Twenty-Two

Twenty-Two

A Child Is Born,

a Child Is Lost

“In 1922, a serious depression and high unemployment cut spending to buying essentials. On butcher’s shop windows they advertised the following; Minced Steak — 15 cents a lb., Beef Brisket — 8 cents a lb., Old Cheese 30 cents a lb., Ontario Eggs 43 cents a

1921

Small independent businessmen struggled to survive in the early aftermath of the war and the world-wide flu epidemic. High unemployment cut people’s spending drastically. Home decorating was a topic that people hardly discussed and Jim’s paint business suffered terribly. Some days he never left the house. He started to drink a little more, a little more often. He had to let Ernie go and close the store. It was back to doing business from home. Two weeks later he sold the car.

     Mary found it difficult to write Emma when things weren’t going well at home. She never mentioned Jim’s business or that they were having trouble making ends meet. At Christmas she sent her usual presents out west. She had a little cash squirreled away and had been saving some of her grocery money.

     She bought Emma’s son Gordon a plush wind-up toy and a doll with a porcelain face for three-year old Lois. Mary was too superstitious to send a gift for the new baby that her sister was expecting. Emma gave birth to her third child, Robert Harry, on New Year’s Day.

     The second week in January the enumerator, a tall, rakish woman in her mid-forties, knocked on their door. “Good morning Ma’am,” she said, glancing down at her notes. “Does James Church live here?”

     “Yes,” Mary replied.

     “Is he still a painter?”

     “Yes,” she said, even though Jim hadn’t had a paintbrush in his hand for almost a month.

     “Is there anyone else living here, besides you and your husband?”

     “My daughter,” she replied, smiling to herself. She wasn’t about to tell a stranger that she was “in a maternal way,” expecting another child that summer.

     “And her name and birthdate?” she asked impatiently.

     “Mona, that’s what we call her, but her real name is Gloria. She was born May 24, 1905. It’s hard to believe she’s that old.”

     “Thank you, ma’am. Have a good day,” and off she went next door. When the directory came out in June, in error Mona had been given a separate listing. No one was to be listed unless eighteen years of age or older, and she was only seventeen. It was never a problem since no one knew a “Gloria” Church.

     At thirty-seven, Mary thought her chances of having another baby were unlikely. She was shocked by the doctor’s news. Surprisingly, Jim was pleased but that was because he still wanted a son. Babies and birth control weren’t discussed among husbands and wives in the early 1920s. Magazine ads tried to educate women on these little-understood and very taboo subjects: “In response to such demands, the ‘feminine hygiene’ industry became a multimillion-dollar business … the advertisements for such products as Lysol and Dettol intimated that they could be turned to contraceptive

     As Mary blossomed, Mona was becoming a growing concern. She languished around the house, complaining of pain in her legs and the light hurting her eyes. Mary knew she wasn’t well when beating her father at checkers was no longer important. Mary prepared some of Mona’s favourite foods and encouraged her to play outside, but in spite of her attempts, she continued to languish. The doctor didn’t have any solutions either.

     By early July Mary thought it was time to start preparing for the baby’s arrival. She’d already decided to go to the hospital so she’d have the option of “twilight sleep” medication for the pain. Although she was superstitious about making clothes beforehand, she thought it was all right to have a bed ready. Mary found the oval-shaped wicker basket buried at the back of her closet.

     “Can you believe that you slept in such a little thing?” she asked. Mona, who was curled up on the sofa, lifted her head slightly. “Well you did for almost three months. I’m sure glad I kept this little basket,” she said, cradling it above her swollen belly. “What colour should I make the blanket?”

     “Pink. I think it’s going to be a girl,” said Mona, smiling.

     Mary hoped she was wrong for her husband’s sake. “Why don’t I make it white, just in case it isn’t.”

     “How about blue? A girl can have blue.”

     Mary hurried off to buy some pale blue flannel and matching satin to edge the border. She also picked up some Sun-Maid seedless raisins for Mona. The treat in the little red box was full of iron and only cost a nickel.

     The Spec had forecast fair and cooler weather the Friday Mary’s son was born at the Hamilton General Hospital, formerly known as City Hospital. July 28 turned out to be a fine summer day with moderately warm temperatures. James Ross, named after his father, would be called Ross. At the time “James” was one of the top five most popular names for a boy according to the baby book of names that Mary had found in the library.

     Jim was ecstatic. He headed downtown for some Helmars, imported Turkish cigarettes, to celebrate, and grabbed a bite to eat at the Arbor Cafeteria while he read the paper. For $2.50 admission, including tax, the Jockey Club was having seven races on Monday, including a steeplechase. Jim hoped that the birth of his son would bring him luck at the track. Unfortunately, he lost twenty-four dollars while his wife was in the hospital recuperating.

     The day Mary turned thirty-eight she arrived home with a healthy six-and-a-half pound baby boy. She had a surprise waiting for her. Jim had replaced her dingy, cracked kitchen floor with a new product on the market called linoleum. The black-and-white checkerboard floor sparkled with a high gloss finish that Mary could easily keep clean with a damp mop. She thought about poor Emma who had big red poppies on her floor.

     Once the baby was asleep, Mary settled down with a cup of tea and the paper. The death of Alexander Graham Bell and an article about the recent outbreak of infantile paralysis made the headlines that day. Mary was more convinced than ever that Ross should be nurtured on Borden’s eagle brand milk. It was difficult for a new mother to ignore the warning that “safe milk is a matter of life or death in Hamilton today.” Infantile paralysis and tuberculosis had hit the city hard and pasteurized milk was thought to be the only answer.

     Ross was baptized on Sunday, August 27, at Centenary Methodist Church. Even though they couldn’t really afford it, Mary insisted that Jim buy a suit for the occasion. She reminded him that he hadn’t had a new one in almost twenty years.

     “I guess a man’s got to have a suit to baptize and bury,” he said jokingly. He came home with a navy blue pinstripe suit, and a belt and trouser hanger, which were given away with every suit sold at Fralick’s that weekend. It cost him fifteen dollars. Jim also had a first-class union shave in the barbershop at Carroll’s Cigar Store to celebrate his son’s baptism.

     The summer of 1922 turned out to be bittersweet. Mary watched her fair-haired, blue-eyed baby plump up and flourish. Ross was the spitting image of his father except for his colouring. She did her late summer pickling and enjoyed the strong, heady smells that emanated from her bubbling pots on the stove. The aroma that escaped her open kitchen window wafted down the street. Mrs. Wetham always knew when Mary’s preserves were being “done down” for the coming winter. This year she’d filled sterilized sealer jars with her spicy chilli sauce, pepper relish, vinegar pickles, and diced tomatoes. Every other year she did sweet jams, jellies, and tangy marmalade, and capped them with a layer of melted wax.

     The last week of August was warm, with light showers and thunderstorms almost every day. September brought more of the same warm unsettled weather. Mona continued to complain about muscle weakness and joint pain. She’d also lost interest in food. Mary had always tried to limit Mona’s desserts since there’d been a great deal written on the ill effects of too much sugar. She’d been shocked to learn that the average child had five rotting teeth. But since her daughter’s appetite was so poor, in desperation she made her lemon jelly, chocolate sponge, and fingers of toast dipped in corn syrup.

     She even bought Mona Chiclets, the bite-size candy-coated chewing gum that was so popular. Mona’s favourite flavours were peppermint, tutti-frutti, and spearmint. If she felt strong enough, they went downtown for a Laura Secord ice-cream cone.

     Mary longed for the cool temperatures that September usually brought, hoping that Mona would regain her strength just as she’d done every other year. Unfortunately, September brought no such good news.

     On Thursday, September 14, Mary was awakened in the night by a strange sound. She listened carefully. It was hard to hear anything but the rain, which was pelting the windowpane. She tried to go back to sleep but heard the sound again. It was coming from her daughter’s bedroom. Mona was burning up with fever and shaking uncontrollably. Jim ran next door and called Dr. Storms. He was there within the hour. He told them Mona was having convulsions and her high fever was the result of inflammation on the brain. There was nothing that he could give her, but she mustn’t be left alone for fear of injuring herself or biting her tongue.

     Mary sat by her bed through the night, putting cool cloths on her forehead to keep the fever down. Thoughts ran through her head like a millrace, the wild current that drives the waterwheel to operate a gristmill … an image still so vivid and easily recalled from her time spent on the farm. She remembered a conversation she’d had with Daniel Jacques at his father’s funeral. He’d asked about Mona’s limp. She’d told him “Mona was fine as long as she took her medication. If she didn’t it would be curtains.” The medicine was nothing more than a tonic Mary had concocted that she believed made her daughter stronger. Now she began to question herself. Could she have done more?

     Mona died on Friday morning. The rain had stopped just before dawn. There was no evidence of the previous night’s turbulence. Dr. Storms said Mona had died of an infection that had gone to her brain and nothing could have been done to save her. Mary and Jim were numb with shock.

     The funeral took place the following Monday afternoon in their home. Jim wore the same suit that he’d worn three weeks earlier at his son’s baptism. By the time friends had gathered, the living room was crowded and stuffy. At Mary’s request, the service was brief. Reverend Whiting did his best to explain why God would take such a young child.

     Mary found it hard to comprehend that six weeks earlier she’d given birth to her son and today she was losing her daughter. Jim grieved silently. As they left the cemetery, he turned and quietly said to her, “We have a son to raise now.”

     The obituary appeared in Tuesday’s a day after the funeral. Unfortunately, there was a misprint, referring to Mona as “Flora Victoria” instead of “Gloria Victoria.” Mary was too tired and too sad to bother notifying the paper. A stone marker was placed on Mona’s grave a few weeks later.

     Mona made claim to a part of her mother the day she passed away. Mary’s life was changed forever and she would never be the same.

Mona Church was buried in the Hamilton Cemetery in 1922.

The Pettit Collection.