New Manse,
Glen St Mary,
Sept., 1926
Jo,
Bruce left for Kingsport this morning. He caught the ten o'clock outbound brimming with excitement. He gets that from Rosemary; She takes such active interest in her pursuits. I stumble into them. I was in the middle of a Divinity degree before I realised my courses skewered that way. I don't regret it; You know better than most how I love poking about in my books. But they could just as easily have been books on birding and I would never have realised.
Bruce isn't that way at all. All the way to the station he talked plans for the coming term. So much so that Rosemary's parting advice was to leave time for fun. I'm not sure he heard her. Perhaps he and I are alike after all.
There's more, but I should go to Rosemary. She's trying to fill the silence with Sheep May Safely Graze. I owe it to her to do my bit. Bach is lovely, but not a patch on Bruce. Though the music evokes some of my evenings up at the old West House, and that's differently sweet. Lots of promise, there.
Love and blessings,
J.M.
Martyrs' Manse,
Kingsport,
September, 1926
Gil,
There is absolutely nothing you can do about that heater. Shirley has looked at it, Jem has looked at it, Simon Hazelhurst and I have all but deconstructed it. Geordie Carlisle and Teddy Lovall reassembled it to no better result while ignoring Phil's indignant protestations that they shouldn't be doing this as it wasn't even their church, and if the secretariat couldn't be bothered, they certainly shouldn't. Martin Gibson, Sam and Jake disassembled it again, for good measure, and exasperated, Jake suggested we call in an engineer. We did, and the secretariat almost turned inside out. I didn't know this was possible. Investigation by an expert we could ill afford revealed the radiators need some highly specialised piece of equipment only manufactured in Ottawa. Of course they do. Hetta Gordon, who has somehow persisted in living despite double pneumonia this summer, made a generous and unsolicited a donation towards our purchase of it, for which my gratitude. The secretariat say that this is what comes of modernizing the church. I thought it was probably unchristian of me to remind them that we installed radiators in 1903 at the behest of a secretariat tired of turning blue in the winter. Phil had fewer scruples.
Tell me something nice. Are you spoiling the grandchildren? Are Di and Alastair enjoying Singapore? I know Una saw them, because I received her latest letter yesterday.
Our news is that Ruthie is expecting again. In a heretofore unheard of alliance, Phil and Hetta are unanimously thrilled. I'm pleased too, but the littlest bit perplexed that my children are now parents. The war was one thing; It seems that since then I blinked several times successively and became the patriarch of a tribe of a tumbling, acrobatic small people. They are very delightful, often boisterous, and give me a striking impression of Phil as a young girl, but I don't quite see how they came to be mine. I keep forgetting my children are not, in fact, still children.
In a similar vein, I'm amazed by John's letters, which are full of little Bruce's university career. I still think of him as a boy scout collecting stamps and badges, not scholarships and funding. I remember him as a baby. It makes me feel terribly old to think he'll soon be in Kingsport studying your old beat.
Right, I'm off before I blink and it's the Culross Session meeting on top of the rest.
Be well, do good work, and keep in touch,
Jo
Ingleside,
Glen St. Mary,
October 1926
Jo,
Never mind little Bruce, I've just escaped an animated debate about the details of your baby's wedding, when I make it a week or so ago Anne and I attended her christening. How has that happened? When I left, Cornelia and Susan were offering input, and Naomi suffering their interference with a fortitude borne of Phil's spirit and your patience – an admirable combination. Necessary, too, because Cornelia is a formidable opponent when wielding a wooden spoon and staging a coup on the wedding cake. She tried to tell me kneading the batter was just as good for her hands as any exercise I prescribed. It's not. No more than you retiling the Holy Trinity floor is good for your knees. Don't say I didn't warn you.
Anne and Rosemary occasionally wade in with practicalities – Anne's veil, Rosemary's wedding gloves... Supposedly, it's important that you have some things loaned to you, though I don't understand why.
We haven't heard much from Di. She sounds busy photographing, based on Una's letters to John. They also suggest Una Meredith is about as close to an I told you so as she ever gets. Singapore is presently deluged in rain, and the water level keeps rising. Ever her mother's daughter, Di isn't fazed, and claims to have taken some excellent photographs. She sent us samples, and I take her point. The submerged causeway isn't a sight I'll soon forget. Still, I miss her. It will be good to have her home again. Mara agrees; It turns out you don't grow up in a fishing family without a healthy fear of rising water. I don't know why that surprised me; As Rosemary rightly pointed out, Ave Maris Stella is the anthem of the very Catholic, seafaring Acadians for a reason.
But I have lots to say about the grandchildren. Ingleside's buzzing with them. It's been eons since we had properly young folk galumphing up and down stairs or sliding on banisters – or scraping the icing off of Susan's latest cake! Hector says Abby did it, and Abby says Hector. I suspect both are complicit, and gave them a few monkey-faces for penance.
And the games they play! Yesterday, they were marauding pirates. This morning, the glass panels of my office bookshelf were portals to a backwards universe. They had to walk everywhere backwards without looking over their shoulders. There were some spectacular bruises to show for it – well, you can imagine. Di may come home shortly, but I may not give her her children back.
Toronto is less sanguine. Rilla wants a baby girl, presumably to carry on the tradition of nonsensical green hats. Poor Ken has understandably had enough of waiting to hear whether the baby in question will be the death of his wife or not.
Well I remember that feeling. Leslie says they're in a stalemate, but I think that's Leslie carrying off an understatement at her level best. Betty Meade still keeps in touch with Rilla and is a straightforward type – I must try and have a word with her sometime. She won't tell me anything (bosom friends never reveal secrets) but I'll feel better for trying.
The awful thing – well, it's all awful but this particularly is – is that the little Fords are caught in the middle. Anthony understands the least, and that's a mercy. He's a very fractious baby at the best of times. Leslie worries it's his health, and I worry it's the atmosphere. Living in the middle of a civilized freeze cannot be pleasant. I only fuzzily recall the day old Dr. Lawson said that my mother would die if she lost any more blood, but I remember the atmosphere it left behind. A watery sort of thing that I never understood until Shirley was born and I had to fight so hard for Anne. Then she fell pregnant with Rilla and there I was with my heart in my throat for months.
If I thought it would do any good, I'd try explaining this the next time Rilla and I spoke, but it wouldn't. I remember how fiercely Anne wanted Rilla, and the way my mother looked at Dr. Lawson. She had her Laura anyway. My little girl wouldn't listen any more than they did. So, I shall trust you and John to pray on it, and Leslie with her gossamer-deftness to navigate that water for me, and hope all concerned emerge whole.
Love ever,
Gil
Martyrs' Manse,
Kingsport,
October, 1926
Gil,
It's the photo of the family boating down what I make Middle Alley that struck me. When you wrote of Di's intention to keep The Charlottetown Gazette in picture stories I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't that. I'm used to her catching those gentle, butterfly-wing moments between people, not to having the breath knocked out from between my ribs by the strange alchemy that is image composition.
You'd better warn Naomi – or perhaps Anne and Rosemary – that Ruthie and Phil are wrangling for control of her wedding long-distance. This notwithstanding a letter from Naomi ordering them not to interfere. Personally, I'm dreading it. I want her to be happy, but she's the last of my chicks to fly the nest. I'm sorry neither of the girls will be married from Martyrs', but don't let on. I refuse to complain about an opportunity to visit you. Perhaps we could organise our shooting excursion for the Upper Glen afterward? It would make a diversion.
I've appended your Toronto connection to our intercessions. It's the most practical thing I know how to do, but not everyone appreciates being interceded for, and Ken Ford strikes me as the type to keep his trouble to himself. I recall a letter of Anne's to Phil in which she mentioned Rilla agonising over the increasing shortness of his wartime correspondence. But perhaps I do him an injustice. Just know that I am thinking of them both and the children.
You can disregard Phil's report of my sprained ankle. It was a very light sprain and would never have happened if I had been paying attention coming out of Waterford's Knox. I must have the flagstones redone, before winter if possible. Otherwise, we shall all be laid up with bad ankles, and that won't do at all. Your hands are full enough keeping Cornelia and Susan from killing themselves with work.
Be well, do good work, and keep in touch,
Jo
New Manse,
Glen St Mary,
November, 1926
Jo,
Can I take it as read that you'll lead the wedding service? It's the only unconfirmed detail. Rather, it's the only detail that cannot be negotiated over a mixing bowl and the Ingleside dining table. Nathan and I agreed you should do the honours. It would appease Susan and Cornelia, who for a novelty, agree in their mutual horror of of Fred's Methodism but are pretending they disagree to keep the side up.
Gil's predictably dismayed that Di won't be here for Christmas, but he's not a patch on the children. Miss Abby particularly sits at the window waiting for her mother. In fairness to Di and Alastair, there was never any sense in making a trip out East short, and the girls seem pretty well in each other's pockets. Carl loves showing his city off to an appreciative audience.
About Toronto. I mostly know what Leslie tells Rosemary. I have a bit more than I might because Betty called round the other day and let slip over Victoria Rose and Ceylon tea that she worries Rilla isn't happy. It shouldn't be my focus, but I confess, I find it rather touching that, move to Lowbridge notwithstanding, Betty still thinks of us as her parochial advisors.
I can't tell you much else, because Anne and Gil don't discuss it around the grandchildren in case they prattle to unsuspecting cousins. They avoid it around Naomi, too; I think they don't want to spoil her ongoing romance with too many domestic realities. Sweet, and a bit funny – she's your daughter; She must have seen more complicated marriages up close than Gil's had hot dinners.
Count me in for our annual grouse shoot. What with one thing and another, I imagine we all need the break. There's even talk of Dick Parker joining in for an afternoon if he can get cover from the Over Harbour doctor. He'd better, because we're going to have a time of it getting Gil away from little Abby. He's besotted.
Love and blessings,
J.M.
P.S. It has been pointed out to me repeatedly these last few weeks in conversation with my daughter that you cannot lay flagstones kneeling on a bad ankle. It stresses the tendons or something. Ask Gil. I have no desire to lay any flagstones, but am getting excessively tired of Faith telling me so, so do me a favour and listen to her. It helps Waterford, Culross and Martyrs' kirk not at all if your ankle gets worse before it gets better. Remember that dreadful interregnum man they sent you from Yarmouth last time? Think of him and take a week-long nap, please. For my nerves and our friendship.