The Lansdowne Letters: Damn. Damn. Damn.

My father wrote faithfully, almost every day
from Lansdowne House in Northern Ontario.

Even when Dad thought
his day was humdrum,
he drew our family in with his stories
of life in a place so different
from our grandmother's home
in Smith's Cove, Nova Scotia.

On Thursday, September 22, 1960
he wrote:

"Well, here I am again 
at the same old stand.

You certainly don’t 
have to worry 
about me running off anywhere.






This will be the last section of this week’s edition, 
because tomorrow is mail day, 
and I have to get it over to the post office 
to make sure that it gets out tomorrow on schedule.

I sure hope that there are lots of letters for me tomorrow.  
One whole week is a long time to wait between mails, 
and it would be an awful disappointment 
if there were no letters.  

I can sometimes sneak 
a letter or two out at other times, 
like I did last week, 
by asking the pilots of the various planes 
that drift in here during the week 
to mail letters for me.

  Bush Plane ~ Noorduyn Norseman CF-FQI

Wikimedia

However, they are doing this 
merely as a service 
and accept no responsibility 
for the letters if they are lost.  
After all, it isn’t a regular mail run.

We had company at the Father’s last night.  
A pilot for Superior Airways out of Armstrong 
was forced down here by bad weather 
and had to tie his plane up in the lee of the Island 
and spend the night at Lansdowne.

He and the fellow with him 
ate and spent the night at the Father’s.  
I didn’t try to finish this letter and get it out with him, 
because the regular mail run will be going out tomorrow, 
and you will be expecting a nice long letter on that run.

Chicago Bill ~ Bush Pilot

More than once CB was forced to spend the night at the R. C. Mission

or on the couch in our home in the forestry building in Lansdowne House.
© M. Louise (MacBeath) Barbour/Fundy Blue
All Rights Reserved

When I come out in the spring, 
I am liable to be talking with a shattered syntax 
and an accent that is a combination of French and Ojibway.  

There is no one up here 
except the DOT boys and their wives 
that speak anything approaching perfect English, 
and I find myself slipping into 
the broken English of the Indians 
or the French Canadian version 
used by the Father and the Brother.  

Their English isn’t too bad actually, 
but they do have a pronounced accent 
and, at times, a rather unique grammatical construction.  

Also, I am liable to be like the Indian teacher 
that went outside for her summer vacation and had a flat tire.  

She got out, 
looked at the tire, 
and said, 
“Oh. Oh. Oh.  
Look.  Look.  Look.  
Damn.  Damn.  Damn.”  

She was so used to saying everything 
over several times for the Indian children 
that she started talking that way herself.
  
And you really do have to repeat yourself a lot, 
because there is really a terrific language barrier.

Well, it appears that I am running out of news 
and anything else to say.
  
Today has been very humdrum.  
I didn’t fall out of the canoe, 
get aground on any rocks, 
or have any other misadventures.  

A humdrum day is much more comfortable to live, 
but it sure slows up my letter writing.  
It’s an ill wind that blows no good, eh?  

I guess I will go over to the Father’s for supper 
and see if I can hear any local gossip 
that might make interesting writing and reading.

Father Ouimet and Don MacBeath

R.C. Mission, Lansdowne House, Fall 1960

© M. Louise (MacBeath) Barbour/Fundy Blue

All Rights Reserved

Bye now,
Love,
Don.

Fundy Blue signing off on her latest Northern post.