BESTOW KINDNESSES UPON OTHERS THIS CHRISTMAS
WE'VE ALL KNOWN SOMEONE LIKE BLANCHE JACKSON……..IN THIS TOWN, AND ALL OVER GOD'S GOOD EARTH
NOTE: NOW THAT "CURIOUS; THE TOURIST GUIDE," IS ON NEWSSTANDS, I'D LIKE TO RE-PUBLISH THE CHRISTMAS COLUMN I WROTE, FOR THE READERS OF MY DAILY GRAVENHURST BLOG. IT'S A STORY ABOUT MY GRANDMOTHER. I DIDN'T KNOW HER FOR LONG, OR EVEN WELL. I CAN REMEMBER BEING AT THEIR HOUSE IN TORONTO, AND LOOKING AT HER FRAIL LITTLE BODY, IN THE HOSPITAL BED, MY GRANDFATHER STAN, INSISTED BE PLACED IN THE PARLOR, OVERLOOKING THE STREET SHE ADORED. ANY TIME WE VISITED, BEFORE HER FATAL ILLNESS, WE WERE TREATED TO INCREDIBLE DINNERS, IN HER BIG KITCHEN, AND A WONDERFUL SOCIAL TIME; AND OF COURSE THE DISTANT MUTED SOUNDS OF A VIOLIN FROM ANOTHER ROOM. STANLEY HAD PLAYED WITH VIOLINISTS FROM THE TORONTO SYMPHONY, AND IT WAS NOT UNCOMMON, ACCORDING TO MY MOTHER, TO HAVE A PARLOR WITH A QUARTET PRACTICING ON A SUNDAY AFTERNOON. BLANCHE WAS FROM GERMAN AND DUTCH ANCESTRY, HER FAMILY WELL KNOWN IN THE RANKS OF UNITED EMPIRE LOYALISTS. MY MOTHER REMEMBERS HER GRANDMOTHER, WEARING TRADITIONAL DUTCH ATTIRE, WITH HAT, SMOKING A PIPE IN A CREAKING OLD ROCKING CHAIR, AT THE FAMILY FARM, IN TRENTON, ONTARIO. I KNOW THAT MY DEAR GRANDMOTHER WOULD BE FURIOUS AT ME, FOR WRITING THIS BLOG. BUT SHE NEVER GOT TO KNOW ME AS A WRITER, SO I THINK HISTORY WILL FORGIVE ME FOR RELATING THIS STORY, SO MANY YEARS AFTER HER DEATH. SHE WAS ONE OF THOUSANDS OF KINDLY SOULS IN TORONTO, IN THE WIDER ONTARIO AND CANADA, DURING THE GREAT DEPRESSION, AND FOR YEARS AFTER, WHO ALWAYS HAD A LITTLE EXTRA FOOD, AND WARM CLOTHING, FOR THE MANY TRANSIENTS WHO WANDERED FROM CITY TO TOWN LOOKING FOR WORK…..OR THOSE WHO RODE THE RAILS. SHE IS ONLY EXTRAORDINARY BECAUSE SHE WAS MY KIN FOLK. BUT IT IS A FAMILY STORY THAT HAS INSPIRED ME ALL MY LIFE…..AND POSSIBLY, IF SHE IS WATCHING OVER MY SHOULDER FROM THE GREAT BEYOND, SHE WILL FORGIVE MY TRANSGRESSIONS, FOR TELLING THIS STORY TO YOU.
She would not have understood being called a remarkable person. Being called an angel? Sure, as long as the compliment came from her husband, or children. It wouldn't have crossed her mind, that those routine culinary efforts were extraordinary whatsoever, helping those hungry men, who showed up regularly at the back door looking for a hot meal. Her house, you see, had become known amongst transients, in those days of economic depression, as a friendly place, with a kindly matron, who would gladly feed the homeless. And there were many. Some weeks, way too many!
My grandmother had just enough height to hover above the stove-top, and the pot steaming with stew. It wasn't Christmas dinner. But it was food that "stuck to your ribs," as the hobos and unemployed wanderers used to say, after they'd finished a big bowl in Blanche Jackson's country kitchen.
My father took a photograph of me, back in the very early sixties, standing with my grandfather Stanley, a Toronto builder and violinist, and his wife, my grandmother, Blanche, who even then was only about six inches taller than her grandson, then six or seven years of age. Stanley was a mountain of a man in his heyday, but Blanche, as I remember her, was a tiny, feisty, in-charge wife and mother. Her height never interfered with her ability to wield a wooden spoon, upon the behinds of her six kids, to regain household order and protocol. The many homeless men, who sat around the big kitchen table, on cold winter nights, knew the same about Blanche Jackson. She had enormous resolve, to help those who needed it most, but the house rules applied to everyone. Whether you were there as a guest, overnight, or just attending for a nourishing meal, before heading down the road again.
I heard lots of stories about Blanche, from my mother, especially about her policies regarding christian discipline, and her unshakable adherence to strict moral values. By my mother Merle's admission, the six Jackson kids "were no angels." "She had it tough looking after us, and the Depression years were especially hard on her, because she was feeding more than just her kin, and our father wasn't getting too much work then," Merle explained. "There were times when there were lots of people in our kitchen, but only one was related to us. She became mother to a lot more than just her kids."
I start planning this Christmas season column, for "Curious; The Tourist Guide," a month in advance. I would commence, as is my usual protocol, of sitting down here in my office-archives, at Birch Hollow, and typing out a couple of rough drafts of stories I think might suit the year's Christmas issue. This season's greeting, to our readers and advertisers, wasn't coming as easily as in previous years. I suppose there was a lot on my mind, as I've been working on other writing projects recently, dealing with the plight of the modern-day homeless, and financially disadvantaged, suffering in our region.
In the past decade, I've always been able to find some curious story, bit of inspiring biography, such as the story of artist-missionary, Ada Florence Kinton, (in Muskoka for Christmas in the 1880's), or an obscure historical essay, from my archives of reference material, that would inspire a new and insightful column. This year, for once, I fumbled about, looking for a story that would be unique, uplifting, nostalgic but mindful of our precarious modern times. I must admit, being truly stuck this autumn season. The ongoing news of unemployment, and struggling families, the stresses on local food banks, and an increasing need for social assistance, tripped me up. When folks have financial difficulties, and can't see a light at the end of the proverbial tunnel, reading some hollow, adjective-laden, uninspiring Christmas story, would be a waste of my time, and frankly, yours! The paper's all important open space, required a better column, to reflect the concerns of the times, yet exude, in print, the true joy and magic of the season.
This morning, in preparation for a long session at the keyboard, I knew a few moments ahead of time, that it was going to be necessary to re-visit the old days, but not for frivolous reasons. As if my mother had passed a message from the other side, heaven hopefully, I could so clearly then, visualize my diminutive grandmother, spoon in hand, dishing out steaming soup to her company of gents, huddled around the kitchen table, in the house Stan had built with his own hands. I thought about the way this kindly soul, would insist that the men come into the warm kitchen for their meal. She refused to let them take her good, hot food outside where it would get cold. There were exceptions, if the person at the back door, was fearful because of previous bad experiences with authority. Her rule, other than conduct becoming to a christian household, was that each visitor "wash-up" before sitting at the table.
Merle told me that there was always an "Everything Stew," on the stove, in those days, ready for the dinner hour rush. The "everything" aspect, involved the leftovers that always found a use in the big metal pot, that could be drawn into active service quickly, when need arose. Blanche saw the hardship of humanity up-close. She heard terrible stories of loss and tragedy. How families had lost their employment, their money, homes, and even their families. Many of the guests were hobos, who had been riding the rails for years, and knew from mates onboard, and in the hobo jungles, that Blanche Jackson's Toronto house, always had hot food, and lots of it……and you were welcome as long as "you didn't use the Lord's name in vain." Or you'd get the spoon on a fleshy part of your body. Not on the head, of course. Some of the men never lifted their heads, or offered to talk, even after a warming supper. They had experienced suffering most of us today, couldn't imagine. Others were eager to chat, as their travels were lonely and the solitude of nature, where they spent most of their hours, could be debilitating on many levels. They had considerable respect for this tiny woman, who could dart from stove to table as if her feet weren't actually touching the floor.
The hobos, in particular, would insist on doing chores for the food they received, although they seemed relieved there was no labors required as repayment. There were days however, Blanche had a list of household projects to bestow, on those who didn't want to accept charity. They insisted on working off the cost of the dinner. I would like to have been in that Jackson house, to see my grandmother in action, presiding over that occupied kitchen. All five feet of the undaunted, stalwart woman, who saw christian duty as heavenly…..and not really work at all. To see how she made those weary and depressed travelers, and the homeless, feel better about themselves, after being cleaned-up, and then well fed, would, I think, have been inspirational. Blanche even kept a store of old and reliable clothing and footwear, just in case someone came through that back door, with torn attire on a bitterly cold December day. She could sew, so it was often the case, Blanche stopped ladling soup and stew, to take up the needle and thread, to repair a torn coat or pair of trousers. There were dozens of other families, providing the same benevolence within several surrounding neighborhoods. Everybody was touched by the Depression years. Most knew all about hardships. My grandfather built a Church in the Avenue Road area, and the directorship of the congregation, accepted the keys, and then informed him, they had no money to pay for the work and materials. It didn't halt Blanche's work to feed the needy. She just stretched what she did have, over the weeks and months it took to recover from the financial loss. It did however, stop my grandfather from ever attending church in Toronto again. As a matter of irony, Stanley Jackson died on the stairs of a church in St. Petersburg ,Florida, in the early 1970's.
Blanche didn't operate a soup kitchen for the poor. She just did what the family could afford, without starving themselves. "My parents always found a way to feed us, and them, but I don't know how they did it," Merle explained. "They just couldn't turn those in need away. She was just resourceful as a home cook, and nothing edible went to waste….especially good soup bones." Blanche Jackson was one of thousands of kindly folks, back then, who opened their homes to the destitute, because it was the right thing to do for humanity. It is still being done today, somewhat differently, but generosity remains in full vigor at regular, weekly dinners at local churches, in addition to service club initiatives, and food bank provisions, for those who find themselves in dire consequences. Blanche was just one person in the real social net, of a caring society, that was never recognized by a statistical accounting. Let's just say, it was off the record, as far as a public service, but a warm reality, for those who knew, by word of mouth, Blanche Jackson's kitchen could save your life.
When I hear the evening news, and scan through the daily newspaper, and consult our community weekly, I continue to be distressed, by the increasing number of folks in our nation, province and region, facing bleak futures, just as was the case in those dark days of the Great Depression. In some ways, I wonder what Charles Dickens would sense about today's hardships, as compared to those in the early 1800's, of old England. I think the moral outcome would be the same however, that it should be resolved amongst us all, "that mankind is our business." "Their common welfare is our business," as he penned in dialogue, for Ebeneezer Scrooge's business partner, Jacob Marley, for his death-bed confession, about how, in moral consequence, they should have acted in life. Kindness as a virtue, versus business success at all cost.
I hope this Christmas, as with all those festive seasons in the past, you can find an opportunity, to lend assistance to those in need. As Dickens so poignantly noted, it is at Christmas, when need is so keenly felt. But often obscured by seasonal revelry. There are food banks that need your help. Free dinner clubs, that generously provide sustenance to those who are hungry, and without resources to buy the groceries they need…..for Christmas dinner, or any dinner at all. There are those who are poorly outfitted, without winter clothing, to deal with their unfortunate homelessness, and the bitter realities of a Canadian winter; and youngsters who will find nothing at all beneath the Christmas tree, once again this year. Our social agencies and charitable organizations, that do such wonderful work in our communities, desperately need your assistance. If my grandmother had survived to this new era, she would be working away in her kitchen, on the soup of the day.
The only message I have for this Christmas, other than to wish everyone a wonderful holiday season, is to "think kindly of our neighbors, and our communities, and offer help where it is needed, as a sincere exercise of goodwill on earth." Look in on folks you haven't seen for a while, just to make sure they're okay. Possibly you can spare a few coins, for the Salvation Army Christmas campaign, or offer a donation of items to the food bank near you. Maybe offer to help with a community kitchen initiative, to provide free Christmas dinners, to those who would otherwise do without. An act of kindness is always a good investment in the well being of humanity.
My grandmother would take her spoon to me, for making her the subject of this Christmas column. She would be furious that her act of commonplace, which it was for the time and circumstance, would be considered something special. Blanche Jackson didn't do it for any gain, other than meeting her own life and family commitment; to share with others, and bestow compassion and kindness where it would have the best possible outcome. Some of her visitors, in that big country kitchen, weren't as hungry, as they were lonely and desolate souls. She knew this, and for a temporary period, Blanche became their mother-figure as well. She listened to their stories of hardship and loss, and never judged them, or preached her religious views. Unless you cussed. You got a warning or two before the spoon struck the top of your arm with a loud snap. She didn't convert them, but then she never made this a priority. But when they left her kitchen, on those occasions, (some visited frequently), they always wrapped their arms around the tiny woman with the big wooden spoon, as if they were her family too…..and in a way, they were. Merle told me, that quite a few of these men, came to the house, in later years, having turned their lives around, and found jobs, just to say thanks to the woman with the "Everything Stew," and such a kind heart. But as she used to tell me, "I know what's good for you……eat your peas!" I always did!
Thanks once again, for joining me at my Birch Hollow hearthside, on this cold November day. I appreciate your ongoing support. Please join me over the next month, for my Christmas Sketches of Gravenhurst which are official launched tomorrow. Farewell for now.
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