Prose

Great Uncle George went to sea at 14 or so (he is in “Large Bad Picture”) except he never taught school; I don’t know why I said that. For a few years. Even before then, he had started painting pictures of ships for the local ship-builders; Great Village was a ship-building place then, as many Nova Scotian villages were. But it came to an end around the turn of the century. Of the Bulmer side I don’t know very much. As I said — there were Tories from N.Y. state, given farms in N S at the time of the Revolution, and more recent Scotch, Scotch-Irish, and English additions. My maternal grandmother’s mother however was from England — London — which probably accounted for many anglicisms my grandma used, such as “hard as the knockers of Newgate.” I have a lot of notes from aunt Aunt Grace about this side of the family — the ship my greatgrandmother arrived in, her fearful trip, etc. — but I don’t believe they’d be of much interest to you, really.

On my mother’s side I had three aunts: Maud, Grace, and Mary. You don’t need to mention names, I think — I lived with Maud and was — and am — fondest of Grace. Mary is only 12 years older than I am — she is mentioned in both those stories. These last two are both living in Canada; Aunt Maud died about 1942—I’m not sure. She and her husband stayed near me for two or three winters, or parts of winters, in Key West. There was also a brother, Uncle Arthur — of the poem — Their father, my grandfather, was my favorite grandparent. He owned the local tannery, until local tanning vanished — the pits for it were still there, and part of the old shop, when I was small. Also small-scale farming, like everyone else, almost, in Great Village. He was a darling; sweet-tempered, devout, and good with children. (“Manners” is about him) He was a deacon of the Baptist church and when he passed the collection plate he would slip me one of those strong white peppermints that say (still, I think) CANADA on them.

Great Village is very small and well-preserved — the last time I saw it, at least—1951, like a small New England village, all white houses, elm trees, one large white church in the middle (designed I believe by great uncle George).* It is in the rich farming country around the head of the Bay of Funday: dark red soil, blue fir trees—bur birches, a pretty river running into the Bay through “salt marshes”—a few remains of the old Acadian dikes — it is Evangeline country — Cape Breton is quite different; sparsely populated, forested, full of lakes — supposed to be like Scotland, and more Gaelic is spoken there than anywhere else in the world. I spent a summer there—48, I think, when I wrote a few poems about it. My mother went off to teach school at 16 (the way most of the enterprising young people did) and her first school was in lower Cape Breton somewhere — and the pupils spoke nothing much but Gaelic so she had a hard time of it at that school, or maybe one nearer home — she was so homesick she was taken the family dog to cheer her up. I have written both a story and a poem about this episode but neither satisfy me yet.

I went very briefly to the real “country” school where we wrote on slates and had many classes in each room — not all in one, because G V had the country school, so it was fairly large. You took a bottle of water and a rag to clean your slate — the bad boys spat on theirs. A little Micmac Indian boy, Jimmy Crow, was in “primer class” with me; most of the rest had Scotch names and looked very Scotch. Muir MacLaughlin I made the childish mistake of calling “Manure”—When I found him running a local store on my last trip there he recognized me and reminded me of this. The teacher’s name was Georgie Morash and I can see her clearly. She sang in the choir — as did my various relatives — and all those who sang in the choir I remember very well because I spent so many sermons studying them one by one. Miss Patriquin, (aunt of Gwendolyn “Applyard” whose name was really Gwendolyn Patriquin) taught the infant Sunday School class I attended. She later went mad and chased bad boys through the village with a carving knife. My aunt Mary and I actually attended school together at this stretch. She made me late and I howled in the cloakroom (I have always been over-punctual) until Miss Morash came and consoled me. Mary was very pretty and had many suitors. It was during the first World War — the village boys (a kilted regiment) would come to say goodbye and their clothes were wonderful, of course. Most of them were never seen again — almost every boy in that tiny place, from 18–22, was killed in one of the big battles — Canadians first, of course — and the whole village was in mourning — but this was after I’d left. (Over 20 boys, I think) I had a dachshund, “Betsy”—given to my mother when I was born, and she sent her to G V to her mother — the only dog of that sort ever seen there, of course, and a village character. The “big boys” hung around on the bridge, and she was afraid of them — so in order to cross the village to meet my grandfather on his way back from the farm, etc. — she would make a long detour and actually cross the river at a wide shallow place, on stepping stones. One summer Sunday afternoon, all good Baptists in the church, the doors open, Dr. Francis, the minister, was on his knees praying, when a patter-patter was heard and Betsy trotted down the aisle past our pew. She was fond of Dr. Francis and went right up on the platform and jumped to lick his face. He opened his eyes and said “Why, hello Betsy” and then went on praying.

Mary played the piano, quite well — all the aunts played some — and I think that and the hymns were how I came to love music from the beginning. This whole period in my life was brief — but important, I know.* The village was 50 years or so backwards — we made yeast from the hopvine on the barn; had no plumbing, oil lamps etc. My grandmother was a famous butter-maker. Everything is quite changed now of course. But when I came to live first in Samambaia and we had oil lamps for two or three years, etc. a lot came back to me. I helped design our sitting room stove for example needed up there “winters” and without ever having done such things before I found myself baking bread, making marmalade, etc. — When the need arises apparently the old Nova Scotian domestic arts come back to me!

Like most poets, I have a very morbid total recall of certain periods and I could go on for hours — but I won’t!

I know next to nothing about the Bishops, and have no idea when they “came over”, rather I have forgotten. There were 3 brothers, one was a doctor in Plymouth, Mass., I think—the 2nd I’d don’t know — the 3rd farmed in White Sands, Prince Edward Island. My grandfather B, according to the family story, ran away aged 12, with a box of carpenters’ tools on his back, and went first to Providence. His was an Horatio Alger story. He married very well, and made a “million,” etc. Sarah Foster, his wife, came from a very very old New England family, originally from Quincy — she came from Holden. I also have a batch of papers from that branch, about her ancestors in the Revolution on that side — but again they are really not very interesting. One man, I remember, was in and out of the army many times — the way they were — and was imprisoned in the notorious prison ship in New York harbor — and seems to have survived it because he was a cook.

The Bishop grandparents came to visit in Canada several times, apparently — twice that I remember. Although my father had married a poor country girl the older generation were still enough alike, I think, so that they got along in spite of the money difference — it was the next generation that made me suffer acutely. The B’s were very early motorists — once they actually drove to G V and their huge car and chauffer made a sensations — also the fact that they wired the local hotel for rooms & bath — when there wasn’t a bath in the village. I was probably regarded as a small fairy princess, but I was too young to notice. It The thrill of riding with that grandpa on the dusty country roads — and the chauffeur, Rondal Rondald, of whom I became fond and who was very nice to me later on in Worcester. (We had only a buggy, of course, or two, rather, one with fringe, and a wagon, and in the winter a sleigh and a “pung.”) The B’s were horrified to see the only child of their eldest son running about the village in bare feet, eating at the table with the grown-ups and drinking tea, and so I was carried off (by train) to Worcester for the one awful winter that was almost the end of me. 1917–18.