Dancing In a Jar

by Poynter Adele

  Don is working so hard at the mine and I am so proud of him. Since he arrived they have built a two truck garage, a workshop, a house for the crusher and one for a compressor. I’m not sure what all of this is, but he seemed pleased!

  They are very short of medicines here and I’m wondering if you could send some things for them to keep out at the mine site? I told Don I would ask you. They need two large bottles of iodine, two large bottles of Argyrol, and six medicine droppers. It will be wonderful if you could send those out and Don will reimburse you later.

  I hope you’re not working too hard, Daddy, and that you have enough time to give Sturdy his daily walks. He must be feeling a little lost with both Ivah and me away at once.

  Love to you both,

  Urla

  St. Lawrence, Newfoundland

  November 20, 1933

  Dear Mom, Pop, Howard, Edith, and King,

  Well hello from your daughter-in-law. I’m sorry it has taken me this long to check in from our new home, but we have finally settled in and I thought it would be a good time to write.

  We really couldn’t ask for nicer people to stay with. Their house is among the nicest in the town. Many of the houses are very rudimentary, some of them elevated on posts with no cellars and no attics, and it always strikes me as odd that the place with the worst weather has the poorest house construction. The wood around here doesn’t lend itself to strong beams and grand houses. It is short scrub pine and spruce, and hardly any use for firewood even. Most of the houses are heated with small chunks of wood and also coal that comes in from Nova Scotia, Canada. There’s usually only one stove and that’s where everyone gathers as the weather turns cold. On the first cold evening, Don and I turned back the bedspread only to find beach rocks, hot from the stove, inviting us in to a toasty bed. What a treat!

  I would love to take a photograph to give you a better idea of our surroundings, but instead I will test my descriptive abilities to make you feel as though you are here.

  The hills all run down to the sea to make this lovely protected harbor. At the head of the harbor, the rocks run straight up for hundreds of feet forming Cape Chapeau Rouge. On the other side is a matching granite formation, slightly smaller, called Calapoose.

  There are no marshes or dunes or flats. In fact there are no easy transitions from one piece of geography to the next. The sea meets an abrupt end everywhere it touches whether it’s a cliff face, a rocky beach, or a big patch of alders. In many ways, it’s like so much around here: all hard edges, hard lives, and hard stories. I will admit it is overwhelming to me at times and I long for the softness of my life at home.

  On the other hand, I’m starting to see glimpses beneath the hard exteriors that are intriguing. When I expected that soft, idyllic image of a remote village, I now realize the people would have been soft too. The hardness is an adjustment, but I’m starting to see that the trade off in terms of people may well be worth it.

  Don is terribly busy at the mine and working seven days a week. He is determined to get fluorspar on the wharf as soon as possible. I am glad he now has the company of Doc Smith, who entertains us at night with stories and is a great bridge player too.

  Mom, you would be thrilled to learn he is an ideal husband. Just as you counseled, I left his socks exactly where he dropped them for two days and he got the message and has been more attentive ever since—well-considered advice!

  I must also write Ivah today and want to get both these letters on the Glencoe, hopefully tomorrow. Sometimes gusty winds will keep the mail boat from entering the harbor, so I will pray hard that these get to you tomorrow.

  I hope this finds you all well and excited for your Thanksgiving feast. We will sure miss the turkey and trimmings, and you all of course.

  Love,

  Urla

  Water Street

  St. Lawrence, Newfoundland

  November 21, 1933

  Dear Ivah,

  I hope you notice my official address now that I am a chatelaine on Water Street. Thanks for the news from Bucknell and your booklist. I love hearing about your classes and all the work there is to do. Don’t be too taken in by your roommate, as I’m sure she has moments of feeling very doubtful herself, even if she hides it well.

  I wonder could you send me some books from the list I’ll attach to this letter? I had better get busy if I am to start honing my skills as a world famous writer! I have looked about in people’s homes, but I’ve yet to see a book or a bookcase and I’m a little afraid to embarrass them or me by asking. To be honest, I was expecting perhaps some literary provincialism but I wasn’t expecting a literary wasteland. Oh dear. Luckily I have the cold to take my mind off the isolation.

  There is a library in the town of Grand Bank, where we stopped on our way to St. Lawrence. But I’m not yet desperate enough to venture onto another boat, so I am taking my time reading the books I brought with me. Anything you can send me, dear Sis, would be well appreciated.

  I am slowly coming to know some of the women in the town. There are two sisters, Ena and Gertie Farrell, who have come calling a few times. I am seesawing between young women my age who are unmarried but barrels of fun, and married women who have so much to teach me that I would like to sit at their feet all day. But they are already carrying the weight of children and housework so the last thing they need is a puppy like me around. They never seem to complain, certainly not in my presence, and carry about their days completing enormously under-appreciated tasks. And there is little respite from the housework. I think of Mother painting dishes in the afternoon or sitting quietly to read or needlepoint. That seems a world away.

  But the other day I thought of something: maybe it is incredibly important that these women use their intelligence simply to manage the household, and to make life as normal as possible for everyone around them. It is a very noble role. I have never really seen it that way.

  Then there are times when I think of how awful my days would be to not have options or to imagine what else I might do in my life. Don has mentioned that mining is opening up in Mexico, and on days when I feel impossibly cold and damp I imagine me under the bougainvillea trying to cool off.

  I wonder if the women here have dreams like mine? I don’t know anyone well enough yet to ask, but from what I see, their options are so very limited. Yet no one looks miserable, and at the risk of oversimplifying, I am now starting to see this perhaps as a bit of a gift in that they know what the future holds for them. I’m trying not to panic at the fact that I don’t have a clue about what it holds for me.

  Let me get this finished so I can make the mail boat. I hope there will be some more news from you when the Glencoe arrives.

  Love to you both,

  Urla

  . . . . . . . . . . . .

  Since the letter is still open I will tell you about a recent cultural highlight! Everyone was excited that a new movie was coming to town. You can imagine our reaction when we heard it was Charlie Chaplin in City Lights so that tells you something about how far behind we are. They also had the Passion Play showing. As it was strictly a Catholic affair, Don and I decided to go on Saturday as the Passion Play was on Friday only. But the priest here is very wise and knew that the Friday night audience didn’t need the Passion Play, so he saved it for the wicked devils on Saturday night. We were seated right up front and couldn’t leave without being noticed! Bet you haven’t had a Saturday night like that!

  St. Lawrence, Newfoundland

  November 22, 1933

  Dear Pop,

  Thanks for your last letter and I accept your criticism that I’m writing more about the place than the work. I know it must strike you as funny that we could find so much to talk about in a little t
own of 900 people. It surprises us too!

  So onto the work.

  I finally managed to get the men paid for some back work and now have a great team working on the Black Duck site. While I was waiting for the financing to come through I ran a few survey lines into the mine, through some of the toughest country I’ve ever walked through. I certainly won’t need to worry about gaining weight! This site is further advanced than I was expecting from Siebert’s account. By that I mean the size of the exposed vein and the quality of the fluorspar. The mine site itself, on the other hand, is just a ramshackle operation and not quite as Siebert had described. He has firmly told me there will not be enough money to pay the men and improve the facilities, so I am sticking to just being able to pay the men. I am hoping to sink a new shaft this week. Mostly though it’s an open pit.

  The plan is to have 2,000 tons of fluorspar on the wharf by this spring. We will ship it to Dominion Steel and Coal Company (DOSCO) in Sydney, Nova Scotia. If it meets their standards then we have a going concern. The ore in Black Duck is very high grade with up to 95% calcium fluoride and very few contaminants.

  Right now it’s more like a deep sewer trench than a mine. The water problem is acute. I can see that going any deeper at the Black Duck will be difficult. The motors that Siebert sent with me are helping for now but we have had to repair the main one twice already to stay ahead of the flow. I have ordered good pumps and pipe to come to Saint Pierre, where the lack of tariff makes them affordable.

  I am heading over there in a couple of days and will have more to report then. I will check out the market for wrought-iron products as you asked.

  For any packages you want to send, address them to me in care of M. A. Maufroy, Saint Pierre and Miquelon. That should do it. We are heading over principally for dynamite and hope to pick up a ton to bring back. The boat is also taking over about twenty empty boxes that will come back labelled 40% dynamite, but will carry everything from truck springs to false teeth.

  I would like to get a good supply of gas from Saint Pierre but that doesn’t look possible. All our gas here comes from the Imperial Oil Company of Canada who has a ten year monopoly. I swear they’re shipping all their junk here because we get at least three gallons of water in fifty gallons of gas. We have a problem keeping the gas lines from freezing tight so that adds to our woes.

  I took a trip up the coast the other day in an open boat to see the original discovery stake that was placed there years ago. From the water you could see the wide vein of fluorspar glistening in the sun and I could see why it attracted attention. I’ve never seen so many ducks in my life and then just ahead of our boat were “jumpers”—porpoises to you. All in all it was one spectacular day on the water.

  Good luck with the squirrels in the attic. Here there are no attics and no squirrels, so we have left behind some problems at least.

  As ever,

  Donald

  St. Lawrence, Newfoundland

  November 22, 1933

  Dear Dorothy,

  Mother and Daddy have passed along your news and I am so thrilled for you and Bill. I know you have always wanted a house full of children so hats off to you for getting started! I am sure Bill is excited to get another little Scotsman into the Mutch clan. Daddy, too, of course, and I’m sure he’s secretly praying for a boy to offset his life of girls.

  It is impossible not to think of children in a town like this. I have never seen so many youngsters in all my life. Right in our own boarding house there are four adorable ones that keep us all busy and entertained. Don and I both have lots of fun with them. Blanche is the youngest at three and I’ve never seen a healthier child given what’s available to eat here. Walter is six and a real boy who waits for Don to come home every day to be thrown around like a football. Leonis (yes that’s a girl’s name) is quite bashful, but I hope to do some sewing with her if we can ever get Siebert to send us a machine. Alfred, at eleven, is quite an artist and a very likable boy. Completing the picture is Mrs. G, who is very progressive and intelligent. Mr. G is the most industrious man, for his small size, I have ever seen.

  This is also the smallest family in the community! I have learned that small families generally mean that children have died in childbirth or at a young age. Certainly there are small crosses, lots of them, in the cemetery. The town still bustles with children in every yard, on every path, and in every meadow.

  They are at once beautiful and pitiful. Some of them surely exist on bread, fish, and potatoes and take turns to eat. But I will say a washcloth is licked over every one of them in the mornings on the way to school because it’s hard to find a child looking Dickensian, despite the poverty. I see Mrs. G dropping off some of her homemade blueberry jam or loaves of bread to some families and I wonder how any of them are surviving on so little. It has been a terrible time in this part of the world. Oh I know it has been everywhere, but this really seems exceptional. No one complains, certainly not to me, a stranger, but it is very simple to see now that I have opened my eyes.

  I guess I didn’t allow anything to disturb my vision of an idyllic village life. How infantile of me. I am somewhat ashamed of my short sightedness. The sheer number of mouths to feed would shock you and, given the hold of the Catholic Church on the community, I don’t see the numbers dropping.

  Mrs. G’s neighbor told me she had eleven children in eleven years. I was sure she had to be wrong about that and I spent a good part of last night working out my mathematics. One child a year is not at all unusual.

  So over to you, my darling Dorothy. Bring this beautiful healthy child of yours into the world and give them every opportunity, as I know you and Bill will. Our love to you both and let me know every ache, pain, and the joyful bits too.

  Love,

  Urla

  St. Lawrence, Newfoundland

  November 30, 1933

  Dear Ivah,

  I was thinking about you today as I know you are writing your first exams and submitting those dastardly final papers. I can sure appreciate how stressful yet enervating this time is for you. I think I was homesick for all that excitement because I was feeling very moody and blue this morning. But Mrs. G has convinced me the fog does that to everyone.

  You may think you have seen fog. Even Don, who crossed the Atlantic twice, thought he knew fog. But here we are dealing with something in a category all its own.

  The fog is relentless. I have come to believe I will be permanently blinded when my eyes have to adjust to sunshine. I think we are into our fifth straight day of not being able to see across the harbor. In fact, you can barely see the house next door or your own feet. I don’t know how people can find their own home when the fog rolls in. I’ve heard reports of it being foggy for weeks at a time and I think I would go mad.

  The only good thing about the fog is that it softens the hard edges of the town. All around the harbor, the cliffs disappear sharply into the sea and every rolling hill is interrupted with knobs of granite. If you were painting this scenery you would only need fine brushes. The trees are set in the oddest angles thanks to the wind (when it’s not foggy it’s windy). Even the people are chiselled somehow. There’s not a soft line anywhere. So perhaps I’ll be grateful for the fog for now for providing some relief from the hard lines.

  Then I have days where I wonder why we would expect nature to be soft anyway. Maybe this landscape is the more natural one and we have softened everything around us unnecessarily. Don thinks I’m trying to trick my brain into not missing the soft rolling hills of New Jersey, but I’m not convinced. Anyway, let’s just say there are days the hardness doesn’t bother me so much.

  I even managed to find a “reader” from Mr. Aubrey Farrell next door and discovered a wonderful Newfoundland poet to share with you.
>
  “Erosion”

  It took the sea a thousand years,

  A thousand years to trace

  The granite features of this cliff,

  In crag and scarp and base.

  It took the sea an hour one night,

  An hour of storm to place

  The sculpture of these granite seams

  Upon a woman’s face.

  E.J. PRATT

  So my dear sister, here are my musings on this soft foggy day. Say a little prayer that tomorrow will indeed hurt my eyes and maybe even bring a hint of winter and Christmas with it.

  Hope your days and mind are not foggy at all. Good luck with your exams, and report in whenever you have a chance.

  Lots of love,

  Urla

  Bucknell University

  Lewisburg, Pennsylvania

  December 12, 1933

  Dear Urla,

  I’m having a lonely spell tonight and sad that you are so far away.

  I miss you as a confidante and have had to make due with Meryl Lawson who is the only other person here from Nutley. She will do in a pinch. Do you remember her sister Charlotte played French horn in the symphony? They are all quite serious but dependable.

  Vanessa runs hot and cold and I seem to be mostly encountering the cold. I am so impressed at the men who flock around her like chickens (okay like roosters) and I have to admit that I like being part of her entourage.

  Last night Vanessa referred to my nose (always a sore spot as you know) as “assertive.” What in God’s name does that mean? Remember Daddy used to kid me that my nose came in the room before I did? Anyway, no one has enlightened me about alternate parentage so I can only assume it was a miscalculation on God’s part. I’m hoping when my sister becomes a world famous author she can pay for me to get this nose looking more patrician.

  I would love to cut my hair into a nice bob but I think the curls would spring to attention and never lay neat like everyone else’s. I need your advice badly.