A Walk with Mary

By Jennifer DeBruin

"...just as the waters washed away Mary's beloved village, so now Alzheimer's is washing away her memories."

William Phillips, a young blacksmith, sets out to find a place he can call home with his beloved wife, Adelaide. Settling in the idyllic village of Moulinette, situated on the banks of the mighty St. Lawrence River, he could not have imagined this vibrant, bustling place would one day lie under dark waters.

Their daughter Mary, raised in a generation known for its stoic resolve, is witness to some of the greatest events in modern history: the tuberculosis pandemic, the Great Depression, war, and the St. Lawrence Seaway. For Mary, all came with a price.

Near the end of her journey, Mary, no longer bound by the expected decorum of playing the role of daughter, wife, or mother to a growing family, is able to allow her vibrant, long-repressed spirit to re-emerge. Yet, just as the waters washed away Mary's beloved village, so now Alzheimer's is washing away her memories.

Before it is too late, Mary's granddaughter, Eliza, realizes that if anyone is to ever truly know who Mary is, her story needs to be told. What she finds lurking beneath the surface of her reserved grandmother are the hopes, dreams, losses, and disappointments of a lifetime. Inspired by true events.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jennifer DeBruin
• Release date: Jun 19, 2015

Jennifer DeBruin

With deep ancestral roots in New France/Quebec, Upper Canada/Ontario, and colonial America, Jennifer is interested in exploring the human story within this rich history. Combining her passion and experience in writing, education, history, and genealogy, she writes fact-based, historical fiction that engages readers in “discovering the humanity in the history.” A dynamic and knowledgeable speaker, Jennifer is a sought after presenter at historical, literary and community events.

Book preview

To the ones who teach me the most

about who I am and can be —

Jonathan, Anneke, and Samuel.

To my grandmothers,

for their inspirational fortitude and dignity.

Prologue

Looking out over the sparkling water gently meandering between islands and lapping the shore where she is sitting, Eliza is trying to imagine what once existed in this now quiet place. She is tied to this river, this place, and its history and feels compelled to listen to the stories it has to tell. She has read both fact and fiction about the St. Lawrence River and the villages that once called it home. The Lost Villages story is one of progress for two great nations that dreamt of a power-generation project that could usher them into a bright, prosperous future. But for the residents of those six little villages and the surrounding hamlets, it was an unimaginable nightmare.

In the name of this progress, the villages, including Moulinette, her grandmother’s, were drowned. Eliza reflects on what was truly taken from their inhabitants. As a small remnant of road dips to meet the water, she looks out again over the scene, knowing that the streets where her grandmother had roamed as a child were now covered by this beautiful, destructive water.

As her eyes scan the horizon, she can see old waterlogged stumps poking out of the water’s surface. Islands dotting the waters were once rolling hills in a farmer’s field. Now covered in lush green grasses, hints of the past make themselves known in the few majestic old-growth trees that survived because they grew on high ground. In contrast, surrounding her on the riverbank are scruffy shrubs and small trees in overgrown remnants of fields, making this place feel oddly cold and abandoned. At this time of year, before the water came, the freshly tilled plots of land signalled the beginning of a new growing season; the families had worked and lived on this land for generations. With only fifty years of growth, Eliza can still get a sense of what had been.

Her interest in the past has been spurred on by the recent diagnosis of her grandmother’s illness. Mary had been increasingly feeling scattered and quite noticeably repeating her stories. At first, the family had merely noted it as something to watch, but over the past year, it had become apparent there was something changing in Mary.

Though the diagnosis of Alzheimer’s disease came as no surprise, it nevertheless instilled a deep sense of fear in Mary’s loved ones. Mary was not aware of the label of her illness but she was cognizant of its symptoms. The doctors monitored her condition and told the family to prepare Mary for the changes that would take place. As her children grappled with the prospect of their mother’s ailment, Mary seemed to be coping quite well, always having an upbeat attitude and a good sense of humour.

When she had first heard the news, Eliza had decided to try and absorb the stories her grandmother was now prone to tell. In recent years, Mary had begun to share stories of her childhood, what life was like up and down the river, her beloved Moulinette, and her family.

She had always known her grandmother to be quite reserved, at least while her grandfather was alive; but since his passing, though her grandmother had mourned him deeply, a new personality began to emerge.

Mary began to do things like wiggle her hips and remark how she had never had to worry about her waistline. Odd, Eliza thought, that an eighty-seven-year-old woman should be concerned with her waistline. But in that little gesture, Eliza saw the core of what was true; the soul does not age — it just is. She thought to herself, When I was young, I thought thirty was old; now that I am thirty, I feel like … well … me.

Eliza sits listening to the sound of the river, trying to get an image in her mind’s eye of Mary here. At first she is lost in the details of Mary’s life — dates, names, events. Then she quickly realizes the sum of her grandmother is not the coming together of the details in itself, it is how she had felt, reacted to, and ultimately lived her life. She didn’t need a historical reference of her grandmother’s existence; she was that herself, and twenty generations from now it would still exist. Perhaps simply as that old, familiar sparkle in someone’s eye.

So, here and now, in this quiet place, sitting as close as she can to where her grandmother had begun life, Eliza, armed with the stories and feelings she knew she shared with her, allows her imagination to take the lead. Soon the river begins to drain away — as though someone has pulled a plug — and there, in front of her, Moulinette begins to appear, just as it had looked in the early years of the twentieth century.

CHAPTER 1

As he looked out over the brightening horizon, William Phillips could see the signs of a village coming into view. Though it was early morning, he could feel the rising sun beginning to warm his heavy wool coat, which shrouded him from the crispness of the fading night. Steam began to float from the evaporating dew that covered him and the landscape. As it made its first foray into the day, the sun caught the dew droplets, making the fields shimmer as though they were the river itself on a sunny day.

William sat straight in his carriage seat. He had journeyed since the early morning on his way to the village, Moulinette, that he could see now was only about half a mile away. A man of great presence and stature, William had recently married a beautiful, tall, stately girl named Adelaide MacDonell. William had always been particularly fond of Adelaide, who was best known to be a sweet and kind girl. She was very close to her family and, while she enjoyed having a good time at all their Scottish get-togethers, she was still a little reserved. William, too, had come from a large family, but they had long dispersed across Canada and America, making it a rare occasion when the Phillipses were together. Having recently ended a stint as a cook — which paid better than blacksmithing — in the Northern lumber camps, setting aside his earnings for his future with Adelaide, William was now looking for a slow, steady lifestyle. They both came from long lines of original settlers of the area and yearned to stay close to their roots. This village seemed to fit the plan nicely.

William, trained and apprenticed as a blacksmith, had been looking for a good, solid location to open his own business. He wanted it to be in a community that would hold the promise of providing a steady income for his family. He had recently purchased a building that had been for sale in this small village on the banks of the St. Lawrence River. Typical of the area, Moulinette had built up along the main thoroughfare that had been the travelled route for centuries, first by the Native tribes, namely the Mohawks of the area that had used these lands for hunting grounds for thousands of years, and later by the Loyalists. This ancient route now joined the many villages and hamlets that rested along the shores of the mighty river.

Settled in the 1700s, Moulinette was a community made up of old families whose roots were tied to the land and the river. The little village followed the rhythm of the water and the changing seasons. The early settlers were American Loyalists seeking refuge from the American Revolution, which saw those loyal to the King of England leaving the only homes they had ever known for lands granted to them for their loyalty and service during the struggle. A wild and untamed landscape awaited them north of the border. At the time, Canada seemed to these settlers little more than dense forests, rough landscapes, and extreme weather; but over time, they were able to clear the land, build grist and woollen mills, and slowly but surely support themselves in their new homeland.

This story was repeated in many of the settlements along the river, and to outsiders, each of these little places had an air of common purpose and function. Yet, each resident of these settlements was quick to point out their distinctions with pride and conviction.

In addition to a business location, William was also looking for a home that would be big enough to accommodate a growing family. Adelaide was expecting their first child in a few months, and it went without saying that as good Catholics they would be having many children. He also wanted it to be a home where Adelaide would be happy. William loved Adelaide deeply and her happiness was ever in his thoughts.

As he pulled his carriage onto what was the main — and only — street, William approached the building he now owned. Pulling back on the reins, he stopped his carriage and jumped down. He walked the perimeter, noticing external repairs that he would need to attend to. He pulled the keys from his pocket and opened the door. The building had been empty for a number of years, and every surface was covered by a thick layer of grey dust and silt.

The light was poor this early in the morning and what little light was filtering through the dusty windows was catching the floating particles of dust, making it even more difficult to see. He had taken only a quick look at the structure on his earlier visit to ensure it was sound, but on this trip he wanted to take a good look around to see what was left inside. The man who had sold him the building told William the previous owner had had a successful general repairs business at one time. Eventually, age took its toll, and the business was simply closed, the fellow not having any children to take it on.

William noticed a pile of wood in the back corner. As he approached it, he saw that lying here and there were some rusted tools. Though he was curious to see if the tools could be salvaged, he decided now was not the time. He had to stay presentable. He was looking for a house today and wanted to ensure his appearance reflected his proud nature. He knew people only wanted the best kind of neighbours, and being new to this community, he understood he would have to sell himself.

He continued to walk through, noticing the large counter with an old cash register at one end. Behind the counter at eye level was an old, faded sign with the words H. Cline, General Repair. He imagined his own name there. He had already made a sign for himself when he first purchased the building, a month earlier: Wm. Phillips, Blacksmith, painted in bold black letters.

As he walked behind the counter, he noticed old ledger books and receipt piles. These, however, seem to have been previously discovered and had made a meal for mice, as pieces of them were scattered about. A fine mess, he thought. Finally, he made his way down the counter to take a look at the cash register. It was old, to say the least, made of dark walnut. Once he had dusted it off a little, it seemed to be in fairly good condition. Now only one question remained: Did it work? William pressed a series of keys and cranked the handle. Suddenly, with a loud ringing, the total popped up into the windowed area at the top of the register. The large wooden drawer swung open with a BANG. William jumped back to avoid being hit by it. He laughed to himself, glad no one was watching.

There was no money in the drawer, but he did notice a small, brown, folded piece of paper under one of the cash compartments. He lifted the metal piece, releasing the paper. It was dated 1898. It read:

To Whom It May Concern:

I, Henry R. Cline, write this note to the man who has purchased my business. It is with great regret that I, being of advanced age and poor health, am unable to continue to operate my business. However, it does give me great pleasure that I imagine a new enterprise being operated out of this location. It would pain me to imagine the business I had built myself many years ago being left to a state of disrepair. As I have no sons to pass my business to so I will bestow upon you, the reader of this letter, some general business advice I have inherited through hard work and lessons learned. If you are of an honest nature then you shall never go wrong. If you treat others fairly they will reciprocate in kind. Put in an honest days’ work and you will never be left wanting. And finally, dedicate yourself to doing God’s good work. He will guide you and be your most cherished adviser in business and in life. I wish you good fortune and hope you will find success as I once did.

Henry R. Cline

William tucked the note into his breast pocket giving it a pat. He made a silent promise to Mr. Cline to bring back this business to a state that would make this unknown man proud. It was obvious from his words that Mr. Cline had been a good, dedicated man. A man, William thought, who would have made an excellent mentor. Despite the fact that he had long since passed on, William heeded his wise words and would later keep the piece of paper in the bottom of the cash drawer as a reminder of Mr. Cline. As he imagined the business and the life he would build in the place, William could not have imagined what tragedies were to come.

Finally satisfied that no more could be done at this time, William left the building as he had found it, locking the door and giving it a little extra pull to ensure its security.

Knowing that the local hotel was the place to get the lay of the land, William hitched his carriage outside and entered the Whiteman Hotel, located at the centre of Moulinette. Making his way inside, he was greeted by a friendly, stout man behind the bar, who said, Good morning, is there something I can get you?

Well, actually, I’m in need of some information. You see, I’ve just purchased the old Cline building up the road, and —

Before he could finish, the man behind the bar interjected, Well, then, you must be William Phillips. Extending his hand, he continued, I’m Ralph Whiteman. I own this hotel. It’s nice to meet a fellow businessman.

Thank you. It’s nice to meet you, too. William was a little surprised that Mr. Whiteman seemed to know who he was. He had only finalized the purchase of the shop a month earlier and hadn’t met anyone except Mr. Jones, the man who had sold him the building.

Sensing his surprise, Mr. Whiteman said, "William, you’ll get to know soon enough that news in our little village moves faster than a horse running from a pack of wolves.

Dan Jones tells me you’re a blacksmith.

Yes. I am.

He also tells me you seem the honest type. That’s good for business around here.

So I’ve heard, said William, thinking of the letter tucked away in his pocket.

Poor Henry had a real attachment to the place. He had hoped he would see it pass to new hands before he died, but I guess it wasn’t to be. Well, no matter; it’s in good hands, now. Mr. Whiteman smiled at William, hoping to make him feel welcome. He had always fancied himself the unofficial welcoming committee for the village. Everyone at one time or another on their way here or through stopped at his hotel, and he knew the importance of good hospitality.

Now that William had been welcomed so kindly, he felt assured that this would be a good place to settle his new family. Mr. Whiteman, do you know where there might be a property for sale close by? You see, I’ve got a family on the way and I’d like to get my wife settled before the little one comes along.

As a matter of fact, one of the most prestigious properties in Moulinette is for sale! And call me Ralph.

Well, thank you, Ralph, but I just need a sturdy home with a little land. I don’t need a big home.

I think you’ll find this house to be just the right fit for you. I suggest you just take a look before you make any decisions. It really is a beauty, William.

William was a little apprehensive. He knew how much he could spend on a house, and one of the most prestigious properties in Moulinette didn’t sound like it would fit his budget. William was a proud man and didn’t want to admit to Ralph that he probably couldn’t afford it. Well, Ralph, I think I’ll just start with a basic home, if you know of any.

Well, it’s up to you, William, but I think you’ll find because of the ‘special’ nature of the sale, you will be able to afford it quite nicely.

William was intrigued. Ralph began to extol the virtues of the house, which was not only one of the most prized in the village but also one of the oldest. It had been built by the Forsyths, one of the founding families of the village. Now Loretta Bigsby, the daughter of Samuel Forsyth, lived there. Loretta was well into her seventies. Her husband had died some years before, and it was becoming harder for her to manage the large house and property on her own. As her children had moved some distance away, they often asked her to join them, but she knew that she could never leave Moulinette after having lived her whole life there, and so she devised a plan to stay.

But I thought you said she was selling? William was confused.

"Oh, and she is, William, but with her as part of the deal. You see, she figures that if she sells for a reasonable price, maybe she could continue to live out her days in the family home. She just wants room and board until her death. Loretta is a nice lady, and I don’t expect she’ll be with us much longer. It would be a shame to see her have to leave the place that’s been in her family for over a hundred years. It’s sad that children these days leave and have no interest in taking up their family homesteads. Guess that’s progress for you."

William agreed to meet Mrs. Bigsby.

As he headed down the street, William could not have imagined what the house would look like but he knew it as soon as he came upon it. The home was situated just down the road and around one little curve from his new building, a perfect location. He knew in an instant this was the one he had to have for his Adelaide.

It was a stately red brick home with cedar shingles detailing the porch and second storey. On the large porch, he could picture the swing he would put on it so he and Adelaide could talk at length about life and all its promise. Surrounded by well-maintained gardens, he knew tending to the flowers would make her happy. Off to the side was a small barn where he could raise some animals. Yes, this was it! Even without seeing the inside, he knew it was the house for them.

As he walked up the front steps, he was met at the door by Mrs. Bigsby. A lady of small stature, she met William with a big, bright smile. Good morning, Mr. Phillips.

Hello, Mrs. Bigsby. It’s nice to meet you.

Mr. Whiteman just called over and mentioned that you might be interested in my place. I’ve just had a telephony put in my house. What a wonderful invention! Now I know who’s coming to visit before they do. She laughed. The hotel and Mrs. Bigsby were the only two in the village with such a device, and they had become the source for all sorts of business, which essentially boiled down to the exchange of information on what all the residents were up to at any given time.

Yes, Mrs. Bigsby. I’m looking for some property in the area to settle my family.

Well, come in and I’ll show you around to see if this might fit your needs. As he entered the home, it was evident to William that this home had been well loved. Everything was in immaculate order, and the smell of fresh baking wafted from the kitchen.

"This is the front of the kitchen. I haven’t quite opened up the summer kitchen yet. In the old days, I was always ready for every season. Now, as my seasons are coming to an end, I take longer and longer to get prepared." She forced a smile this time, and William could see that she wasn’t merely talking about the preparation for the coming summer but rather the inevitable changes his visit represented.

The kitchen was painted a bright white, making it a light, cheerful room. The woodstove in the corner crackled slightly as the last of the coals died out from the fire that had been heating the home the night before. The late spring nights were still cool, and Mrs. Bigsby needed the warmth as much to soothe her bones as to ease the cold loneliness of the house.

Set in the middle of a little pine table was a beautiful arrangement of yellow tulips that set off the deep, rich patina of the wood. William knew these must be from the abundant gardens he had seen on his way up to the house. There were tulips of all colours that were in full bloom to the right of the home. As he had pulled up his carriage, it nearly took his breath away. Planted in neat rows, in what looked to be a typical fenced garden, were hundreds of tulips. He imagined Adelaide walking the rows, choosing her favourite blossoms.

As he moved around the room, William noticed the shadows and small prisms of coloured light as the sun caught the glass pitcher holding the tulips. Reflecting around the room, it created an atmosphere of lightness and joy, and William could sense his future in this place. He could at once see his loved ones at the table and his beautiful bride arranging the tulips.

Mrs. Bigsby could tell the home was working its magic — the same magic that had kept her family tied to it all these years. She had had many offers to live with her children after their father’s death but she knew instinctively this house could not be left. She knew that she and it were intrinsically tied to one another. Though it was now passing out of the family’s hands, she would ensure its happiness through careful selection of someone who would love it as she had. It seemed odd to her children that she spoke of the house as though it had feelings, but she sensed its spirit.

As they passed from room to room, William made note of all the little details that showed this house was built with care. Glass crystal and brass door handles that caught glimpses of light — the effect of the light causing small, bright flashes to flicker on the walls as they turned to reveal each room. The ornately carved wood banister and immaculate wood floors still shone as though new. Decorative carpets lined the hallways to protect the floor from wear, preserving the workmanship of every hand-planed board. Now a rich cinnamon colour, the pine had aged to perfection in this house. William had an appreciation for craftsmanship — though he suspected Adelaide would find the details of the door handles and their dancing light to be the most beloved feature.

Did your family build this house? William asked, running his hand over the thick rail of the second-floor banister.

Yes, my great-grandfather Josiah Forsyth built it. The railing you are admiring right now comes from a big tree he felled not half a mile from here, over a hundred years ago.

As they continued their tour, Mrs. Bigsby regaled William with stories of how Josiah, being a Loyalist, had been forced to flee his home in New York after the American Revolution. Of course, William knew the history of the Loyalists, as he and Adelaide were descended from Loyalists themselves, but Mrs. Bigsby seemed to be somehow energized and spoke in authoritative, proud tones and he did not want to interrupt her.

"Josiah was granted 200 acres for his loyalty. He set out in the wilderness that is now Moulinette and carved out this homestead for himself and his bride, Martha Allen, my great-grandmother and the daughter of another Loyalist, Captain James Allen of the King’s Royal Regiment of New York. Josiah was an officer serving under Captain Allen. He had met and married his wife just before their exodus to Canada.

"They toiled day and night and despite backbreaking work, Josiah, Martha, and the other Loyalists were determined to create a new home. Along the way, they had a brood of sixteen children, of which my grandfather Hezekiah Forsyth was the fourteenth.

From generation to generation, it was a foregone conclusion that one of the family was to carry on the homestead. Then one day it was my turn.

It struck William as odd that she should have been the one to inherit the home and not a male descendant. As though she knew his thoughts, Mrs. Bigsby said, It should have passed to Albert.

For a moment, the enthusiasm for her story waned as she spoke the boy’s name. She paused, gathering her strength to continue telling her story. William waited, not wanting to pry about what had affected her so much in speaking Albert’s name. It was obvious there was remorse or sadness — which, he was unsure.

Then, continuing as though William were no longer a stranger, she said, Little Albert was a beautiful boy. Yellow curls covering his head. A chubby, healthy complexion, and eyes as blue as an early morning sky. She paused again for a moment, then said, A boy to be prized.

Standing at the footboard of the bed in the small room, William suddenly realized this was Albert’s room. There was a heavy feeling in this room; in here was a young spirit, but sadness lurked — just as it did in Mrs. Bigsby’s voice.

Albert got sick one night, and before the doctor could arrive, he left us.

Of this story there were no more details. Though it had happened many years earlier, Mrs. Bigsby obviously still felt a great deal of sadness over his passing. As they left the room, William noticed a small tin plate photo on the corner of a rather imposing dresser. By the curls he could tell that the beautiful, angelic face looking back at him was that of the beloved Albert.

Soon William and Mrs. Bigsby were seated in the well-appointed parlour discussing the details of her proposed arrangement. Having a kind nature and being a good businessman, William felt this would be a good deal.

Upon his return