In my last post, I referred to a letter from my aunt, Hetty Outlet, that I had narrowed down to 1954. It’s tantalizing clues made me want to know where they had  lived in Fredericton.

Friends jumped to my aid and swiftly provided the answer, so now I must apologize for the procrastination that kept me from sharing it sooner. My defense—I was side-tracked searching to give faces to the family. I was unable to locate a picture from when they were in Fredericton and had to settle for one that is earlier and one that is later. Oscar had a big grin that lit up his whole face.

I do not recognize the house in the background. It is not their home in St. Stephen, and it is not my parent’s home in Upper Mills.

The second picture was taken several years later as the children are older.

After my previous post, I was amazed how quickly followers came to my rescue with the street where the Outlet family had lived in Fredericton, and then how more pieces fell into place.

I knew Marti-Lou Crawford had been my classmate in St. Stephen, but not that her family had been living in Fredericton in the early 50s.  Her father, A F Crawford, did bookkeeping for Maynard McEwan and she believed the 10 year old girl was their daughter Elaine who now lives in Vancouver. She sent my blog on to a mutual friend and soon knew that the McEwan family had lived on Alexandra St.

Another friend, Jo-Anne, found a Maynard McEwan, listed as a car dealer, on the 1957 voters list. H is address was 16 Alexandra St. and there was a McKnight family at 11 Alexandra St. The Outlet family was not listed. They may not have been eligible to vote, but I believe they had returned to St. Stephen before 1957. Mary and I turned 10 in 1957 and I am certain I would remember if Mary had been away for such a lengthy time, or at least the joy of the family’s return to St. Stephen.

Jo-Anne also confirmed that soccer was being played in Fredericton, so Oscar’s football game was indeed soccer. Many Europeans, like Oscar, had come to Canada after the war, and they brought soccer with them  In fact, she knew from her family’s personal experience that there was a provincial Soccer League in the late 50s.

Two pieces had fallen into place, but there was more. The Crawford family provided friendship and support to the Outlet family in St. Stephen.  Marti-Lou’s mother had enjoyed talking with Oscar, discussing plants and the work he would do in her yard, and Hetty also worked for her on occasion.  Marti-Lou’s grandfather, George Crawford, (Crawford Drugstore) had a close friendship with the Outlets and Marti-Lou remembered going to their house  when something needed to be dropped off. George Crawford would have been interested in Mary’s welfare, and Hetty and Oscar would have appreciated the opportunity to discuss Mary’s cerebral palsy with a knowledgeable person and valued his advice and support.  The Crawfords almost certainly helped them connect with the Shriners for treatment at the Shriners Hospital in Fredericton, and were supportive throughout the years. The Outlets were very appreciative and I add my thanks as well.

 

 

 

 

In writing my mother’s story, I am now in the 1950s and reviewing a letter my mother received from her sister, Hetty Outlet. who was living in Fredericton.  It is undated, but from the content I have narrowed it to the fall because she asks if the potatoes and everything from the garden have been harvested and the year to 1954.

Unfortunately, when I asked my Aunt Hetty about the letter and where she had been living, she did not remember living in Fredericton.  A clue in the letter  is a connection to the McEwan garage, but the owners likely lived in a different part of the city.

Marie Louise had already her first birthday party at the neighbours across the street. They have a 10 year old daughter, their last name is McEwan, they have a garage, you sometimes hear them advertising over the radio for cars, etc., nice people and quite young.  Stephen does not have anyone his age here. The MacKnights, also across the street, have a 10-months old baby boy, maybe next year he will play outside and then Stephen can play with him. 

I am hoping someone will remember where the McEwan’s  or the MacKnights lived in 1954 because Oscar and Hetty Outlet lived across the street. The  letter suggests it was outside the city.

Even if I am unable to pinpoint where they lived, the letter contains an interesting glimpse of 1954 prices . . .   We have 2 cinemas, the Capitol costs 36 cents and the Gaiety 50 cents. We go by bus to the city for 81/2 cents, 12 tickets for $1. A taxi costs 35 cents. 

And a message of acceptance. Oscar  was from Belgium and did not have a good grasp of English but that didn’t matter. . .  Last week Oscar went to watch a football-game from the students and they were short one man, so Oscar got a Jersey and played too. The whole week he had sore muscles.  Would they have played soccer in Fredericton?  It is unlikey Oscar  had any experience with American football.

Note of appreciation:  The letter was translated from Dutch by the late Ytse Boonstoppel.

 

 

 

We spent today cleaning up after the weather bomb that piled snow high, swept away every footprint and created a pristine canvas for tree shadows and snow sculptures. This isn’t our first storm this winter and today isn’t the first day I  heard people say This is the kind of winter we used to have.  

 

When I went outside, the sun on my face reminded me of the joyful exuberance that snow creates in children.

 

And my mind then drifted to simpler times  when I played in the snow with my brother.  Some things never change.

 

But some things have changed. We didn’t have bird feeders hanging in the yard when I was a kid but today the birds flocked to our feeder after the storm. We had the usual Chickadees, Hairy and Downey Woodpeckers,  Nuthatches and a single Junco but they flew away when a bigger visitor approached.

We didn’t chase her away and she didn’t leave until it was empty. Then we refilled it for the birds. I don’t play in the snow any more, but I still enjoy an old-fashioned storm.

 

 

 

 

 

Today is Boxing Day.  Christmas always arrives whether I am ready or not. I always think I should have done more, regret the cards that didn’t get sent and the perfect gift not found. I am often too busy to truly appreciate the purpose of the Christmas season, its beauty and the joy of family and friends.  This year I tried to be kinder to myself—some things just did not get done.

Now it is Boxing Day. The gifts have been unwrapped, there is much to be thankful for and it is too soon to pile on the expectations of New Year’s Resolutions.

My brother and sister-in-law know me well and I appreciate their thoughtfulness. All the pages of the notebook are blank, waiting for me to write on them. I treasure the past for the memories and how much I can learn from what I had previously taken for granted. Hopefully my pen will capture my thoughts and discoveries.

And while I am on the journey I need to slow down, be mindful and do one thing at a time. There will be a learning curve, but the first steps will begin when I read the first  page and then the second. I will not browse quickly and pick and choose as I search for the creative mindfulness it promises.

 

 

 

 

Chicken Soup for the Soul has just released its latest edition, Step Outside Your Comfort Zone. I am overjoyed it includes my story, In Over My Head, of overcoming my fear of deep water to become a certified scuba diver—at the age of 39.

But, that is insignificant compared to what people have done. What a leap of faith, and for love,  for my mother to marry a Canadian soldier.

Selma was raised in Amsterdam and was working in an office before the war made it impossible. A struggling farm in 1946 Upper Mills, NB was certainly out of her comfort zone.

When I have stepped out of my comfort zone, it has been insignificant compared to my cousin, Mary, who was born less than 6 months after me. Cerebral Palsy slowed her down physically but, from an early age, she stepped out of her comfort zone with a bravery I could not imagine—the Shriners’ Hospital in Montreal, operations, the polio clinic in Fredericton. Yes, they were essential, but the calm way she faced them is what I remember, and how she made friends wherever she went.

Mary was independent from an early age and just stepping out of her comfort zone was not enough. She pushed against barriers and stereotypes all her life, attending Teacher college while dealing with health issues and being a wife and mother. She would have been an amazing teacher, if she had lived long enough. For Mary, it was the journey.

Technology  broadens the world view. I admire those who choose to move out of their comfort zones for personal reasons or their family’s future, but my heart is with those who are violently shoved out of their comfort zone.

My achievement is small and I am  fortunate.  I can choose to step out of my comfort zone or stay comfortable where I am. War and natural disasters are ripping away comfort zones every day, leaving few options for the victims to create new ones.

I am thankful for where I live, and especially thankful this week leading up to Remembrance Day.

 

Autumn is a beautiful time of year and every year my husband and I take our own leaf tour.  We never tire of the scenes; every year is different. Every year I think of my Mom.

In the orientation sessions while the war brides were waiting for the transport ship, they showed slides of Canada. The reaction had been They don’t make trees that red!

Oh, but they do.

The red draws my eye. 

I hesitate

I admire

 I wonder

What was my mother’s reaction?

To a single tree against a cloudless sky?

To Hawthorne berries among the thorns?

To a slash of red standing front and center?

 

I marvel at the colours. I love the oranges and yellows just as much, but it is the red that triggers the memory.

I grew up with this annual display, and every year I marvel. What a wonder it must have been for my mother in the fall of 1946, her first Fall in New Brunswick.

 

 

 

May arrived like a moody teenager, one minute shivering under dark, gloomy clouds and the next waving to clear, blue skies. I hummed optimistically as I hung the hummingbird feeders, and then my soul soared with the arrival of the first male hummer. He drank deeply and flashed his ruby throat in greeting and joyful recognition.  I knew the females would arrive a week later as surely as  green leaves emerge from swollen buds.

The stage was set for the tiny acrobats with the master of our backyard always on guard. I enjoyed his companionship as he changed perches, preened and dove at every intruder , and my days were brighter when his loopy arcs created inverted rainbows. The feeder was center stage but the action was an ever-changing palette as the hummers checked the petunias, hovered by the honeysuckle, almost entered the lilies and even checked out my red hat. 

 

 

When temperatures soared the activity at the feeder slowed, but I didn’t wonder where they had gone. I knew their secret—their babies had hatched and needed the rich protein from insects.  

 

 

When they left the nest, it was the peak of hummertime. The master declared a truce and everyone was welcome at the feeder!  

 

Flashes of red and the whir of wings set the scene for awkward landings on the perches. 

All too soon, hummertime is ending.  September is approaching and the males will be gone by Labour Day.  The females and juveniles will feed for another week and then our yard will be quiet.

I will enjoy the colour of fall but my heart will be waiting for the return of hummertime.

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On the weekend we visited Minister’s Island near St. Andrews. As I looked through the windows of the restored main house, I saw more than peaceful vistas.

These were the fields I had roamed many times as a child on family excursions. No admission fee then, you just checked the tide before driving across the bar and made sure to be back on the mainland again before it was under water. If the season was  right, we dug clams on the way home.

I had always known it as Minister’s Island or Van Horne’s Island and figured Van Horne must have been a cabinet minister. I was wrong; it was named for Rev. Samuel Andrews.

In 1790 Rev. Andrews built his house on the island he had purchased for £ 250 pound sterling—thereafter known as Minister’s Island.

I had never been in the Van Horne home, now restored beyond anything my child’s mind could have imagined.

        

But there was one thing that was exactly as I remembered it, except for the fence and a mowed path.  The Bath House still stands solid by the shore.

With its domed interior showcasing the view.

 

 

 

 

 

I descended the spiral staircase to the bathing pool and to look back at the Bath House.

 

 

 

 

 

And the tide still waits for no man so we crossed the bar before it once again became the ocean’s floor.

 

 

 

 

I have been spending my time in September 1949, transported by letters my mother wrote to her brother and sister-in-law, Albert and Elizabeth (Bep) Kater.  Her words not only revealed glimpses into my parents’ life when I was two years old, but I even got to see myself.   I divide Rose-Marie’s hair now in the middle with 2 very small bows on each side. It needs a little getting used to , but it looks nice on her. I wish for a picture but this is almost as good.

I was surprised at the cost of dressed chickens compared to how much I paid last week at the grocery store.   Sidney (my father) sold in the meantime 18 chickens in St. Stephen and got just today an order for 12 more for Thanksgiving (Oct. 10). They weigh each around 5 lbs and they bring 50 cents a pound.  I did the math . . . 30 chickens @ 5 lbs = 150 lbs @ .50/lb = $ 75.  Considering how much wages, and everything else has increased since 1949, that seems like a high price in 1949. Good for my parents but not for the people who were purchasing them after the store added their profit.

They had a house and property, so my parents had taxes to pay.  The money he (Sidney) earned with blue-berry raking is used for the taxes ( $54 ).

I saw a different side of my father. When we visited a few weeks ago the St. Stephen Exhibition, Sidney got interested in weaving! We bought a small weaving-table, and right now he sits on the other side of the table and makes a woolen shawl for Ronnie and Rose-Marie, to wear in winter under their coats and it is going to be really nice. It is Scottish checks brown-red-blue-green vice-versa, all in darker shades.

My father obtained work that fall but had hardly any salaried work during the summer. However,  my mother could  put a positive spin on anything and I was also reminded of my mother’s ingenuity and thriftiness. That never changed, no matter how much their finances improved in later years.  I believe that, in the end, it was good for me that Sidney hardly did any work this summer. He values the money a little more and probably appreciates my sewing and mending more too. I have finished slippers for the children, crocheted from thick wool , and he put leather soles under them. From old jackets from him I made warm house-coats for the kids, reaching to their knees. 

I am forever grateful for the late Ytse Boonstoppel who translated these and many more of my mother’s letters.  It is an invaluable gift to be able to look at the past from my mother’s perspective.