Mary settled into her new home quickly. Whenever things were going well, she thought about her family. Her sisters were back in England, John had gone out west, and the last time she’d seen Will was the summer she turned eleven.
“Are we almost there?” she asked, looking up at her travelling companion with her soft blue eyes. The Reverend hoped and prayed that Will was Mary’s brother.
Upon their arrival shortly after ten in the morning, Will was called in from the barn. He was visibly shocked to discover his sister standing in front of him.
“Mary, is that really you?” he asked. His face went pale as he dropped his cap and ran to hug her tightly. Reverend Ward slipped out the kitchen door with a nod of his head and mouthed the words, “I’ll be back later.” The Lounsburys suggested that Will show his sister around so they headed for the barn. Once outside, Will wrapped his strong arms around Mary and clung to her.
For a minute neither Mary nor Will spoke. “Mary, I can’t believe it’s really you. Is this a dream? Let me look at you,” Will exclaimed, releasing his hold. He grabbed both of Mary’s hands and took one step backward as if to soak up every detail and put to memory what he saw. Mary was so overwhelmed, she never said a word. She couldn’t take her eyes off her brother.[3]
On November 26, 1895, a large, three-storey red-brick library building was opened at Queen’s Avenue and Wellington. Note a raised, moulded cement sign above the double-arched entrance saying Public Library and the small balcony above the entrance.
Ivey Family London Room, London Public Library, London, Ontario.
Mary desperately wanted to find Will. It took a great deal of courage to go to the public library and ask for help. The sign perched on top of the desk said “Robert J. Blackwell, Librarian,” but a woman was standing behind the counter. Miss Rothsay, one of many assistants, was a stern little lady with short reddish-brown hair. Once you were inside “her” library, no talking was allowed — just a whisper. Miss Rothsay told her that the government had sealed the records of Canada’s home children and “she best forget about it.” Mary thought it was more likely that she couldn’t be bothered to accommodate a young girl’s request for information.
Since she was there, she decided it would be a good opportunity to borrow a book. The public didn’t have free access to the shelves prior to 1908, which meant the staff had to retrieve the books and a certain amount of interaction was necessary. Mary was intimidated by Miss Rothsay but refused to give up her favourite pastime because of a grumpy old librarian assistant.
Sometimes on her way home she’d stop to pick up a little penny candy. She couldn’t wait to lose herself in a good book while enjoying some red licorice or a few black balls. She could never completely finish one without taking it out of her mouth periodically to check the colour, and she was convinced it was a life-long habit.
It was surprisingly quiet at 440 Maple Street considering there were six boarders living in close quarters. This was probably due to the fact that Mrs. B., a nickname that Mary came up with, insisted on clean, respectable, non-smoking adults without pets even though she had Barney. Mary got used to people coming and going but was careful not to grow too attached to anyone, since the length of a boarder’s stay was never certain.
Some were easier to get along with than others. Miss Freeman, a spinster schoolteacher, had this annoying habit of correcting everyone’s grammar. Mary waited for the day that she’d make an error herself, but it never happened. When the woman was agitated, which was a great deal of the time, she’d take one of the small tortoise-shell combs from her cropped-off, tinted red hair, which she wore straight back, and scrape her scalp vigorously. As strange a habit as this was, it seemed to calm her down.
Mary preferred Mrs. Polanski, a very sweet lady who sat in the front room and would knit for hours. She always seemed so happy and content. Harvey Langdon, who everyone nicknamed Handy Harvey, thought he was both a comedian and a repairman. All his jokes began with “Did you hear about the guy who …” and even if you nodded, he’d still tell you. When Harvey fixed one thing for Mrs. B., two more were broken. Strangely enough, she never got upset with him.
Mrs. B. was a kind, caring woman with a unique sense of humour. When someone came down with a winter cold, she’d say, “If you ignore it, it would last two weeks and if you pamper it, it would last a fortnight.”[4] She had home remedies for everything from colds, catarrh, ague, ear, and toothaches, and swore by her little “cure it all” book if barley water or consommé soup didn’t solve the problem. Here is some of the advice that she followed:
To ease the pain of a toothache, clamp your teeth on a clove.
If you had an earache, drop warm oil called electric oil in the offending ear or hold a small bag of salt, which had been heated, against the ear.
To induce a good night’s sleep, warm milk with a teaspoon of honey was the answer.
A croupy cough called for a teaspoon of sugar with turpentine dripped on the sugar.
For a bad cough, eucalyptus on the sugar was the treatment as well as the inevitable mustard plaster.[5]
Mary would have to be quite ill before subjecting herself to a mustard plaster. She remembered Mrs. Chesney preparing “a plaster” for her son Jimmy who had galloping consumption. She made a paste of mustard, flour, and lukewarm water, spread it on a piece of flannelette from an old sheet, and covered it with a layer of butter muslin. It had only been on his chest ten minutes when his skin started to blister. She seemed pleased with the results, quickly removed it, and put Vaseline on the blisters. The anguish on Jimmy’s face told a different story.
Pamphlets full of medical advice based on good intentions found themselves in people’s homes. Word of mouth was powerful advertising. It wasn’t uncommon for people to see their neighbour’s names in a hand-delivered pamphlet endorsing something to promote healthy living. That’s how Mrs. B. heard about these hard black blocks called Spanish Cream for dry mouth and a hacking cough. She’d hammer them into small pieces and was convinced the pungent little nuggets had a medicinal quality when placed under the tongue. Mary was suspicious that they were nothing more than licorice.
Mrs. B. purchased liniments from the Raleigh or Watkins man at the door but refused to buy cough medicines since honey and lemon juice were just as effective and far cheaper. She also used a product derived from the deadly nightshade family called “belladonna.” She’d put a drop in each eye if she was tired and believed that it helped her to see better. In reality, all it did was dilate her pupils.
She often shared her opinions with Mary while they prepared supper. “I think people expect Dr. Phillips to make house calls when it isn’t necessary. If he charged more than fifty cents, they’d think twice about it. He’s too nice for his own good. I’ve heard that he’s made house calls to people who couldn’t pay and he’s still their doctor. That isn’t right.” Mary knew from living on the farm that many times rural folk couldn’t pay the doctor. “I remember when one of our neighbours on the farm couldn’t pay Dr. Chesney for delivering their baby … the fifth one! They gave him chickens instead. I often wondered how they decided that little Elijah was worth three chickens,” she said and then continued peeling potatoes.
“At least your neighbours gave him something,” Mrs. B. replied. “Mary, are you feeling all right? You look peaked.”
“I’m okay, just a bit of a sore throat.”
“I want you to forget about the rest of your chores today.”
“But I haven’t dusted or swept the front room.”
“A little dust or