New Manse,
Glen St Mary,
November , 1929
Jo,
There was a memorial service today for our War dead. Una hates this service. It's for this she started sewing her white poppies and turning her head against the barbs of irate congregants. It's one of our rare disagreements. I think there's absolutely a place for war memorials in church; Una doesn't. But it's always grim, and this year worse than most.
This year, Nathan Arnold and I agreed the best way to tackle the service was ecumenically.
Nathan hosted, and that put Cornelia's nose out of joint, but didn't keep her away. Betty Meade and family even came from Lowbridge for the occasion. As she said afterwards, it won't be long before she and Ed move back, and the Glen was the home of her Junior Reds epoch. The Milgraves were there too, less Mr. Pryor, which was perhaps for the best. Irene Howard deigned to manifest, and someone attributed the flowers to Ethel Reese and Olive Kirk-Drew. (Drew-Kirk? I can never remember.) Rilla would have completed the set, but supposed she was sitting through Rosedale Presbyterian's equivalent service in Toronto.
I expected some of the Junior Red snippiness, perhaps unfairly. Perhaps I just can't admit that all those girls Una sewed with in yesteryear are married with children. Whatever my qualms, it began all right; There were bagpipes and Miller Douglas recited The Piper. True, the bagpipes made several infants cry, and Anne looked greyer than normal, but Gil didn't seem worried about her. Norman Douglas led the prayers in disconcertingly booming fashion. This unnerved Hector. He began to wail, and heads to turn, so Gil plucked him off of Alastair's knee and went out to the narthex to calm him. When he returned, Dulce trotted right along at Gil's heels as if there was no better place to be. She climbed onto Gil's lap and put her head on the toddler's legs, and if anyone thought it noteworthy, they didn't say. I suppose we all remember Dog Monday coming to church. Perhaps they felt it was a tribute to him, our great war dog.
We sang Eternal Father Strong to Save by Methodist request, not mine. Rosemary can't stand it. She always goes white when the inevitable line about those in peril on the sea arrives, and she did today, but she kept playing. I wanted to do more than nod mute acknowledgement that I knew, and that it was a terrible hymn. Pretty cold comfort. But what else was there to do? We moved on, singing about peril everywhere else, air, land, etc. I relaxed, so did the piano. So did Rosemary.
The offertory hymn arrived. Oh God, Our Help in Ages Past by Presbyterian request. Nothing unusual there; It's a staple at funerals. Here's where it went wrong. No one could bring themselves to sing They fly forgotten as a dream. Even the choir stopped. Only young Alfie Tennyson Drew ploughed stubbornly on. Into this accidental interlude for piano and spontaneous soloist, Anne said, 'They aren't forgotten.'
Then the verse concluded and the choir came back to life.
In a way, Anne's right. The dead might bury their dead, but we go on remembering. Rosemary said once, on one of those windy evenings up at the Old West House, that no one was ever quite dead until there was no longer anyone left to remember them. It must sound very odd to anyone outside the marriage, but that was the first time we became an us against the world. A minute before, it had been Ellen and I against Rosemary on some political thing. I forget what. But Ellen disagreed completely about this resurrection-by-remembrance argument, and just like that, the world shifted and it was Rosemary and I fighting the same corner.
You can tell the incredulous people reading over your shoulder that I wasn't the only one who felt the seismic shift that evening. It was after this that Ellen got it into her head about what she called 'philandering.' But I digress.
On the strength of that argument, I sermonized once about Resurrection through acts of remembrance, and though I say it myself, it was a good Easter sermon. I didn't rehash it this morning. Everyone was too raw. More bagpipes as we processed to the war memorial, where Gil took Hector in one hand, and Abby in the other, and brought them forward to lay the wreath. We sang another hymn standing in the cold and mizzle. Then Nathan Arnold recited the benediction and we dispersed.
The Ingleside party came home with us. I shepherded them into the parlour, and Rosemary got out the Victoria Rose china, accompanied by scones and garibaldi biscuits no one ate. I have a secret hatred of garibaldis, and that unsignable hymn didn't help. Its occluded lines hung in the air like treacle.
Hector saved us. He launched into animated and rapid babble with one of Rosemary's cushions. At first I thought I'd lost the ability to understand English, and could tell Gilbert thought so, too. Then Alastair joined in. Proof, whatever Gil says, he has no more Gaelic than I do.
When Gil realized that this was the cushion-language, he began to laugh.
'Oh, no,' said Gilbert. 'Don't you dare, Alastair. I'm resolved to be able to understand some of my grandchildren!'
'But it's easy, Grandad,' said little Abby, and joined in.
'Iain swithers back and forth all the time,' said Alastair. 'Sometimes by the sentence. Not always Gaelic, either.'
'Exactly,' said Gil, 'and look where that's got us. Grandchildren that speak four languages fluently - English, Gaeil, Yiddish and Shorthand!'
But he said it with a grin and no heat.
'That's right,' said Rosemary. 'Remind me where they get their shorthand from?'
How we laughed!
That got us to talk of Kingsport, where Bruce says he's staying through the winter to play weddings for you and the chapel. Gil will miss him, but it will keep Bruce in pocket money.
I miss him, too, but I'm glad Bruce has a life beyond university. His sporadic letters of friends and evenings out reassure me on that score. Dancing appears to be back in fashion, as it should be. I recall vividly how full Faith's university letters were of work, and how light on revelry. This is better. Even if Rosemary's mild inquiries into Miss Caldicote yielded nothing but an indignant It's not like that! over the telephone.
Keep us posted on your holiday plans. Dick can't make the usual winter shoot, so we're counting on you to round out the party. Apparently – I know because Gil took Dick to task for abandoning tradition – the Parkers are holidaying in Summerside this year. They promised Alice. Anne is, in her words, 'green with envy,' but only because the children haven't come back yet. Bet she sings in a different key then.
Don't forget to pass on the appeal verdict from the Heritage Trust. I'm crossing all my fingers.
Love and blessings,
J.M.
Martyrs' Manse,
Kingsport,
Dec, 1929
John,
I was all set to write and solemnly swear to make up numbers at our annual shoot, but Faith now says you and yours are coming here. We'll be pretty short of wild pheasants this neck of the woods, so better make it a cribbage tournament instead, eh? Tell Gil I've been brushing up. Don't tell Susan. She never could take me seriously with a name like Jo and the card-playing will be my undoing in her book. Martyrs' has missed you, and so have I.
Until such a time as two or three are gathered together, be well, do good work, and keep in touch,
Jo
New Manse,
Glen St. Mary,
January, 1930
Jo,
It's been too long since we wrangled parish shop in person. There's nothing like wrestling a recalcitrant radiator to remind me to get out of the pulpit occasionally. That's never the one you sent off to Ottawa for parts for, was it? Jem reckons the noise it makes is nothing like a water feature, as you once described, but very like trench warfare. If it is the same, I'd get in touch with the manufacturer. Otherwise you'll be paying to have Martyrs' refurbished, too. That's got to be another Heritage Trust application. Best of luck, if so.
At least we commiserated about the Heritage Trust application in person. I still think a moderated appeal is a waste of time and Waterford's finances. It's not worth a third application fee.
Must dash – Norman and his bombast just arrived. He's storming the stairs as I write. He wants to argue the Sunday sermon with me before I've written it. It was a good holiday while it lasted.
Love and blessings,
J.M.
P.S. Norman's gone now, and Rosemary says to send apologies to Ellie that our grandchildren have corrupted her children. I'm not sure that's right. I think there's fault on both sides.
Martyrs' Manse,
Kingsport,
Jan. 1930
Gil,
The General Assembly met and decided to close Holy Trinity, Waterford. The parish is now reallocated as part of Kingsport Central. That makes its congregation part of Hope Park on the High St. The people of Waterford live miles from Kingsport Central, and none of them own autos.
But Holy Trinity was in dire need of restoration, as you know. The Heritage Trust refused to fund it, and we aren't allowed to restore it without their say so. That leaves Waterford with a building unfit for purpose. So ends the Waterford chapter of my ministry, and a vital part of the Bundle Kirk, so called because of its strong mission outreach tradition.
Kingsport Central can sell the Grade A listed church to people who can afford its upkeep.
I want to be glad about it, Gil. Really. Never mind that I'm losing friends to this round of parochial musical chairs. I know I can sustain my Waterford connections independent of ecclesiastical ties. But I also know what the pew rent is at Hope Park, and what the people of Waterford earn in a year. One of those things is not like the other. I wish I had confidence Hope Park would adjust its pew rent accordingly; I cannot bear the idea of these good people being literally out in the cold. But I fear Rev Hannigan isn't the type to accept chickens as an alternative to pew money.
It makes me angry, Gil. So very angry. All that stuff about where your treasure is, there your heart is also, and we charge for the luxury of attending church! All right, so I can't give them communion unless they're Elect, and no one knows if they're Elect, because that's for God to know. But to turn people away from knowing God! When it might be the only well-heated hour these people enjoy all week!
I hope I could let it go graciously if I knew these people would be looked after. But I feel I've failed them. The system failed them. The Church or the Heritage Trust or some inimical other has failed them, and I don't know how or if I can help. Something to pray on, I suppose.
I should be grateful I still have Martyrs' and Culross. Culross especially wouldn't survive absorption into somewhere as wealthy as Hope Park. If I lost it…No point in borrowing trouble.
Here's something good; Naomi and Fred are coming home. Shortly, your daughter can conscript mine into the Great Glen Paper Caper. Apparently, she and Fred want the next baby to be born in Canada.
It strikes me I owe Naomi an apology for doubting her. I really thought I'd lost her to foreign fields. Admirable, but a hard pill for a parent to swallow.
Better still, she and Fred will divide their time between Martyrs' and the Glen until they can sort out housing. I don't suppose you have any ideas?
With any luck this season is kind to you, and especially to Susan. She now exists in perpetuity on my intercessions lists. Sources tell me there is a particularly virulent strain of 'flu going the rounds; I hope it leaves you some time for cossetting the children.
May you ever be well, do good work, and keep in touch,
Jo
Ingleside,
Glen St Mary,
Jan. 1930
Jo,
Have some serendipity to cheer you up; Mary Douglas finally persuaded Cornelia to move out of that impossibly green house in Four Winds. It only took a bad fall, double pneumonia, her increasingly rheumatic hands, and I no longer know how many sprains and breaks to her personage this winter to do it, but the thing is done. She's moving in with Mary and Miller. This leaves said green house vacant, and Cornelia uneasy about how to manage it. She won't leave it uninhabited, won't sell it to interlopers and refuses categorically to let it to fly-by-night City People. I quote.
Fred Arnold might be Methodist, but he's local. Naomi was practically local before she left. Bet Cornelia would sell it to them for a song. I'll ask her next time she drops by with one of the shop cakes. Now she lives with Mary, Cornelia's an amazing convert to shop-bought anything.
As a bonus, the house is near our new paper.
That's right. Our exasperated journalists finally made headway. It was getting expensive for The Lowbridge Herald to run three papers out of one office. Betty's husband wasn't the only frustrated employee. Several people talked of walking out.
So, the Meade-Morris collective bought the Glen paper back for tuppence ha'penny practically, and not before time. Norman Douglas was going around booming that it was good for nothing but wrapping chips, these days. Several of the discontented Lowbridge writers have defected, and Di hopes we can muster some Drews and McAllisters to the cause. I know Mary Douglas wants to write a column on home cures for common ailments. She tells me so every time I pop down to the store for milk, and I have to resist rolling my eyes. She once cured Jims of Diphtheria Croup on an evening when I was snowbound in Avonlea! A column! I ask you! But it's as nothing to Olive wanting to write a weekly bit on romantic advice. Di did roll her eyes over that, but otherwise kept a straight face. Ed Morris didn't, which offended Olive, but probably saved a lot of Glen marriages. As Betty rightly says, Olive is always being offended. She likes it. Your daughter would be a welcome (and sane!) addition to the writers' room.
So now, Betty and family are back in the Glen. They say they don't miss Lowbridge, and they miss the overpriced town markups even less. They have a house on the Shore Road, and would be neighbours as the crow flies to your daughter, if she wants that green house. Nice to think of your grandchildren and mine galivanting together, isn't it? The idea of laughter re-echoing through the valley again is one I hadn't realised I needed until the reality was before me.
Love ever,
Gil
Martyrs' Manse,
Kingsport,
March, 1930
Gil,
Predictably, Cornelia was thrilled to sell the children her old home. If I can't have Naomi back on my doorstep, and realistically, that was never likely, it does me good to think she's close to you and John. Also predictably, there was much noise on the subject of Methodism, but I thought it lacked heat.
Are you spending Easter in Toronto again? Send word if so. I know you worry about the little boys' exposure to the aunts, and I recognize your concern. But from what you say, neither woman is around often enough for that to be realistically at issue. Faith thought Persis was in Egypt, last time I asked. Anyway, I repeat what I said when we spoke. If Jims felt safe taking the children to visit her when home couldn't be home to him, I wouldn't worry. There are lots of colours to love. Think of Wordsworth. Think of surprised by joy, and be grateful he found a way to experience love amidst tribulation. That's a gift.
We're preparing to receive the entire chaotic clan at Patterson St, and still haven't logicked out where to put everyone. Phil says her mathematical ability has never been tested like this before. The current plan is to convert the sitting room to the usual nursery and hope the babies don't mind the unsolicited round of Sardines this occasions. I doubt they will; Evie is addicted to those Oz books, and will probably decree they all play at Munchkins or something.
(An interjection from Phil expressing her approval of Baum, and asking your thoughts and Anne's on the newest Mapp and Lucia.)
Actually, Evie and the others are staying past Easter. Sam's promotion means he now runs the Kingsport arm of the Royal Bank, as of the next quarter day. I make that Lady Day by the Calendar and he makes it not enough time to find and purchase a suitable house, forget close on the existing one. So he, Ellie and the girls will live with us until he does.
My apologies to Faith when, inevitably, Misses Evie, Emma and Elle corrupt her mostly normal children. Mara too. Your boys will relish it.
Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.
Jo
Easter,
Maple St,
Toronto, 1930
John,
A much better Easter than our last Toronto holiday. When we arrived, the boys were in the middle of a cricket tournament against Gertrude's children. Jims captained the Ford team and little Robbie the Oliver one. Anthony, so nearly five that he calls himself that, was bowling, and Anne winced at how hard the ball was. Right up until I reminded her about a certain young woman of my acquaintance who once walked a ridgepole on a dare. She laughed, so I made a passing comment about slate being not exactly soft, either, and she laughed harder.
Liam said, 'Grandad, you're spoiling the game!'
Ken, as umpire, said something about a sticky wicket, and Anne scolded me for telling stories like that around little pitchers with big ears. I said said little pitchers weren't listening, and this time Robbie Grant told me off for distracting the players, except he called me great-uncle. I now understand how poor Hetta Gordon felt. It makes one feel pre-historic.
Anthony, looking quite relieved to be free of cricket, asked what little pitchers were, 'when they're at home.' God love five for trying to sound adult, eh?
'They're the likes of you,' said Jims and swept Anthony up into a great, parabolic arc that defied spacetime. Leslie's right; Jims is what Susan calls 'knacky' with those boys. He gets it from Rilla, who even when she didn't want a war baby, proved adept at raising one.
Anne got an arm around Jims and settled Anthony on her hip, and we processed into the house, Liam and the Grants trailing behind us.
Leslie gave us a nice, normal greeting and apologized for not being Rilla. She was settling Sissy for a nap. Since Sissy doesn't believe in naps, it was a production and a half. When it reached Coward levels of pantomime, Leslie took over so Rilla could kiss us hello and chat with us over the rosebud china, which looks quite at home on Maple St. Ken came in, cricket ball in hand and bat under an arm, and asked the usual questions about travel his mother had already asked. Sometimes his inheritance from Leslie is unmissable. Then he asked if I objected to him reading The Toronto Star. I asked if he was catching errors, because if so, he wasn't doing anything Kitty didn't do first.
'There's always at least three,' said Liam knowledgeably, climbing onto Ken's knee to help. Owen agreed, and pretty soon three generations of Ford men were critiquing The Star's editorial team.
Bad luck for all of them, because Leslie reappeared then, and gave the same sort of tongue-lashing about manners and how to treat one's guests as she used to give her son in the days of half-drowned kittens and rainwater. Time hadn't declawed it. Poor Ken! You'd have thought he was five again, not married with children.
Anne was right; You cannot paper over the cracks of a marriage with a baby. You could see Rilla and Ken learning that. But they're trying to mend fences. You can see that, too.
They adore Sissy, which helps. I worried about that, but I didn't like to put it on paper because it felt disloyal. Some people find it challenging enough bonding to their baby, and Sissy wasn't that. She's obviously not an easy baby, either. But she was a wanted baby, God knows. That's made the difference. Ken reckons she's shaping up to be the family beauty, but Leslie says it's much too early to tell. I suspect Ken is probably right, but as he too often knows when this is the case, I didn't tell him so. I do think Sissy has a very Fordian look about her. I'd wonder about that too, but if the other thing was disloyal, heaven knows what that would be.
Not just Anne, but Leslie and Rilla thoroughly enjoyed the latest Mapp and Lucia. I wouldn't have thought Toronto did politics like that, but Rilla says that's because I don't live there. Apparently, churches are the same the world over and Rosedale Presbyterian as bad as anywhere else.
Au reservoir,
Gil
P.S. What is the Kingsport take on Strong Poison? Anne is livid at Miss Vane's treatment of Lord Peter and vows she will never forgive her, even if she gets off the murder charge.
New Manse,
Glen St. Mary,
July, 1930
Jo,
No doubt you'll have had word already, but consider this my written testimony that your daughter's family arrived safely at the Glen St Mary station this morning. They were sunkissed and travel-worn, and with about as many cases between them as Bruce takes to Kingsport at the start of term – including the baby things! Rosemary and Anne were incredulous until Fred reassured them that there were several camphor chests following by boat.
Gil met them with the auto and brought them, in the first instance, back to Ingleside for tea, where Nathan Arnold and the rest of us were waiting. While Fred talked mission with his father, Di drafted Naomi into The Glen Notes. That was the first five minutes.
Your granddaughter, you'll be interested to hear, has Phil's personality as well as her nose, and that same ability to look fresh and put-together after weeks of travel. She wasn't the least bit afraid of strangers, and ran cheerfully amok with Hector and Abby before the first ten minutes were over. If she visits you at Easter chatting their pigeon English and Gaelic, you know who to blame. Gil certainly does, and makes no bones about doing so.
We had a dinner invitation before the fifteen minute mark. Rosemary and I go there on Saturday week. Naomi lobbied for earlier, but we refused to hamper their unpacking. Instead, Gil and I will spend tomorrow helping lug the heavy furniture into place while Anne and Rosemary kit out the nursery. We're going to help them paint the house, too. They've chosen a lovely dove grey. Cornelia's horror is vocal. Secretly, I think Anne's relieved. She said something about how much more like a kindred spirit the house would look when we finished.
My best to Sam and family as they make their own move. The Young Arnolds have brought all the attendant upheaval back in lurid detail. As Faith will tell you, there's no apology needed. Any corruption of her children was done long ago. The middle Carlisles beat the young Blakes to it, and you know she and Jem egged them on.
Love and blessings,
J.M.
Martyrs' Manse,
Kingsport,
August, 1930
John,
Phil agrees with Anne about Harriet Vane, but still hopes she appears in future books. Perhaps less caustically, it must be said. Likewise that Campion find a similar foil in, well anyone. Have you Glen folk read Mystery Mile? Phil intends to send her copy to Naomi, so if not, you can crib it off her.
After much to-ing and fro-ing, and camping in our spare room, Sam and family finally own a house on Princes' St. It's a stone's throw from Hope Park on the High, but they still attend Martyrs'. Phil (secretly more like Hetta Gordon than she would ever admit) loves this, because they stay for lunch with us afterwards. Ellie's pleased too, because as long as she's visiting us, she can't complete the Church Census form. There's a new one going around, and Ellie swears it's longer than the one from '25.
I don't like it, either. I'm sure numbers are down, especially at Culross. It's hard to say if it's the usual summer-and-fishing-season fall-off, or something more insidious. I can't help worrying that combined with the General Assembly's talk of cutting funds and/or closing smaller churches, its Culross's death knell. No one told me smaller churches were entitled to funding, and a cynical person would think that was deliberate. Sorry, I'm being churlish. I still haven't forgiven them for Waterford. Three churches was more than I could juggle with sanguinity, but I didn't want Holy Trinity shut down. I hear through the grapevine that almost none of my old congregants have made the switch to Hope Park. Rev. Hannigan suspects loyalty, and I suspect pew rent. It could be both.
I cycled past Holy Trinity the other day, and the For Sale sign cut my soul. I hope whoever buys my old church makes it something useful after its deconsecration. A library, maybe, or a school.
I also hear that Miss Caldicote was with you for the holiday. Tell me everything. That must be more interesting than Church Census forms.
Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.
Jo
Ingleside,
Glen St. Mary,
August, 1930
Jo,
Not to worry, Nan keeps us regularly in books, and opinions on them. The latest was Enter the Saint. Do you know the (in)famous Simon Templar? Haste ye to a library if not. Nan and Jerry are addicted. They sit up o' nights reading his antics aloud. Miri listens, but Mandy lies on her stomach and looks from the dock into the worlds within worlds of their lake. Sometimes, she calls loons.
Nan, incidentally, is so taken with Miss Vane that she threatened to name any future daughters after her, should they materialise. She says it was about time someone gave Lord Peter a good dressing down when he needed it.
We missed the Kingsport Contingent this holiday. Jem can't get leave before November, and his children won't leave your grandchildren. I say that as if I mind. I don't. Helen and Christopher's childhood is so different from mine, Jo, and I don't just mean the murders and playing Investigateers with the adults. They've formed bonds and loyalties I defy any kinship table to chart. When I think about those Avonlea years Before Anne –an era unto itself – I remember bone-deep loneliness. I'm heart-glad they can't fathom how that feels.
Shirley's family were in Scotland, but we got a whole six weeks with Rilla's brood. It was good to see the little boys tearing through Rainbow Valley, Jims at the helm. He even took them on a fishing expedition, belatedly inviting me to join. I dithered, because I remember all the fun us Avonlea folk had unsupervised, but they made such a production of including me that I changed my mind.
Rilla spent a sizeable part of her visit catching up with Betty and Miranda, and Anne an equally sizeable portion of time worshipping little Sissy. If Rilla and Ken aren't quite back to normal, they're getting there. They took an evening in Rainbow Valley after the children were in bed (notice I don't say asleep), the other day, and looked better for it. They won't forget those hard years of strain, but they've learned from it.
Then Jims made me feel old by cornering me to talk universities. The Pittman lump sum means he doesn't have to bother with a teaching license unless he wants to. So, he's completing his tenure at Crescent School and thinking about his future. I so wanted to tell him not to rush through life. But no young person wants to hear that, so we were very solemn and serious, instead. He's leaning towards engineering, but not at Redmond. Too many Blythes and Merediths went there first. He needs his own place.
I was just getting mournful for Jims' childhood and the era of the Long-Armed Wailing Monster, when Miss Abby came tearing into my study, determined to elude her bath, and I got to resurrect him. She got Anne's stubbornness along with that nose. Eventually, I resorted to dropping her unceremoniously in the tub as if she was Dulce. I got very wet, and Anne got a good laugh.
Love ever,
Gil