CatKins
The following story is based loosely on my Great-great-grandmother Frances Knight-Ostrom after she moved out to Cantuar, Saskatchewan at the turn of the 20th Century.
Frances sat on the front porch. Lost in thought, she never noticed the constant creek of the floorboards made by her rocker.
"Did he ever think about what he did, she thought to herself reflecting on a life gone by? Did he remember that first kiss, their gentle play, their most secret intimacies?" Her eyes closed. It was the chipping of a sparrow brought her back to her thoughts.
Frances Knight-Ostrom was not a woman to wallow in her misery. She was an up and at ‘em kind of person. Whatever life dealt her she usually took in stride. But she did have her moments.
Born into a large blended family she was seventh in a total of fifteen children that passed through their home. Not all survived but most did.
Her father was the postmaster for the hamlet of Bowmanton and she remembered handing out the mail to those that came into their home to collect it.
It was usually Elizabeth or Hannah the older half-sisters who took care of the mail, but sometimes if they were busy in the shop they would call Frances.
“Frances, fetch Mr. Bray’s mail," Elizabeth called out, "and watch the office while Hannah and I take care of the store."
The first few times she was nervous, worrying she would make a mistake and be chastised, but she caught on quickly. Each of the families had cubbyholes where their mail was placed. Should they receive a parcel too large for the cubby, a note was placed in their slot as to the whereabouts of the parcel.
When she wasn’t helping with the mail, she would clean and stock shelves as they were also the local grocer. It was generally the older girls who did this as well, but as she grew she became part of it.
“Frances. Run and fetch Mr Turk’s suit coat from father’s workshop.” The sound of Lizzie's voice echoed in her head.
Mr. Knight not only tended 200 acres but was also the local tailor. Not much time for idle hands in their household.
Her thoughts then turned to the day he came into the post office. A tall young man with his hat tilted to one side. She remembered thinking him rather brash as he never removed it. His smile and his familiar ways confirmed it.
When they made eye contact he captured her immediately. It was as if he could see right into her soul. She felt a warm flush and then said. “May I help you?”
“Sim Ostrom. I am here for the mail. Anything for Gideon Ostrom?”
Frances shuffled through the mail slots, her lack of confidence apparent as if it was her first time. Sim reached over her shoulder and pointed out the slot, brushing against her shoulder. He had her attention from that moment on.
They courted for a short time and married in January 1881. The first child arrived just four months later. Her parents were less than pleased.
Ten years and five children later found Frances abandoned, living with her parents in the east end of Toronto and doing peoples laundry to pay her way. Her handsome prince had left for parts unknown and never returned.
Nodding off for a moment she was brought back with a start as the voice of her granddaughter startled her.
“Gran, tell me the story of the pussy willows.”
Frances' granddaughter was so much like her own daughter had been at that age, pretty and inquisitive but demanding as well. She wore her name well having been named after both mother and grandmother. When little Fan wanted something; she wanted it immediately.
“Well dear, it goes something like this. Do you know how the pussy willow got its name?”
“Don’t spoil it Gran. Tell me, tell me the whole story.”
“Its not long, and not difficult. Why don’t you tell it to me.”
With that little Frances began the story. “There was this beautiful grey kitty, who had lost her babies. She cried and cried but they could not be found. She finally went down by the river calling for them. To her surprise there they were but they had fallen into the creek and were drowning.”
“So what on earth did she do then Fan?”
“Oh Gran! The mommy kitty started to howl. What else could she do? And then, hearing her cries the huge willow tree next to the river bent down its branches to the water.”
“How lucky she was for that willow,” her grandmother replied.
“ Well yes and no, Gran. The kittens climbed up on the branches but there they stayed, stuck. And that is how we came to have pussy willows.”
“That is it Fan. Now run along and find your brother, Edgar. Make sure he is not near the river. Let your old Gran rest.”
She watched as the child ran off in search of her little brother. She remarked again how like her mother she was. Her Fannie was just nine when they moved to the Toronto from the Northumberland Hills. Before that she had run free in the country just as her granddaughter did now. There were no hills here though like in Bowmanton. Cantuar, Saskatchewan was flat for as far as the eye could see.
"Did he ever think about what he did, she thought to herself reflecting on a life gone by? Did he remember that first kiss, their gentle play, their most secret intimacies?" Her eyes closed. It was the chipping of a sparrow brought her back to her thoughts.
Frances Knight-Ostrom was not a woman to wallow in her misery. She was an up and at ‘em kind of person. Whatever life dealt her she usually took in stride. But she did have her moments.
Born into a large blended family she was seventh in a total of fifteen children that passed through their home. Not all survived but most did.
Her father was the postmaster for the hamlet of Bowmanton and she remembered handing out the mail to those that came into their home to collect it.
It was usually Elizabeth or Hannah the older half-sisters who took care of the mail, but sometimes if they were busy in the shop they would call Frances.
“Frances, fetch Mr. Bray’s mail," Elizabeth called out, "and watch the office while Hannah and I take care of the store."
The first few times she was nervous, worrying she would make a mistake and be chastised, but she caught on quickly. Each of the families had cubbyholes where their mail was placed. Should they receive a parcel too large for the cubby, a note was placed in their slot as to the whereabouts of the parcel.
When she wasn’t helping with the mail, she would clean and stock shelves as they were also the local grocer. It was generally the older girls who did this as well, but as she grew she became part of it.
“Frances. Run and fetch Mr Turk’s suit coat from father’s workshop.” The sound of Lizzie's voice echoed in her head.
Mr. Knight not only tended 200 acres but was also the local tailor. Not much time for idle hands in their household.
Her thoughts then turned to the day he came into the post office. A tall young man with his hat tilted to one side. She remembered thinking him rather brash as he never removed it. His smile and his familiar ways confirmed it.
When they made eye contact he captured her immediately. It was as if he could see right into her soul. She felt a warm flush and then said. “May I help you?”
“Sim Ostrom. I am here for the mail. Anything for Gideon Ostrom?”
Frances shuffled through the mail slots, her lack of confidence apparent as if it was her first time. Sim reached over her shoulder and pointed out the slot, brushing against her shoulder. He had her attention from that moment on.
They courted for a short time and married in January 1881. The first child arrived just four months later. Her parents were less than pleased.
Ten years and five children later found Frances abandoned, living with her parents in the east end of Toronto and doing peoples laundry to pay her way. Her handsome prince had left for parts unknown and never returned.
Nodding off for a moment she was brought back with a start as the voice of her granddaughter startled her.
“Gran, tell me the story of the pussy willows.”
Frances' granddaughter was so much like her own daughter had been at that age, pretty and inquisitive but demanding as well. She wore her name well having been named after both mother and grandmother. When little Fan wanted something; she wanted it immediately.
“Well dear, it goes something like this. Do you know how the pussy willow got its name?”
“Don’t spoil it Gran. Tell me, tell me the whole story.”
“Its not long, and not difficult. Why don’t you tell it to me.”
With that little Frances began the story. “There was this beautiful grey kitty, who had lost her babies. She cried and cried but they could not be found. She finally went down by the river calling for them. To her surprise there they were but they had fallen into the creek and were drowning.”
“So what on earth did she do then Fan?”
“Oh Gran! The mommy kitty started to howl. What else could she do? And then, hearing her cries the huge willow tree next to the river bent down its branches to the water.”
“How lucky she was for that willow,” her grandmother replied.
“ Well yes and no, Gran. The kittens climbed up on the branches but there they stayed, stuck. And that is how we came to have pussy willows.”
“That is it Fan. Now run along and find your brother, Edgar. Make sure he is not near the river. Let your old Gran rest.”
She watched as the child ran off in search of her little brother. She remarked again how like her mother she was. Her Fannie was just nine when they moved to the Toronto from the Northumberland Hills. Before that she had run free in the country just as her granddaughter did now. There were no hills here though like in Bowmanton. Cantuar, Saskatchewan was flat for as far as the eye could see.
