Five
Woodstock
“Van Ave., as it is now commonly called, has always been considered as ‘the Avenue’ and to live on the Avenue was the final step up the social ladder of the elite of Woodstock at the turn of the century. A glance down the list of residents turns up a fair collection of doctors, lawyers, merchants, gentlemen and town and county officials. The owners of these homes engaged many servants including gardeners, parlour maids and kitchen help. Yes, it was something to live on the Avenue.”[1]
January 1904
Mary walked down Vansittart Avenue with an address carefully handwritten on Mrs. B.’s fine Wedgwood Blue stationery. She felt certain that the people living on this beautiful tree-lined street were very, very rich. She did stay with the Thompsons two months, then took a job as a parlour maid down the street, and by early May was ready to move on again. After finding it so hard to say goodbye to Mrs. B., Mary vowed she wouldn’t get that attached to people.
Her next job was as a nanny for the Heppletons for $10.50 a month plus room and board. Mr. Heppleton was a well-respected jeweller on Dundas Street. In Mary’s free time, which didn’t usually amount to much, she loved to leaf through Mrs. Heppleton’s Eaton’s catalogue. “Widely circulated across the country, the Eaton’s catalogue was referred to as ‘the wishing book’ by struggling families. You could have your goods delivered quite cheaply by freight to your nearest railroad station, or sent by mail at a cost of sixteen cents per pound. Five cents extra guaranteed safe delivery.”[2]
Mary tried to imagine herself in an Irish linen skirt worth $1.75 or a printed duck shirtwaist suit. Shirtwaists (blouses today) were one of the first widely sold affordable ready-made items ranging in price from 65¢ to $2.25. The lined cashmere waist, available in ten colours, was the most expensive, and garments costing a $1.50 or less only came in black. “I hate black,” she said under her breath, flipping the catalogue shut.
A walk to the park over on Light Street would help her forget about the beautiful clothes that she couldn’t afford. Victoria Park was a whole city-block square with big trees around the perimeter, a large cannon at one end, a few benches, and a lot of green grass. It wasn’t a particularly pretty park but it was a quiet place where she could go to read and no one could find her to do another chore.
One of the first things Mary did when she arrived in Woodstock was to find the local library. She was given directions to the corner of Perry and Dundas. When she saw no evidence of a library, she asked an elderly lady, who pointed above a drugstore. “There it is, up there, dear. I heard it was temporary but who knows for sure,” she said as she trundled off in the opposite direction. Mary spotted the door sandwiched between two storefronts and climbed the narrow staircase to find a small room with stacks of books piled everywhere. She didn’t care what it looked like, as long as she could borrow the books. To the left of the doorway was a tidy little desk with a sign on it that said Miss M. I. Robb, Librarian. Mary wondered if the librarian’s first name was the same as hers, but had no intention of asking.
After she had read the “Library Borrowing Policy” on the wall, Mary was issued a library card. She signed two books out, the limit for a first-time borrower. As Miss Robb stamped the due date on the back of each one, it reminded Mary of the time she’d gone with Mr. Jacques to pick up their mail at the rural post office. Every article of mail had to be stamped with the day’s date and either AM or PM. She’d been fascinated watching the postmaster insert a rubber pad beneath each envelope before striking it with his cancellation hammer, creating the muted thumping sound so characteristic of the post office. Mary, only eleven at the time, thought that that job would be fun.
“Your card, Miss,” a voice said, “be sure you don’t lose it.” There was no chance that would happen for fear there might be a replacement fee.
Whenever Mary was downtown she got into the habit of going to the Market Square, a few blocks past the old post office, behind the town hall. She loved to wander under the low-lying roof and wide canopies so typical of a farmer’s market and watch people barter. Woodstock had thirty-three butchers, seven on Dundas Street and twenty-six right in the daily market. When her boots needed repair, she headed to the cobbler’s on the corner of Dundas and Wilson, two stores past the tinsmith and right beside a confectioner’s. It was a bit of a walk, but his prices were the best. If she had a little money left over, she’d cross the street to Hall’s Bakery for a raisin cinnamon bun or a gooey butter tart.
The Woodstock Post Office (city hall today) with its exterior stone carving, decorative gable trim, and a bold corner tower with four clocks was an impressive sight in 1901.
The Pettit Collection.
The town hall (museum today) was built on Finkle Street in 1853 with unique semi-circular windows and a domed cupola.
The Pettit Collection.
The market (a restaurant/theatre today) had a low roof and wide canopies, typically built for an outdoor marketplace in that era.
The Pettit Collection.
On one of Mary’s outings to the park she met Ethel Kipp, who was a few years older than herself. Ethel, daughter of Orvie L. Kipp of Kipp & Schultz Butchers on Dundas Street, had a part-time job in a ladies dress shop. The two young women became good friends, and on her day off she’d meet Ethel and they’d sit in the park and chat or go window-shopping along Dundas. Sometimes Ethel would treat her to a cone or a pastry, but Mary was careful not to take advantage of her friend’s generosity too often.
Ethel knew everyone in town and would point out important people, like John White, the town’s mayor; the newly appointed postmaster, Henry J. Finkle; and Sid Coppins, owner of the local plumbing shop. “Mr. Coppins must be a very rich man. He owns an automobile,” Ethel said. Little did she know that not only did Mr. Coppins own one of the first motor cars in town but that he would own them for almost sixty consecutive years.
Later that day Mary overheard Mrs. Heppleton talking about the new hand-pumped vacuum cleaner in the window at the King Co. down on Peel Street. “According to George King, not only will it do the job far better, he’ll stand behind his invention.”
“Why would you need one, when we’ve got a girl to do the cleaning?” asked her husband.
Mary was annoyed at his remark, but at the same time curious to see this newfangled invention that would make her job easier. She invited Ethel to go along, hoping that they’d be brave enough to go inside the shop. The girls pressed their noses against the store window to get a better look.
“I wonder how it works,” Mary said.
“Why don’t we just go in and ask?”
“They’ll never believe we can afford to buy one.”
“Why?”
“Because we look poor,” Mary replied sadly, and started to walk away. Her friend followed closely at her heels.
“Well, it’s just a dumb old vacuum cleaner, who wants one anyway?”
“I do,” she replied stubbornly, “someday when I have my own place.”
Ethel shrugged her shoulders. “Let’s get a grape soda, my treat,” and she ran ahead of her down the street towards the ice-cream parlour. While they sat at the counter sipping their sodas, Ethel suggested going to the dance hall in the Market Square on Friday night. Mary was shy and reluctant to go but finally agreed to meet Ethel in the park.
She pinned her hair up and wore her newest dress, a blue percale shirtwaist that cost eighty-five cents. Mary had never been to a dance and felt awkward until