The humdrum creek of the rocker against the porch floorboards evaded me as I became lost in times long past.

     “Did he ever realise the consequences he caused by his selfish actions? Many lives changed; many hearts broken. Did he remember that first kiss, our gentle play, our most secret intimacies?”

     My eyelids heavy with the burden of the day closed, and I nodded off. 

     The chipping of a sparrow brought me back to the moment.

     I was never a woman to expect much. I took life in stride, accepting what someone tossed my way. But I had my moments.

     Born into a large blended family, I was the seventh of fifteen children who passed through our close-knit home. Not all fifteen survived, but most did.

     My father was the postmaster and grocer for Bowmanton, a small hamlet in eastern Ontario. Our Gothic farmhouse in the Northumberland Hills was not only home to seventeen but also lodged supplies for the community in what would have been the parlour in most houses. 

     The house was white clapboard with dark green gingerbread following the roofline. The front yard had a picket fence with a gate that gave off a loud groan when anyone entered the yard — our forewarning of an arriving customer.

     I remember sometimes handing out the mail to those who came into our home to collect it. 

     The responsibility of handling the mail usually fell on Elizabeth or Hannah, the older half-sisters, but on occasion, they would ask for my help if they were occupied in the shop.

     “Frances, fetch Mr Bray’s mail,” Elizabeth would call out, “and watch the office while Hannah and I take care of the store.” Her voice had a lilt, but also an air of authority to keep me on my toes.

     The first few times I was nervous, worrying I would make a mistake and one of my older sisters would chastise me, but I soon caught on. The mail desk was behind a counter my father had built to keep the handler of the mail and the customer separate. Each cubbyhole separated the letters by family. Should they receive a parcel too large for the cubby, I placed a note in their slot as to the whereabouts of the package.

     When I wasn’t helping with the mail, I would clean and stock shelves. Again, the older girls managed this, but as I grew, I became a more significant part of the entire operation. Mother had little to do with the store, as she was far too busy with babies and keeping the family fed and in clean clothes.

     “Frances. Run and fetch Mr Turk’s suit coat from father’s workshop.” The sound of Lizzie’s voice echoed in my old head.

     Dad was not only a postmaster and grocer for the community but also tended 200 acres and worked as the local tailor. When he left his Cornwall tailor shop, I am sure he never imagined what life would bring him. No time for idle hands in our household.

     My day-dreaming then turned to the day he came into the post office. A tall young man with his hat tilted to one side. I remembered thinking him cocksure as he never removed it. His smile and his familiar ways confirmed his brashness. 

     We made eye contact and he captured me like a rabbit in a snare. Could he see right into my soul? I felt a warm flush and tried to cover my shyness, asking if I could be of service.

“Sim Ostrom. I am here for the mail. Anything for Gideon Ostrom?” his voice was bold, yet playful.

     I shuffled through the mail slots, my lack of confidence apparent as if it was the first time I stood behind the mail counter. Sim reached over my shoulder and pointed out the slot, allowing his forearm to brush against my shoulder. He had my attention from that moment.

We courted for a short time and married in January 1881. The first child arrived just four months later. My parents were less than pleased.

     Ten years and five children later found me abandoned, living with my parents in the east end of Toronto and doing people’s laundry to pay my way. My handsome prince had left for parts unknown and never returned. I thought he had died. I didn’t find out the truth until later.   

     Nodding off for a moment, I awakened as the voice of my granddaughter startled me. 

     “Gran, tell me the story of the pussy willows.”

     Fannie was much like my daughter had been at that age, with the dark beauty of Red Rose and curious as a cat. Impetuous young Frances wore her name well being named for both her mother and me. When little Fan wanted something, she wanted it.

      “Well dear, it goes something like this,” I began. “Do you know how the pussy willow got its name?”

     “Don’t spoil it, Gran. Tell me, tell me the entire story.”

     “It’s not long,” I said. “Your old Gran is tired. Why don’t you tell it?”

     With that, the seven-year-old began the story.  “There was this beautiful grey kitty who had lost her babies. She cried and cried, but she could not find them.” The child rubbed her eyes as if wiping away tears, then looked left and right, her right hand above her brow.

“She went down by the river calling for them. To her chagrin, there they were, but they had fallen into the creek and would soon drown.” 

     “Oh my! So what on earth did she do then, Fan?”

     “Oh, Gran! The mommy kitty howled. Fan’s voice took on an air of the wailing noise the mother might have made. What else could she do? And then, hearing her cries, again and those of the  mewling kittens, the enormous willow tree near the river’s edge stooped its branches to the water.”

     “How lucky she was for that willow,” I 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.”

     Proud of her accomplishment, she looked for praise.

     I gave her a brief smile. “That is it Fan. Now run along and find your brother, Edgar. Make sure he is not near the river. Leave your old Gran rest.”

     I watched as the child ran off to search for her little brother. I remarked again how like her mother she was. My Fannie was just nine when they moved to Toronto from the Northumberland Hills. Before that, she had run free in the country, just as her granddaughter did now. No hills could be found here, unlike in Bowmanton. Cantuar, Saskatchewan, was flat for as far as the eye could see.