ADA FLORENCE KINTON CAPTURED THE ESSENCE OF PIONEER LIVING IN CANADA

By Ted Currie

As hard as I might try, looking out at the beautiful ferns and wildflowers of The Bog, this bright June morning, I simply can't arrive at any creative parallel, as a wordsmith, to the descriptions once penned by Ada Florence Kinton, detailing so poignantly, the Muskoka she witnessed, in the 1880's. Ada wrote as if she was painting a unique, fantastic scene that she wanted us to experience for ourselves. Her descriptions were clever manipulations of the senses, and when she wrote her impressions of the wind and spiraling snowfall, it is very much the case you begin feeling the chill air, and detect a faint, nostalgic scent of woodsmoke from the kitchen stove. Where we might be huddled to watch the final toll of spring storm upon the landscape.

Her journal affords the reader the liberties of smelling freshly baked bread, and the imagined taste of maple syrup and fresh butter, upon a fluffy stack of hot pancakes. It's what writer's aspire to do, for their readers. While I fail to do justice to the same, this untrained writer-kind, created a landmark journal I have come to cherish, for its brilliant illumination of even the dullest, most threatening winter day. Inspiring the watcher to celebrate each moment of each day, and enjoy the dynamics of the world in which we dwell.

As you are sitting on the patio, or in a quaint little restaurant courtyard, lounging on the back deck, or sitting out on the dock listening to the loons, if you're feeling a tad warm and would like a wee chill to the air, I've got a story that will take you back to March. March 1883 actually. Huntsville, Ontario. And we will meet up with artist Ada Florence Kinton, in this latest installment of the multi-column series. It's nice to read about March from the comforts of July.

The pioneer artist, who had only recently arrived in Canada, after the death, in England, of her father (her mother had died some years earlier) Ada took up temporary residence with her brother's family in the pioneer hamlet of Huntsville, situated in the northern climes of the District of Muskoka. The painter, who would later become a well known and respected missionary with the Salvation Army, and both writer and illustrator for the "War Cry," publication, took many forays into the thick woodlands surrounding the settlement, to sketch the flora and fauna, and the wildlife she encountered. We resume her journal on March 12th, 1883.

"Second day of Wiggin's Storm. Seven a.m. Bright, soft, light morning. Pale, thin blue mists creeping up the hillside, veiling the trees halfway up in horizontal lines, and the smoke from the village chimneys crossing at right angles in steady, perpendicular streaks. Multitudes of downey oblique clouds covering the sweet azure sky, only leaving little peeps here and there, and icy river mottled with snow and shot with yellow and purple and blue, but very delicately, and all over a general pearly atmospheric effect, tender and soft."

"March 17th. More snow in the night over forest and river. Sun rising cloudily with subdued light above Conn's bluff. Concert at the grist mill last night," writes Miss Kinton. "Nine-thirty p.m. Silent night, but in the night no black darkness like in England; only deep twilight, the snowflakes descending softly, gently, lovingly on the pale untrodden snow, shadowless and windswept, and around and above only the white mist of the coming flakes as they fall between here and the quiet mountain and the bush, and the distant shore of the lake. All encircling the house in a faint, mild, neutral, grey dome, and a sort of patterning swish on the window, and a murmuring wind blustering against the house, and a rush in the stove pipe - the meeting of the draught from the stove, and the wind. And a glimpse down the hill of the ice-prisoned river."

She writes, "Eleven-thirty p.m. It is getting stormier. Now the lights are all going out in the village, and all the fences around the place and the bits of shrub and rosebush are the only signs of past summer to be seen, standing out sharp and dark against the whitening ground; and the winds begin to howl and wail. Everyone's to bed but me, and there's nothing to be heard but the winds and the tick of the clock and the sound of burning wood. Boxer (the dog) is enfolded in a deep snoreless sleep, the sleep of a dog who has patiently borne to be pummeled and squeezed all day, to have his tail hung on to by two babies and his wavy hair hugged by a third. A rest deserving dog - and so he sleeps in peace. Sunday morning. Not Sunday morning at home (England). with prayer-meeting at seven o'clock, over the water and through the fog; but Sunday morning in Muskoka, Canada, with breakfast at ten and bright fragrant daylight. One relishes daylight here after the valley of the Thames. The morning is sweet. Sometimes she gets up blue, and sometimes she gets up saffron. But I think I like her best when she gets up grey, like this one today, sunny grey, cloudy grey, golden grey."

"Eight-thirty. Mail from Paris and letter from Mrs. "W." Attempt to blowup houses of Parliament by dynamite (England). The children have had a little sleigh given to them by Johnnie Ecclestone, a little hand-sleigh that they drag over the carpet with great delight, and quarrel about, and tumble off in sweet content. It has been a dazzlingly brilliant day. The sun is sinking low now, and the shadows of the village are stretching out and undulating over the easily curving sides of land across the river. There are some cows down at Mr. Hooie's and sheep, and the sunbeams are so golden that the brown cows look like wall flowers and the shed like clover blossoms. The shadows are so blue and pure and delicate, and the earth has no tone taint of dust in sight; all spotless and clean. Boyo has just washed the window with a big crust of new baked bread dipped in my tea. My sunset view, of course, is rather blurred. Went for a Wordsworth, (quiet contemplation) and had a few minutes sweet peace in the rocking chair after the babies went to rest before supper. Ed suffering from an epidemic influenza, quite a sickness. Had a lovely walk in the village. The moonlight and the frosty snow make it a sort of fairy daylight, rather than night, and at every fresh footstep 10,000 little lights twinkle and tremble before you, and the trodden snow shrieks like a tin whistle."

Ada Kinton wrote in her journal, as she sketched what surrounded her. She was astute to the details of the pioneer settlement, the weather, and the appearance of the woodlands in this final intrusion of the winter seasons. Of many pioneer journals, describing this region of Ontario, Miss Kinton's is the most detailed and sensitive, and it isn't a stretch whatsoever, even as you sit on the dock listening to waves lapping against the shore, to imagine the setting surrounding that 1880's Huntsville homestead. She was keenly aware of her environs, and she sketched the scene with carefully, thoughtfully chosen words, so that we might be able to visualize what it was like then, isolated in the Ontario wilds.

Ada Kinton matured into an accomplished artist and art instructor, and after a lengthy missionary service abroad, she thoroughly immersed herself in art and writing with the Salvation Army's publication, "The War Cry." Shortly before her death, just after the turn of the century, she had returned to the Huntsville home of her brother, where she again liked to watch the comings and goings of her cherished 'little town."

The journal of Ada Florence Kinton will continue in the next issue. The multi-column series is dedicated to the Gravenhurst Food Bank, as operated by the Salvation Army, a program the artist-missionary would have approved.

Isn't July a beautiful month in our province. Get out and enjoy the bounty, the many events, celebrations and exciting opportunities for discovery.

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