Christmas letter 2014

7 Marcel Street

Lakeville, Westmorland, Co, NB

E1H 1G6

December, 2014

Dear Friends and Family,

It is time, once again, to wish you Merry Christmas and greetings of the season. Christmases come more often nowadays, don’t they?

I am in the throes, once again, of knitting, crocheting, baking and shopping. I am sticking to my resolution to spend less this year, which means, make more. I do enjoy the making, thankfully. I am looking forward, once again, to enjoying Christmas dinner at Mom’s apartment. Her place is different, but her furnishings and menu are much the same as they have been for many years. To help her in the kitchen this year will be me, Pat, Julie and Caroline. Hopefully she will relax enough to enjoy her time with her grandchildren and her great-granddaughter; and, of course, her children. My contribution, I am told, is turnips. Julie’s is the cranberry sauce, and I might get to enjoy, for the first time, one of her cheesecakes for which she is famous. We shall see. Mom, at 92, insists she can do the rest. We are blest!

Bill started off 2014 in Myrtle Beach, North Carolina. He and some golfing buddies left on Boxing Day and returned after New Year’s Day. He said he wouldn’t do it at that time of year again, but, it wasn’t bad.  He took the next few months easy and started working at the golf course in May, until October. About the time he left Lakeside, he started working at the Georges Dumont Hospital for the Corps of Commissionaires. He’s thinking of joining Petitcodiac Golf Course this spring, for a change.

I started off 2014 by resigning my job at the bakery. I love being a homebody, as long as I don’t hit the malls and bookstores too often. High on my winter/spring priority list was the completion of my Holmes family history compilation. It was written, printed and handed out,  with a big sigh of relief, at the Holmes Family Gathering in 2014. Forty-six Holmes family members and guests celebrated, in the Moncton/Petitcodiac area, the 200^th birthdays of Daniel and Charlotte Holmes, whose birthdays were, as far as we can ascertain, in 2014. Daniel and Charlotte were my great-great grandparents. Activities at the reunion were fun and new friendships with distant cousins were made and several cousins have kept in contact since.

A couple of days before the reunion, Erin arrived at the Moncton train station! My most special guest! Bill and I hadn’t seen her for almost five years, although Julie spent last Christmas with her in Taiwan. She stayed around for a couple of months, although she visited friends in New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island and Florida during that time. She is now back in Taiwan, settling down with a new apartment and job in Taipei, and pursuing some filming experience in her spare time. She will now be teaching ESL to adults rather than children, and is expected to study the Chinese language. She has her work cut out for her, I’d say.

Julie continues as Nature Conservancy Canada’s representative in Prince Edward Island – a challenging job that keeps her very busy. We usually see her when she drops in while going to meetings in Fredericton.  She is a member of the Charlottetown Rotary Club and keeps busy with them in her spare time. She is still on call to make cheesecakes! She spent much of her vacation hiking in Ontario this summer.

Toller has had some visits to Dr. Cook this year, but, at thirteen, is doing pretty well, especially when it involves his old yellow ball and his new blue ball. He’s deaf now and going blind, but his sniffer still works fine. He journeyed to Verna’s in Long Island with Bill and me in November, and was an excellent traveler. Elsa stayed next door with my neighbour, Jeanne, and I don’t think she was in any hurry to come home. They will welcome Julie’s white kitty, Luna, for Christmas. There should be some shenanigans around the Christmas tree this year. As it is time to retire the tree, I’ll not worry about it, but maybe I’ll leave the precious vintage ornaments off this year.

And Mom is fine! Still goes out whenever anybody invites her, cooks for church suppers, and loves it when Paul and Pat et al come home for a visit.

I wish you and yours a Merry Christmas and a happy, peaceful 2015.

“God bless us everyone.” ~ Tiny Tim

Love,

Peg and Bill

Quiet on the Blog Front

A year ago, I knew I had a deadline. I had a book to finish, and I had just completely changed the format. I had about six months left to revise and write, for I had to allow time for the printing process. My deadline was July. And I could do nothing. I sat down to write, and nothing came to me. The next day, I promised myself, I would work on the book. Next day came, but there were still no words.

The same is happening now. My blog sits idle. I struggle with my newsletter: fortunately, I had my two articles written before the snow fell. There are no visitors to Riverbank. I have come to a conclusion. 'Tis the season.

I cannot write in December. I can bake, I can knit and crochet, I can wrap, I can listen to carols on YouTube, I can fuss and fidget and I can make excuses.

What I do remember from last year is that January came. The gifts and the tinsel were put away. The baking was long gone. The deadline for handemade gifts came and went. The resolutions were quickly forgotten.

The writing began.

And so it will, again.

The Spike Belt

I am looking forward to an adventure - well, all except the long drive. Once I see the sign to Uncasville, and hit the Cross Sound Ferry, I am happy. I love Long Island. This time we will only be there for four days, plus two days driving.

We were leaving Long Island for the long trek home. We hoped to catch the first ferry at 7AM and be on our way up the coast before the hurricane reached us. Our goal was to reach Maine in the afternoon and spend the night at my sisters.

It was dark. I was half asleep, even tho' I tried to stay awake. We were making pretty good time, probably about Southold, with just a few sprinkles, when the sirens woke me. Bang. Bang. Pffffffffffff. Rattle over to the side of the road.

The police officer was on a chase. He passed us and threw out a spike belt, which the wind grabbed and tossed right under our tires. We stood outside and looked at our poor car in disbelief. It was cold, wet, and windy. Another car stopped; the driver said he witnessed what happened and would stay with us until the police showed up, which they did, eventually, very apologetic, but why, he wondered, had we pulled over to the side of the road, otherwise we would not have hit the belt. We explained that in Canada, where we lived, we pull over for emergency vehicles. Don't they do that in the USA?

By about eleven, we were on our way home, with two new tires courtesy of the Long Island Police. The ferry ride was one to make the tummy churn, and we traveled in hurricane weather all the way to Maine.

I'm hoping for an uneventful trip,  some nice photos to show you, and maybe, this time, a submarine in Groton.

Agnes Warner

My Remembrance Day Facebook project is posting snippets of letters from Miss Agnes Louise Warner home to her family and friends. Her friends collected her letters and had them published, unbeknownst to her. They sold the books for $1, and the proceeds were used to purchase supplies and an occasional treat for the hospitals and patients (poilus/soldiers) where she worked as a nurse in France.

Agnes visited Riverbank on July 22, 1909. She was 35 years of age at the time. She was the forth child of seven of Brig. Gen. Darius B Warner and his wife, Nancy Robinson Warner. From the introduction of her book:

"THE writer of these letters, a graduate of McGill College, and the Presbyterian Hospital, New York, left New York in the Spring of 1914 with a patient, for the Continent, finally locating at Divonne-Les-Bains, France, near the Swiss border, where they were on August 1st, when war broke out. She immediately began giving her assistance in "Red Cross" work, continuing same until the latter part of November, when she returned with her patient to New York---made a hurried visit to her home in St. John and after Christmas returned to again take up the work which these letters describe."

I will be featuring Brig. Gen. Warner in my November newsletter, so I do not wish to steal any thunder from my letter. I will tell you that he served on the Union side in the American civil war, and that after the war he was sent to Saint John, New Brunswick, as an American Consul, a position he held for twenty years. After that, he returned to his young man before the war career, becoming a partner with his brother and son in a sawmill business in Saint John. All of his children were born and raised in Saint John or Rothesay, New Brunswick. Two died young, some returned to the United States, and some stayed in Canada. Darius Warner died in Saint John and was buried in London, Ohio, beside his father. Nancy died in Saint John and was buried there in the Fernhill Cemetery.

Agnes died in 1926 at the age of 52, in New York. She went there to recouperate after WWI, but never fully recovered.

I'm really not sure, but I imagine that Agnes grew up in a privileged, wealthy household. After reading her letters, I see that this young lady was also brought up to be unselfish, caring and giving. 

If my patient is as well in October as she is now I am going to stay and give my services to the "Red Cross." If I have to go home with her I will come back---I would be a coward and deserter if I did not do all I could for these poor brave people.

You can read My Beloved Poilus at  http://www.vlib.us/medical/canadian/cnurse.htm

Other sources:
http://trees.ancestry.com/tree/72806901/person/32301123048
http://www.rubycusack.com/issue533.html
http://books.google.ca/books?id=r8ln-pwuoIwC&pg=PA67&source=gbs_selected_pages&cad=3#v=onepage&q&f=false

PS

"While . . . there are English, Scotch, and Irish nursing sisters not one whit behind their Canadian sisters in any respect, the nursing profession in Canada has, in the first place, a highter status than it possesses in the old country. It attracts, in general, the daughters of professional men, and those from comfortable households . . . it is a rule that Canadian Nursing Sisters have had, not a common, but a High School Education . . . And as nurses, their training has been very thorough, with fuller courses of lectures on the basal subjects than is usual in Great Britain. As a result, a remarkably large proportion of the matrons of the great hospitals in the United States are of Canadian birth and training. Add to this that the Canadian nurse embarked on hr profession is paid on a scale which in Great Britain would be thought extravagant. But then she is thoroughly competent . . . In this war they have abundantly 'made good.'"

~Historian J George Adami, quoted in "Agnes Warner and the NURSING SISTERS of the great War," by Shawna M Quinn. Pages 24 and 26. Not footnoted, so I do not know the date that Mr. Adami wrote this, but it refers to the WWI era.

http://www.gooselane.com/media/741.pdf

Agnes Warner was the daughter of a professional man and from a comfortable household. She was educated at McGill College and the Presbyterian Hospital, New York. She also worked as a nurse in a private household in New York in 1914, traveling with this family to France when the war broke out. Indeed, she made good, but she never recovered and died eight years after the war. This portion of another book I now want has a few pages on line. Chapter four is "My Beloved Poilus," which I have been quoting. Chapter five is "After My Beloved Poilus." A tease . . .

Why We Wear a Poppy

It is the first day of November. The day we begin wearing the poppy. We wear it until noon of November 11, when the commemorative services are over. I wonder if people who are not from Canada know why we wear a poppy. I hope Canadians know why we wear a poppy. Why do we wear a poppy?

Lieut Colonel Dr. John McCrea, Canadian poet, author and physician of the Canadian Expeditionary Force, penned the poem "In Flanders Field" in May, 1915, during the fighting of the second battle of Ypres. It is believed that the death of his friend, Lieut Alexis Helmer, was the inspiration for the poem. When I went to school, we all had to memorize the poem, and I can repeat it still.

I asked a young lady I worked with if they memorize poems in school nowadays. She said no. In my opinion, that is a shame. I know. It's easy to look up a poem on the internet if you want to read it. I suppose it's no different than memorizing a times table in math class. But, I still think it doesn't hurt to memorize. It's a good brain exercise. And it's something that will stick with you.

In Flanders Fields

by John McCrea

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place, and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly,

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

"The poppy became widespread in Europe after soils in France and Belgium became rich in lime from debris and rubble from the fighting during the First World War. These little red flowers also florished alround the gravesites of the war dead." (Veterans Affairs Canada  http://www.veterans.gc.ca/eng/remembrance/get-involved/poppy) 

We wear the poppy as a memorial to those who died on our behalf in war. We have done so since 1921.

In grateful appreciation to Miles Jordan Moore, Floyd Orren Holmes, Donald Malcolm Moore, Bryce Raymond Holmes, and the sons and daughter-in-law of my sister, all of whom served and none of whom died during wartime.

http://www.greatwar.co.uk/poems/john-mccrae-in-flanders-fields.htm

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_McCrae

http://www.veterans.gc.ca/eng/remembrance/get-involved/poppy

2006 Flashback: Our Jeopardy

Another flashback to my 2006 blog. This is a poem that hung on a wall at Bass River Chairs in Highfield Square. Both gone now, although H S still stands: Moncton's first mall. I could walk to it and browse and hang out with my friends and spend my wee allowance. The poem is called Our Jeopardy and was written by Thomas John Carlisle. I don't know when he wrote it, but he lived from 1913 - 1992. I asked permission and the store employees took it off the wall so I could write it out. This was before internet, at least in my house.

It is good to use
best china
treasured dishes
the most genuine goblets
or the oldest lace tablecloth
there is a risk of course
every time we use anything
or anyone shares an inmost
mood or moment
or a fragile cup of revelation
but not to touch
not to handle
not to employ the available
artifacts of being
a human being
that is the quiet crash
the deadly catastrophe
where nothing
is enjoyed or broken
or spoken or spilled
or stained or mended
where nothing is ever
lived
loved
pored over
laughed over
wept over
lost
or found.

"I always want to add punctuation to this, my favorite poem. I like my life punctuated and my i's dotted and my t's crossed but not my 7s. Plain sevens for me thank you very much. Punctuation would take away from Mr. Carlisle's intentions I suppose, and put the emphasis on what I like which would not be right at all. Well, I'll leave it as is. It's a wonderful poem and awesome in its truth and I grew up in a family that used fine china, best dishes, glass goblets and lace tablecloths, but avoided risks of revealing moods, moments, revelations, those artifacts of human beingness.

Consequently, we crashed from time to time, so to speak. Oh yes, we are a fine family with just enough mischief in our past to make life interesting. My grandmother Minnie once said, "I wish I could go to sleep and when I wake up, I would be with my mother." I'd love to have another visit with my Dad and my Gramps and Grams and my uncles . . .

I'm trying to gather this family together again. That's a difficult thing to do when we are scattered all over this wide world, from Canada to California to China and everywhere in between. And some of it is not a distance problem for we live across town from each other and never see each other but for funerals. Thank God for funerals. Because of Uncle Jim's funeral, I took the pictures home and opened doors from Hawkesbury to Halifax and here in Moncton. Because of Dad's funeral, I reconnoitered with Aunt Helen and Nancy and Cindy after too many decades. Because of Cassie's and Phoebe's funerals, we will begin an annual family gathering tradition so that we don't get lost again. That is, if anyone else wants to take this journey. To risk it. To use the teacups and goblets and lace and begin to break the walls and barriers of independence. To lift up the rug that we swept all the hurts and wonders under and wash them with tears of repentance. But first we must repent. We all like to look at the other's motes from behind our beams. We must get past the wrongs of others and fix the wrongs in ourselves and then we can start to live love pour over laugh over cry over lose what needs to be lost and find what needs to be found. I begin with me. After all, I'm the only one I can really mend. It requires a total change of attitude and priorities. It requires that I be proactive. That takes a lot of time and effort and it's worth every bit of time and effort I can muster.

~~~~~~~

I was driving down the road that led to their house. The directions she gave me were excellent. To a tee. My anxiety level was at a high, not the highest but pretty far up there. I thought I might turn tail and go back home but I persevered. I risked it. And I'm so glad I did. For we are cut from the same bolt of cloth, he and I. Ten years apart, hardly saw each other for fifty years and yet we melded. And she I call my friend and my cousin for she is part and parcel of him and we are comfortable together.

'One of them must be Alan. Again, I felt that fluttering under my ribs. I had thought about finding him for so long. Oddly, now that I had, I was afraid . . . It would be easier to walk cheerfully if one were certain of recognizing that of God in every man; it was a vast relief to me to find that with Alan it was not difficult. I was able to add him to the tally of my family in my prayers, and he has retained his place there ever since. I was able in all truth to say to him, 'I am blithe to meet thee, brother.' Voyageurs, by Margaret Elphinstone.

For . . . , my cousin, who sometimes calls me sister."

Did I write that? Did I do what I said I would? Well, I certainly attempted to do some of it. I have invited lots of family members to our Holmes gatherings and many came, probably timidly enough in the beginning, but those of us who have reunited found it easy and fun, I think. I did not do it every year, though. In 2006, I had not thought far enough ahead that I might find families from the twelve tribes of Daniel and Charlotte; I think I was thinking only of my first and second cousins. I have not started Moore reunions, but we have gotten together a few times and I have started on the genealogy, albeit slowly, and have enjoyed the reacquaintences of both my families. 

Have I mended myself? I have tried, and yes, some rends are repaired and I suppose, if I were honest, there are new tears that need fixing, in the eight years since I wrote this. I am somewhat older and wiser, happier and sadder; and I still have a great deal to learn. I retired and I reretired and I find I have not much more time than I did when I worked full-time. 

Half Mast

I haven't posted to my blog for a few days. I can't write when tragedy strikes. I get all stuck on the words and they sound trite and formal. I guess that's why I like to stick my head into the past. I know the endings of the stories; sad or happy, I've dealt with them. I can write about people I love and miss or people I never knew. But the here and now puts me right into writer's block.

Once again our flags are at half mast. Mourning. Four months ago, Moncton mourned for our RCMP officers and the whole country mourned with us, and some of our neighbors to the south as well. Now, we mourn for two Canadian soldiers murdered in cold blood on home turf by two people who know by now that jihad doesn't necessarily lead to the promised land.

St. Jean sur Richilieu. I never heard of it before, but my next door neighbor moved to New Brunswick from St. Jean sur Richilieu last year. Lovely lady. Knocks on our door and hands us a plate. Shares her fudge and spaghetti sauce with us and its so yummy. Ottawa. I've been there. I was twelve. Beautiful parliament buildings. We have a copper maple leaf entombed in glass that I think came from a previous section of the roof of the house of Parliament. (I could be wrong about that, but it came from some part of the parliament buildings.) Bill got it in appreciation for something he did at work. Our parliament buildings: symbol of our democracy, our freedom, our diversity, our welcoming spirit. Perfect? No. But for two Canadian citizens to desecrate what the majority of us hold dear but never appreciate enough - our unknown soldiers, our forefathers and mothers who sacrificed for us, our soldiers today - our sons and our daughters and our nieces and nephews and our friends' children - most of whom would do whatever it takes to protect our lives and our freedoms - something is so wrong when our own citizens can turn their back on what they are so priviliged to posess and seek to serve the gods of terror.

May our bells continue to ring. May our soldiers continue to guard our unknown soldier. May our soldiers and police forces and RCMP continue to protect us and innocents of other nations. May we still welcome strangers to our shores. May we not be intimidated. May we support those who protect us.

OUR NATIONAL ANTHEM 

O Canada! Our home and native land!

True patriot love in all thy sons command.

With glowing hearts we see thee rise,

The True North strong and free!

From far and wide

O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.

God keep our land glorious and free!

O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.

O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.

http://dhfha2.blogspot.ca/2014/10/half-mast.html

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iuKkmXOso8g

When Clothes Stood Up By Themselves

I just filled my washing machine with dark clothes. The prep time (removing the clothes from the hamper, placing them in the machine, adding liquid detergent and fabric softener, took me, maybe, five minutes at most. It would take me another couple of minutes, after the machine has done its chore, to transfer them to the dryer, if I was going to use it. Today, the sun is shining and there's a lovely breeze, so I shall hang them on my clothes line. That does take some time. Not only do I hang the clothes with wooden pegs upon the line, I also have to take time to throw the yellow ball. After the sun and wind complete their part of the drying process, I need to bring them inside, fold them, and put them in their respective places. All together, it might take me 27 minutes to take care of one load of laundry.

But that's today. Hearken back into a child, in the basement of 9 Wellington, and a big round machine. One machine: a washing machine. There is no drying machine. It looks like a big round white tub, with two rollers on top. That's what they are: wringers, to squeeze out the  water. My mother and I stand over the steaming water, watching the clothes rotate in the soapsuds. After some time, and the amount of time is fuzzy now, but time enough to remove the dirt and grime of one businessman, one housewife, and three children who played outside in the dirt and grass of the playground and the path behind the house and the train tracks, when they weren't in school, My mother stops the machine's gyrating, empties the water and repeats the process to rinse out the soap.

Now I am only permitted to watch. She places each individual piece of clothing or towels or bedding between the wringers - one at a time. I am allowed to remove them as they come out the other side. They look like . . . I'm sorry, I have to say it . . . the snake I saw on the road the other day. Flat. Absolutely flat, Now I am permitted to carry on the process. No, I'm not permitted. I'm encouraged. What am I saying? I have no choice. It is my girlhood duty to carry the clothes outside in a basket and hang them neatly on the line. Socks together, next to Mom's bra. Panties together next to the white underwear. Dress shirts together. Dresses together. T-shirts together. Dishcloths and towels together. Hang them on the line where they dance in the breeze while they dry. I also remove the clothes, bring them inside, and together, my mother and I fold them neatly in piles. Dads. Moms. Pegs. Pauls. Pats. Kitchen drawers. Ironing.

That was in the summer. In winter, I froze my fingers as I struggled to remove the pegs from the clothing. Then came the fun part. Bring them in the house and stand the pants up on the kitchen floor, all by themselves, frozen in place like tin soldiers. It only lasts a minute as the warmth of the house enters those pants and they fall on the floor like limp rag dolls. There is a three part clothes rack in the dining room where we hang the still-damp laundry to finish the drying process by the register. 

Up country, at the farm, is an even older electric wringer washer that works on the same principle, but on Mondays only. Monday wash. Tuesday iron. What did they do when it rained? It must have thrown off the entire weekly schedule. There were three clothes lines that looked like the the line in the photograph above. No fancy wheels and pulleys. If those lines were full of clothes or better yet, bedsheets, they were fun to play in. Fun for grandchildren. Probably not so fun for overworked grandmother.

Wander back another generation. I've only seen the equipment. Several irons: irons made of iron. Heavy, though smaller than our modern irons that we pull out occasionally. Set on the wood stove to heat. Three or four of them, of course; once they lose their warmth, replace them and pick up the next one. Out in the shed next to the kitchen, a big shiny tin tub. Doubled as a Saturday evening bathtub. And there, hanging on the wall, a nubby piece of glass in a wooden frame: a washboard. 

My grandmother had to make the soap that made the suds. From lye. 

Blessed be her wrinkled, weathered hands.

I took the photo at Kings Landing.

Miss Fowler

I was afraid of her. She was the principal, and taught grade six. It worried me for five years, that and the strange toilets downstairs. I went to Prince Edward School, just down the street, in an era when the playground had a boys side and a girls side, and we entered two by two through the big doors.

Finally, the September day arrived. Not once was I ever sent to the principal's office, although on one occasion a teacher rapped my knuckles gently with a ruler and broke my little heart. I had worried in vain.  I loved Miss Fowler, from the first day of grade six. She loved to sing, and in her classroom we sang. We learned, too, but what I recall is the singing.

Outside, on the girl's side of the playground, we sang Beatles songs. In Miss Fowler's classroom, we sang old songs. Really old songs. Red River Valley, Old Black Joe, Autumn Leaves, All Through the Night, My Bonnie . . . If you are really old, like me, you probably remember them. 

What made me think of Miss Fowler? Once again, the Supreme Court of Canada is debating the legality of Physician Assisted Suicide. I, a citizen, will have nothing to say on this matter. If you ask my opinion, I do not support this. However, I am not without sympathy, having tucked someone I love in at night as she waited to die and wished for death to come quickly and with dignity. It did, naturally, for her. It doesn't always. 

Miss Fowler, someone told me, took her own life, near the end of a terminal illness. I was so sad when I heard that, many years ago. Sad, that she suffered so; sad, because she was a beloved teacher. At the time, shocked, as well. I was young.

Long, Long Ago

Tell me the tales that to me were so dear, long, long ago,

Sing me the songs I delighted to hear, Long, long ago.

. . . Blest as I was when I sat by your side, long, long ago.

~ T H Bayly

I took the photo of Prince Edward School in autumn of 2012. The song book is "The One Hundred and One Best Songs," published by The Cable Company, Chicago, 29th edition, 1917. 

Sunday Afternoon Drive (and Drivers)

Yesterday afternoon, Bill and I took a fall foliage drive through Albert County. We drove the highway to Anagance, and from there on it was on the back roads, often in valleys, and at one point on a dirt road. Even though the reds and much of the oranges have fallen, it was still beautiful to look up, way up, to a hill covered with colorful hardwoods and softwoods. It was also very pretty near the rivers and brooks.

As I drove along, I thought of the many drives my father took us on when we were children, mostly on Sunday afternoons. What do I remember most about those drives?

Getting lost. "Are we lost, Dad?" "I think we are." "Which road should I take?" My adult self thinks he knew those roads like the back of his hand.

Gettin out of the car and wandering. Once, I remember, there was still snow in the woods, but it was a nice warm day. I thought it highly unusual to play in the snow without so much as a sweater on.

Ending up at the airport. At least once a month. Back in the day, we could wander outside and watch the planes come in. Or, he'd take us to the small airport and put us up on the wing so we could look inside. We never once got into trouble doing that.

Buying us a bottle of pop. I have a fuzzy memory of my first bottle of mountain dew . . . pop was not common in our house when I was a child, and it was a treat when he'd stop at a corner store and ask us what kind we wanted.

Getting behind a Sunday driver. You know what a Sunday driver is, don't you? One who has no where to go, scenery to look at, and takes his good old time, especially when there are no passing lanes in sight. One day, we drove along at a snail's pace behind a dozen or so other cars also going at a snail's pace. Dad said, "I bet Miles is the Sunday driver." (Dad called his parents by their first names, as per their wishes.) We came to a passing lane and all the cars passed and sure enough, there at the head of the line was Miles, meandering along without a care in the world. How did he know? Or did he?

Those days are gone, or rare. We can't afford the luxury of a leisurely Sunday afternoon drive anymore. The price of gas must have been relativly cheap back in the day when we drove the back roads of New Brunswick on Sunday afternoons.

Walter and Doris (Speer) Kyle

Doris is my dad's first cousin. I found this article in one of my grandfather's scrapbooks. Hockey lovers and my Moore family might find it interesting. I'm not sure of the date. Doris and Walter separated and got back together several years later.

Sport Wife:  Mrs. Gus Kyle

Mountie Got His Girl and Made Her His Wife

By Bill Beck

                Doris Speer felt a little twinge of guilt as the broadchested Mountie waved her auto to the side of the road.

                Of course, it was only constable Walter Lawrence Kyle pulling a surprise customs check on his friends and neighbors in little Woodstock, New Brunswick. Doris, a bit irritated, watched him walk toward her in his Smokey-the-Bear hat and wondered where she should stash the carton of American cigarettes she had just purchased in Holton, Me., 10 miles away.

                If you ask her now, she will say she had no difficulty in outwitting the big, clumsy fellow, and preserving the contraband.

                Or, if you ask the constable, he will tell you Doris flew into a girlish panic and pitched the cigarettes into a ditch; that he pretended not to notice, figuring loss of the smokes was punishment enough for the inept little smuggler.

                What neither of them knew that day in 1943 was, they were on their way to Madison Square Garden, New York, together.

                Walter Lawrence Kyle – called Gus because, as a baseball catcher, he reminded Canadian fans of former Cardinal backstop Gus Mancuso - is now coach of the St. Louis Hockey Braves. Doris is his wife, and this story is about Doris, although Gus will intrude from time to time. At 231 pounds, he’s hard to keep out.

                One of two daughters of the village clerk, Doris had never seen a professional sports contest or experienced the slightest desire to when she began to date Gus in Woodstock. Nor did she know that Gus was an athlete.

                All she knew was that Kyle was assigned to customs and narcotics investigations there at the border and that he would never talk about any of his cases.

                She certainly would never have urged Gus to change occupations if it had not been for one particular regulation. No Mountie could wed until he had been with the force seven years and could show bank deposits totaling $2500. How do you save $2500 on a salary of $92.10 per month?

                That is when her sweetheart’s athletic background became important. You couldn’t just quit the Mounties. You either had to serve out your enlistment or buy your way out at the rate of $30 for each expired month.

                 When Doris told Gus, “yes,” he still had 42 months to go and coming up with $1300 was almost as tough as saving $2500.

                The upshot was, the New York Rangers of the National Hockey League bought Kyle from the Canadian Mounted Police in 1947 for $1300, one of the strangest player transactions on record. At least it was a switch on the way baseball got Alabama Pitts from Sing Song.

                That began for Doris the strange, nomadic life of a sports wife and, except for the time Gus quit to sell investments, it has continued for 17 years.

                Kyle played baseball in the summer and Doris cheered home runs. He had her cheering hockey in the winter and would have her cheering football in the fall, but his hockey contract forbade him to play the game.

                “I spent my honeymoon with a girl friend because Gus was busy cleaning up old police cases. We moved five times in the first seven months we were married,” Doris remembers. “That should have been the tip-off.”

                All the moves were not for change of seasons. Once, there were bedbugs and another time, the newlyweds had to share one bathroom with six working girls and Gus was getting trampled in the morning rush.

                “The most exciting time was in New York (1950) when the Rangers almost won the Stanley Cup and Gus almost was rookie of the year,” said Doris. “Some rookie! He was 29 years old.”

                It took Kyle two years to make the Rangers. Doris, who had seldom been outside her home town of Woodstock, had to make the trip to the big town by herself. Gus, in all his wisdom, had arranged quarters in a sleazy hotel across the street from Madison Square Gardens.

                Doris, suspecting that most of her fellow lodgers were racketeers or worse, kept the door chained until her husband could find a pleasant apartment in Long Island.

                “Living in a different apartment every year, you seldom come to know your neighbors. But in Long Island, several players and their wives lived near us and we met a musician across the street. They knew Kay Starr and she began to go to the games with us. It was fun,” said Doris.

                It was also fun at the Garden where a supposedly hapless Ranger team fought its way into the Stanley Cup playoff, eliminated Montreal and carried Detroit to seven games before losing out in the final.

                Gus had himself a year. Playing left defence, he took over the roll (sic) of “policeman” which meant that if anybody on the other team abused a Ranger, Gus skated into the fray, ham-like fists swinging.

                “I got used to seeing Gus in fights,” said Doris. “I’d just stand there and watch and hate the other guy. It never seemed to me to be Gus’s fault and he never seemed to lose, or if he did, I’d call it a draw.”

                Kyle missed the rookie award by a vote or two. For a defenseman to win would be like a defensive tackle grabbing football’s Heisman trophy. It has never happened.

                “Gus’s coach went to Boston and after a year, bought Gus’s contract. I didn’t like Boston much. But in 1953, Gus quit and we went to Calgary. That was the best time of all for me.”

                Kyle meant to quit hockey. He opened up a sporting goods store. But the Chicago Black Hawk organization bought his contract and lured him back into the game in Calgary on the promise he would one day be a coach.

                “Hockey was fun when Gus was a player. I even used to laugh when they booed him in Edmonton. It all changed when he became a coach. The fun went out of it.”

                In all, the Kyles remained nine years in Calgary. They bought a home, kept the store and one of Gus’s teams set a pro hockey record by going undefeated 16 straight games. Then the Black Hawks pressured Gus to take a bigger job and he quit in favor of the investment business.

                “He seemed to like it and did well. I loved it. It meant no more moving. But I knew he couldn’t stay away from hockey and he didn’t,” Doris related. Gus went back in 1962, picking up a staggering club in Syracuse. That club became the St. Louis Braves, moving here New Year’s Day of 1963.”

                Doris has learned she is apt to be alone on holidays and anniversaries because the team seems to be always on the road. She has learned she must have salads and steaks on the menu, because big Gus has a weight problem; that she should keep off the subject of hockey unless he brings it up, and that she should never, never turn around when the fan behind her begins to revile the coach.

                But she has never learned to stop missing her comfortable home in Calgary. It is now rented to Eagle Day, former Ole Miss All-America quarterback. He quarterbacks the Stampeders, Calgary’s professional football team.

                And there is one other problem: Doris doubts that there is a cure for telephone fever of which her husband is a hopeless victim.

                “About the time most people go to bed, Gus gets on the telephone and calls long distance all over the United States and Canada. He wants to make a deal or he wants to check on some junior player. All I can do is go to sleep or talk to Duke."

                Duke is a 9 – year old Weimaraner that is almost as big as Gus but who is a sophisticated apartment dweller as you’ll come across.

                As Doris sees it, there have been no unhappy times in her 17 years with Gus, although the one the Kyles are experiencing now is extremely trying.

                The Braves are in last place in the Central Hockey League. Gus can’t stand to be last. Doris can’t cook him a meal or give him a pill that will make things any better.

                He frets and makes telephone calls. He moans and sighs.

                “If it were only summer,” she said. For one thing, the hockey season would be over. For another, she knows a sure-fire summer method of making Gus smile.

                One look at Doris’ somewhat unorthodox golf swing throws her husband into fits of helpless laughter.

                Next: Mrs. Mike Shannon.

               

Recipe for Making Police Reputation

                Doris Kyle knew her husband by reputation long before she actually met him.

                As all Woodstock, N.B., knew, Constable Walter Kyle was the man who made the daring capture of the poor, demented lady who kept scandalizing the city by dashing about like Lady Godiva –c clad in nothing.

                “Not so,” protests Kyle now. “The sheriff made the capture. All I did was help take her to the mental hospital.”

2006 Flashback: Why Holmespun?

I'm housecleaning. That involves going through binders, keeping or shredding reams of paper. Onceuponatime I started a blog which I called "Holmespun." In a binder, I found paper copies of blog posts. Whether that is all I did, or all I copied, I can't remember. But some of them are worth repeating before I send them to the shredder. I will edit them slightly, I think. The first post, dated Sunday, February 12, 2006, is titled:

Why "Holmespun"?

"and why 'Holmespun'?" I asked, with an e e comings start to my sentence. Was that deliberate? I don't remember. 

Homespun: adj, spun or woven in the home; simple and homey, unpretentious. Examples, having a rough surface, as in fabric . . . www.dictionary.com.

In my case, a play on words. (No verb: typical me.) I am a Holmes; actually, 1/4 Holmes, Moore, Hovey, Colpitts. Margaret Jane Moore Vasseur. Father Donald Malcolm Moore. Mother, Margaret Holmes Moore. Better known to most people as Peg. I married Bill and gave him two daughters and several cats and dogs. (Now I would say . . . we have two daughters . . . ) The pets came from the pet store or the SPCA, except for Tiger and Elsa who came to us. I love new things: new paper, new fabric, new books (add thread). I love old things: old stories, old boxes, old books. I had two sets of grandparents ~ the city grandparents and the country grandparents. (Wasn't I a lucky girl?) the Moores lived near us in several houses, as they liked to buy and sell; my favorite was the entirely pink within and without house. The Holmeses lived on the farm and that is where my roots run the deepest: the Farm ~ a humble, grey, dilapidated farmhouse in Hillgrove, set in beautiful hills. If you are not of the "race that knows Joseph," (L M Montgomery), you won't know the magic charm of the farm. Those who know Joseph (whatever that means - I think it means they have a great imagination) just settle in by the wood stove with their cups of tea and fall in love with the homestead.

We Holmeses are a creative lot. I remember the spinning wheels and jennies in the granary. It burned years ago, a giant bonfire that brought neighbors from miles around, and Gramp and Gram didn't know why everyone was in their yard. (Gramp had thrown the ashes in there before they were dead.) In that granary, there must have been at least a dozen of these spinning wheels, and they were every color imaginable. That was great-grandfather Charles's doings; he painted everything he could get his hands on, I am told. I love color and texture and variety and spinning and creating. I love to take thread or yarn and make beautiful doilies and mittens and sweaters (I don't think I want to make sweaters anymore), or turn fabric into beautiful quilt tops, or weave words into stories. Some stories are beautiful. Some are sad or tragic. Some just are: no punch lines, no genesis or revelation or climax, just a tidbit handed down, and I can't remember all the details, just an impressionistic fuzzy memory.

To me, the farmhouse is a castle. When I return to it in the summer, I am the princess. (Now, the princess has grown up, not into a queen of the castle, but the realistic viewer of a castle imploding into the present. With the lack of electricity, water, and tlc, and old furnishings - which I recognize is all very necessary, it's difficult to imagine back into a castle.) I travel back in time to my very beginnings, for (many of them) they are wound up in that farmhouse. It is the thought-child for my memories and most  many of my stories; even some with no connection seem to find their way back to my homespun Holmespun roots.

"A young girl may dream of becoming a princess, but in the eyes of her parents, she already is. How will our children know who they are if they don't know where they come from?" John Steinbeck, "The Grapes of Wrath."

2014: The first photo is my cousin Karl and me. The second is my cousin Mike in front, me on left and Karl on right, with my Uncle Jim in the background. Farm fun.

I don't know if I really answered my question. I chose the word "holmespun" because of the play on the word "homes" and because I weave words and threads and photo collages and whatnot into something, generally at home, and include them under my multi-sectioned, colorful umbrella. Did I imply that in my essay? It certainly is no three pointer with an introduction that includes my purpose statement, and a conclusion that  refers back to the introduction. But, that's okay with me: its a good rough draft.

Oh, Be Careful What You Think, or, The Pink Teacup

(I have written about this lady before, but I deleted that blog. Yesterday, I saw someone who was dressed a little different than the rest of us. She was at a distance from me, and I am not criticising her, just stating that because she triggered a memory.)

I was in Saint John with daughter #2. It was early, and the city, although awake, was still yawning and stretching. We decided to go to a food court and enjoy some breakfast before we went to our destination, the museum.

On our way, we passed a little old lady. We were in no hurry, but she was in less of a hurry than we were. Was it because her boots were way too big for her feet, and she shuffled along carefully, either trying not to fall or trying not to lose her boots? Her coat was so big it almost swallowed her whole. Her life might have been in the bags she was carrying. When we passed, she politely asked us the time. We told her and moved on to the food court. She caught up with us as we ate.

What was I thinking about her? Nothing terribly bad, as I recall, probably just, "poor old soul." I don't really think I gave her much thought whatsoever. Until she reached her table, that is.

She set her bags on the floor and slowly began removing her layers. Under her large coat were several other garments. She sat down at the table and opened one of her bags.

She removed, from her bag, a cloth napkin. Some silverware. A pink teacup: a very dainty, bone china teacup. A teacup made in England, I am sure, several decades ago. She set her table; silverware in its place and teacup at the top of the knife and spoon. It was all very clean. The whole process took several minutes. #2 and I nursed our tea and coffee. The museum could wait. We were mesmerized.

She shuffled, oh so slowly, up to the counter and purchased her breakfast. She shuffled back to her table and set her breakfast between her fork and knife. She took the top off her paper cup and poured her tea into her bone china teacup made in England. Ever so slowly and daintily she ate her breakfast.

 By this time, I was totally intrigued. I wanted to take her photograph. I wanted to ask her name, where did she come from, what was her story. I didn't, but I wish I had. She changed a small part of me forever; that nasty little part that judges others whether I want it to or not. I saw, at first, a poor, homeless person. I saw, at last, a person, maybe homeless, maybe not, but a lady. A lady with a past, a polite lady who was perhaps lonely, or perhaps happy with her own company. I'll never know. But it changed the way I look at people now, especially when they look a little different from the status quo.

Savoring

I began this post at dictionary.com. Savor. To Savor. Savoring. Savorous. Summer Savory.

You can read all the definitions there yourself at http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/savor?s=t  The definions that interest me are "power to excite or interest" and "to give oneself to the enjoyment of."

Gaylen can now savor her new job opportunity. They made her the offer. It's hers. And let me tell you, that is one company that will soon be happy with their choice.

Daphne's hubby can savor life with his three day old new hip. Hip, hip, horray!

Paula is savoring a trip to Morocco very soon. And really hoping those snakes are make of rubber.

In an instant potatoes kind of world, I don't take much time for savoring. Do you? T'was my friend Susan who taught me the art of savoring. I like it. I don't do it enough. It was, oh, maybe two Christmases ago. Or was it three? She wasn't there, so I gave her little Christmas gift to her husband to take home to her. And then, I didn't hear from her. Christmas came, and went. Boxing day came, and went. Didn't she like my gift? She's on Facebook every day. She never mentioned it. I was Curious George, so finally I asked, "Did G---- give you your gift?" "Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "I'm savoring it." Christmas was five days past. Her gift from me still sat under the tree, completely dressed in its paper and bow. "Give me two more days," she said. I don't remember what it was, or whether it was worth the wait or not. But, untouched, she looked at it and wondered and anticipated.

Isn't that half the fun? It is for me. I'm a great day dreamer. It's a good thing, probably, that only about one per cent of those day dreams come true. But once in a while, my dreams revolve around a plan, and I savor it. I wonder what is in the "package." I visualize the outcome. The dream is the package, of course. I never know quite what will be in the package when I begin to unravel it, but it is so much fun to anticipate. And then, hopefully, once it is open, I can put it to use, put it on a shelf, put it in a recipe, put it under a decoration, give it away, sell it, repurpose it . . . just depends what it is.

What am I savoring right now? In no particular order:

1. The next Holmes family gathering in autumn, 2016, somewhere in New England
2. My "to make" Christmas gift list
3. The printing/publishing of "Riverbank Visitors"
4. Supper: will it be spaghetti casserole or chicken fricot? I'm thinking the fricot, with a goodly amount of summer savory in it (that's the power of suggestion)
5. A trip to Long Island in November
6. The trigger for this post: the two books on the bottom of the collage, above (click on photo to enlarge)

I didn't mean to buy something for myself at Chapters yesterday. I really didn't. But, then, I did go with a title in mind, just to look at, you know. On the way to the fiction/literature section, I passed a table with new books for 2014 on it. The middle book jumped out at me. It said, in a loud whisper, "you want to read me." I looked it over. I felt it. I read the back. I opened it up and read a page. I carried it as I headed for the f/l section. "I would think about it," I decided. I found the book I was looking for. I looked it over. I felt it. I read the back. I did not open it and read a page, for I had already read some good reviews. It sounded delicious, probably in a sad way, given the era. I went over to another section, picked up what I had come for, and added another for a Christmas gift. "While I was there," I thought, "I might as well."

Four books. Two gifts for others, and two gifts for me. As I have the top one in the photo on the go already, I will finish it as I savor the new books. I was not going to crack a cover, but I did, this morning, a very slight crack. It has a map on the inside cover that smacks of a very old-world setting. Now, which book will I read first: that is my dilema.

Hubs is reading a text book and taking an on-line course. He wondered how people got through the book in the short time alloted. He is not an avid reader.  I asked, "do you read every word?" He replied, "yes, that is how I was taught to read," and there was something in his tone of voice that made me feel "that was a silly question. Shut up, Peggy."

When I write, every word is important to me. Does it fit? Is it appropriate? Does it enhance the sentence, or would the story be better without it? But when I read, I skim. I read quickly. "What do I miss?" I wondered, as I pondered his reply. My goal is to read every word of those two books that I am savoring. A text book read. An editing kind of read, but not overdone to the point of all criticism and no enjoyment. Hopefully, a pleasant, interesting read, or perhaps, a thought provoking read awaits between the covers.

Housecleaning

This was my Dad's desk. Nobody wanted/could take it when Mom moved, and Hubs thought it was too fine to put curbside, so we brought it home and stuck it in a corner of #1's already crowded bedroom. This summer he got the idea to get rid of the television in the grey room (which used to be the playroom when daughters were little) and also the television stand. We did, and Dad's desk now sits there. I washed it, organized the drawers into #1's drawer, Vasseur, Holmes and Moore drawers and a stuff drawer. Where I am going to put my empty camera boxes and Gramp M's scrapbooks, I do not know. Yet. 

After I washed it, I polished it with Circa 1850 Furniture Cleaner. It's not really that old, but it smells that old, in a good, wood polish way. Now it has a nice shine and smell. One-eyed Ted E Bear sits on the 1800s Snider chair that I had recaned. Thank you Uncle Billy and Aunt Maggie. I put my furniture polish on the dryer, covered with the rag I used to polish the wood. I pushed it aside to make room, right next to the new-to-me doily I got at Mrs. Milburn's moving out of apartment sale. Now, what do you think doily smells like? I like the smell, but not on the doily. 

I organized the desktop, but it will have to change, for we are putting up the white shelf from the kitchen at 9 Wellington over the desk, and the oil lamp and flowers are too tall. The oil lamp probably came from the farm, but I don't remember for sure. I picked up the clay inkwell at the antique shop, but Mom said there used to be lots of them at the farm. Wonder where they went. I purchased the feather pen at Kings Landing. The pen is a repurposed bobbin. Did you know I love old bobbins? Some of you will remember the basket from the desk in the parlor at the farm. The flowers (from Michaels) are in an old bottle. We found two or three old boxes of bottles in the basement when Mom moved and Paul, Pat and I divvied them up. This one has a greenish tinge and is from Rowat & Co, Glasgow. "Riverbank Visitors" and an old pair of glasses from the farm sit there, ready for Ted to read. The items in the back sit on doilies: one from the Vasseur house, one I made, and two I rescued.

#1's room and the grey room are still in a shambles, but I love my desk. I look forward to the white shelf, but I don't know where I'll put that oil lamp where it will be safe. It comes in handy, once in a while. Can you imagine living in an era (not so long ago - my Mom did) where there was no electicity, no ball point pens, and medicine and other scarey stuff came in these old bottles? And wearing Harry Potter glasses like these?

From Comfort Zone to Growth Zone

My trigger for this post is this link: http://www.thearmchairgenealogist.com/2014/09/expanding-your-genealogy-comfort-zone.html?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+TheArmchairGenealogist+%28The+Armchair+Genealogist%29

This is genealogy related. I believe it could relate to anything we are passionate about. I am passionate about genealogy. However, I have been altogether too content with the comfort of my computer chair.

I was talking to Paula about New York City, and how I can get to Long Island but not to the city. I offered all my good excuses, and indeed, they are good excuses. I can get lost in my own city, let alone a big city like New York. I don't think I'd even mind prowling some of the city on foot, but that traffic intimidates me like you wouldn't believe. My hostess  feels the same way, so I can't impose on her. Take the train. It doesn't come that far onto the island. So, I stay in my and my sister-in-law's comfort zone: Riverhead to Port Jefferston Station. When brother-in-law was alive, we traveled to Montauk and the Hamptons and a bit further east. I thoroughly enjoyed the drive, the gardens, and the Roosevelt "cottage."

You know what: I am satisfied to stay in my comfort zone. But there is something wrong with that. I know my excuses are valid: I really can't ask Sister to take me where she cannot. She has her good reasons: fear and poor eyesight. It's not possible for me to go to NYC by myself, and I will wait patiently until the occasion arises that I can go there. However, I fear driving anywhere out of my comfort zone.

Paula is posting photos of Morocco. Next month, she'll be camping in the Sahara. Gives me the shakes just thinking about it. Connie and her friend (a bit younger than me but not that much) biked from Quebec City to Prince Edward Island. Pat drives anywhere in the USA or Canada and the highways don't bother her one bit, or at least, she doesn't let that hold her back. Daughter #1 has traveled to many places in Asia and across Europe, and daughter #2 boarded a plane and went to Taiwan.

I am just a travel wimp.But then again, travel is not my passion. My airline points will probably accumulate to the point where I can fly to the moon. It is not hub's passion either, so that doesn't help.

My passion is genealogy, and I can do something about that. Recently I trapised through graveyards in totally unfamiliar territory, on New Brunswick's back roads. (Back roads don't scare me.) I felt good about it. I didn't learn anything new: the list of the dead was on the computer and the lists were accurate, but I stood at the gravesites where my ancestors rest and contemplated where and who I came from, I thought, how lovely it would be to live there in the valley in the autumn, and look up at the colors. How green and verdant it would be in the spring. (How white in the winter.)

What is your comfort zone? I think genealogy. You think whatever it is you enjoy. Here are a few quotes from Lynn's link, above. Substitute genealogy for whatever word you would like.

• "We all live in a comfort zone; a place in our mind wherer we create limitations for ourselves, a place in our mind that establishes what we believe about what we can or can't do."

• "Expanding your genealogy comfort zone means taking on new challenges; challenges that may make you a little uncomfortable but would expand your knowledge and therefore your ability to grow your family history tree."

• "We were all beginners once and to become great and knowledgeable about anything requires going beyond what others are prepared to do, setting new limits for yourself and discovering new territory."

• "Rather than research from a comfort zone, find your 'genealogy growth zone' where you are challenged beyond what you've previously done."

• "Make a list of items that fall outside of your comfort zone and within your genealogy growth zone and begin to make plans to check them off. Once you start to tackle that list, you will have greater opportunity to expand your boundaries, grow your confidence and your family tree."

That was the email from Lynn that I received earlier this week. I also received an email from Thelma.
"Genealogy Research: A Beginning," to be held at the Moncton Public Library on the evening of October 14. Am I going? Yes, I am going to take my butt from this comfortable chair to a chair in the Heritage Room at the Moncton Library. Am I a beginner? No. But hey, there are new machines to read microfilm in that room. I don't know how to use them. I need to learn. I never really mastered the old ones. I need to support my Genealoy Society so I will be there for that reason. I might meet some new people. I might find some old tome that has not been microfilmed and scanned for the internet. I might learn something new or I might help someone else. Its the first thing on my list - a small step - therefore easy to cross off. The step after that? I'm thinking.

What's first on your list. Fall is a good time to make a new list and step into your growth zone. Actually, any time is a good time to take a step in a new direction.

The two photos are of myself with Connie and Shelley and Connie - the two brave ladies who cycled from Quebec City, Quebec, to Bordon-Carleton, PEI. This was my send off after an all too short visit with a dear friend and her dear friend.

Meeting of the Liberal-Conservative Club at Riverbank

Today is election day in New Brunswick. By the time we go to our beds tonight, we will have a new or returned premier. Who will it be? I am fairly certain it will be Mr. Brian Gallant of the Liberal Party, but I think it might be a close race. We shall see.

On March 29, 1911, three people (at least three who signed their names) met at Riverbank. Mr. Ken McLeod, Mr. Walter Murray and Mr. F E Wallace met for their Liberal -  Conservative  club meeting at the guest house of Uncle Billy and Aunt Maggie. Did Maggie serve tea and crumpets? 

Could we call that an oxymoron? Liberals and Conservatives having a club together? Sharing tea and crumpets and a laugh before getting down to business? No mud slinging? 

Could it be? Only in the past, I'd say.

(This entry is several pages away and I have not yet researched who these gentlemen are. I assume F E Wallace was male as this happened in 1910.)

Proving Peter Stainforth MacCallum is the son of Robert Douglas MacCallum and Annie McLean

There are two Peter MacCallum's born in Prince Edward about the same time. One is Peter Stainforth MacCallum, born in 1875, to Robert Douglas MacCallum and Annie McLean, and the other is Peter MacCallum, born c 1878 to Dougald MacCallum and Catherine MacKinnon.

There are those who have claimed the Peter in our tree to be the son of Dougald and Catherine MacCallum, and some pick up this information without researching it and so the myth is perpertrated. I have set about to prove that our Peter MacCallum is the son of Robert D MacCallum and Annie McLean. I have no doubt about the existence of the other Peter; I just want to prove that our Peter, who married Edith Maude Steeves, is the son of Robert and Annie and the grandson of Peter MacCallum and Susanna Ford Cutler of St. Peters Bay, Prince Edward Island.

This is background research for an article I am writing for the Holmes Family Newsletter of November, 2014.

These are some of the sources I used to prove my hopothesis that Peter Stainforth MacCallum, who married Edith Maude Steeves (date unknown), is indeed the son of Robert and Annie (McLean) MacCallum. I  won't share them all; the newsletter must include a few surprises, after all. They are in no particular order, except for the Censuses.

1.  US WWI Draft Registration. I can see the original card.

Gives full name: Peter Stainforth MacCallum. Address 6 Highland Park, Roxbury, Massachusetts. Age 49; date of birth Mar 22, 1875, Canada, PEI. White. Naturalized. Occupation chauffeur for R. P. Sherman. Married to Edith M MacCallum of same address. Date of registration Sep 12, 1918.

2. U S Social Sec Death Index. This is a transcription.
Gives S S Number.
Residence Quincy, Massachusetts. Date of birth 22 Mar 1875. Date of death Feb 1968.

3. U S Naturalization Records. Original Card; M 245.
McCallum, Peter S
Address: 20 Beldon St. Boston,
Certificate Number 440-18
Title and Location of Court USCC Boston Mass
Country or Birth of Allegience Great Britain
Date of Birth March 22, 1875
Date of Naturalization October 9, 1905

4. Massachusetts Marriage Records. A transcription
Peter S MacCallum
Born c 1875 Canada
Married 15 April 1902, Boston, age 27
Father Robert D MacCallum
Mother Annie McLean
Spouse Sarah D McDonald
     Daughter of Daniel H McDonald and Sarah McKenzie

5. 1881 Census of Canada.  Can see original.
Lot 41, PEI: important that this lots is St. Peters Bay, PEI. (Also, the history of PEI being divided into lots is interesting, but another story.)
Stainforth McCallum
Age 4 born 1877 Prince Edward Island; Presbyterian. Others in household:
Father Robert McCallum Methodist, Farmer, Age 43
Mother Annie McCallum Presbyterian
Children:
Helen Age 13
Eben 12
Arlitte 10
Grace D 8
Jane C 6
Stainforth 4
Imogene1
Other person Jane Robertson age 70
   
6. 1900 U S Census Boston. Can see original.  Ward 10 District 1299; two things that interest me. One is his occupation, the other is that is district is 1299 and the district where three Steeves brothers live and work as butchers is 1289. I would like to know if these districts are close enough that he could have known the Steeves brothers and perhaps worked in the same market.

McCallum, Peter S
Age 23 Born March 1877 Canada
Home in 1900 Boston
Born Prince Edward Island, Canada
Immigration year 1891
Occupation Clerk in grocery store
Mother Annie McCallum, age 40, orn Sept 1859, widowed.
Children: Grace, Peter, Jennie, Imogene

7. 1910 U S Census. Can see original
P S Maccalum
Age 35. Born abt 1875, Canada
White, male
Residence Seattle, Washington
Immigration year 1892
Spouse Sadie D Maccalum
Occupation Carpenter, Bridge Industry

8. 1920 U S Census. Can see original
Peter S MacCullum
Age 44, born c 1876 in PEI
Residence Charles St, Boston
Immigration Year 1892
Married to Edith MacCullum
Occupation Shipwright in Navy Yard
One daughter, Shirley E
Also Caroline Steeves (mother in law) age 70 and Lloyd E Steeves (brother in law)

9. 1930 U S Census. Can see original
Born abt 1875 Canada
Residence Quincy Massachusetts
Immigration year 1905 (My note: that is his year of naturalization)
Spouse Edith M MacCallum
Occupation: Ship-builder, Naval yard
Also at that residence: Shirley age 11, Caroline M Steeves (mother in law) age 81

10. 1940 U S Census
Peter S MacCallum
Age 65 born c 1875
Residence 50 Taylor St, Quincy
Completed 8th grade
No occupation
Also at that residence: Edith age 57, Shirley E age 21

What I would like to know:
Date and place of death of his first wife, Sarah MacDonald
Date and place of marriage of Peter and Edith
If Peter MacCallum knew the Steeves family before he moved to Seattle.

I am absolutely convinced that Peter Stainforth MacCallum is the son of Robert Douglas MacCallum and Annie McLean.

Sept. 22. I found the marriage record of Peter and Edith at ancestry.com. It comes from a transcription and is a typed list of people married in Boston. From this I learned that Peter was 39, Edith was 30. It was Peter's second marriage and Edith's first; Peter was a widower. Peter's residence was Seattle, WA, and Edith's was 10 Greenville Street, Boston. Peter was a bridge carpenter and Edith was at home. Peter was born in PEI and Edith in NB. Peter's parents were Robert D MacCallum and Annie MacLean. Edith's were Charles A Steeves and Caroline M Holmes. Married by clergyman Rev. Charles A Fulton.