The Innocent: Book One in the Beneath the Alders Series

By Lynne Golding

"Lynne Golding knows how to tell a story. With yarns she gathered at her great aunt’s knee, she has woven a compelling story that harkens back to a time of pre-war innocence in a town I’ve always been proud to call my own."
— Former Premier the Honorable William G. Davis

In the year 1907, all of Brampton is present at the sod-turning ceremony for the Carnegie Library. At the end of the event, the crowd rises as one to walk to the Presbyterian Church for a consecration service... Everyone except Jessie Stephens and her family. Her father will not allow them to enter the Presbyterian Church.

No one will tell young Jessie the reason, but she learns that it has something to do with her grandfather Jesse Brady, who built it. As she seeks to solve that mystery over many years, Jessie slowly begins to learn the history of the town in which she lives. Her tales of everyday life in small town Ontario combine to craft a vivid portrait of a life and a family that are, upon closer inspection, anything but ordinary.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blue Moon Publishers
• Release date: Oct 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9781988279688

Lynne Golding

Lynne Golding grew up in Brampton, Ontario, where she lives today. She obtained a BA in History and Political Science before studying law. She is now a senior partner at an international law firm, married with children, and the winner of the What's Your Story Short Prose and Poetry Competition.

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Advance Praise for The Innocent

"Lynne Golding has opened a magical door to the past and ushered us into Edwardian Brampton to marvel at a simpler time... [The Innocent] will make you laugh and weep and wonder, and be fondly remembered long after the final pages are read."

—Cheryl Cooper, author of the Seasons of War series

Lynne Golding knows how to tell a story. With yarns she gathered at her great-aunt’s knee, she has woven a compelling story that harkens back to a time of pre-war innocence in a town I’ve always been proud to call my own.

—Former Premier the Honorable William G. Davis

It’s easy to forget that everything about the roads we drive, the hydro and water to our homes, the schools and health care we need, comes from the cradle of community. This book is a journey back in time to what was needed for building a future that cares for many thousands for decades to come. Through a fascinating family, Lynne Golding’s novel leads us into the past in a whimsical way that can’t help but connect to our own ambitions.

—Lorna Dueck, CEO, Crossroads

The Innocent

Copyright 2018 by Lynne Golding

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-988279-68-8

All rights reserved

Editor: Allister Thompson

Published in Stratford, Canada, by Blue Moon Publishers.

The author greatly appreciates you taking the time to read this work. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book, or telling your friends or blog readers about The Innocent to help spread the word. Thank you for your support.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The Innocent. Copyright © 2018 by Lynne Golding. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Blue Moon Publishers. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

Dedicated to Jessie Roberts Current, a dear friend to so many

CONTENTs

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1 – The Carnegie Library

Chapter 2 – Jesse Brady Arrives in Brampton

Chapter 3 – The Sneeze

Chapter 4 – The Turners Leave

Chapter 5 – New Year’s Day

Chapter 6 – The Governor’s Story

Chapter 7 – Off to School

Chapter 8 – Jim and Eddie’s Folly

Chapter 9 – Jim’s Diversions

Chapter 10 – The Photograph

Chapter 11 – The Flower Town of Canada

Chapter 12 – The Verandah

Chapter 13 – The Mighty Etobicoke

Chapter 14 – Haggertlea

Chapter 15 – Christmas with Jane

Chapter 16 – The Johnstons

Chapter 17 – Mother and Her Shoes

Chapter 18 – Ina’s Journey

Chapter 19 – The Drought

Chapter 20 – The Mann Cup

Chapter 21 – The Homecoming

A Preview of Book Two, The Beleaguered

Author’s Note

About Lynne Golding

Book Club Guide

Acknowledgements

With thanks to my proofreaders, my mother-in-law Carol Clement and my late father-in-law John Clement, for their diligence and enthusiasm for every chapter dispensed; my good friend Candace Thompson for her marginal happy and sad faces, letting me know that the parts intended to be humorous or sad hit their mark; and my father, Douglas Golding, and his oldest friend, John McDermid, for their many helpful reflections about Brampton in years past.

With gratitude to the second-floor librarians at the Brampton Four Corners Library who helped me manage reels and reels of microfiche; to the thorough investigative work of Samantha Thompson of the Peel Archives; and to the fabulous team at Blue Moon Publishers: Allister Thompson, Talia Crockett, and Heidi Sander.

With heartfelt thanks to my husband, Tony Clement, who encouraged me year after year to continue the project, and to my children Alex, Maxine, and Elexa, who endured countless retellings of interesting tidbits I came across in my research.

Finally, with appreciation to my mother Barbara Golding, whose promise to read the book once it was complete spurred me to make it so.

We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time

—T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets

Chapter 1

The Carnegie Library

As far as first memories go, mine is extremely apt. For there, in one scene, are nearly all of the elements essential to my early years: politics, religion, morality, higher learning, municipal development, family, and friends. It is a panoramic view, this first memory, with many moving parts. There I am, four years old, perched on a white, straight-backed chair, a pink and white pinafore over my white short-sleeved dress, my white-socked, black-shoed feet dangling beneath me. My head, adorned with a high-set big bow, tilts back as I look up at Ina, my older sister, standing beside me. She commands me to stay put, to reserve the three chairs that are our joint responsibility to hold.

Sitting midway back near the centre aisle of the dozens of chairs, I am surrounded by neighbours, friends, and family. There are the butcher who sells our meat and the green grocer from whom we buy our vegetables. Ahead is the man who delivers our milk and cheese. Behind is Mr. Thauburn, who owns the general store. Just to my left are the people who sit behind us at church. Rows ahead, in his best Sunday suit, is my friend Archie McKechnie, sitting with his sisters and their mother and father. Over to another side is my friend Frances Hudson wedged between her parents. My family is too busy to sit with me.

Behind me, my brother Jim and his friends are delivering single Dale roses to the women assembled. To the side, my male cousins, John, Roy, and Bill and their friends are throwing pinecones over the red, white, and blue bunting that cordons off the area in which we are gathered. Up at the front, beside the concert band, are my mother, my father, and others from our church choir leading those interested in singing. At the podium organizing his notes is James Darling, my uncle, a former town mayor and the owner of the local bakery. To his right, separated by a long ribbon, scissors in hand, standing with other town dignitaries, is my Uncle William, the current town mayor, and next to him, my grandfather, Jesse Brady, the famous builder.

At last, the formalities begin. Ina and Jim scurry back to the seats I have successfully maintained. Father leads us in the singing of God Save the King. At the end of the final stanza, he, the chairman of the high school board, joins his brother-in-law and others near the ribbon. My Uncle James, still at the podium, directs our attention to the large drawing behind him—the Beaux Arts style, red-bricked library to be built. Like twenty-five hundred other libraries in small communities around the world, it will be funded with a grant from the Andrew Carnegie Foundation.

The decision to build the Carnegie Library was not without controversy. Perhaps in a poor display of gloating, from the podium my uncle recounts some of the obstacles that had to be overcome. He refers to the arguments of those opposed to taking money from the steel magnate Andrew Carnegie, possibly the richest man in the world. Some predicted that money acquired as were the Carnegie fortunes would rot the books to be housed within the new library. Other obstacles included those created by the Carnegie Foundation itself, which refused to provide the funds until the plans for the building were altered to prevent its use as both a library and a concert hall.

Uncle James then calls upon a man in a brown suit, a representative of the Carnegie Foundation. With a strange, slow way of speaking, he thanks the crowd for its warm welcome. He points out the signature features of a Carnegie Library, including the lamppost in front, a beacon to enlightenment. The prominent wide doorway accessed from four steps outside the building and the five steps inside together symbolize how every man (or at least able-bodied man, for there were no elevators in the library in those days) is elevated by learning. He describes how this library will differ from the town’s current library, known as the Mechanic’s Institute; how it will be open to all; how it will no longer be necessary to execute a contract to borrow a book; and how patrons will be able to browse the shelves themselves, without requiring books to be retrieved by the librarian from behind a counter.

Returning repeatedly to the podium, Uncle James invites other dignitaries to come forward. They speak on and on, generally repeating what has already been said. Finally, a cheque is presented to my Uncle William, the mayor, by the man in the brown suit, and a spade is plunged into the ground. The crowd erupts in applause.

Ending the ceremony, my Uncle James, invites everyone to walk to the Presbyterian Church for a short religious ceremony to consecrate the soon-to-be-built library. I watch as the masses stand and walk down Queen Street. Everyone goes: my friends, their parents, our doctor, our neighbours, my aunts and uncles, my cousins—everyone, except for me and my immediate family. As the throng departs down Queen Street, my mother, my father, my brother, my sister, my grandfather, and I walk along Chapel Street to our home two blocks away.

* * *

The year was 1907. The location was Brampton, a town in the County of Peel in the Province of Ontario, in the Dominion of Canada. Located on and around a part of the old Indian trail known as the Hurontario, the town was at that time home to nearly four thousand souls, predominantly Protestants of Anglo-Saxon heritage. It stood on rich farmland, making it an agricultural centre and home to local, national, and international industries. Inching into modernity, it was a town with a road system but no hard roads, with telephones but no telephone system. It had a department of public health but no hospital, a sewer system, some electricity, and sidewalks, although the latter were just being converted from wood to cement.

The town in 1907 suffered no shortage in the methods of transportation for its citizenry. The stagecoach ran down Hurontario Road, which connected Lake Ontario at the south to Lake Huron at the north. Cars were not unseen, but they were vastly outnumbered by horse-drawn carriages. The two rail lines that cut through the town’s centre provided its inhabitants with a swift mode of travel. People and cargo could be transported all over North America from Brampton’s centre. Significantly, one method of travel was not available to Bramptonians. Although the town possessed two minor water courses, allowing for swimming, skating, fishing, and in the case of one, annual flooding, neither had the width, depth, or regular volume of water to foster shipping of man or freight.

Once known as Buffy’s Corners, the town was originally named after William Buffy, a shoemaker who in the 1820s sold both shoes and alcohol from his store on the main and likely only thoroughfare. Though Buffy kept only a few bottles of liquor on his premises to serve his good customers, he was held responsible for the early debauchery of that area. Historical records do not indicate whether his customers’ need for such imbibement was due to the distance and conditions they had to endure to reach his premises or their shock at the prices or selection of his wares. Whatever the reason, years later, when leading Primitive Methodists settled in the area, the dens of licenced hotels and taverns were closed, and the name and reputation changed. Buffy’s Corners became Brampton.

* * *

The party with whom I walked home that day was quiet and small. At the front of our pack was my father, Jethro Stephens, known to most as Doc. My father was a local dentist and community activist. For twenty-five years he served as chairman of the high school board and chairman of the water commission, organizations responsible for bringing good education and clean water, respectively, to our town. Hardly ever given to laughter, Father ruled our household with an iron fist. A thin man with light brown hair parted to the side, he wore a pair of white patent leather shoes almost year round.

Beside Father walked my mother, Mary. A handsome, round-faced woman with a full but not large figure, she was the epitome of sweetness. I never heard her raise her voice. She doted on my father, who rarely returned the kindness. Her greatest pride was her three children, yet she was far from the smothering type of mother. Her time spent maintaining our large home and supporting her church and other social commitments kept her too busy to spend an inordinate amount of time with us.

Behind my parents walked my brother Jim and my sister, Ina. Ina had bestowed upon her the moon face of our mother (a matter about which she was indifferent) and the stocky frame of our grandfather (an inheritance that pleased her not at all). Perhaps because she felt her essentials could not change, she chose not to care for the minor matters that were within her control. As a result—despite constant hectoring from Father—she was frequently seen with the buttons on her dress misaligned, her hair unbrushed, her socks more down than up. Since she was eight years older than me, Ina’s actions generally denied my existence as a sibling. Her filial allegiance rested entirely with our brother Jim, three years her senior, with whom she was quite close.

Jim was a wonderful boy blessed with the sweet nature of my mother, the athletic prowess of my father, and the artistic drawing skills of my grandfather. He was a hard worker and was well liked by his friends and their parents. His affection for each individual family member was well known and often exemplified by a unique nickname. By Jim alone, Grandpa was known as Old Man. Grandpa reciprocated by calling Jim My Boy, something Father never objected to (although Father objected to a great many things). I fared better I thought, being referred to most often by Jim as Little One. While the pet name was usually accompanied by a tug on one of my ringlets, the minor discomfort was more than compensated by his term of endearment.

The final member of our party, and my walking companion, was my grandfather, Jesse Brady. My grandfather came to live with my parents for a short while in 1905 and stayed for over twenty-five years. In 1907, at the age of seventy-two, he was still a fit, sturdy man with a large head fully covered in thick, short grey hair. It matched the colour of his moustache and the neat beard that was cut squarely and hung an inch below his chin. His days, which were formerly filled building the town, were by that time spent tending his gardens as an amateur grower and supporting his townsmen as a member of the International Order of Foresters and the Odd Fellows Club. In between those pursuits, he found time for curling, lawn bowling, choir singing, and talking to me, his favourite—or so I thought—granddaughter.

This was the family that resided in the Stephens house located on the corner of Chapel and Wellington Streets in Brampton. But that house was home to more than those who technically lived there. It was home as well to Father’s two sisters, Rose Darling and Charlotte Turner, and their husbands and children. Likewise, their homes were ours. All residing within easy walking distance to each other, we moved from one home to another like sheep changing pastures, depending on whose family had the largest roast to serve, whose family was celebrating a birthday, or whose turn it was to host the dinner of a special occasion. Each dining room table could accommodate all fourteen of us, and we children were equally at home at an aunt’s table as we were at our mother’s.

We came and went through each other’s doors without regard to the time of day, never considering knocking. I suppose because our aunts and uncles so often fed us, they believed that they bore other parental responsibilities as well. We cousins were, therefore, as likely to be praised by our aunts and uncles for good grades, admonished for poor ones, encouraged in future pursuits, and reprimanded for bad conduct as we were by our own parents. My cousins, however, could expect far less criticism from my parents than I could from theirs. At least in the early years of my childhood, my father reserved his wrath for his own children, and my mother was throughout her life far less judgmental than were her sisters-in-law. In short, our family of five was really a family of fourteen. We shared our resources, our hopes, and dreams, and our experiences, which made the fact that Darlings and Turners went to the consecration ceremony at the Presbyterian Church when we Stephenses did not all the more strange.

We walked those two short blocks home in silence. We were, I assumed, all wondering what we were missing at the Presbyterian Church, and, in my case at least, wondering why we were missing it. Certainly it was no surprise that we were. When Father declared at breakfast that morning that our family would not attend that portion of the ceremony, Mother, Ina, and Jim knowingly nodded in concurrence. Only my grandfather and I opened our mouths to reply, but no words—which in my case would have formed a question—escaped. Father’s edicts were always obeyed. One never asked for an explanation. That is, one never asked him for an explanation.

The home we walked to was new, having been recently built by my grandfather. To my mind it was perfectly situated, being just three blocks away from the main four corners intersection that formed the commercial centre of the town, two blocks away from Gage Park that formed the outdoor leisure centre of the town and only a little farther from Rosalea Park, which formed the outdoor athletic centre of the town. Clad in red brick, our house possessed a round tower topped with a graceful spherical dome and a small black spire. Tall windows below stained glass panes were surrounded by large green shutters. The attic, which formed the third floor, had two finely sculpted gabled windows below dark green roofs, which rose at various levels. Grandpa’s signature white-painted wooden verandah wrapped around its two street-facing sides. Together, we ascended the wide steps leading to the verandah. Father pulled back the wooden screen door and allowed us entry to our home.

On the other side of the front door was our foyer, a large room about two hundred feet square, from which one could enter the parlour to the left, the kitchen through a passageway straight ahead, or the second floor via a grand staircase to the right. We called that staircase the front stairs to distinguish it from the narrow, steep, poorly lit staircase accessed from the pantry behind the kitchen. Those stairs also led to the second floor, but as they opened onto that floor next to the maid’s room, they were referred to interchangeably as the maid’s stairs or the back stairs.

We rarely used those stairs. Our reticence to do so sprang not from any fear of interference with the maid, for although we had a maid’s staircase and we had a maid’s room, we had in fact no maid. Father’s confidence that one day we would have the means to retain such an employee meant that the maid’s room never became anyone else’s room, even though its vacant position required me to share a room and bed with Ina. That room across from the three-piece washroom was centrally located on the second floor. Grandpa’s large bedroom was to one side and Mother and Father’s to the other, with Jim’s across the hall and in between.

As I changed from my good dress, I considered who could enlighten me about the strange episode relating to the Presbyterian Church. Ina, the person to whom I had the greatest access, was the last person I would ask. I reached back to remove my white hair bow from the knot on the top of my head. Finding it stuck, I clasped another elastic and a simpler blue bow and walked down the hall to my parents’ room. I took the stuck bow to be a good omen. Mother’s delight in brushing my long, curly brown ringlets usually allowed me to obtain information she might not otherwise wish to impart.

Mother, why were we not allowed to go to the church for the last part of the ceremony? I asked, trying not to wince as she removed the elastic that held my earlier hair arrangement. I was perched on the little chair in front of her dressing table situated in the tower that formed a part of my parents’ room. Mother, who was extremely deferential to Father, would never countermand his orders. But when we were alone, she would often elaborate on them or at least repeat them nicely. On this occasion, however, she would do neither. My hair brushing ended almost before it began. The elastic to be wrapped around my newly arranged hair was quickly snapped into place. The blue bow I had carried to her was jabbed into the new knot.

You heard your father, she said curtly. We do not go to THAT church. Clearly dismissed, I slowly walked out of her room.

At four years of age, I was not well versed in the differences between Brampton’s many places of worship. I knew that there were two Methodist churches: our church, Grace, which was originally Wesleyan Methodist, and St. Paul’s, which was originally Primitive Methodist. Presbyterianism was obviously a different type of religion. Were Methodists not allowed to go to Presbyterian churches? Certainly many other people from our Methodist church were among those walking to the Presbyterian Church. Father was a stickler for rules. Maybe this was a rule that he observed but others did not. I was certain that Grandpa would know and went in search of him.

My quest was brief, as I heard his voice immediately upon descending the front stairs. The big oak front door with its etched-glass top was open. Only the screen door separated the foyer from the verandah on which Father and Grandpa were speaking. Hoping that theirs would not be a long conversation, I silently joined them. My heart leapt each time it appeared that their discourse was complete, and then fell when after a few moments of silence either Father or Grandpa made a new observation, speculation, or pontification. It eventually became clear to me that neither had any intention of ending their exchange. While Grandpa was with Father, there was no chance my curiosity would be satisfied. I went inside in search of my brother.

I found Jim alone in the sitting room, a room between our parlour at the front of the house and the dining room at the back. Sitting next to him on the couch under the big window, I rushed to put to him the same question previously posed to Mother. Jim usually tried to ease compliance with Father’s often inane dictates.

Jim, do you know anything about the Presbyterian Church? I asked plaintively.

I know it was built by Grandpa, he replied.

Built by Grandpa? I had not expected that.

Yes, that is, he did the masonry work and the plastering work. This made the mystery all the greater.

If Grandpa built it, why can we not go in it?

That I cannot tell you, Little One, he said while tugging at one of the brown curls that had escaped the elastic on the top of my head. You are far too young to understand the answer to that question. Just know this: our family is never to enter that church. I never have, and you will not either.

Having exhausted all other sources of elucidation, I had no choice but to ask the question of Ina. My sister was generally disinclined to do anything that would bring me relief or pleasure, unless of course, doing so would provide her with an even greater measure of it. Nonetheless, few things brought Ina more pleasure in her dealings with me than displaying (though not necessarily imparting) her superior knowledge.

Returning upstairs to our room, I found her sprawled on her large stomach on our bed, her head facing its foot, her knees on her pillow, her feet crossed at the ankles in the air, a book in her hands, still wearing her fancy dress. Ina, I ventured, do you know why we can’t go into that church?

Of course I know, she replied confidently. I am not a child.

Father’s bellowing voice interrupted our exchange. Ina, have you changed yet? Why aren’t you attending to your piano practice? Jessie, get down here! Why are you not helping your mother?

Jumping off the bed, Ina shouted that she was just about ready and quickly began to change. I asked her another question. How old were you when you found out?

I was three … or … four … or five, she spewed, quite unconvincingly. I noticed as she said this that the colour in her face rose. Then, attempting to regain the upper hand, she added defiantly, But I was much more mature than you are.

Which? I asked. Three, four, or five?

I don’t remember! she shouted as she pulled on her day dress.

I don’t think you know, either, I said quietly. Maybe you are too young to know too.

They might think I am too young, she sneered. But I do know! I do know. It has to do with Grandpa. It has to do with his work. ‘Self-made. Others-destroyed.’ I’ve heard them talk about it. It’s all about him. With that she ran out of the room, the buttons on the back of her day dress mostly unfastened.

All about Grandpa. In that case, I was sure to find out. I just had to be patient.

Chapter 2

Jesse Brady Arrives in Brampton

Mother always said that Ina was a scientist at heart, a meteorologist from her earliest days. As a mere babe in arms, she was fascinated with the sun as it caused green and red beams to shine through stained glass windows. Mirror in hand, Ina as a young infant eschewed her rag doll and bright building blocks in favour of further refracting the sun’s beams. As a toddler, she ran through the room attempting to grasp hold of each intangible colourful prism.

As a young schoolgirl, she devoted any opportunity to paint to the portrayal of clouds—a practice Ina’s teachers believed displayed an extreme lack of imagination. Lost to them were the intricate details Ina brought to the pictures, painstakingly evoking the light grey fog-like stratus or the big cauliflower-shaped cumulus.

As a teenager, Ina regularly transformed our verandah into a laboratory. Oversized thermometers and barometers accompanied hand-made contrivances designed to measure wind direction and speed and snow and rain accumulation. Once the instruments had amassed to a certain point, Father would banish them from our outdoor living area, but over time, one by one, they would return.

Like many children in those days, Ina kept a journal. But hers recorded none of life’s pleasures or disappointments. From the age at which she could read and write, Ina recorded the day’s weather. By the time she was ten years of age, she was analyzing past records and identifying weekly, monthly, and annual trends. As a teenager, she was forecasting the weather, although she did not do so every day. Ina was judicious in her predictions, preferring to make them less often but with greater accuracy.

As it happened, it was Ina’s fascination with the weather that allowed me to begin to unravel the secret as to why we Stephenses were not permitted to enter the Presbyterian Church. Certainly my own carefully considered and determined efforts had met with no real success.

Thinking that the best time to engage my grandfather on the subject was while he was in his gardens, I once offered to help him weed his beloved rose and blackberry bushes. Grandpa loved best those plants with thorns. An hour after extending the offer, Grandpa’s gardens were banished of stubborn weeds both at the front of the beds, where he could easily clear them himself, and under and behind the bushes, where he gratefully acknowledged the contribution of my smaller hands, legs, and torso. For my part, I received two bruised kneecaps, one red and swollen palm, thoroughly scratched fingers, arms, and cheeks, and the meagre insight that he did indeed know why we were forbidden to go into that church.

Focusing next on Grandpa’s healthy appetite, on another occasion, I convinced Mother that we should bake an array of his favourite cookies. Her concurrence was obtained only when I agreed to help her complete the household tasks she had already scheduled for that day, walk to the store to purchase the necessary currants, and participate in the baking and cleanup. Taking advantage of the thirty minutes that afternoon when Grandpa and I were alone in the house, I plied him with a plate of the baked delicacies, only to hear from him too that I was not yet old enough to know the reason we could not enter that church.

Turning my attention instead to the first part of the clue Ina had provided, self-made, others-destroyed, on a walk home from our family bakery some days later, a loaf of warm bread in one hand and one of Grandpa’s big hands in the other, I learned only the meaning of self-made but received no confirmation that he was of that ilk.

Just as I was beginning to lose hope that I would gain any further insight into the mystery until I was much older, a storm settled upon us. It arrived one hot and humid summer night. I lay on my side of the bed I shared with Ina, the length of which ran four feet away from our room’s only window, a tall but narrow break in the thick walls. The shutters, which had been closed over it earlier in the day, had been open since dusk. The window’s blind and sash were fully lifted and its curtains tied well back as we sought to permit whatever hot air could be ejected from the room to depart and to welcome in whatever cool air could be enticed. With a breeze just beginning to form, the room was only slightly cooler than it had been in the hottest moments of the afternoon.

I lay on my back in my lightest cotton nightgown, my hair piled loosely on the pillow above my head, the top sheet and usual covers pushed down to my feet. Seeking only sleep to relieve my discomfort, I was irritated by Ina’s constant movement. She was in a miserable mood, but not because of the weather conditions, at least not because of the discomfort they produced. Her annoyance arose from a forecast she made earlier that day—one of her first—to which no one in the family attached much credence. It was impossible to know what caused her greater irritation: the skepticism of Mother and Grandpa toward her newly forming abilities or the fact that her forecasted storm had not materialized.

Just as I was about to implore her to be still and quiet, a large gust of wind burst through the screen of our window, billowing the drawn-back curtains. As though in answer to its call, Ina leapt from her side of the bed and ran to mine. Squatting down, her elbows on the low window sill, she looked due north and uttered, It’s coming. Springing back to her side of the bed, she hastily donned the dress she had worn earlier in the day and which she had since strewn on the floor. After pulling it over her cotton nightgown, she opened the door to our room and hurried out without another word.

It would have been better if I had followed her or called out to her or otherwise alerted the others in the house to her strange conduct. I confess that in my confusion as to her behaviour, I took none of those actions. Only when I heard the back door close minutes later and realized who had likely crossed its threshold did I react. Shortly, Mother, Father, and Grandpa were roused, the house searched, and those still within its walls assembled in the kitchen. It was 11:00 p.m. Of little concern to any of the adults was the fact that my fifteen-year-old brother Jim, who had been out with his friend Eddie earlier that night, had not yet returned. Of singular concern to all was the fact that twelve-year-old Ina appeared to have left the house, half-dressed at a late hour, with no one knowing her actual or intended whereabouts. Both on the original questioning and on the numerous examinations that followed, I imparted all that I could: she looked out the window, she said, It’s coming, she hurriedly dressed, and she left.

What’s coming? Father asked as we heard rain begin to fall. Mother and Grandpa looked meaningfully at each other as they rushed to close the kitchen windows.

The storm, Mother and Grandpa said in unison.

She’s gone to see the storm, Mother declared.

See the storm? Father cried. Why the deuce would she do that? What does she need to see? And why can’t she see it here?

She’s been talking about wanting to see one at a high vantage point for some time, Mother said. You yourself offered her the attic view.

I did, Father conceded. But we’ve checked the attic, and she’s not there.

Mother and Father rushed to dress. As they returned to the kitchen to pull on their old shoes and jackets, I heard them listing the tallest buildings in the