders, exotic fish, dragonflies and any number of animals perfect for observation in the wild. Una has no objection to the project provided it doesn't result in a second monkey, or indeed a tame snake. (She's already trying to quash an ongoing craze for fighting spiders in the classroom. The children keep in matchboxes and duel them during the eleven o'clock break.)
This stipulation comes after Puck's disgrace; He overturned a pot of stew over the chickens when Una denied him an extra guava. Una was cross, the chickens crosser, and Puck crossest of all. Not only was he now being literally hen-pecked, but the pot scalded his hands. They got the vet in to bandage them and apply aloe, but Puck wouldn't have it. He pulled the bandages off. The vet came back, and he did it again. The third time the vet came, Puck did something thoroughly unmentionable and threw the offensive produce at the unsuspecting vet. So, Una bandaged Puck, and this time Puck kept the bandages on, and set about playing chess with Carl as if nothing had happened.
When we told Nan, she said that if the world didn't get a book out of the misadventures of Puck, it would be a great disservice to readers everywhere.
Love and blessings,
John