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