Clara Callan

by Richard B. Wright

  Love, Nora

  Monday, December 31

  Letter from Nora who seems to be thriving in the great metropolis. Where does she get her ambition and enthusiasm? These characteristics are surely passed along through the blood. How did Yeats put it? “The fury and the mire of human veins.” She can’t have inherited any of this from Father who seemed content enough to spend his days in this village. Yet seemed is perhaps the correct verb, for how do I know how he really felt? Father was so closed-in about everything. As for Mother, I can’t remember her doing anything but reading books and taking long walks.

  Retirement party for the Camerons yesterday evening in the church hall. Ida Atkins in charge of the proceedings. It has not taken her long to boss around the new minister’s wife. Helen Jackson is such a meek little thing. Confessed that she likes to read. Enjoys the novels of Lloyd C. Douglas and A. J. Cronin. Well, yes, I can see that but she also admits to an admiration for Emily Dickinson, which is a fine surprise. Husband standing apart with hands behind his back, rocking on his heels. Above all this female chatter. Ida Atkins’s tiresome recruiting. “Now, Helen, you must help us to persuade Clara to get out of the house this winter. She has so much to offer our church. Her father passed away last spring. A wonderful man,” etc., etc. Can she not detect my hostility, or am I simply too hypocritical and cowardly? I think I am a little.

  A title for a poem came to me this afternoon. Onset of Evening in Winter, 1934. A painting in words. At dusk a woman is at the piano playing Mendelssohn’s Songs Without Words. The oncoming night will be cold and so before she sat down to play she moved the bowl of African violets from the window ledge to the mantel. Now she looks out at the falling snow as she plays. What is she thinking of? The elusive nature of happiness. How it arrives unbidden, a brief thrilling moment, summoned perhaps by a smell, a line of verse, a melody. In the senses may be found our source of joy. How it alights upon the heart like a colourful and mysterious bird upon a winter branch. Now what on earth did I mean by all that? It was only a glimpse of what I was trying to get at, but it was all nonsense anyway. A woman at the piano looking out at falling snow! I blame Mendelssohn’s lovely little tunes for turning me into such a wistful Sally. Decided it was time to throw some coal into the maw of the monster. That at least is honest labour, duly rewarded.

  1935

  Whitfield, Ontario

  Sunday, January 6, 1935

  Dear Nora,

  Thank you for the brooch. I told you not to bother, but when did you ever listen to anybody? Well never mind, it is handsome and I shall wear it proudly. Winter now has us firmly in its grip and my palms are growing calloused from the handle of the coal shovel. All right, that is an exaggeration, but I seem to be down in the cellar half the night. I’m deathly afraid of the fire going out and the pipes freezing; that would present a nice mess. I also have a mild grippe but then so does half the village. People are hacking and coughing at you wherever you go. Well, enough complaining. I am reading War and Peace these days. I thought a good long novel would see me through January and February and maybe it will. I cannot deny Tolstoy’s power, but he does go on. So many digressions.

  How are you getting on down there? Have those Reds in your drama group converted you yet? I don’t know much about Communism, but I do know they have caused a good deal of trouble in this province, particularly in the relief camps up north. I do think something has to be done about our present troubles, but I’m not sure that the Reds have the answer. Sorry for the dull letter. What is transpiring these days in that metropolitan life of yours?

  Clara

  Tatham House

  138 East 38th Street

  New York

  January 13, 1935

  Dear Clara,

  Sorry to hear about the grippe and the calloused hands!!! I can’t help wondering if that house isn’t too much for you, especially in winter. Could you not close it up next year and board for the winter months? Does Mrs. Murchison still take in boarders? You would be a lot more comfortable and it would save you all that fuss and bother. Why don’t you think about it?

  You should also get a radio, Clara. My goodness, you just refuse to enter the century. No telephone, no radio. It’s a wonder you tolerate running water. But I can tell you this, a radio is a great companion on a long winter night, especially in a village like Whitfield where exactly zero must be happening. You have already expressed your lack of enthusiasm for things like the Missionary Society. So buy a radio. You can’t read all the time. I just bought a little RCA table model and it sits right next to my bed. There is some wonderful entertainment on the air these days. You can have your Mr. Tolstoy. I’ll take Eddie Cantor if I’m feeling blue and want a few laughs.

  I’m getting work on the hospital show and “The Incredible Adventures of Mr. Wang,” and my Wintergreen stuff also brings in some money, so I’m getting by. Our serial drama will get underway in the late spring or early summer and then I should see more money, and it will be steady. No, I’m not being converted by the Communists, but we did put on our play last week. It only ran for three nights. It turned out a little better than I thought it would, but it was a flop at the box office. We only got thirty or forty people on each of the three nights and many of them left halfway through. It was funny in a way, but hard to concentrate. I guess they tried to be quiet, but it was so dark in “the warehouse” that they kept knocking over chairs as they left. There I was standing over the dead body of my fiancée (killed by his father’s hired thugs on the picket line), trying to deliver my little speech about how he died for the good of the workers, and all these darn chairs were getting knocked over. On Friday night (the last night) I nearly broke out laughing. Poor Marty would never have forgiven me. He has another script he wants me to look at, but I don’t know. It’s a lot of work for nothing, or so it seems.

  It’s damn cold here too, but thank goodness they keep this place comfortable. When I leave in the morning, I can hear the janitor rattling the grates of the furnace and I think of you doing all that by yourself. It can’t be much fun and I think you should do something about it for next year. I hope you’re over your grippe by now.

  Love, Nora

  Tuesday, January 22

  “I am the rose of Sharon and the lily of the valleys.” How often as a child on a winter night like this did I read these words! I would speak the line aloud and feel its warmth and colour in my mouth like some exotic fruit from Palestine, a pomegranate, for instance. I didn’t understand what any of it meant; I just liked the sound and texture of the words and sometimes I imagined that they did make me feel warmer. So on this, the coldest night of the year, I read some chapters from Song of Solomon. Also read again these yellow fragments of our family’s history which fell from the leaves of the Bible.

  A very pretty wedding took place at Whitfield Methodist Church on Saturday, June 20, at 11:00 o’clock when Edward T. Callan, principal of Whitfield School, and Miss Ethel Louise Smith of Toronto were united in marriage by the pastor of the church, Reverend John Shields.

  The bride was attired in white Swiss muslin and wore a white hat and carried a beautiful bouquet of roses. The bridesmaid, Miss E. Moffat of Whitfield, wore pale blue organdie and also carried a bouquet. John Dawson of Linden acted as best man. To the bride the groom presented a beautiful gold neck chain and to the bridesmaid he gave a handsome gold brooch. After a reception at the groom’s home on Church Street, Mr. and Mrs. Callan left on a week’s trip to Toronto and Niagara Falls.

  Linden Herald

  July 7, 1900

  Born

  CALLAN — at 110 Church Street, Whitfield. On Monday, May 20, to Mr. and Mrs. Edward Callan, a son, Thomas Edward.

  Linden Herald

  May 25, 1901

  Born

  CALLAN — at 110 Church Street, Whitfield. On Saturday, June 27, to Mr. and Mrs. Edward Callan, a daughter, Clara Ann.

  Linden Herald

  July 4, 1903

  Died

  CALLAN
— at 110 Church Street, Whitfield. On Wednesday evening, March 16, Thomas Edward, aged two years, ten months. Beloved son of Mr. and Mrs. Edward Callan.

  Linden Herald

  March 19, 1904

  Born

  CALLAN — at 110 Church Street, Whitfield. On Saturday, March 4, to Mr. and Mrs. Edward Callan, a daughter, Nora Louise.

  Linden Herald

  March 11, 1905

  TRAGIC ACCIDENT CLAIMS WOMAN’S LIFE

  A tragic accident claimed the life of a popular resident of this community on Tuesday, July 19, when Mrs. Edward Callan of Whitfield was struck by a freight train. Mrs. Callan had left home on Sunday afternoon to pick raspberries and presumably became lost in the vicinity of the Wildwood Swamp. It is conjectured that the unfortunate woman became confused and wandered into the path of the freight train in the pre-dawn hours. Her body was discovered shortly after twelve o’clock noon on Tuesday about two miles from the village station.

  Mrs. Callan will be sorely missed by many in the village. She was active in the Methodist church, and as an accomplished pianist, accompanied many local singers in musical evenings. A wide circle of friends will extend much sympathy to Mr. Edward Callan, principal of Whitfield School, and to his young daughters, Clara and Nora. The funeral on Thursday, July 21, took place from Whitfield Methodist Church under the guidance of the pastor Reverend J. Shields. Interment was at Old Road Cemetery.

  Linden Herald

  July 23, 1910

  I was seven and I remember the two men coming to this house. It was a hot day and I was lying in the hammock on the veranda. The house was filled with women who had brought food. The dining-room and kitchen tables were covered with casseroles and fruit pies and fresh bread. There were platters of sandwiches and biscuits and all of it was under tea towels to keep the flies away. I was in the hammock and no one was paying any attention to me. Nora was surrounded by little girls. Mabel Nicholson, Verna Fallis, Muriel Thornton, Irene McNally, Marion Webb. They all stood in a circle under a tree on the front lawn and took turns holding Nora’s hand and giving her candy. It was a special occasion and it was her mother and not theirs who was missing, so they were being especially nice to her. Their mouths were black with licorice. I remember that distinctly, those solemn little girls with their dark mouths. And I was alone in the hammock though I don’t think I felt particularly put out by it. Or even frightened or saddened by Mother’s absence. She had wandered off before, usually to the cemetery to visit Thomas’s grave. But she had never been gone for two days. She was obviously lost, but did I have any sense of that? I suppose lying there in the hammock I expected that sooner or later I would see her coming down Church Street with her honey pail filled with berries. That is probably how I saw things on that summer afternoon. Meantime, there was this quiet bustle in the air: women coming and going and carrying pots of tea and pitchers of lemonade, whispering to one another. In their own way, they were like the circle of solemn little girls around Nora on the front lawn. But poor Father! All this must have worn him out. He probably hadn’t slept at all during the two days she was gone. He seemed to be on the go all the time, scouring the countryside with other men.

  He must have been upstairs trying to sleep on that afternoon when the two men came to the door. They got out of an open car and came up the front walk and climbed the veranda steps. One man had a bald head. He had taken off his straw hat, and I could see where the hat had left a reddish mark across his brow. It’s odd the things we remember. The two men talked through the screen on the front door, and they must have told the women inside that they’d found Mother down by the railway tracks. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but a few minutes later Father came out the door in his shirtsleeves and hurried down the steps with the men. He had been sleeping or trying to because the hair was sticking up at the back of his head and I found that peculiar; Father was always so careful about how he looked in public. I sensed that even as a young child. As principal of the school, he considered appearances important. Before that day I had never seen Father out of a suit coat on the streets of Whitfield. But there he was, off with the two men, half-dressed with his hair mussed. It must have been then that I had an inkling that something serious was taking place in my life and things would never be the same again.

  Thursday, January 24

  There was a fire in the village last night and the Mullens have lost their home. They had so little and now they have nothing. At one point in the night I thought I heard shouting, but wondered at the time if it were only the fragment of a dream, so I returned to sleep. It was a bitter night and this morning the bedroom windows were covered from top to bottom with frost. Then as I set out for school, I could smell the sour fire smoke. Milton told me about it; the family escaped with only the nightclothes on their backs and are now being put up at the church hall until the relief people can find a house for them. After school I walked over to North Street and stood gawking with others at the ruins. What a pitiful sight is fire’s aftermath! The iron bedstead, the blackened chamber pot, the smoking pile of rags. One’s humble belongings horribly reduced. Walking back I wondered what I would do were fire to engulf my home. Lay awake half the night worrying about this.

  Sunday, February 10 (4:00 p.m.)

  I cannot for the life of me remember the last time I missed morning service, but today I did not go to church and this is why. I was sitting at the kitchen table after breakfast looking out the window at the snow on the bare trees and the blue sky through the branches. I was thinking of how the light is returning and of how different the morning sky now seems from only two weeks ago. And then it came to me as I sat there at the kitchen table looking out at the trees and the snow and the sky — I no longer believe in God. I have been feeling such intimations for some time now, but today, at twenty minutes past seven, it came to me clarified and whole. God does not exist. The proposition that He does exist obviously cannot be proven, and so we must rely on what we believe to be true. Or feel to be true. Or want to be true. As they say, we must take it on faith. But for some time now, my faith has been like the branch of a tree that over the years has been weakened by wind and weather. And today it was as if that part of me, that branch, finally gave way and fell to the ground. It is a dreadful barren feeling, but I am powerless to repel it. This I now believe. We are alone on this earth and must make our way unguided by any unseen hand. Perhaps a man called Jesus did live in Palestine two thousand years ago. Perhaps he was an inspired orator, a kind of faith healer; he may even have been a little mad. He attracted followers but also made powerful enemies who killed him. His body was placed in a tomb, but his followers carried it away in order to create a mystery and a myth surrounding him. He once walked this earth but he was not immortal. He rotted into dust as shall we all; as did Mother and Thomas; as is Father rotting now beneath the snow; as shall I one day.

  (8:00 p.m.)

  Marion has just left. She came by after supper, wondering why I had not been in church this morning. I could not bring myself to tell her the reason. It all seemed too vast and complicated and also I feel mildly ashamed for my unbelief. I don’t know why, but I do. So I told her that I had been feeling “under the weather,” our euphemism for the onset of our periods. There was much sympathetic clucking over this, and I learned more of Marion’s monthly trials than I really cared to hear.

  Tatham House

  138 East 38 Street

  New York

  February 24, 1935

  Dear Clara,

  Haven’t heard from you in ages. How are you getting on? For the past week or so, I have been mooning about my thirtieth, only a week away now. Did it bother you to turn thirty? I don’t remember you talking about it and maybe I’m making too much of all this, but it seems like a kind of important birthday to me. You know, a turning point in life. Most women are married and have kids by the time they are thirty, and it makes you wonder (well, it makes me wonder) if that will ever happen to me. New York is full of good-looking fellows,
but they all seem to have wives. Oh well!

  I’m working very hard these days, and if you lived in this part of the world, you would hear your sister’s voice on commercial announcements for Mother Parker’s tea and coffee and Royal Cola. “The House on Chestnut Street” goes on the air in June as a summer replacement. If it gets the listeners we think it will, we’ll carry on through the fall. I have been reading Evelyn’s outline and it sounds like a wonderful show. Alice and Effie are two sisters (in their thirties!!!), orphaned since childhood and still living with Aunt Mary and Uncle Jim in the town of Meadowvale, which sounds an awful lot like Whitfield, only a little bigger. Alice (me) is the sensible, older one (oh stop laughing!) and Effie is the one who takes chances and gets into trouble (usually with men). Vivian Rhodes, a fine actress who has been on several network shows, will be playing Effie and we will have two real veterans of radio, Margaret Hollingsworth and Graydon Lott as Aunt Mary and Uncle Jim. They seem like really nice folks to work with, so as you can imagine I’m looking forward to all this. I finally gave up on the New World Players. It was just too much work with not much reward, so now I have a little more free time. Anyway, that’s what’s been happening down here. How are things in dear old Whitfield? I’ll just bet you’re sick and tired of trying to keep warm in that old house. You should think about some other arrangement for next winter.