Harold be thy Name...

Our Father, who art in heaven,
Hallowed be thy Name.
Thy kingdom come.
Thy will be done,
On earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread.
And forgive us our trespasses,
As we forgive those who trespass against us.
And lead us not into temptation,
But deliver us from evil.
[For thine is the kingdom,
and the power, and the glory,
for ever and ever.
Amen.]

Gospel of Matthew... sort of

My family sat in the pew behind my grandfather at Saint Mary's Church. Our families have "owned" these pews since the church was built. It stands over looking the Cove and is surrounded by an ever growing list of my ancestors.

(I have a copy of the building permit and will post it soon)

Nanny sat with the choir and wore a long burgundy gown over her Sunday best. Grampie sat alone Sunday mornings except during the holidays. He was the first man I ever saw cry. It was the first Christmas after his son-in-law died and as he sat next to his grieving daughter I could feel the pain of not being able to do anything radiate off him. As the Lord's Prayer was read I watched undisturbed tears run down his face and realized that sometimes there is nothing you can do but bear witness.

We stood to sing Hark the Herald Angels Sing (Words by Charles Wesley - 1855 to Music by Felix Mendelssohn - 1707-1788) and I made a note to ask my mother, "if God's name is Harold, why do we call him God?"

The First Robin by William Henry Drummond

Here is a link to the poem:

About William Henry Drummond

The End

"What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from." - T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets

With respect to my last post, I'm thrilled to have found this quote. This little gem of guidance!!!

The end and the beginning of "my" story is of course the death of my grandmother. I wasn't there when my grandmother passed away, but I felt her let go. I think of her every time I see a red breasted robin. I read somewhere of a superstition in Quebec that says the first person to see a robin in the spring will have good luck... Dr. William H Drummond wrote a poem about it called "The First Robin". I'll look it up for you.

On NOT starting at the beginning

"Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know." Ernest Hemingway

I hate stories, especially autobiographies that start at the beginning. I don't trust them. They always seem over worked like the writer spent too much time trying to understand the "early years" in order to accept a future that has yet to be realized.

With that in mind, I have struggled for years to write the first sentence of James' story. Where does it begin? For any of us? My interest in James' began with my grandmother. Her story was the key I needed to have all my internal dialogue make sense. I've spent years writing little stories about it and now I'm putting it all together and re-writing that first sentence to bring it all together... do you think it will sound overworked?

"You Can't Go Home Again"

Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth:
And, O ye Dolphins, waft the hapless youth.
"Lycidas" by John Milton
(163-164)

The idea of "home" never came up in my story until I started this blog. Now I see that it's everywhere and probably the most important theme. Both Thomas and James did go home again. Thomas Wolfe was laid to rest in Riverside Cemetery in Asheville, NC and James Snow in Saint Mary's grave yard in Harrigan Cove, NS.

I found a kindred spirit in Thomas Wolfe. You Can't Go Home Again was published in 1940, after his death and after Look Homeward, Angel created both sides of the notoriety coin for him. The first lesson of writing is to write about what you know... then change all the names! I'm sure Thomas knew with the publication of Look Homeward, Angel some would be upset with his characterizations. But I'm sure, like me, he was shocked at the details people chose to focus their discontent on.

I recently had the chance to walk through the childhood home of Thomas Wolfe and touch a time that has inspired me to write. I'm thrilled I've given life back to people who've been resting long enough, and I'm excited that my ramblings could get a rise out of people known for going with the flow.

A Home by Any Other Name

"That is how things are. It is in itself splendid that we were able to live out our lives in harmony for so long." - Simone de Beauvoir 'Adieux'

It never occurred to me when I was growing up that I was odd because I dreamed of leaving home. Anyone wanting to further their education had to. The big city of Halifax beckoned with it's top notch Universities and Colleges and our communities needed to replenish it's workforce. What made me different is that I never wanted to be the new blood. I can't say I never saw the responsibility I had to my first home. I was valedictorian, I volunteered, and gave goal setting presentations to junior high students. I guess it's just that my soul knew I needed a different perspective.

Halifax is an amazing playground for someone wanting to the see the world. It's a port town, so the world comes to you. During the time James lived in Halifax a war was ranging in Europe, women were fighting for the vote and trains and steamers were taking passengers in and out of town. When I first started writing his story I became obsessed with how someone decides to leave home. Did he and Sarah talk about it in hushed tones before sleep? Was he like me, always looking for the next adventure? Did he have dreams beyond that of providing for his family?

James journey out of Harrigan Cove was a choice not to work his father's fishing boat but to mine. Mines were big business. Port Dufferin had a nickle mine and it appears James worked there before moving to the coal mines in Westville. It was in Westville that he met Sarah. Between 1914 and 1916 they moved to Halifax. James started working at the Ship Yards when it opened in 1918. He was an electrician when he died so at some point he would have received education, probably within those two years. The next move was to New York City. Another port town and a gateway for many immigrants. What were their dreams for the land of the free and home of the brave?

It does give me a sense of pride to be here. I didn't make the move to accomplish their goals... this is all about me... but it does make me feel a little closer to them somehow.

Harrigan Cove

"One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh: but the earth abideth forever." Ecclesiastes 1:4

Home isn't just where the heart is or where you hang your hat... it’s where you're from. And we all have that in common! Halifax was my home. I was born there making me a bonafide Haligonian... I was raised in Harrigan Cove making me a bonafide country girl!

Harrigan Cove sits exactly on the 44 degree 44'37 N and 62 degree 17'54 W, east of Halifax by about 2 hours depending on who’s driving. To say Harrigan Cove is small is to say that New York City is huge. The Cove is indescribably small. It's not a town or a village but a community with houses spread out along the number 7 highway with a church and a grave yard thrown in for good measure. My friends having never been there have created a mystical place. A place where the ocean meets the road. For them it's a place of folklore and spirits, of murder and suicides, of love and hate, of hope and despair... and maybe it's become that for me too.

I may have spent my childhood trying to leave, but my father's love for his home really struck a cord with me. Our family jokes that he hates to leave it incase it won't be there when he gets back. Dad does loves it, but he didn’t work there. As the principle driver of his trucking company his office were the roads that lead in and out of it. He knew without doubt that there was a world outside and he visited it everyday. I envied that. I set my eyes on the rocky map of the moon that hung on my bedroom wall and focused on getting out.

We lived between my grandparents house and the church yard and a few miles from were James grew up. His father, Darius was a fisherman during Harrigan Cove's most prosperous time. Fishing, logging and mining meant the communities all around Harrigan Cove were booming and families were moving in to take part in the opportunities. James would become a miner and work the Port Dufferin Mine a few miles from his home. I've discovered that the mines kept great employee records and I plan to check into his file next time I'm home.

Certification of mine workers registers
RG19, Vols1-3, vol 4, Nos1-4, use reel 15674&15675
Mine injuries & Fatalities
RG19, Vol 4 No5; Vol 5, use reel 15675

Now a walk through Saint Mary's graveyard is a walk through my past, by ancestors I've never met and by people who have helped shape and guide me. I have always loved graveyards. For me they've never been a place where a story ends but a place where a story begins.

Saint Mary's Cemetery

Family Tree

"Tell me, tell me if anything got finished" Leonardo daVinci

The second I discovered I was pregnant I became a target market for merchandise, books and advise I didn't know existed. Of all the things I read one fact stayed with me; my daughter was conceived with an egg formed in my ovaries when I was just 8 weeks old in my mother's belly. Our connection to the past does start before we are born and that inspires me. When I was growing up my great grandfather was a stone monument that stood in our church yard... now he a son, a husband, a father... he lived, he dreamed, and he left a history.

photo by Leo Fisher

My family tree.

Me
/ \
Ronnie and Veronica Rudolph (nee MacDonald)
/ \
Roy and Mary Catherine MacDonald (Snow)
/ \
James Henry and Sarah Snow (Leadbeater)
/ \
Darius and Catherine Snow (Vogler)

James Henry Snow was a Sagittarius born November 28th 1881. In 1901 he is listed as a miner living in Port Dufferin. He married Sarah Ann Leadbeater (born December 4th 1884 to Moses and Bessy) June 8th 1904 at Saint Bee's Anglican Church in Westville. They had a son, James Albert born May 31st 1905. In 1907 James Henry he is a miner living on Acadia Avenue in Westville - probably with Sarah's family. In 1914 he is an Agent living on Main Street in Westville. Mary Catherine was born October 15th 1916. She was baptized at St.Paul's Anglican Church in Halifax so at some point James and Sarah moved from Westville to Halifax. December 6th 1917 9:06am Halifax Explosion. May 13th 1920 James Henry died at the Halifax Ship Yards. My grandmother was 3 1/2.

Mary Catherine married my grandfather (Roy Hallett MacDonald) December 22nd 1934. Sarah remarried Demmick Hopper and died in Truro February 18th 1955. Mary Catherine passed away surrounded by her family at the VG Site, QEii.

-Tami

From The Stuff Legends are Made

“For Jesus him self testified that a prophet hath no honor in his own country.” John 4:44

There was nothing I loved more when I was a child, than to have my Grandmother make me a toasted tomato sandwich and sit across from me to play a game of cards. One afternoon as the rain beat against the dinning room window and the lights flickered above the kitchen sink, she told me a story that would become my shadow.

"You must always be thankful for your life Tami, for you ought not to exist!"

It got more than my attention, it rang so true I felt it.

"Did you know my father died when I was three?"

"No", I said. "Do you remember him?"

"Not really." She said. "But there are times when I get a faint whiff of tobacco and I remember something. You see, we lived above a cigar shop in the heart of Halifax. My father was an electrical foreman at the Halifax Ship Yards putting in time until his promotion came through. The war had ended, Halifax was rebuilding after the explosion and our family had their sights on a bigger city! The knock rang through the flat that morning. Mother practically ran to the door thinking it was a telegraph confirming the new position, but instead she was greeted with the news her husband had died. Accidental electrocution. The promotion notice came the next day. Within a few days Mother would learn that the person who received that promotion was the same person responsible for forgetting to turn off the electrical current. No one in our family believed it was an accident. So you see Tami, had our family moved away, I never would have met your grandfather, given birth to your mother nor she to you."

It was an unbelievable story, one my 7 year brain couldn't totally get around. Did his death really give me life? I would ask to hear the story over and over and loved how it changed a little here and there. This is my research into my Great Grandfather's death. I've found and continue to find interesting side stories, the good and the bad, and the swept under the rug stories belonging to every family.

My Grandmother passed away surrounded by her family in the winter of 2007. She loved to talk about my progress and thought every detail was "interesting", "it's a shame we don't speak more of the dead" she'd say to me. This is for her!