January 1, 1888
Dear Papa and Mama,
Two things about 1888. Murdo-who-knows-everything says that it has been one thousand years since there was a year with so many 8s in it. And 1888 will be a leap year. The last time there was a February 29 I was eight years old, but I do not remember it.
Last night was Hogmanay, the end of the old year and the beginning of the new. We stayed up until midnight to welcome in the new year. Auntie Janet said that we had to do first footing. I had never heard of this, but she said her Grandma Dow taught it to her. First footing is when the first person to come in your door in the new year must be a tall man with black hair, so that you have good luck the year through.
Of course it should have been Uncle James, since he is tall and dark, but he said it was nonsense, and then Auntie Janet asked him if it was nonsense then why had he done it last year. And then he said well what good luck had the year held?
Then there was a long silence and Auntie said, “It brought us Flora, James.” And then he just walked away.
I expected Auntie Janet to give up then, but she just set her mouth firm and went downstairs and asked Arthur Whitall to do it. He is not very tall and not very dark, but at least he is a man.
Arthur Whitall turned out to be a very good sport. One of the things about first footing is that the first footer has to leave the house by one door and come in by another, but the building only has one outside door. So Arthur agreed to climb out the Campbells’ window and then come in by the front door.
So a few minutes before midnight he climbed out the window. Percy and Archie found this the funniest thing they had ever seen. Then right after midnight there was a loud knocking. We went and welcomed him in and Auntie whispered the good luck poem to him, line by line, and he repeated it in a good loud voice.
Good luck to the house
Good luck to the family.
Good luck to every rafter of it.
And to every worldly thing in it.
Good luck to the good-wife,
Good luck to the children.
Good luck to every friend
Good fortune and health to all.
Then Mr. Whitall and Mr. Campbell all had a drink of whisky and so did Mrs. Campbell and Granny Whitall, but not Auntie Janet because of the pledge.
We kept the fire alight all night for good luck.
January 2
Dear Papa and Mama,
Back to work. My mind wanders a good deal of the time when I am at work. The sound of the machinery has a rhythm to it and it as though my body stays in the mill, doffing, but my mind walks out the door and down and street and out of town and into the woods where the fairies are. Doffing and piecing take noticing, but not much thinking. This morning the snow was coming down in huge soft flakes and I had time to stare out the window, following one flake as it danced down to the ground. I turned into a fairy, riding a snowflake like riding a horse, or sailing in a snowflake boat. As a fairy I was all wrapped in white furs and I was toasty warm with a fur muff for my hands. When I am a fairy in the spring I sew new leaves to the trees. In the summer I spin and weave the clouds into a lovely cape for the fairy queen. In the fall all the fairies fly out on the night of the huge harvest moon with our tiny vats of dye (they are really walnut shells) and dye the trees crimson and orange. When humans see us they think we are fireflies.
I give a good deal of thought to fairies. I would like to tell Ann about the fairies, but she would say that fairies are not real and snow is just snow.
Uncle James has stopped going to work. He says that sweeping is a job for boys.
January 3
Dear Papa and Mama,
Here is something that I cannot tell anyone but you. I cannot bear to look at Uncle James’s hand. It is so ugly, pink and shiny like Crazy Barney’s arm. I know this is shameful. I would like to be like Mungo, who treats Uncle James just as he used to. But I cannot.
January 4
Dear Papa and Mama,
Uncle James has stopped shaving. He cannot do it himself and he won’t let Auntie help him. Perhaps when he has a real beard it will be fine, but now he just looks like a tramp. I think back to when I first came to Almonte and we all joked about men with beards. It seems like a long time ago.
January 5
Dear Papa and Mama,
I’m writing this at the rectory. This evening, Auntie and I were invited to visit Mrs. Parfitt. Uncle James was invited, but he would not come. It was good to get out of the house. Uncle James is like a heavy dark cloud in the corner. Auntie Janet took some mending to do and I took this book. There is a lovely warm fire and Mrs. Parfitt is boiling the water for tea. I’m on a low stool and Robbie, a friendly wheezy old dog, is sitting on my feet. Auntie and Mrs. Parfitt are talking of this and that. I am half-listening.
I had a thought about Mrs. Parfitt. Up until now I thought that she was just being kind to us because she is the minister’s wife and she is obliged to be kind to everyone in the church and help them out in their troubles. But looking at Auntie Janet and Mrs. Parfitt talking, I can see that they are more like friends. They are both younger than most of the church ladies (and prettier).
Pause for listening.
Here I am, back again. When I heard the word Flanagan I started to listen more than half. Mrs. Parfitt told Auntie Janet that Mr. Flanagan is trying to divorce his wife. She said the word divorce in a very quiet way. Then her voice got even quieter and she said that on weekends “fancy ladies” come up on the train from Toronto to visit Mr. Flanagan. I didn’t know what this meant, but Auntie Janet gasped. So I made the mistake of looking up, and then they remembered me and then they stopped talking. Mrs. Parfitt said, “Little pitchers.” I know what this means. It means “Little pitchers have big ears,” and it means don’t talk about this in front of the children. They changed the subject to plans for the church concert. This made me very cross. I am not a child. I am an employee of the Almonte Woollen Mill and if I don’t know what a fancy lady is I should be able to ask. Of course I don’t.
The tea is ready. I wonder if there will be biscuits.
January 7
Dear Papa and Mama,
Payday today. When we got home Uncle James was out. He sometimes goes for long tramps on his own. Auntie Janet boiled the kettle for tea and then she noticed that there was no tea left and she started to cry. I said I would go along to the store, which stays open on the nights of payday, but she said that if we bought tea we mightn’t be able to pay the rent. Then she said that she is lying awake in the night fretting about how we can afford to live with Uncle James not working.
I remembered a treat that Cook once made for me and I put milk and sugar into two cups and filled them with boiling water and said to Auntie Janet that we would have fairy tea. That made her cry all the more. I know about that kind of crying. When you’re so sad that you think you cannot bear it and somebody is kind to you, you just turn into a wet thing. But then she stopped and dabbed her eyes and even smiled a bit. Auntie Janet is a pretty crier. I am a horrid crier. My nose runs, my eyes get red, my face gets blotchy. Perhaps I will be a pretty crier too when I grow up.
After tea I got the idea that Auntie Janet and I needed to do sums. At the Home the girls did not learn arithmetic, but I was always helping the boys with their school work so I got good at doing sums. I made Auntie Janet put her pay on the table and I did the same. I had $1.60 and she had $4.65. So that made $6.25. Our rent is $1.90. We spend $1 a week on wood and candles. This leaves us $3.35 a week for food. She says that she spends $5 a week for food and then she started to get glum again, but I said we could look at what we could do without. We looked at everything we had eaten all week — bread, butter, tea, bacon, beans, coffee, oatmeal, potato, turnip, cheese, sugar, flour, treacle, milk. We figured that we could manage without coffee and cheese and bacon and that fairy tea would be fine until Uncle James got well again. We can also save on candles because Auntie knows so many stories and you don’t need light to tell tales. We finished the evening with the tale of a wizard who knew “black magic and white magic and the whole of the shades between.”
We went to bed much comforted, but as I write this (by moonlight; what will I do when it is new moon?) I have two more thoughts. One is that I wonder if Uncle James will ever be able to go back to work. The other is that our sums did not include laundry or church collection and what about clothes? I know what Auntie would say: Don’t creep up on trouble lest trouble creep up on you.
January 10
Dear Papa and Mama,
It is terribly cold. Thirty degrees below zero. Auntie wrapped newspapers around my chest before I put on my dress this morning. I sound crinkly and I am a funny lumpy shape, but it did help to keep warm on the walk to the mill. But coming home was a misery. It felt as though all the warm damp air inside me froze to hard crystals as soon as I stepped out the mill door. Mrs. Brown said that she was almost hoping that the river would freeze and close the mill. But Mr. Lewis said that the Mississippi has never frozen solid. And then Mr. Wyley said that his grandfather remembered a year when it froze for a whole month and then there was a great discussion about whose grandfather remembered what. Anyway, I certainly hope the mill does not close, because we need our wages.
January 12
Dear Papa and Mama,
Today began well and ended badly. It is still bitter cold. The railway is buried in drifts ten feet deep. And the mill did close. So Uncle James and Murdo and Mr. Campbell and some of the other men borrowed a horse and sleigh to go ice fishing. Auntie and I spent the day close to the stove, mending and knitting. It was very hard to keep warm even wrapped in blankets — the wind was blowing snow against the windows and they let in great drafts, even stuffed at the edges with The Almonte Gazette. We agreed that we would rather be at the mill, because at least it would be warm.
But then Mrs. Campbell came in with the little ones. Mrs. Campbell is very large. The baby must be coming soon. Auntie began to tell stories and soon we forgot our chilly toes and numb fingers. She told the story of the bride and the water kelpie. She said the story was for me because it is about a weaver’s daughter. This daughter never speaks, but she catches the eye of a travelling soldier and he marries her because she has hair like the wing of a blackbird and eyes as blue as flax flowers. As soon as Auntie started to talk about romance, Percy and Archie began to giggle. It turns out that the weaver’s girl is bewitched by a water kelpie and that is why she does not speak. Then the soldier goes to an old wise woman for advice and she says that the girl must do this and that to remove the spell and she does and then she can talk. But then the problem is that she can’t stop talking, clackiting all the day long.
When Auntie got to this part in the story, Mrs. Campbell said, “Well, we know a few like that, don’t we?” and then they fell to giggling before Auntie Janet got back to the story. So the young woman and the water kelpie had a talking contest and they both tired themselves out and from then on the young woman talked neither too much nor too little, but just the right amount. And they made the wise woman the godmother to their first-born child. What we learn from the story is not to go out in the gloaming or drink from the fairy well. (Or talk too much?)
We were all happy, thinking about the story and talking about talking, too much and too little. Then the men came home, half-frozen, but merry because they had caught, between them, seventy-six eels! Uncle James seemed to have woken up, to be his old self again.
This is where the day started to go wrong. Auntie Janet and Mrs. Campbell said we should cook some of the eels right away and all eat together. I helped skin and gut them. You have to make a slit around the base of the neck and try to pull the skin off like a glove, but they are slippery, and I started to feel so ill. The worst thing was the smell — horrid, very strong and sweet. We cut them into pieces and then Auntie put them with water in a dish in the oven. When it came time to eat them I just could not. My stomach was turning over just at the thought of them. I could not stop myself from thinking they were large worms. And Uncle James was peeved with me because I would not even try. So I did try and then I vomited. And then Auntie Janet was cross with Uncle James and the Campbells all went home and I am so ashamed.
January 15
Dear Papa and Mama,
Usually Sunday lunch is my favourite meal of the week, but today we did not have very much, and Auntie tried to pretend that she wasn’t hungry, and that made Uncle angry. I am filled with sadness. Also fear. This morning I came upon Auntie trying to line her shoes with scraps of leather. But it was no good. They are too far gone to be mended. “I can tie string around them,” she said, “but I can’t go to church like that.” Then she said that she could borrow Uncle’s boots and then we both started to laugh at the thought of her clumping along in Uncle’s huge boots and then the laughing turned into crying.
Then she talked and talked, saying how many plans she and Uncle James had had, and how they were so excited that I was to come and live with them, and how it had all become so hard and perhaps they should never have taken me away from the Home. I was just holding my breath, thinking she was going to say that I must go back, but she did not say that. Will she?
We did not go to church.
Mungo is pushing his nose into my hand, which means he wants petting.
January 19
Dear Papa and Mama,
This is the saddest I have been in Almonte. Uncle James is in a rage. He has stormed out of the house. Auntie Janet is crying. It is all because Auntie suggested that he write to his brother in British Columbia to ask for help.
Uncle James says that Auntie Janet is trying to humiliate him and that he will not ask for charity. This does not make any sense. Auntie Janet and I cannot earn enough to keep us all. Already we owe money at the store, and how will we pay it? Why is Uncle James acting like this? Surely it is not charity when it is your own brother. Or is this something I do not know about families?
And even if it is charity, what about St. Paul? “And now abideth faith, hope and charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.”
January 20
Dear Papa and Mama,
The mill is open again and Auntie and I are back at work. I am glad to be there because it is warm and the clatter drowns out my thoughts.
Dear Papa and Mama,
Uncle took the splint off his arm today. The stitches are gone and it looks better, but he can’t bend it straight at the elbow. He wears a glove on his hand, even indoors.
It was a payday without much pay. When we got home we discovered that Mr. Boothroyd had been by and dropped off another hamper of food from Mr. Flanagan. There was tea and bacon. Auntie Janet nearly cried and then she said how kind Mr. Flanagan was and that set Uncle off again in a rage talking about Mr. Flanagan sitting around in his huge warm house, making a fortune from our work, and tossing us crumbs. Then he went off somewhere.
Mrs. Parfitt came by this evening with a pair of shoes that she said she could not wear because they pinched her feet and she just wondered if they might fit Auntie Janet. She said that she bought them a size too small through vanity, but that Auntie Janet had lovely small feet and it would be a favour to her if they could be used, rather than sitting in the cupboard looking accusing.
They did fit.
I can see that kindness is a very complicated matter.
Later I asked Auntie if Uncle wouldn’t notice that she had new shoes and she said no, that he is not noticing very much about her these days.
January 22
Dear Papa and Mama,
It is late afternoon. I am having a cup of human (not fairy) tea and I smell beans and bacon cooking. My heart is lighter. Here is why:
Auntie and I went to church this morning, but not Uncle. Rev. Parfitt preached a very long sermon. Miss Steele and Miss Steele started to nod off. All of the Campbells except Kathleen started to fidget. I lost track of what he was saying and began to look through the hymn book. I never thought about this before, but those hymn writers knew about troubles. They write a lot about fathers in distress and our feeble frame and how we are frail as summer’s flower and the elements madly around us raging. In the hymns there is always an answer to these troubles, but this morning I could not think of any answer to ours.
It was cold, but sunny, and after church Auntie said did I want to walk around to the other side of the river. There was something different about her. I thought it was maybe just the new shoes, but it wasn’t. As we walked she told me that she had a plan, but she needed my help. She needed me to help her write a letter. “We can’t go on this way,” she said. “We have to tell James’s brother how things are with us, but we need to do it without James knowing.”
So we went home. Uncle James was off somewhere, on one of his tramps, so all afternoon we have worked on a letter. In it we tell Wilfred Duncan about Uncle’s accident and how he can only do sweeping at the mill. We talked for a long time about how to describe the way he is and finally we decided on “ailing in spirit.” We asked if Wilfred had any ideas of what we might do. And then we said that James did not know we had written this letter and he must never find out. It took us all afternoon to write the letter, but when we were done I felt like I had sunlight for my load. Auntie said that troubles shared are troubles halved. I will mail the letter tomorrow.
January 25
Dear Papa and Mama,
There is new operative in our room. Her name is Lillie Wyatt. She is twenty years old. She comes from a farm out near Pakenham. She has a sad story. Just before Christmas, her father was walking home from a neighbour’s and he lost his way and froze to death. Her mother and brothers are carrying on with the farm, but they need money, so she has come to work in the mill. She is boarding with a family up in Irishtown.
When I heard this story it made me want to say to Uncle James that he should stop being so gloomy. At least he isn’t dead. But I know this isn’t fair. When you’re sad it does not make you feel one bit better to hear of other people who are worse off than you. It should, but it doesn’t.
Lillie Wyatt seems a shy, quiet sort of person, or perhaps she just hasn’t been that much in company. At the dinner break she asked me if it is always this loud. I said yes, but you get used to it. I introduced her to Smokey. I remember how strange everything seemed to me when I began. Here is something odd: It seems almost forever since I was at the Home, but it does not seem that long that I have been in Almonte.
January 26
Dear Papa and Mama,
Murdo, who does not tire of reminding us that his father knows the cousin of the County Constable, came up at the dinner break today to tell us that there was a dangerous maniac in the Almonte Jail yesterday and that last night he tried to dig his way out and now he has been taken to Ottawa. This was a very unsatisfactory story because we don’t know:
1. What does a “dangerous maniac” mean? What did he do to be put in jail?
2. What did he use to try to dig his way out?
3. How far did he get before he was discovered?
I know if Kathleen had not been hanging around, Murdo would have just invented the answers to these questions. Kathleen is far too keen on facts.
January 28
Dear Papa and Mama,
Today there was an eclipse of the moon. The sky was clear, so we could see it very well. By six o’clock the moon had completely disappeared and then it started to come back, first of all just a rim of light and then bigger and bigger. It went from a new moon to a full moon in just one hour.
I wish time would really speed up like that so we would get a reply to our letter. Every day I think about the letter, on the train across Canada. I think about how fast the train goes. I know it is too soon for a reply from Wilfred Duncan, but I hope anyway. If he answers right away, that could mean that he cannot help. But if he waits too long to reply, it could mean the same thing. This is like waiting for the next part of the story in the newspaper. All week long you try to guess what will happen.