time travelling ... it's all about love

Last month I wrote about discovering my Aunt Margaret's autograph book and shared some gems she collected at high school. For me, the most special autographs her album were those from our family. I can't think of a better post for Valentine's Day than this one, full of their love and humour.


My favourite was inscribed by my Mom. She was much younger than Margaret, age 7 in 1930 when she wrote this. Made me giggle. I wonder what she thought it meant?

Margaret May is your name
Toronto is your station
lucky is the little boy
that makes the alterations.
 

Mom (right) and Aunt Margaret, circa 1930.
Mom used to tell me her mother put a bowl
over her head and trimmed her hair around it.
She hated the look. I can see why!
 

Another favourite is this autograph from my Uncle Ernest Osborne, Margaret's beau at time of writing. They later married and lived happily ever after. Funny thing is, I always thought of Uncle Ernest as someone who completely lived up to his name: serious, thoughtful, lacking in frivolity... especially the latter! But reading this bit of whimsy makes me think of him in a whole new light.

They strolled the lane together
The sky was studded with stars
They reached the gate in the meadow
He lifted for her the bars
She raised her brown eyes to him
For there was nothing between them now
For he was just a country boy
And she a jersey cow.

The next two are from Margaret's mother and father, my grandparents. I spent a lot of time with Grandma and Grandpa as a youngster and their familiar handwriting and wise advice really tugs at my heart.

Look up and not down
Out and not in
Forward and not back
And lend a hand. - Father

There is room for me in your album,
There is room for you in my heart,
 There is room for us both in heaven,
Where true friends never part. - Mother

Here's the family in 1941, 11 years after those autographs
were signed. Left to right: my Dad, Philip Cooke, wearing his
Irish Regiment of Canada Kilt - this must be just before he went overseas;
Aunt Margaret; Uncle Ernest; Grandma and Grandpa May.
Mom is missing so I'm sure she took the photo. (She
was famous for her unintentional head cropping!)
 

The rest of the family autographs are from aunts and uncles, some I remember but others are a mystery. Label your photos, people! And make time while you still can to talk to your elders about family history. You'll be glad you did.


Happy Valentine's Day!

time travelling ... back to the 1930s

I made the most wonderful discovery last week, while going through some of my Mom's old papers  - a small, leather-bound book with gilt-edged pages. Judging by the worn spots and scuffed corners, it had been well-loved and handled often. A single word, 'Album' was embossed in tarnished gold on the cover.

 

I opened the book, expecting to see my Mother's familiar handwriting, "this book belongs to Phyllis..." but instead found the following inscription to Mom's older sister:

 

Presented to Margaret May, member of winning team in Bowling Tournament held by Bellefair Young People's Society, Monday, January 6, 1930.

 

I turn another page and time falls away. I'm transported eighty-four years into the past, sitting in a classroom at Malvern Collegiate in Toronto with Margaret. The little leather book is new, its pastel pages clean and crisp.

 

"Psst." Tap a curly-haired girl on the shoulder and hand the book forward. "Autograph, please, and pass it on."

 

I blink and am back at my desk in 2015, turning pages, reading the thoughts and wishes of schoolgirls whose lives were just beginning. Most, like my aunt, probably passed from this world years ago. But their words, heartfelt, teasing, silly, and hopeful, live on.

 

From Theressa:
You asked me to draw but I can't
You asked me to paint but I shan't
And so to spoil the look of this autograph book
I am writing these words on a slant.

 

From Helen:
One is a friend for a reason
One is a friend for a rhyme
One is a friend for a season
But I am your friend all the time.
 

From Marion:
In the pantry of your heart,
Consider me a lemon tart.
 

A musical message from Queenie:
Never B sharp
Never B flat
Always be natural
 

From another Margaret:
Some write for fortune,
Some write for fame,
But I write simply to sign my name.
 

From Daisy:
When the gold sun is setting,
And your mind from care is free,
When of other girls your* thinking,
Won't you sometimes think of me.
(*Even back then the dreaded your vs. you're marred social media!)
 

From Melba:
To meet, to know, to love, to part
Is a sad, sad fate of a school-girl's heart.
 

And finally, the class clown makes her mark ...

From Margaret #3:
When on this page you look,
When on this page you frown,
Remember the girl who spoilt your book
By writing upside down.
 

Each of these autographs is dated February 7, 1930 - a time capsule of young women in their third year of high school. Did they marry? Have children? Write a novel? Did any of them imagine their future would include a second World War or human beings walking on the moon?

 

After graduating from Malvern Collegiate, Margaret attended Toronto Normal School (teacher's college), and collected more autographs there, as well as a few intriguing photos of her classmates which I'll post another time. Margaret married in 1940, had two sons, and lived a long and happy life in a little house in the East York area of Toronto. She collected Royal Doulton figurines and Laura Ingalls Wilder books, which are part of my library now.

 

Her little autograph book was also passed around for family signatures - I'll share some of those surprising autographs in a future post.

 

I know many people still pursue celebrity signatures, but whatever happened to personal autograph books? Does anyone collect these days? I remember having one in grade school, although I've no idea where it is now. I do recall my grade five teacher's inscription, though: "Step up the stairs, don't stare up the steps." Good advice, Mrs. Mackey. Good advice.

 

 

I Was a Human Fruitfly

There's no such thing as too many books. Unfortunately, there is such a thing as not enough shelf space. And so, with heavy heart and ruthless attitude, I've been sorting through my stacks with intent to purge. This is not a simple task. Beyond three bookcases chock-full of absolute 'keepers', there are tottering piles of books on cupboard shelves accessible only with ladder and flashlight (and dust mask); there are boxes of books on the floor of my clothes closet doing double duty as shoe display racks; there's an entire twenty-nine volume set of Braun's 'Cat Who' mysteries stowed fittingly in Sam the Cat's favourite footstool. I could go on but you're probably wondering what all this has to do with a fruitfly. Let me explain.

In one of those tottering, top-shelf piles, I discovered a book I haven't thought of in years: a 1987 memoir by Canadian scientist and environmental activist, David Suzuki. In METAMORPHOSIS, Suzuki shares the story of his early years, the impact of his family's forced relocation and internment with other Japanese-Canadians during World War II, his passion for science and research, and his growing awareness of the damage inflicted on our planet by humanity.



Sam the Cat ponders the mysteries of Metamorphosis
(because, apparently, a blog post is not complete without a cat)

I was a young mother in 1987, living what I hoped was an environmentally responsible life as a back-to-the-lander in rural Markham, Ontario. When news broke that David Suzuki would be speaking at the local Legion hall on his book tour, I was among the first in line for tickets.

The hall was filled to capacity on the evening of his visit and Dr. Suzuki spoke to a rapt and appreciative audience. What I remember most vividly about the man was his passion for his science. He fairly sparkled with enthusiasm as he told us about his early days of research, studying what he believed to be one the most remarkable and beautiful of all creatures: the lowly fruitfly.

He seemed particularly fascinated with the eyes, explaining that fruitfly genetic material can be thought of as a series of discs, each pre-programmed for a specific function. "If an eye disc is injected into a larva's gut, then when that larva becomes an adult, it will carry an eye in its abdomen." *

Suzuki gazed out at his audience. 'Oh, the eyes! If you ever have a chance to look at a fruitfly's eyes through a high-powered microscope... absolutely beautiful!' He scanned the crowd, then pointed a finger directly at me. 'You,' he said, 'lady with the red sweater. Please stand up.'

Thinking I would honestly prefer to sink right through the floor (I was extremely shy), I stood.

'This,' he said, pointing at me again, 'is a fly's eye.' The crowd and I laughed. I'm sure I blushed the colour of my red sweater, too, but Suzuki waved us all into silence.

'When you see a fruit fly in your kitchen, you probably think of it as a tiny, brown, annoying speck. But revealed by the microscope the fly's eye is a multi-faceted jewel, red and shining and every bit as bright and lovely as this lady's sweater.'

Dr. Suzuki thanked me and I subsided, feeling a bit like that fly pinned under a microscope. I don't remember much of what he said after that, but I joined the line to buy his book and waited for an autograph.

It was worth the wait.

"To the lady with the flies eyes. Best wishes - David Suzuki"

And that's the true story of how I became a fruitfly for David Suzuki. What's the strangest or most memorable book inscription you've ever received?


*Quote from METAMORPHOSIS: Stages in a Life by David Suzuki (Stoddart, Canada, 1987)