ADVENTURES 鈥� with Ursula Maxwell-Lewis
鈥淚f you can look into the seeds of time, and say which grain will grow and which will not, speak then to me.鈥� says Macbeth to the witches when asking if they can predict the future.
Christmas gift shopping has the same effect on me.
Often, though, I think the witches (for lack of a better contact) respond to my quirky Aquarian mental gymnastics 鈥� as occurred yesterday.
Buried in a stash of paper, pictures, passionate possibilities, and 鈥減riceless鈥� cartoons, up popped a Johannesburg Star full page feature dated Friday, Oct. 11, 1957, recounting pioneering in Canada. It was written by a Scottish freelance writer, former Canadian immigrant and (at the time) new South African immigrant, my mother, Jean Munro.
In the column, mother mentions her first immigration to Canada was in 1929. More than a decade later, in 1948, she re-immigrated with husband and six-year-old daughter.
Amid post-war immigration promises of warm welcomes and a wealth of engineering jobs for well-trained blokes like dad, and despite family tears and entreaties not to go, off we went to the Promised Land.
The column describes a picture of a less than rosy jobs market and a limited, exorbitant, housing market that discriminated against families with children.
鈥淥ne day we heard of a piece of 鈥榖ushland鈥� hitherto untouched by the hand of man and owned by a Clarkson farmer,鈥� she wrote.
After describing negotiations, price, etc., she goes on to say: 鈥淥n a brilliant September day we pitched a tent (rented for 12 dollars a month) in the dubious shelter of a clump of rapier keen thorny scrub trees, as far as possible from the road鈥�.鈥�
Her description of time, place, and emotions offers intense memories. The nearest bus stop was three miles away, the town seven, and Toronto鈥攚here Dad, despite excellent engineering credentials, found a job selling jewellery in a department store鈥攚as 27 miles away.
鈥淭he most trying chore of all was the one-and-a-half-mile scramble across filleted fields for water from the nearest farm.鈥�
The tale continues, and鈥攚hile courageous鈥攊sn鈥檛 pretty either financially or physically. Nor was unsympathetic officialdom.
The short story is that father, who had had enough of the Canadian Dream, went back to sea. An Imperial Oil job application immediately resulted in well-paid work on a global scale. Mother and I remained 鈥樷�漝own on the farm.鈥� Bear in mind that social services of any kind were a thing of the future. Immigration (certainly as Brits) was do or die.
鈥淎bout three weeks before Christmas, while working with the aid of two faithful friends in a blinding sleet storm, trying to complete the roof of our one-room cabin (a portion was partitioned off for the child鈥檚 room), my husband received a message offering him a job as an engineer officer on an oil tanker.鈥�
This resulted in a few more frantic boards on the cabin and Dad鈥檚 immediate departure for Halifax to join his ship 鈥� and finally make a living wage.
The tale continues for a few years until mother finally reports the saga ending: 鈥淲hen we finally left the 鈥榖ush鈥� 鈥� I looked and felt like something that had been left too long in the oven. But I am convinced that my daughter will never again rise to greater heights than she did when helping Mama 鈥榯ame the wild.鈥� For holding the small fort was no idyll.鈥�
For the record, immigrants of our era were on their own: The first permanent program for the funding of social assistance, the Unemployment Assistance Act, was put into place in 1956. By that time we鈥檇 survived on our own鈥攁nd had departed for another commonwealth country, South Africa.
Is this a Christmas story?
Sure it is. Finding the papers, clipping, notes, columns, and a red Western Airline bag full of all the letters I wrote to mother (unearthed only after her passing) while I worked with various airline around the world are priceless gifts Amazon can鈥檛 provide.
For the record, my maternal grandmother in Scotland learned, at age 86, to type. Her memories were published in Glasgow papers and a handwritten document by my uncle Jimmy Munro recounting his tough 1929 immigrant years in Western Canada also recently surfaced among my 鈥渟ouvenirs.鈥� That鈥檚 a courageous tale for another day!
Will my children treasure them? No idea. But, for me? I鈥檓 thankful. It鈥檚 living history I participated in and which, thanks to a mother who wrote, read, laughed, and travelled, encourages me.
You, too, may have similar family archive 鈥済ifts.鈥� If not, Cloverdale Public Library has an outstanding genealogy department, a resource to help you reveal family sagas both local and international. No witches here, but definitely today鈥檚 version of 鈥渓ooking into the seeds of time.鈥� And perhaps sewing more with photo-books, letters or just sharing/taping (as my mother also did) family reminiscences, anecdotes or simply vignettes (happy, or not) for your ancestors.
Merry Christmas and best wishes for all other memory-making celebrations near and far. As we Scots say: Sl脿inte Mahth!
Ursula Maxwell-Lewis is the former owner/managing editor of the Cloverdale Reporter. Contact her at utravel@shaw.ca.
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MORE "ADVENTURES":
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-鈥斺赌斺赌斺赌�-2021鈥斺赌斺赌斺赌�--
TABLES TURNED:
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