Martyrs' Manse,
Kingsport,
July, 1936

Gil,

My unofficial congregation grows steadily. It was never supposed to be that; I just wanted to sit with someone else's grief. But you know how word travels. Someone must have seen Shirley stop by one Sunday, or perhaps Isobel or Evie mentioned it to one of the Patterson St children. They do sometimes run together. One way or another, people started joining us. Alan Caxley 'just happened' to call in weeks back, and then Edie Gilford and Grace Conway with her little girl came with luncheon because they wanted 'church what has sense to it,' as Edie said. I could hardly turn them away.

It's blossomed from there, like something out of Acts or the synoptics. Jem and Faith have defected with the children. Faith teases me about Christ at the sea of Galilee. I tell her there's no need for a boat and never will be. Though, we have migrated to the harbour, now the days are warm. People sit on the pier and the lobster traps, and the children run amok. I try not to feel absurd as I perambulate the pier extemporizing a sermon. It isn't very difficult –there's a rightness to it that I haven't felt in a long time. There's no lectionary, and no choir, but there's a joyful noise, and I feel home again. I haven't felt at home anywhere since Phil died. There's always a meal afterwards, with whatever surplus the fishers catch. There's even talk of Angus Murdo bringing his bible to future sessions. The more it goes on, the more it begins to feel dangerously close to a church. I should object, or demure, but Rev. Hannigan has his hands full, and I have missed this like a limb, like breathing. I had not known how inextricably wound around my soul were these people until I lost them; If I cannot have Phil, I want them back. I have no idea what we will do in the winter, but we'll work that out when the snow comes.

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

Jo

P.S. Jake's boys have developed a worrisome fascination with affairs in Spain. Needless to say, I don't like it at all. It's not the same with yours, is it?

New Manse,
Glen St. Mary,
July, 1936

Jo,

Kindly leave Spain alone. The most interested people are Bruce, Jims, and Liam. Hector, too. None of them has any business being interested in it, but they keep talking about it when they get together.

None of us like it at all. It's one of the rare subjects Bruce and Alice argue over. Anthony doesn't say anything, but he looks awful.

In another life, Naomi would probably have made inroads towards the organising of an outreach project. But the children and the newspaper keep her busy, and anyway, she's as tired as any of the rest of us of wars. That's the part that stings. The fact that years ago – recently even – we fought a war for the world that was the death knell of wars. Well, then Japan invaded China. I probably wouldn't have noticed but for Carl and Una. Now, Spain is what Susan would have called 'catawumpus' and Gil calls in crisis, and I wonder if it will ever end.

I listened with half an ear the other day as Jims worked some miracle on our temperamental telephone line, and wondered about the possibility of slipping through time. I must have voiced the thought, because Jims paused in whatever it was he was doing to the line and said thoughtfully, 'Like in The Time Machine?'

I said something like that, and asked where he'd go. He mulled it over, between disconnecting and reconnecting pieces of 'phone, but finally shook his head and said he figured if God meant for us to time-travel, He'd have made it possible. It was so nearly what Susan once said about aeroplanes that I laughed.

'Where would you go?' Jims asked, finishing with the phone.

There was no way to say I'd go back to the days of birch cups and frogs at Sunday school; To striped stocking misadventures, or even just to the era when little Andrew Blake swallowing a whole bottle of Redfern's Purple Pills was called an emergency. I shook my head and said I thought he had it right about God and the fixity of time.

But now I've started down this path, where and when would you go, if you could? And would you do it over again, given the chance? That's the part I really can't decide. After all, we are ourselves, flaws and all, and I can't think but that I've grown from mine, as much as they've cost me.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

Martyrs' Manse,
Kinsport,
July, 1936

John,

I can't help it. I'm fixated on Spain. Jake's boys – the ones old enough – are going over there. God knows why. I shudder to think what it will do to them, and it gets worse when I think what it will do to their parents. One of my children never came home.

Phil would box their ears if she was here. Why isn't she here? Ear boxing was never my line. Apparently, I went quiet and 'disappointed,' which the children said was worse.

Evie's got the bug, too. She wants to be a nurse or a refugee worker. Sam's torn between locking her in her bedroom until it blows over and commending her charitable instincts. So am I. She's only sixteen!

Write to me about something else. About Miri's summer holiday. It sounds idyllic. What's your opinion on her and Allison Janie? I know where Gil stands. Personally, I think the girls are very young. Too young to be diving into the kind of romance that sticks, assuming it's that at all. But tell that to Gil, who knew he'd marry Anne when he was – how old? Well, you can see why he struggles with the idea of an inconsequential dalliance, anyway. They weren't our line, were they?

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

Ingleside,
Glen St. Mary,
August, 1936

Jo,

We are still navigating a Susanless world. It still seems incredible to me. Her headstone was installed in the churchyard and that's more, not less incredible. I went to inspect it and saw the Cricket Club was in session around it. Cornelia affected horror when I told her and Anne, but she didn't mean it.

I could tell, because what she said was that some things never change, and didn't it just put her in mind of the Merediths chattering on the tombstone of Hezekiah Pollock.

It did, in the best way. When I kissed Miss Abby goodnight, she said they had to convene at Susan's grave, because, 'Old Susan Baker was always trying to join in with us, and never got to. We thought it might be nice for her to still hear us talking.'

She asked if I thought Susan could hear them, all the way up in Heaven. My Resurrection theology is much less than yours, so I said yes, and told her to sing Polly-Wolly Doodle next time she was there. Now, I'm trying to picture Susan attempting involvement in a Cricket Club meeting and failing miserably. I must get the details.

Love ever,

Gil

New Manse,
Glen St. Mary,
August, 1936

Jo,

What I think is that if those girls are holidaying in Muskoka, it's the longest summer holiday on record.

Jerry's much more relaxed than I would be. Rosemary thinks that's because most of the little girls' schooling was done around the kitchen table on a pretty year-round basis, nothing like the traditional September-to-June setup of other people. Maybe they're right. Maybe Miri's off learning more important lessons that the Three Rs. Do schools still teach those?

I worry about Miri, I don't mind telling you. She falls so fast and thick and intensely into these friendships. I don't know if that's because of the nomadic existence she's enjoyed or if she gets that from the Blythes – Gil says Anne and Di were the same– or what. Rosemary thinks it's a phase. Lots of schoolgirls have them, apparently. She says Ellen did, and I can't see that at all. Rosemary says that's because I never knew the West girls when they were younger. That's nonsense. Rosemary was exactly the right age when I met her.

How are Jake and family? When do the boys leave? How can they be going to war? The whole point was that they wouldn't have to. I suppose they don't. I suppose they feel it's a principle, or something. A calling. That's what Bruce says. I thought that was over. Let's hope it passes.

Love and blessings,
J.M.