A New Book and How It Helps Me With Sam and Betty's Journey

Freewrite: April 24, 2015

I have written something down. I have chosen six possible starting points and listed them. I have written two introductions out of six. If I don’t write something I won’t write anything. After all six are written, I shall put them away for a few days and then read them. I might send them to Paula. Maybe.

I have done a bit more research. I should keep a research journal; it might help. I found where granddaughter Betsy Holmes Adams wrote something other than Nova Scotia or New York for her father’s date of birth. I knew I read it, but where? When? It took me a good hour to find it again. I see it in one place only. I wonder if I can use it. I think, can I take some liberty with this book? Can I call it a story, based on solid research and two letters? Historical fiction, if you will, with much emphasis on the historical in fictional but realistic settings. Would my family settle for that? I won’t put words in anyone’s mouth other than what I read in the letter, or any other letters I might, but doubtfully, find.

“Facts are deceiving. We may know them, but never all of them. Only the bits and pieces that survive the voyage. In real life, the story is never finished. Discoveries may be made to shed light on it; for instance, in some attic, some cellar, the lost pages of the diary may be discovered . . . Fiction is another story. We can be sure of it, for we make it up, it is complete and finished. We can embrace it, because it is what we know.” p. 4

I sat down to supper by myself, me and a book. Erin bought me this book when she was home not last time but the time before, I do believe. It is called “Creation” and under the word Creation are the words, “a novel.” The author is Katherine Govier, and the book was published in 2002. It is the story of John James Audubon. Audubon, who drew the birds of North America. I have read the introduction. I do not know why I didn’t read it before. Audubon, the lover of birds, of the art of birds, and something about him the man, the husband, the father, and the journal writer.

“The older man slings his gun over the shoulder of his fringed jacket; he must be a frontiersman, a hunter. But he has a certain vibrancy, as if his whole body were a violin freshly strung . . .” p. 1

“He will leave, aside from his great book of pictures and the volumes of words that accompany it, his journals, and many letters.” p. 3

I’m intrigued. It started out with a bit of family history. It’s about a love of birds. It’s about the art of drawing birds. Why wouldn’t I love this book? The only think I enjoy that he probably didn’t is crochet. But I did find a knitting reference. I can knit as well as crochet.

            “They cavort in their outfits and flirt with the ladies who sell knitted goods.” p. 2

“A festive atmosphere has taken hold of the town. The tailor, the publican and the knitting women, in fact most of the population of Eastport, have downed tools and filtered to the docks to see off the schooner and its crew.” p. 5

That’s all well and good, but what does it have to do with Sam and Betty? Mr. Audubon and his son are starting a journey in Eastport, Maine. Around Nova Scotia, passing New Brunswick and Prince Edward Island, nodding at distant Newfoundland, hugging the Gaspé Peninsula, sailing down the St. Lawrence. In 1833. 12 years and 11 months after Sam and Betty took their journey; I am making the logical assumption that they sailed the same route, from Halifax to Quebec City.

“The Ripley rounds the southeast coast of Nova Scotia in a fresh northeast wind . . . From here they sail east to the Strait of Canso ‘in a horrid sea” . . . the weather clears and they sail through the strait with twenty other vessels, all fishing boats bound for Labrador. They pass Indians in a bark canoe. “ p. 8, 9

I figure that thirteen years, from May 1820 to June 1833 – the journey would be much the same route and the same conditions; probably a bit colder. Audubon will not go to northern New York; I haven’t read that far yet but I believe his destination is Labrador. However, I am getting a feel for the journey that Sam and Betty took way back in 1820 – I’m shivering in the cool breeze that teases my ankle covering dress, I’m jumping off my seat as the cannon acknowledges farewell, I’m wondering when and if I’ll ever see my family again, but . . . unlike Audubon, I’m patting my belly, feeling for butterfly flutters.

“Earthbound, he walks the shore on a clean sand beach . . . The sand is sleek, the water falling over itself in clear, transparent folds at his feet. A piping plover runs and flies before him, chirping in mellow notes. The unfamiliar terns dip and soar overhead. There are dozens and dozens of them.

            He wants to possess one.” p. 13

Audubon didn’t own a Nikon. He shot them with his gun. How else could he draw them, after all? I’m so thankful for my Nikon, for you who know me well know I’d never shoot them with a gun. For more reasons than one.

I read a little further on. He did kill them, occasionally, to study them and to serve as models for his paintings. However, he met them where they lived, near their nests. He knew his models well.