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Hymn for a Troubled Heart

Hymn for a Troubled Heart

I wrote this hymn recently while I was ill, thinking of those who were and sadly, still are chronically or gravely ill.

You Are

Words © Mollie Pearce McKibbon 2013

6 5 6 4 Chorus 8 8 8 8

In the hours of pain, Lord,

I become aware

When it’s hard to breathe, Lord,

You are my air.

Chorus:

You are my blanket in the cold,

My warm embrace as I grow old.

In the deep darkness of the night,

You are my joy; you are my light.

In the hours of fear, Lord,

I will be secure.

When it hurts to hope, Lord,

You are my cure.

In the hours of grief, Lord,

I know I am blessed.

When my heart is numb, Lord,

You are my rest.

Do you think this needs another verse? Please give me your opinion. I will greatly appreciate the help.

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Two Summer Poems

Here are two poems that I wrote for summer. I know that the season is on its last legs but we need to pause and appreciate all its beauties until the last moment.

Summer Breeze

© Mollie Pearce McKibbon

Summer breeze is a dancer

of exquisite grace.

Her skirts billow on the window sill,

twirling to a waltz,

lifting and swirling to an unheard score,

performing shadow ballet

across a sunlit floor.

Cantata

© Mollie Pearce McKibbon

And the sun comes

Suddenly

through the trees –

a blessing of warmth

upon grass and leaf,

curling up dripping boughs,

lifting insects

from their secret purposes,

calling forth creepers

brooding beneath stones,

inspiring humble croakers

to choruses and arias

after the rain.

I was poking around in my office and found the following article I wrote for publication when my oldest was learning to drive. I thought that because lots of parents are going through the same experience this summer, my experience might sound familiar. Please bear in mind that this was written about 20 years ago.

Who Has the Car Keys?

©Mollie Pearce McKibbon

I remember my oldest child bouncing up and down in glee in the first set of wheels we ever gave him – the walker. Oh yes, I know they are no longer considered safe, but in those days of ignorant bliss they seemed like a good idea. We were eager for our firstborn to do everything for the first time. We wanted him to be a paragon of babyhood. We chortled in delight when he smiled his first smile; boasted when he said his first word, and burst with pride at his very first step. What did we know?

He loved the walker. Suddenly, he could keep up with us, even overtake us and lead the way. A gleam came into his eyes. Like Toad from Wind in the Willows , he had discovered speed!

Of course, he had his upsets and collisions. Our toes suffered and so did the furniture. Squashed toes and scratches didn’t daunt him. He was King of the Road.

There was another drawback to all this newfound mobility. We couldn’t always keep up to him and he was able to reach places he couldn’t reach before. We had to head him off many times and soon our good breakables went up on higher shelves. He didn’t mind, He kept on motoring. We were exhausted.

By Child Number Two, we had figured out that we needn’t be in a hurry to see smiling, talking or walking. We decided we could wait until Child Number Two was at least eighteen or even twenty-nine. He, however, had a different time table. He smiled immediately, and started pulling himself up on the furniture by seven months and was walking on his own, albeit somewhat tipsily, by ten months. He seemed to go from the walker to the two wheeler in the blink of an eye. No older brother was going to outpace him!

By Child Number Three, we wondered if playpens made out of steel girders were the answer. Child Number Four, our only daughter, smiled sweetly at us and said, “Eat my dust!” We still are.

Now we are discovering the results of all those firsts. The first smile leads to the first love. The first word leads to the first date. The first step leads directly to Drivers’ Ed.

The campaign starts in third grade and gets going in earnest by grade nine. By grade ten, the boys have figured out that all the girls in their own age group are interested in older boys with cars. Therefore, they come to the conclusion that they need a car so that they can be one of the older boys in grade eleven.

It’s amazing how many ways driving can be fit into any parent/child conversation.

“Mom, may I have another glass of milk? You know, when I get my license you will never have to run out of milk because I’ll just hop into the car for you and go to the store.”

“Any time you and Dad, want to go on a holiday, I’ll be able to help drive.”

And on and on.

O the disgrace of the teenage non-driver! Being seen in the back seat of the family car is like admitting to still sleeping with a teddy bear. At sixteen, it just isn’t done.

Mothers and fathers remember about being sixteen or seventeen and having a car. There are hazards involved. Gasoline prices. Auto insurance. Drag races. Drive-in movies.

My first thought was that I had enough grey hairs to pluck as it was. I still had anxiety attacks when our oldest rode his bike to the corner store. How would I make it through ten weeks of Drivers’ Ed?

It hasn’t been easy. I find that now my own driving is under constant scrutiny. I haven’t lost a passenger, I’ve just gained a backseat driver. My car is now “Our Car”. I don’t back up properly and I can’t park worth a darn. On the other hand, there is one positive result of Drivers’ Ed. I pray a lot more.

Child Number One is about four weeks from his license and Child Number Two is already beginning to drop references to front wheel drive into casual conversation. With his past record, he will probably hand us his license on his sixteenth birthday. I’m locking up Child Number Three and Child Number Four until we turn eighty. By then, I’ll be used to grey hair and, besides, by then like Miss Daisy, I’ll be needing a chauffeur.

Back to the present: it might soothe those suffering parents out there to know that all my children have their full licenses now and are responsible adult drivers. Whew!

Adeline’s Journal – May 22 to June 16, 1813

A fictional journal of a young woman of Upper Canada during the War of 1812.

The Story up to this date: Adeline Price is a young woman of 17 who lives with her parents, her younger sister, Eveline and her brother, Henry, on a farm north of Prescott, in what is now Ontario. Her older brother William is married to Elizabeth and living on a corner portion of the Price property. When war is declared, her father and brother join the ranks of the volunteers. Adeline is being courted by a corporal in the English army who is stationed at Fort Wellington. While checking on her brother’s property, Adeline is abducted by spies and is taken by force across the St. Lawrence River to Ogdensburgh where she is put into custody by Major Forsyth. She is handed over to the civil authority, Sheriff York, who sends her to stay at Widow Fenton’s boarding house. Her story continues as she writes in her diary which she addresses to her friend, Janetta, whom she left back in England.

Sunday,May22,1813 A sunny day

Dear Janetta,

My mother’s herb garden is sprouting and her rose bush is covered with new buds. Spring would be so very pleasant were it not for the annoying black flies and mosquitoes. We women have veils on our bonnets, but how the poor men must suffer! Father and Henry are doing their best to get our oats, wheat and potatoes planted. They come in all bitten up.

Where was I in my Ogdensburgh adventure? That’s how I think of it now – as adventure, now that I am safe at home, but it was terrifying at the time, believe me. Oh yes, Widow Fenton’s boarding house was where I stopped last time. I was thoroughly miserable there and began to fall ill. Sheriff York, a true gentleman in these unfortunate times, came to check on me the second evening and was concerned about the cough I had developed. He sent for the army physician. I don’t remember much about the examination except that he felt my forehead, listened to my chest through his stethescope and then proceeded to bleed me. His diagnosis was that I was suffering from ague. He told Widow Fenton to put more blankets on my bed and feed me hot broth. Widow Fenton complained that she wasn’t being paid enough to nurse me too, but she did what she was told. Her reluctant efforts did little to help.

One of the other boarders, a sweet spirited Quaker woman, fixed me a mustard poultice for my chest and changed it twice during the night. I awoke the next morning to thunderous canon fire. Widow Fenton rushed into my room screaming that the town was being invaded by “redcoats” and I must dress and leave her house immediately.

“I will not have an enemy spy under my roof or on my premises!” she shouted. “Leave now!”

I dressed as quickly as I could in the only clothes I had. My Father’s heavy barn coat was still damp, but I pushed on his hat and wrapped the woolen scarf around the hood. There was blowing snow which stung my face as Widow Fenton shoved me out into the street. I heard the bar fall across her door behind me. I was locked out and I could hear the Quaker woman vehemently protesting that it was too dangerous for anyone to be out on the street, to no avail.

I stood on the front stoop for a moment, in shock from my rude awakening. As I tried to decide just where to go, our brave men under the command of Lt. Colonel Red George Macdonell, were coming up the street toward some American soldiers who seemed to be in some disarray. Thinking our troops were just doing their usual morning drills on or near the river, they had not bothered to pay further attention, until the army was marching up the streets of Ogdensburgh towards Fort La Presentation. I shrank back in between Widow Fenton’s house and the building next door, for fear of being caught in the crossfire.

Suddenly, I felt myself being roughly grabbed from behind.

“Fancy meeting you here,” growled a gruff voice behind me. I recognized Bourke’s drawl and tried to wrestle out of his grasp.

“Oh no, ya don’t gurl! “he said as he pushed his musket into my back. “Yer ma good luck charm in this little dustup.”

Bourke proceeded to shove me into the lean-to beside Widow Fenton’s house. He followed after me, loaded his rife and handed the musket to me to load. I wanted nothing to do with helping him kill brave Canadian soldiers. I dropped his musket as if it were molten metal, but Bourke menaced me with his loaded rifle so I proceeded to obey him.

“Yer’ve caused me considerable trouble, yer have. Don’t think yer gonna go runnin’ back tellin’ tales! “

A shot came whizzing past his ear, and he turned quickly to fire his rifle. It was then or never, I decided, as I lowered the loaded pistol and fired at his leg when his back was turned. With a sharp cry of surprise, he slumped to the floor of the lean-to, his leg bleeding profusely, and I lunged past him out into the street. I ran towards the Canadians calling,”Help, please help me!”

I wasn’t sure anyone could hear me in the noise and confusion, or see me in all the smoke, but someone in a green militia coat grabbed me by the arm just as a musket ball hit my leg. How it stung!

“I think I’ve been hit in my leg,” I cried out. The soldier looked down at it briefly and shrugged,

“Ain’t too bad, Boy. Just keep going. Here’s some musket balls.”

He pushed three lead balls into my hands and kept on going. He thinks I’m in the militia too, I thought in shock. I was caught up in a nightmare and all I truly wanted to do was sit down on the snowy street and cry like a baby, but I loaded one ball into the barrel as my father had taught and prayed no one would notice I hadn’t any powder. Stumbling up the street after the rest of the soldiers, my eyes tried to recognize a face through the smoke. Father, William, the Randall brothers, or Charles must be somewhere in the melee.

Suddenly we halted. Ahead of Red George’s men was a cannon, manned by some American soldiers and one of the men behind the cannon was Sheriff York. The Americans were attempting to load and fire the cannon, but something was wrong and it seemed to misfire. A number of Americans were felled by Canadian rifles, the rest retreated at a run to the safety of the fort until the only man standing by the cannon was Sheriff York.

Remembering his kindness towards me, I pleaded,”O please don’t shoot him,” under my breath and as if he had heard me, Red George, ordered a momentary ceasefire, while they took him prisoner. Later, I heard someone say that Red George said Sheriff York was much too brave to kill.

Suddenly, I felt faint. I looked down at my leg and realized I had left a thin trail of red all the way up the street. I began to sway on my feet, heard someone shout, ” Hey Boy, “. Someone carried me to safety. When I revived with the help of a sip of whisky, I was inside a home, warming by a blazing hearth and my father and Charles were hovering over me.

” It’s all right, Adeline, you’re safe now. It’s almost all over. “

My father was holding my hand while a kind American woman bathed my bleeding leg. The bullet had hit me but had not hit bone and all that was wrong was a small chunk of skin was missing. She poured a bit of the whisky over it and bound the wound with a thick wad of bandage.

I sobbed when I saw my dear father and Charles. Then I noticed the bandage around my father’s head. He had been hit by a rifle butt and was quite woozy, but otherwise he said he was just fine. Charles assured me that the fort had surrendered and that Forsyth had fled with his remaining men. They were being pursued by the Algonquins through the bush. Charles also said that many American field guns, rifles, ammunition and other army stores had been confiscated and prisoners taken. He told Father and me that he had been ordered to escort us back home across the frozen river in a sled. The army would follow with more wounded and the captured prisoners as soon as Red George had questioned the townsmen of Ogdensburgh. Later, we were told that Red George had met with the town officials and had promised them no further raids as long as they took no direct part in the war.

So that was my adventure in Ogdensburgh. I spent the next months recovering from the wound in my leg and pneumonia in my chest. Our doctor said I was very lucky not to have lost one of my toes to frostbite. I told Father, William and Charles all about my abduction, but no one has seen or heard from Darnell or Seamus O’Meara since and I have no idea what finally happened to Bourke. I suppose I shall never know.

One question I wondered about Charles answered. It was Robert Randall who saw me fall and carried me to safety. I must thank him when next I see him. Charles also told me that he wanted to speak to my father as soon as possible, as he had something very important to discuss with him. I wonder what that could be.

Lovingly, Adeline.

Sunday,June6,1813 Raining

DearJanetta,

Govenor Prevost, was at first angry and then very elated when he heard of the success of Lt. Colonel MacDonell’s raid on Ogdensburg. He, of course, according to rumour, took full credit for the plan (which Charles says he totally tried to squelch before leaving for the safer haven of Fort Henry). Flush with the success of that victory, he ordered the army to attack Sackett’s Harbour. Unfortunately, that attack did not turn out so well. Many of our men were killed or badly injured. Charles, thank the Good Lord, returned intact, but William suffered a wound in his upper arm from which he is recovering. Thank goodness, he didn’t have to have his arm amputated, unlike a number of his fellow soldiers. He is recovering and now has something to celebrate as Elizabeth is once more expecting a child. We are all very happy and looking forward to it’s birth before this Christmas.

Hopefully, Adeline

Adeline’s Journal -April 17-May 12, 1813

Adeline’s Journal is a fictional account of a young woman’s experiences during the War of !812 in Upper Canada.

Sunday, April 17, 1813 My 17th Birthday

Dear Janetta, Today I turned 17. Mother and Father gave me a present of my great-grandmother’s dresser set. It is the loveliest set I have ever seen. It is silver with mother-of-pearl inserts in the mirror back and the brush. I have put it in my chest with my household linens which I am slowing adding to. I wish I were more adept at sewing like my sister, Evvy. She gave me a present of two pillow cases embroidered with violets. Henry gave me a new quill pen he had made. Elizabeth and William gave me some lovely lavender-filled silk pouches to put amongst my clothing.

My favourite gift of all was from Charles. He came to visit me and presented me with a dainty silver locket engraved with my initials, A. P. He wasn’t able to stay very long as he is on sentry duty tonight, but he squeezed my hand and kissed my cheek when we were alone at the door before he left.

Happily, Adeline.

May 12, 1813

Dear Janetta, Apart from a light dusting of snow at the beginning of this month, May has been lovely. The yard in front of our home is full of yellow wild flowers and there are lovely violets and trilliums under the apple trees. The apple trees themselves are full of blossoms and busy with bees. Mother says we should have a bumper crop of mackintosh apples this year.

I will resume the story of my kidnapping as the house is now quiet and I have finished writing my letter to Grandmother Price. Goodness knows if she shall ever receive it with the way the Americans are watching the St. Lawrence river traffic. Our “friends” in Ogdensburgh have been complaining about how their army being nearby is more of a threat to them than protection. Most of the troops have moved elsewhere. Some to Sacketts Harbour.

To renew my tale of woe: I woke up on the American side of the river in the wee hours of the morning after a fitful slumber full of terrifying dreams. I wondered just how I could manage an escape. The snow was piling up around the cabin and a fierce cold wind was blowing. Harry’s wife was up already cooking eggs and bacon for the company. Just as I was about to explain to her who I really was and why I was bound, in came Darnell and Seamus, stamping the snow off their boots and brushing off their coats.

“I need to use the privy,” I told Seamus and so he brought me my father’s coat and escorted me outside to the lean-to behind the cabin. I considered making a run for it , but realized that I could get more than lost in the blowing snow. Besides, where would I run?

Later, I struggled to get my breakfast down. Harry’s wife was a good cook but , in my agitation I had no appetite. I knew that I would need strength for whatever lay ahead of me, so I made myself swallow it all down.

The storm had abated after breakfast, so it was decided that we would excuse ourselves from the hospitality of Harry and his wife and continue on to Ogdensburgh. There we would meet up with Bourke. Darnell sat me up on Bourke’s horse, who seemed none the worse for the swim we had had the night before. Bourke had evidently taken Darnell’s horse the night before. Darnell and Seamus led the horses out to the main road where they mounted and we rode on towards Ogdensburgh. Once again I was forced to endure strange arms around me. It was slow going through the drifts. Every now and then Darnell or Seamus was forced to dismount and coax the horses through the deeper snow. Mostly we rode in silence, Darnell or Seamus only remarking only remarking to each other when they spotted game streaking through the forest on either side of the trail. I was very uncomfortable and very distressed, but determined not to show it. I told myself that William and my father, perhaps even Charles, would be searching for me and soon I would be rescued. I told myself that, but little believed it. How heartened I would have been to know that our brave soldiers were at that very moment planning to raid Ogdensburgh. It was not on my behalf, to be sure, but in retribution for all the raids that Forsyth and his rifles had made on our side to the river.

The O’Mearas had taken the gag off me, but I was still bound. After a long slogging ride we arrived in Ogdensburgh. It is a large settlement with many stone and brick buildings and a well-established port. I saw the large stone building that housed Mr. Parrish’s store where Father and I had bought dry goods for Mother and a pair of boots for Henry just last year.

Across the St. Lawrence River I could see the fortifications of Fort Wellington and the few little homes that had grown up around it as the town of Prescott. My heart swelled with longing for home. I almost cried out and would have, but for a quick jab in the ribs from Darnell.

“Don’t go making a fuss, you hear Missy,” he hissed in my ear. I just nodded. We rode through the town to Fort La Presentation which was being repaired and reconstructed. Bourke, whom I soon learned was Cpl. Bourke of Forsyth’s Rifles, met us at the gate and escorted us into Major Forsyth’s office. It could hardly be called an office, as it consisted of a camp cot, plain deal table, a chair and a rough hewn bench. I was ordered to sit on the bench.

Major Forsyth (I assumed) was sitting behind the desk, looking over some maps. His eyes reminded me of those of a fox, darting from the maps to myself and then to my three kidnappers.

“Who is this lad and why is he here?” he demanded.

“Tis the complication I spoke of, sir. Tis a girl in fact we caught aspyin’ on us. We had no choice but ta bring her.”

“You’ve answered only part of my question , Bourke. Her name is?”

At this point, I stood up and answered for myself. I was not afraid of this impudent soldier. “My name is Miss Adeline Price and I was kidnapped yesterday from my brother’s farm in Upper Canada. I demand to be returned to my own country at once!”

My heart was thundering in my chest and I could hear my voice trembling, but I did not cry. The man behind the table stared at me coldly, and instructed Darnell O’Meara to remove me from his office immediately and keep me under control. Darnell approached me to do that but I pulled away from him and marched to Major Forsyth’s desk.

“I demand to see the civil authorities and to be retuned to my home right away! You have no right to hold me against my will.”

“I have every right to hold you. You have been accused of spying, Mr. O’Meara carry out my order!”

Darnell grabbed at my arms, but instead I stood up straighter and stalked into the hallway. How could I be a spy when I was simply trying to protect my brother’s property. The whole situation was a nightmare.

Shortly, Bourke and Seamus O’Meara emerged from Fortsyth’s office looking grim.

“Well, what are we to do with her?”asked Darnell while he yanked me rudely to my feet.

“We’re to take her to Sheriff York for now,” replied Seamus, “at least until the magistrate can sentence her.”

“I’m not a criminal,” I protested. “I am a kidnap victim and you will all have to answer for whatever happens to me. My father and brother will see to it.”

Without regard to my protests, I was taken to the Sheriff York. He was dismayed to discover that I, a young Canadian woman, was to be held in custody. He stated that it was not his job to hold military prisoners, especially a young woman, in his lock-up. He had other security matters on his mind. Instead he sent me with a deputy to the next-door neighbour’s home where he knew I could be provided with a bed and some meals. I was to stay with a Widow Fenton who ran a boarding house.

I knew from the moment I stepped inside her home, that Widow Fenton did not appreciate my presence. I was given a chilly attic room and just one blanket. Her meals were adequate, but not tasty. They consisted mainly of some kind of stew to which she added ingredients daily. I spent my first night in her home shivering and crying myself to sleep.

I must stop writing now as Mother has begun preparing dinner and she needs my help. I’m trying to improve my culinary skills, but my best efforts seem to be boiling the kettle and setting a pleasant table.

I do hope I receive another letter from you, Janetta. I wonder if you have married.

Lovingly, Adeline

Post Script: Mr. Randall has delivered a letter to me from Charles. He wrote that he have recovered from a bout of influenza that has laid many soldiers low. That is one of the worst problems of barracks life – so many illnesses get passed around. Adeline.

Adeline’s Journal April 4, 1813

silohuette of Ada Mae — a fictional journal of a young woman during the War of 1812

The story this far:

Adeline and her family live north of Johnstown on farm land her father inherited from his older brother. William, Adeline, Evaline and Henry are the children of Edmond and Charlotte Price. William is married to Elizabeth and has a piece of his father’s acreage which he has built on. William and his father are in the militia and must report to Fort Wellington in Prescott. The women and younger children have to learn to manage the farm themselves. John Price taught his daughters to load and shoot a musket after Adeline saved her younger brother from a cougar. Adeline is being courted by a Corporal Charles Houghton, and two neigbour’s sons, Robert and Arthur. Henry and Adeline have been watching out for their brother’s farm, when one day her brother returns home with the news that he has seen smoke coming from the chimney of the cabin on William’s property. Henry and Adeline agree to investigate.

Sunday, April 4, 1813

Dear Janetta,

It is the Sabbath day and I have just finished a bowl of Mother’s delicious potato soup with one of Elizabeth’s wonderful sourdough biscuits. The house is quiet now as Father is napping and Mother is writing letters. Henry, Evvy and Elizabeth are visiting the Randals.

I am sitting under the eaves, at the desk that Father made for Evvy and I, in the half of the loft that she and I share. Mother has me bundled up like a caterpillar in a warm quilt and she also tucked a hot brick under my feet. It is so hot, I almost burnt my toes until I pushed it under my chair. Honestly, you would think I was recovering from the plague instead of near pneumonia, I have been so coddled since returning from the other side of the river. I still have nightmares and wake up poor Evvy with my muttering and moaning.

I must tell you my Ogdensburgh adventure. Henry and I went to check on William’s and Elizabeth’s cabin where Henry had seen smoke. Mother insisted that we go warmly dressed, so I put on Father’s warmest trousers over my petticoat and his barn coat with the squirrel collar and hood as well as a woolen cap. This was all covered with a long woolen scarf and I did not resemble myself so much as a lumberman from the backwoods. I could hardly move for the layers. We rode Rosey and Blinky, our old plow horses, up to the road to Prescott and turned north towards the piece of land that Father gave William (thirty good acres – five that William has already cleared).

As we reached the bottom of William’s land, we turned off the road toward the cabin. Before approaching the cabin, we agreed to part and meet back at the road after checking on the property. First, I would skirt the cabin and see if anything had been disturbed. If there were any suggestion of intruders we would go and fetch Mr. Randal.

I felt a bit nervous about approaching the cabin, but could see no smoke from the chimney, so I walked cautiously around the perimeter and peered into the barn. For a moment it seemed that my heart stopped beating. There in the stalls, that should have been empty, were three strange horses, – a bay, a roan and a grey. I recognized the roan and the bay. They were the O’Meara’s horses. I didn’t know the grey mare.

I ducked down behind the woodpile and tried to think why the O’Meara’s would have broken into William’s cabin. Were they in the very act of thievery? What should I do? Had they gone out hunting in the bush? What if they met up with Henry? My heart was pounding and my head was aching with indecision. Who was the third person? I was thankful that it wasn’t Robert or Arthur. I knew all their horses. What scheme were the O’Meara’s up to?

As I knelt behind the wood, torn between running to the woods to warn Henry or confronting the O’Mearas, a stranger stepped out of the cabin, talking to someone over his shoulder.

“Ah’ll get saddled. You bring the maps we made and we’ll make tracks for the river crossing.”

“Shouldn’t we wait ’til dusk? Less chances of being seen then.” Darnell O’Meara came out of the cabin, his flintlock in one hand and a leather saddle bag in the other.

“Nah, Ah want to make tracks. We’ll keep to the bush as soon as we can.”

My head was spinning with shock. If the O’Mearas were just smuggling to hide their true activities what were they really doing? Then it came over me suddenly, with horror. The O’Meara’s were spies. It was obvious the other person was an American. Now I was truly in a bad dilemma. What should I do?

“Hey, there’s someone behind the woodpile,” shouted Darnell.

I ran for the trees, but in all my layers was no match for the fleet-footed American who tacked me around the legs and brought me crashing to the ground.

“Who the hell are you, boy?” he shouted as he snatched the hood and hat off my head.

“I know who it is,” said Darnell. “T’is no boy, but Price’s sister, Adeline, a real spitfire!”

“A troublemaker, huh? Well, we ‘ll see how much trouble she gives us bound and gagged,”said the American.

And that is how I found myself bound and gagged seated in front of the American, up on the big grey. My face was stinging from the snow, my hair was wet and there was snow down the back of my neck. At least they had used my own scarf to gag me, but my hands were tied with a leather harness William had left hanging in his barn. I was helpless and furious, but very glad that Henry had not been at the place we’d agreed to meet. Blinky had obviously wandered off, probably back to our barn.

It was a very long uncomfortable ride to the river. I ignored the O’Meara brothers, They were beneath content.

Eventually, we left the road and travelled into the dense woods on a path that the O’Meara brothers had surely taken before. When we arrived at the bank of the St. Lawrence River, it was late afternoon, nearly dusk. We were several miles west of Fort Wellington. the river was almost completely frozen. There was a small, partially obscured shed and two canoes on the shore. the three men tethered the horses and shoved me into the shed. There was barely room to sit. I perched on an over-turned barrel and mulled over my situation. I was not about to show how truly frightened I was. The door of the shed suddenly opened, almost pushing me from my perch. A hand grabbed my bonds and I was dragged from the shed and set back up on the grey mare.

It was now dark, but a full moon lit up the icy surface of the river. The lights of Ogdensburgh were little sparks flickering on the other side of the river. Muttering softly to the horses, the men proceeded across the ice on foot, carefully one after another. Sometimes the ice seemed to crack where the surface had warmed at bit and melted in the sun, refreezing when the temperature dropped. I was nervous on the grey as I was terrified the ice would crack open beneath his hooves and I would be drowned. No one would ever know what had happened to me. Then I shook myself free of such imaginations and concentrated on keeping warm. There was a wind blowing a sharp icy spray of snow that stung my cheeks. My feet were numb in my leather boots.

Our progress was slow, but steady and silent, except for the occasional curse when the ice made a particularly loud cracking noise. It seemed we were all jumpy. A few feet from shore, the ice was thinning and it gave way under the weight of the grey. I didn’t even have time to scream and my gag prevented it anyhow. Down we plunged into the numbing St. Lawrence. I don’t know how, but I managed to hold onto the grey’s pommel and reins and somehow the horse was able to swim to shore. There she struggle up the bank and I was plucked off her back shivering and dripping. I was prodded up the embankment. My clothes were sodden and felt like they were freezing to my body. My boots iced up more and more with each step. Finally, we reached a small log home, where the door was opened quickly and I was pushed right in.

Bourke seemed to be in command, as he told the O’Meara’s to look after the horses, especially the shuddering grey.

“Hey,who’s this here lad?” asked a harsh voiced man with a foul smelling pipe in his teeth. “Ya never told me about no lad.”

“It’s the O’Meara’s sister. There’s been a change in plan, Harry. She overheard us talkin’ so her she is.”

“If she’s their sister, why is she all trussed up?” asked Harry suspiciously.

“She don’t agree with their politic, is why. She’s a bloody royalist,” said the American. “She’ll need warmin’ up after her swim in the river.”

“Oh my heavens, Harry, don’t keep her standing and shivering there. Come here, girl. I’ll take care of you.”

Harry with the pipe had a wife who clucked sympathetically and bustled me off behind a thick cloth curtain to change out of my wet clothes. She gave me a drink of sweet brandy to drink. I gagged on the fire of it as it burned down my throat. She untied my hands and helped me out of my father’s wet coat, his trousers and my icy petticoat. I wanted to tell her the true nature of my abduction, but my teeth were chattering. She rubbed me down with a rough towel and brought me one of her own woolen robes to slip into. Then she sat me down in front of the warm hearth with a bowl of hot stew.

The American, Bourke, I heard his name mentioned, didn’t stay long enough to eat.

“I’m going ahead to Ogdensburgh ta meet with the Major. The O’Meara’s will stay with the horses in the stable. They will be takin’ their sister ta the Major tomorrow. Just keep her hands tied and bed her on the cot near the hearth. Then she won’t make no trouble.”

Harry’s wife put some food in a satchel for Bourke and he left. After I had eaten my fill, Mrs. Harry apologized and re-tied my hands, tucking me into bed on the hearthside cot. She muttered to her husband about how she didn’t approve of my treatment, but go no satisfactory agreement from him. I did not sleep well.

The candle is guttering down and dusk has come. I will finish this another day soon.

Lovingly, Adeline

A Hymn for Father’s Day

I wrote this hymn eleven years ago in honour of my parents, Elizabeth and Bill Pearce. My mom heard it sung in our church several times and I sang it at her funeral. It expresses how much we need God and some of the ways in which He touches our lives.

O God, I Need You

God, like a father, You take me by hand; Lead me to follow the life You have planned, Gently correct me when my way is wrong, God ,You are with me and You make me strong.

God, like a mother, You heard my first sigh; Comfort and soothe me whenever I cry. God, You are with me in joy or in pain; Always you love me and call me by name.

God, like a brother, You walk by my side; Share my delight in the world You provide. In all my struggles You take on the foe, Just as You did for me once long ago.

God, like a sister, You know the true me; Join in my laughter and my revelry. Loving, forgiving, whatever my part, My God You mend me and lift up my heart.

Thank You for family, thank You for breath. Thank You, Dear Saviour, for life beyond death. The True Direction, my Ultimate Goal, My God, I need You, You nourish my soul.

P.S. Sorry for the extra indents everyone. They are not intentional. I have tried to align the lines but they just won’t behave for me. M.P.M.

What Kind of King?

What Kind of King?

What kind of king has a crown of thorns,

A borrowed robe and a court that scorns?

What kind of king has no retinue,

No army of might, no jeweled shoe?

What kind of king is so humble and meek

That he washed the dirt from other folks’ feet?

What kind of king heals the deaf and lame,

The sick and downtrodden with nothing to gain?

What kind of king claims no kingdom on earth,

But promises all a holy re-birth?

What kind of king is nailed to a cross

And loses his clothes when dice are tossed?

What kind of king dies in terrible pain,

Is buried, mourned and rises again?

What kind of king forgives and forgets

Even sins we haven’t committed yet?

What kind of king promises hope and love

And eternal life in a realm above?

The King that created all life from the start,

Is my Lord, Jesus Christ, the King of my heart.

Doggedly Doggerel

I enjoy writing poetry which most would call doggerel. I write other poetry as well, but I like writing rhyming verse just for sheer fun. Here is one I wrote for a magazine issue with a pirate theme.

Buried Treasure

There was an old sailor who told the tale Of a dark pirate ship without a sail. This ghostly vessel was ever at sea But not always seen by you or by me. He said if I followed the moon at night My eyes would see a mysterious sight. A ship would appear, all battered and worn, With skeleton crew and captain forlorn. Forever they’d search the ocean wide, Looking for treasure tossed over the side. In the deepest part of the watery main Where guppies play and octopus reign, Is an iron chest locked with silver key, Full of pretty jewels and gold money. The fish swim over it every day Where whales serenade and sea horses neigh.

The old sailor winked when he told me his yarn, And showed me a map he had under his arm. “Here’s the very spot where it sank. It’s better than silver you’ve got in the bank.” The sailor was smart, my he was clever! Now, like the ship, I’m searching forever!

Woman Vs. Machine

I always thought that machines were made to lighten a person’s work load and free up time for leisure. No one explained to us in Home Economics classes that a piece of machinery has a mind of its own. Of course, I didn’t know then that I would eventually have four children, a dog (or two), live in the country and have to deal with country plumbing. When I speak of country plumbing, I mean the sort that relies on well water and electricity to work. Urban plumbing simply requires a water supply that works on gravity and usually comes from a central pumping station. Country living depends on a well and a pump that rumbles and gyrates on a cinder block base in the cellar. Everything is just fine as long as the pump is working and the pump works as long as the power supply keeps coming which is a moot point if the machine in question is in top shape.

My first bone of contention upon moving to the country was the fact that gravity was no operating in my favour. Our washing machine was down in our brand new basement along with something called a sump pump. The sump pump moves the excess water (rain or snow melt or just ground water) out from under the house and into the ditch. I was supposed to keep an ear cocked for excessive pump action which could mean that our basement was flooding and the pump was being over-worked.

At first I assumed the sudsy water would just go into the drain and end up in the ditch. O no, no, no! Things were not that simple. Washing water, flushed water, bath water, and dish water were destined to take a downward journey from the upstairs floor and an upward journey from the cellar out to a tank buried in the ground. This tank got pumped out at least every two years, a smelly operation carried out by a large pumper truck. Getting water to flow down is no problem, but getting water pumped up from my washing machine required a third pump, one that sat beside my washer. That pump became the bane of my existence and was called some very colourful names and threatened regularly with bodily harm.

Hearing became an important sense for country survival. Not only was I listening for the particular telephone ring that was our party-line sequence, I was also listening for the for the sound of pumps. The regular operation of the sump pump and the well pump were essential, and even more necessary was the sound of the washing machine because, should I not hear the change i in it’s tone indicating the beginning of the rinse cycle, I wouldn’t get to the the pump switch before the deep washing sink overflowed onto the basement floor. Then I would have to spend some time in my rubber boots, sweeping water down to the floor drain. Because of four noisy children, a barking dog (or two) and my forgetfulness, our basement floor got washed on a regular basis. I spent a great deal of time in my rubber boots.

Washing machines come in all sizes. Ours was a commercial size with room enough, according to the advertisement to do the muddy laundry of a football team in the spring. I beg to differ. If I loaded towels and a couple of sheets into the tub, our washing machine set up a racket that would rival a cement mixer. It would dance a jig a leprechaun would envy and twist better than Chubby Checker ever did. Again, I would run down to the basement to placate the angry beast by opening it up and trying to level the load. It usually took me three tries to end its temper tantrum. I began to think living in a nudist colony had great attraction.

I remember being taught how to fold laundry properly in Home Ec and I used to love ironing clothes when I lived at home with my parents. I would make neat piles and hang all the shirts up on hangers so that the newly pressed collars and sleeves wouldn’t get crushed. Now, I just rushed down to the washing machine and flung everything into the drier that wasn’t going out on the line. Then, if I timed it just right, I could run down to the drier as soon as it stopped and not have to iron at all. I did a lot of running up and down stairs in those days. On the days I won the race, my husband didn’t have to wear wrinkled shirts.

Three stellar laundry days stand out in my memory. The first was the day we got a water sensitive drain that tripped the pump switch as soon as the water drained. That was real freedom. The second, was the day when our upstairs laundry room was completed and our machines came upstairs for good. No longer did I have to carry the laundry baskets up and down. The third day was the day our teenage children complained about the lack of clean clothes in their drawers. The light bulb went on over my head and a beatific smile spread over my face.

“Come with me ,” I beckoned them one by one. ” It’s time I introduced you to the washing machine and dryer.”

As they backed gingerly away from the manic gleam in my eyes, I closed the laundry room door and launched into the basics of Student Laundry 101.

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