Thirty-Two

Thirty-Two

A Milestone

“By the late 1950s and early ’60s, the deterioration downtown had set in to such an extent that stores were sitting vacant, movie theatres had emptied, and even the market was losing business. The once jammed, noisy, downtown streets that had so much life and vitality were showing clear signs of decay. People were simply not coming downtown in the numbers that they once had, and it was generally agreed that something dramatic had to be done to attract them once

1959

Mary was seventy-five when she stopped working. Ever since her surgery she’d been having dizzy spells and problems with her balance. The doctor thought it was best for her to slow down.

     With reluctance she gave up her job looking after an elderly lady, only four years older than herself. She’d have to be extra careful living on a fixed income based solely on old age security. Her room on West Avenue cost $32 a month, which was a great deal but its central location meant that she didn’t have to take the bus as often.

     She wouldn’t miss having to be up and out the door by 8:30 to care for Mrs. Whitaker, but would have a great deal of time to fill now that her days were her own. She’d have been much lonelier without the Hewsons, and, as she put it “was glad they’d taken her under their wing.” It was comforting to know that someone was looking out for her.

     After quitting her job she found herself more rested and ready to enjoy her weekends. Sometimes Bob and Gladys invited her to go with them to the Hamilton Philharmonic Orchestra or the Players’ Guild once Catharine was old enough to babysit. She enjoyed these outings but would have been just as happy to stay home with the children.

     In April, young Mary turned eleven and wanted a red skort for her birthday. Gladys worked well into the evenings after her daughter had gone to bed to make the little, permanent pleated skirt without the help of a pattern. Mary sensed the child’s disappointment when she opened the gift, and remembered when she was that age how much she’d wanted something store-bought too.

     That year ringlets were all the rage for young girls. Gladys tried to please her daughter but her expertise was in French braids, not ringlets. Mary came to her goddaughter’s rescue. The two of them went down to the basement and sorted through rag boxes to find a piece of old flannel bed sheet. She ripped it into narrow strips, dampened the girl’s thick shoulder-length hair, and section by section rolled it up in the rags, tying each one into a little knot. She was sceptical when she looked in the mirror at her head covered in white cotton bobbles, but the next morning was thrilled with the perfect springy coils that bounced when she walked.

     Mary also helped out with “dish duty.” Gladys insisted it wasn’t her job but the girls were relieved to be off the hook.

     “If we had a dishwasher like some of our neighbours, nobody would have to do them,” Catharine said. Her sister nodded in agreement. “It would save at least a half an hour every night after supper,” she added.

     “A dishwasher’s nothing more than a dirty-dish cupboard,” Mrs. Church replied, grabbing the tea towel. The girls laughed as they hurried out of the kitchen but didn’t change their mind about wanting one. She was reminded of this conversation when she cleaned up after supper in her own place. Washing a dinner plate, one fruit nappy, and a cup and saucer was hardly worth mentioning.

     Bob and Gladys were adamant that Mary not be alone on her seventy-fifth birthday. She spent it at the lake with everyone except Catharine who was away at Sparrow Lake Camp. She recalled it being a beautiful summer day and Gladys not letting her help prepare the meal. While she did insist on husking the corn while she sat outside in the sun, she did relinquish peeling potatoes and setting the table. Her goddaughter decided that candles in the shape of a seven and a five would have to do since seventy-five of them wouldn’t fit on the cake. She reminded her to make a wish before blowing them out. Mary felt like someone had turned back the clock and she was a young schoolgirl once again.

In 1959, Mary Church, Gladys, Mary, Bob, and John, holding his fishing rod, posed for Mary’s seventy-fifth birthday at the Hewson family cottage on Lake Erie. Note that Gladys is holding Mary Church’s hand.

The Hewson Collection.

     She’d never been comfortable being the centre of attention, but young Mary explained that that was the best part about being “the birthday girl.” Gladys gave her a pink and gray paisley scarf and a book of bus tickets, but the present that meant the most was the one from her goddaughter.

     “I hope you like it, I chose it all by myself,” the girl said, handing her an odd-shaped package wrapped in pale blue tissue paper.

     “I’ll like it because you gave it to me,” Mary said, looking at her and slowly unwrapping it, trying hard not to tear the paper so it could be used again.

     “Rip it open,” she said impatiently. It was a forty-nine-cent bottle of pink Angel Skin hand cream that she’d bought at the drugstore with her own allowance. “This is the best part,” she said, moving closer, removing the cap, and putting it under her nose. “What do you smell?”

     Mary shook her head, having trouble identifying the sickly sweet odour emanating from the unusual shaped bottle.

     “Maraschino cherries,” young Mary told her, matter-of-factly.

     “That’s it,” Mrs. Church replied tactfully, “I knew it was familiar.” It was far from her favourite fragrance, but would never have admitted that to the little girl she’d grown so fond of.

     The year that young Mary turned twelve she was allowed to visit Mrs. Church in her second-floor apartment on King Street. Her godmother was waiting for her on the steps outside. Her apartment consisted of a tiny kitchen, sofa, coffee table, and in the far corner, an iron bed painted brown, a pine dresser with an oval mirror, a squatty glass lamp, and a chair. She was shocked to find that the whole apartment was in one room, but thought it was quite unique that Mrs. Church shared a bathroom down the hall with two other tenants.

     She recognized the floral oil tablecloth from her sister’s description and a cross-stitch picture of a cottage with “The road to a friend’s house is short” embroidered underneath, and was fascinated looking at the knickknacks and trinkets. A ginger-coloured ceramic cat curled into a tight ball appeared to be asleep on a shelf beside a miniature rosebud tea service for two. She mouthed the words as she read several hand-embroidered sayings framed like pictures on the wall: “Love goes where it’s sent,” “One good turn deserves another,” “A stitch in time saves nine.”

     “I don’t know what that means,” she said, pointing to the last one.

     “If you sew something right away before the hole gets too big, it’s easier to fix.”

     “But if you keep fixing things, you never get anything new.”

     “New costs money,” Mary replied quietly.

     A Bible was sitting on her dresser. Mary explained that it’d been a gift from the rector at St. Paul’s in Innerkip when she was a young girl about her age and over the years she’d taken to tucking little things between the pages.

     “Like what?”

     Mary had never shown anyone before. She moved to the sofa and her goddaughter sat down beside her.

     “This is a list of the books of the Bible,” she paused. “I had to memorize it at the orphanage.” Young Mary was tempted to say something but had promised her mother she wouldn’t ask Mrs. Church any personal questions. “And here’s a bookmark I got from the London Public Library in 1901, long before you were born.” As she continued to leaf through, a narrow strip of faded yellow and blue paper woven together fell on the floor. Mary bent down and picked it up.

     “That was Ross’s first piece of artwork when he was in kindergarten. Ross is my son,” she replied sadly, tucking it away. A tattered scrap of paper was sticking out near the back. “It’s a poem, ‘The Man At The Gate,’ one of my favourites,” Mary said, closing the book. “Why don’t we have some tea?”

     After boiling water in her tiny whistling kettle she made a pot of Earl Grey tea and some Ovaltine for her guest, who didn’t really like it but was resolved that anything tasted better when it was served in a cup and saucer. She ate five social tea biscuits and her godmother never said a thing.

     Young Mary peered out the tall, skinny window that overlooked the alley and realized that had it been open she could have touched the next building. What she didn’t notice was Mrs. Church’s blue suitcase tucked safely under her bed. At one time it signified being ready for flight, a habit ingrained in her from childhood. Now it was simply a practical place to store it in her small one-bedroom apartment.

     They walked downtown, spending most of their time in Woolworth’s, a store she had only been in a few times. She felt overwhelmed as they slowly made their way up and down the aisles. She’d brought her allowance and finally settled on a small red leatherette change purse and a package of butterscotch drops. Mrs. Church was so patient and didn’t seem bothered that it took her almost an hour to make up her mind.

The memorabilia found in Mary’s childhood Bible express her sentimental nature, particularly when it came to her son. Note how intricate the bookmark artwork would have been for a five-year-old child.

The Pettit Collection.

     For dinner they had rice, green beans, turnips, and a cottage roll. Dessert was raspberry junket. She was surprised that Mrs. Church said grace since it wasn’t Sunday.

     “Do you say grace every night?” she asked, having completely forgotten her promise not to ask personal questions.

     “It’s important to be thankful every day, not just the Lord’s Day,” Mrs. Church replied. Mary nodded, and ate everything on her plate except the turnip, which she found to be bitter. She poked it around with her fork hoping it would look like some had been eaten.

     “It’s all right. What suits one doesn’t suit another.” She liked Mrs. Church’s expressions; she didn’t always understand them, but they always made her think.

     By the second visit, Mary had moved to Ottawa Street in the east end of the city. Her apartment was on the second floor again, but had two, tall, skinny windows, making it brighter than the last one, but she still shared a bathroom down the hall. Mrs. Spink, her landlady, lived in the apartment directly below. This time Mary had her own refrigerator, a second-hand Kelvinator she’d bought for $120, which meant that she could buy a little more produce at the market without it going bad.