"Done What She Could"

Isabella Campbell

June 17th 1924 Aged 78 Years

SHE HATH DONE WHAT SHE COULD

My first reaction many years ago was that this was a rather demeaning epitaph, a subtle expression of reproach at not having done quite enough. Was my imagination working overtime, projecting a lack of familial warmth onto her, my great-grandmother? Or do the words indicate a fulfilment of her character? ... a life that met demands and challenges to the best of her ability? With resigned or cheerful acceptance if not creating extraordinary notice?

Did Isabella choose those words to commemorate her life? Or were they chosen by someone else to sum up a long life?

Isabella is buried with her husband, John McFadyen, in Sunnyside (Moosenose) Cemetery, in Springfield, Manitoba. Since she outlived her husband by nine years, someone else had the words engraved on the family tombstone, perhaps actually chose them. At the time of her death, neither she nor her remaining children lived in Manitoba.

Knowing this family slightly ― through reminiscences of a few grandchildren who visited ― it behoved me to revisit the New Testament. The McFadyens were strong Presbyterians of Free Church persuasion. I don't know how strict their observance of Sabbath activities was, what with farm work being necessary every day of the week, but every Sunday the family gathered at the dining room table to have Bible readings. No-one was excused.

Mark 14:6-8 (King James Version) ―

She hath wrought a good work on me. ...
She hath done what she could; she is come aforehand to anoint my body to the burying.

On the day when the Last Supper would occur, a wealthy woman approached Jesus and anointed him with the full measure of her very precious spikenard oil. The onlookers were saying what a waste; if she had sold it instead, it would have provided for many poor people that Jesus cared about. But Jesus rebuked them; she simply brought what she had at hand and honoured him with all of it. Most of all, her anointing unknowingly served a higher purpose: traditional preparation for his impending death and burial.

The thing about Bella, as she was known, was the raising of ten children when I expect she also did everything daily required of a farmer's wife. Not unusual for her time and place. She lived through the deaths of two sons and one daughter, the latter whom had Down Syndrome. When her children scattered and the family farms were sold, she stayed with her youngest daughter Barbara in Vancouver where she died. By and large, an "ordinary" life.

No doubt Barbara consulted her sisters for an appropriate epitaph (not everyone on the family stone has one). How would I interpret that for Isabella? Perhaps she clearly gave all she had to each mundane task. Perhaps she consistently "made do" in any situation with modest means. Perhaps her children felt she was a model of hard work and Christian teaching. I will never know for certain, but re-thinking an epitaph can be a lesson.

© 2015 Brenda Dougall Merriman

The Book of Me (6)

The Book of Me as Written by You Me has its rewards. Above all it keeps me from noticing how I've lapsed on things genealogical. While I struggle with delayed but more edifying posts, this makes a welcome distraction. It also allows for as much cringing self-exposure (or silliness) as one's nature permits, along with the liberating thought that no-one on the interweeblies is forced to read our exposés.

Special People (Prompt 14). Repeat the suggestions for Prompt 13. Uh oh. More socializing and food. But this time it's for ANCESTORS. So I can't invite a few old boyfriends out of simple curiosity ("and how did your life turn out with that boring bottle-blonde you married on the rebound?").

First off, I do want to say I am grateful to all the ancestors for their contributions to the family gene pool, making the present generations what they are. Speaking for myself, I would have appreciated fewer freckles and a lot more energy chromosomes. But thank you for good bone density, low cholesterol, and a healthy liver.

The invitation they cannot refuse (and by the way, they are not all direct-line people; aren't siblings and collaterals the most willing to spill the family dirt?) ―

* Number one, my Dad so he can tell me about his life before I knew him;

* His irascible grandmother IsabellaCampbell (Gaelic translator required);

* "Uncle" Peter Dougall because he was a beautiful human being;

* My beloved cousin Heather, gone way before her time;

* Grandpa's sister Milda (Freibergs) Lielmanis to untangle her romantic liaisons (more translators);

* Grandma's brother AlexanderIvanovitch Jurikas, the priest cum teacher cum newspaper editor (where are my lost cousins, your Russian descendants?!);

* Ansis Freibergs, maternal great-great grandfather, Free Thinker and donor of the gardening genes;

* Eiwertil Riis my purported 7th-great-grandfather born ca.1670 in Viljandi region, Estonia; he has some 'splaining to do about his legendary father.

Hits a nice balance between my Celtics and my Baltics, don't you think? Eight seems quite enough to keep me occupied, frantically recording their stories in between hugs and tears.

We shall have a picnic, I think. I will order up a perfect day on Lake Superior. Lolling about on chairs and blankets and cushions near a beach, no-one will be able to escape my probing questions now that they see I too am a bona fide grownup. I've always wanted to try making that 7-layer terrine I scrounged from a French magazine about forty years ago: very complicated, layers of chopped chicken, spinach, ham slices, asparagus, boiled egg, paté, une petite tomate ferme, and so on — one brilliant tour de force encompassing the major food groups with massive doses of mayo to hold it all together. Don't look at me like that. Come on, it's not like these guests really have to worry about food poisoning. This could take place around the end of June so the only extras we need are some baguettes and strawberries with lots of whipped cream (dairy = calcium).

Oh, who got me started on the foodie thing. Naff off. Now.

wildtextures.com

Snow (Prompt 15) What a relief. A complete non-sequitur. Easy. Snow is white and cold and I had enough of it growing up in northwestern Ontario and Manitoba to last a lifetime. Now it has followed me the odd winter into the city's geodome. Apart from the fact that most winters are odd these days. Unfortunately summers too can be odd lately.

Look, I'm trying to find something good here to say about snow. It's for young people, isn't it. That's what I've decided. Skating and skiing. Toboggans. Frostbite. Should I even mention ski-doos? Well, I did my share; then I moved on. There's a lot to be said for comforts like fireplaces or heading south whenever possible.

Message in a Bottle (Prompt 16) ... be serious! Write a message that a stranger somewhere in time and space might discover? For sure my bottle would go into Lake Superior in the expectation it would transit through the Great Lakes out the Gulf of St. Lawrence into the Gulf Stream and end up in Murmansk or maybe bobbing along the west coast of Africa; who knows — what with the aforesaid weather doing its own independent and undependable thing.

What could possibly be said to enrich (or baffle) that unknown recipient for an instant? Should it be treated like a teaching moment? No, too much like ubiquitous, annoying tweets. Makes one think along the lines of Chinese fortune cookies or perhaps epitaphs:

‒ No rest for the wicked[1]

‒ Living well is the best revenge[2]

‒ It must have been the effect of a nutmeg tart[3]

‒ Trust in Allah, but tie up your camel[4]

‒ It's over. It's O-O-O-VER![5]

And so forth. I really don't expect the stranger will care one way or another about footnotes. On that note the editorial we are collapsing till next time.

[1] Attributed to The Book of Isaiah in two different chapters.

[2] The irrepressible Dorothy Parker.

[3] Joseph Finsbury (Sir Ralph Richardson) in The Wrong Box, on the cause of death of his brother.

[4] Sumaiya Kazi, 16 Jan 2012 on Google+.

[5] Probably said a trillion times but Roy Orbison sang it like an aaaaangel!

© 2014 Brenda Dougall Merriman

September Ancestors

For the sake of brief entries, I am not footnoting the facts in this ongoing memorial. Sources have been noted either in other blog posts or in my family history books.

1 September 1993 Peter McAdam Dougall died in Minneapolis, Minnesota. He was the second child and only son of Peter Robinson Dougall (1872-1962) and Elizabeth M. McAdam. One of many Peters in the Dougall family branches, he lived to the age of 92. He and his bride, Gertrude Kienzle, had celebrated sixty-nine years of marriage. For over fifty years he headed a construction firm in the twin cities of Minnesota, erecting some landmark buildings. Peter was a devoted family man with an impish sense of humour. Every year as children we excitedly anticipated the cross-border trip to visit “Uncle” Peter and marvel at his unfamiliar mid-western drawl; he was a special person in our lives. He in turn would come to us for an annual fishing or hunting trip. In later life he conceded the winters and found Arizona comfortable. Peter was the first cousin of my father. 

 

15 September 1927 Jessie Isabelle “Belle” McFadyen Dougall died in Vancouver at the age of 56. Her life spanned the width of the continent: born in Provincetown, Massachusetts to Cape Breton parents, she came with them as a small child to the fertile farming fields of Oakbank, Manitoba. Married in 1894 at the McFadyen family farm, she and her husband William C. Dougall spent most of their years in Winnipeg, at 251 Bell Avenue, as he built up a business. Upon his retirement, they moved west where their daughter was living and took a small farm in Whonnock, British Columbia. She predeceased William by seven years. The couple are buried in Ocean View Burial Park, Burnaby. Belle was the grandmother I never knew.

19 September 1834 (A different) Peter Dougall was born in the village or farm of Netherlongford, Edinburghshire [aka Midlothian], Scotland, the fifth and youngest son of John Dougall and Marion Hastie. Peter was just under ten years old when his parents made the decision to emigrate to Canada, where they settled as farmers at Beech Ridge, a community close to St. Andrews East, Quebec. Farming was not for Peter; he apparently apprenticed as a blacksmith—possibly with, or by the influence of his father-in-law to-be, John Fraser. He found his true livelihood as a wagon- and carriage-maker. Peter and his wife Catherine Fraser settled in Renfrew, Ontario, raising nine children, finally retiring to Winnipeg where he died in 1914. Peter was my great-grandfather.

January Ancestors (2)

For the sake of brief entries, I am not footnoting the facts in this ongoing memorial. Sources have been noted either in other blog posts or in my family history books.

13 Jan 1869: John McFadyen married Isabella Campbell, in Provincetown, Massachusetts. Both were natives of Cape Breton, Nova Scotia: John was from River Denys, Inverness County, and Isabella was from Points West Bay in Richmond County. Provincetown was a magnet for many “Capers” who pursued a maritime livelihood. John was known at home as John Hector because he had a younger brother John, called John Jr., or John Lauchlin. According to the Barnstable Patriot in March of that year, four McFadyens (first names not given) were captains in the season's cod fishing fleet for Provincetown. The couple had two children born there, 1869 and 1871, and relocated to a Manitoba homestead by 1874. There, the births of nine more children followed. John and Isabella were two of my great-grandparents.

 

Campbells Part 1: Ahnentafel Roulette

Randy Seaver likes to play games. He’s good at urging us to examine our ancestors with his Saturday Night Genealogy Fun. So I’m a bit tardy. Who’s keeping track? The idea was to calculate a random ancestor on your ahnentafel chart, so Randy calls it roulette. Ahnentafels are basically a pedigree system with a number for each direct ancestor. I cheated because the chart I’m consulting starts with my Dad instead of me so it’s all Scottish.

Plunging right ahead, my Dad would be 113 if he were alive today. Divide by 4 and round off. Let’s see, that must be 28.25. Rounded off Randy’s way, that makes it 29. An odd number guarantees it’s gonna be a female ancestor.

Say hello to my no. 29, Jessie McKenzie. Let’s not confuse her with my no. 13, Jessie McKenzie. Yes ... SIGH ... on top of too many John Frasers and Donald McFadyens, apparently I have two Jessie McKenzies. I probably have several Flora McLeans as well. Others with Scottish heritage probably share my desperate pining for an occasional Cassandra or Hortense to alleviate the pain.

That takes care of Randy’s first two tasks. Next up is tell us three facts about this person.
(1) Jessie was born 20 April 1782.
(2) Her place of birth was Dornoch in Sutherlandshire.
(3) She married Donald Campbell (oops, I see more than one Donald Campbell, damn!).

Whew, I made it, three for three. And how do I know all that information? Brilliant research on my part? Not exactly. My delightful cousin Madaline did all this work in her epic Our Campbell Legacy. It's so large I confess I haven't read every page yet. In what remains of my lifetime, I will never achieve what Madaline has accomplished. Fortune smiles on me that we share a lineage making us 4th cousins who have never even met each other in person.

I’m hereby writing this down about Jessie to fulfill Randy’s fourth requirement. Jessie and her husband Donald Campbell came to Cape Breton in 1817, probably on the ship Frances Ann among Rev. Norman McLeod’s followers. They settled on a land grant at St. George’s Channel (on Lake Bras d’Or) in a community that became known as Points West Bay in Richmond County. Their dates of death and place of burial are unknown and forgotten now. Perhaps I will have enough for a Campbells Part 2 one day, but I hope to have given Madaline a live hug by then!

Who's For Dinner?

A number of genealogy bloggers are egging each other on with creative ideas. “Carnival of Genealogy” is like that, at http://creativegene.blogspot.com. One edition I enjoyed was: which four ancestors would you like to have dinner with and why? (4 February 2008) Naturally, my ideas began to perk ... along with a dinner menu, which I used to enjoy planning before I had a 24/7 career in genealogy. Never mind four ancestors, two of my choices would be ggg-grandfather Donald McFadyen the pensioned soldier, and great-uncle Alexander Jurikas the Orthodox priest. They will be appearing here later.

Not to invite under any circumstances is great-grandmother Isabella Campbell McFadyen (1845-1924). By all accounts she was an impossible visitor in her later life, descending on adult children without notice, making demands that exceeded all bounds of civilized hospitality, having the rude manners of an untutored dictator, and throwing each household into mass disarray. Bella would stay for months at a time. I was told her fractured English was usually indecipherable, and she increased her decibel level in direct proportion to the dumbfounded looks on nearby faces. Someone chose an ambiguous epitaph for her: She Hath Done What She Could.



If I really try to put myself in her shoes, as good genealogists attempt to do, it’s not easy. We have to think multicultural shock here. Bella grew up in a Gaelic-speaking household. I’ve read numerous books about the transplanted highlanders in Cape Breton, even some written in the vernacular. Growing up in a crowded household where a pack of kids had to work all the time at domestic responsibilities, heavy farming requirements, or often working at out-sourced jobs for extra family income, when schooling was minimal and English was rarely required ... is a big stretch.

Nevertheless, I understand they managed to have excellent parties, ceilidhs, with great music to offset their otherwise sober lives. No problem relating to that, a tradition that survives exceedingly well in Cape Breton. Having ancestor Bella to dinner would be a trainwreck, balancing the agonizing communication difficulties with potential rewards on the hope that she knew anything of her ancestors. My 21st century is battling with the 19th.

Now take my late Aunty B (1906-1979). Not really take her, she’s not for giving away! There’s a woman to have dinner with. As a house guest, she would never bemoan or turn up her nose at a plate of pad thai and schezuan cucumbers. Unlike Bella, Aunty B was totally familiar with knife and fork usage at the dinner table and was in all ways cool. She didn’t even have to say it: she’d been there, done that, probably hid the T-shirt in her underwear drawer, and wasn’t going to tell a soul about it. Aunty B knew plenty of family gossip I’d like to cross-examine her on now. No-one remembers now why she got called Aunty B. Her official name was Isabelle (family habits die hard) but that’s the only similarity to Bella.

That’s for you, Heather.