Blood from a Stone
By John RC Potter
Opening Frame – Erie Manor – July 1910
The surface of the water was as smooth. As glass. She watched him from where she stood, unseen and silent, on the tree-lined bank of the large and luminous pond. He was swimming with strong, broad strokes from the wooden dock toward the middle of the pond, to the place they called flat rock. It was a smooth and wide piece of stone that rose above the surface of the water and provided a perfect place for resting in the sun. As children, she and her siblings had often used that rock as a place from which to jump into the cold waters of the pond, and on which they later sunbathed. As she stared at him, a bile rose from the depths of her stomach, as malodorous as the waters in the nearby swamp. How dare he presume, swimming as freely and unfettered as if he had a right to be there? This dirty heathen, this filthy infidel? How dare he?
Prologue – Southern Ontario, Canada – July 1980
The old county highway hugged the lakeshore, rising at times high above the northern shores of Lake Erie, and at other times dipping down to its depths and running alongside the dark and rolling waters. The pavement of the highway was cracked and faded, and yet seemed well-suited to the landscape. This journey down the highway gave Dan the feeling of passage into another time. The city was less than an hour away, but despite its relative proximity to the southwestern city of London, this truly was the country. Farmland rolled away on either side of the highway, and the green of growth was still apparent despite the high summer. Barns and houses dotted the landscape at regular intervals, and occasionally villages – mere hamlets, really – interrupted a panoramic drive that would have been almost pastoral except for their presence. Despite the charm and appeal of the country scenes that were visible on either side of the car as it meandered down the highway, Dan was always made aware of the ever-present lake over the crest of every turn in the road. The waters of Lake Erie were dark and deep, and it was no stretch of the imagination to wonder what lay in the belly of its depths. It occurred to Dan that of all the Great Lakes, Lake Erie was perhaps the most unpredictable, possibly the most polluted, and probably the least prosaic.
Every summer the Lake Erie waters claimed the lives of swimmers. The undercurrents along these sunny and placid shores were dangerous. Despite warnings, the beaches from Port Stanley in the west to Turkey Point in the east were crowded with vacationers and locals alike, who came to the cool waters to have some relief from the oppressive and humid Southern Ontario summertime heat. Even strong swimmers had drowned, when found caught in a particularly strong undertow – pulled down into the cold and dark depths of the lake with the type of unforgiving force found only in nature.
One such drowning had happened at the little lakeside village of Port Bruce the week before. Dan, a reporter with the London Free Press, had covered the story at the time. The young man who had drowned was on holiday, an American. He and his buddies had been to Toronto to attend a rock concert the day before the drowning. On the way back to their homes in Michigan, they had decided to take a detour off Highway 401, to drive down the highway that ran along Lake Erie. They stopped in Port Bruce for lunch and then decided to go for a swim despite the postings about the undertow being dangerous that day. The four young men had dived off the pier and had begun to swim toward the southern horizon, to see who would be the most daring and could swim out the furthest. All four had trouble swimming in the churning waters that day, but only three managed to make it back to the shoreline. The one who swam the furthest failed to return to shore. He had won the race, but ironically, had lost his life. Three days later, the young man’s battered body was found by fishermen further along the coast.
Although Dan had covered the sad but predictable story for the city newspaper the week before, he had returned to the picturesque area along the northern shores of Lake Erie only because the countryside had made such an indelible impression upon him at the time. He had been born and raised in the London area, and it was only a short drive from the city, due south, to the Lake Erie shoreline, but he was not remarkably familiar with the area. Dan had always tended to favour Lake Huron to the west, particularly Grand Bend and Bayfield, two villages that would seasonally swell with the onslaught of summer tourists. Today, however, Dan had a Sunday free without any commitments. He found himself drawn to Lake Erie, less in search of reasons for the loss of a young life in its waters, and more to give himself the opportunity to appreciate how different one lake could be from another. Lake Huron was familiar to him, a relatively calm body of water, where he and his family had always spent summers in their cottage south of Bayfield. It appeared to Dan, however, that Lake Erie had an air of mystery and danger about it; but nonetheless, or perhaps for that very reason, it seemed to beckon to him.
Dan inwardly grinned at his imaginative thoughts. He had taken a journalism course in Toronto after high school only because he had wanted to be a writer of fiction. He had known then, and was even more painfully aware of it now, that one had to pay one’s dues before becoming a published author. Writing articles for the London Free Press was Dan’s way of feeling like a real writer, of working towards his eventual goal to become a published author of fiction. Although he sometimes despaired that his dream would not see the light of day, in his heart and soul Dan had a deep-seated belief that he would indeed eventually realize his goal of writing a book and becoming a published author.
My mother told me that almost everyone wants to write a book, but only a few ever do, Dan thought with a sinking feeling. I need something to inspire me to write a novel, he mused to himself. Almost as if in anticipation of spying something inspirational, Dan looked first to the Lake Erie waters below him on the right side of the car, and then to the wooded landscape to the left. Turning his attention back to the pavement ahead of him as the highway snaked along a route that 150 years earlier had been a trail for settlers, Dan found himself thinking that he had driven into the perfect setting for a story. All I need is the story, he thought, sighing.
Dan shook himself out of his reverie when he realized he had been daydreaming. Port Bruce was several kilometers behind him, and he now saw the sign for Port Burwell ahead. Instead of heading up Highway 19, a drive that would take him through tobacco country and eventually to the town of Tillsonburg, Dan drove toward the village and its defining feature, the Port Burwell Lighthouse. On an impulse, Dan decided not to drive further into the village, but to turn left and drive along an even narrower county road that was obviously less travelled, but one that like its predecessor continued to hug the winding bluffs above Lake Erie.
The farms were fewer and further between on this stretch of the old county road that meandered east of Port Burwell. Dan was met with the sensation, pleasing to someone of his nature, that modern life seemed to be receding and falling away. The late morning sun beat down on the car, and not one to use air conditioning even on hot days, Dan was lulled into a feeling of peacefulness by the warm breeze wafting through the car windows. The pungent smell of freshly cut hay, the heady odor of wildflowers, and the salty scent of the lake air commingled in Dan’s nostrils, and he breathed deeply in appreciation. During the drive, Dan was reminded that this was indeed tobacco country because he could sometimes see drying sheds dotting the landscape on either side of the highway.
He had almost driven past the laneway with its distinctive stone gateposts, inset with metal gates long since rusted and battered by the passage of time before Dan had the presence of mind to apply the brakes and pull over to the side of the road. Although it had been the cut-stone gateposts that had arrested Dan’s attention, as he moved across the seat and leaned out of the passenger window his eyes were drawn to the iron sign that hung over the entrance to the property and the words that proclaimed its name: ERIE MANOR.
Dan hesitated for only a moment, and then opened the passenger door and got out of the car for a better look. The old county road receded in the distance behind Dan, down a gently sloping hill, in the westerly direction from where he had come. At this section of the road, the leafy branches of maple trees hung high over the pavement, offering patches of dappled shade. Dan could see that the road continued toward the east, gradually winding down the hill in the distance. From the vantage point of the crest of the hill, Dan could not see any other farms.
The property known as Erie Manor had obviously known better days and judging by the overgrowth of weeds and bushes on either side of the still-impressive stone gateposts, Dan suspected it had been some years since the place had been inhabited. The name on the sign over the gate suggested to Dan that there either was a house still on the property, or there had been one in the past. From the perspective of the gate, Dan could see the laneway seemed somewhat unkept and unused, a patch of unruly grass visible in its center. On the other side of the closed gates the laneway - framed by a thicket of maple trees on either side - could be seen winding its way up a small hill and then fading away in the distance, around a bend. It seemed to beckon to him.
Erie Manor, that has a real ring to it, Dan thought to himself, as he leaned against the metal gate, straining his eyes to follow the curve of the laneway as it receded from sight, seemingly swallowed up by trees and greenery. Dan suspected the property may well have been one of the earliest settled in the area; it had a sense of permanence and history about it, albeit one overlaid with the unrelenting and unforgiving passage of time. If there happened to be a house on the property, Dan was very keen to see it. Dan liked to think that every house had a story to tell, and that old houses were especially a treasure trove of the past. The writer and historian in him made Dan want to ignore the closed gates and see what lay beyond the bend in the laneway.
Oh, what the hell, the worst that can happen is to be arrested for trespassing on private property, Dan thought, resolved to explore this apparently forgotten place on the bluffs of Lake Erie. Dan jumped in the car, backed it up, and then moved it into the laneway, parking in front of the metal gate. Turning the ignition off, Dan got out and walked to the gate. Peering down the road on either side to see if any cars were coming, Dan lifted the heavy metal latch and opened the gate, pleased that it was not locked. Squeezing through, Dan closed the gate behind him and then began to walk up the laneway.
The laneway angled to the left, and then it went up an incline that was lined by a low cut-stone wall, Dan admiring it in the same manner that he had done when he saw the cut-stone gateposts. As well as maple trees, poplars lined the laneway on either side, but they crowded each other as if in competition for the limited space along the wall. Despite the overgrowth of trees on either side of the laneway, and the tendency of their branches to extend out and over the lane, creating shadows that moved in the breeze, patches of sunlight shone through to the ground below.
At the crest of a hill, the laneway turned now to the right, and from that point, Dan could see in the distance – obviously on a hilltop with a view of Lake Erie – a once-magnificent country home. This was Erie Manor, then: a large and imposing country house, with a verandah that appeared to run around the building on at least three sides, with columns at the double front door. Although the house appeared empty and long since forgotten, it was still distinctive, with long windows, French doors, deep-set gables, and at the very top of the house above the attic, a widow’s walk that appeared to face the waters of Lake Erie in the distance below.
It was apparent to Dan that the house had once been the substantial home of a prosperous family. The large house was wooden and had once been painted white. The colour had gone from the house, no doubt gradually fading away into a patina of grey over the years. Nonetheless, the building was still eye-catching, and although the grandeur was faded, Erie Manor was reminiscent of a bygone era of gentility and grace. It was then Dan realized that although the house was empty, it was not totally forgotten. If it were, the laneway would be completely overtaken by weeds, the yard would be in more disarray, and the house would have broken windows and other signs of neglect, Dan thought. There was no evidence of vandalism of any kind, that usually being the sad case with abandoned houses. It seemed that someone watched over this house to ensure it did not fall into rack and ruin.
Dan continued to walk up the laneway. Closer to the house the low cut-stone walls began to widen out and make a border in front of the house, on either side. Hollyhocks growing in colourful profusion, hanging over the wall created a vivid picture. The laneway went around the house to the left, away from the lakeshore, and presumably would take one to a garage. Dan stood at the small gate in front of Erie Manor, viewing the front door to the house. A red brick walkway, partially covered over with a riot of grass and weeds, led from the closed gate to the front steps of the verandah. Beautiful columns stood on either side of the front door, supporting on the floor above what Dan suspected had once been a sunroom.
Dan was enthralled with his find, this once-gracious country mansion. Who would have thought that the lakeside land in southern Ontario would have yielded such a treasure? Dan wondered. This was on the edge of tobacco country, and it occurred to Dan that Erie Manor would perhaps once have been the home of a well-heeled tobacco family. With this foremost in mind, Dan walked along the cut-stone wall that continued along the front of the house to the left. As Dan had thought, the laneway curved around the house and then ended at what appeared to be more a carriage house than a garage. Past the carriage house, and a good deal further down the laneway, there was a large barn that looked to be no longer in use. On the other side and in the distance, Dan could see a stand of poplar trees, and just over the rise – but still visible to the naked eye – there was the silvery glint of light that suggested a pond or other body of inland water.
Full of wonderment, his imagination unfurling due to the bygone era that Erie Manor evoked in him, Dan turned around and walked along the house and in the direction of the lake. Just past the house, there was an incline in the land that rose upward. Dan found a half-hidden red brick path that became a series of steps where the hill began an upward climb on the lakeside of the house. Progressing up the rather steep steps, Dan found that from the top he could see Lake Erie to the south, fading away on the horizon in a shimmer of deep gold and dark blue. He knew that if he walked across the expanse of grass toward the cliff, the forceful waves of the lake would be breaking over the rocks on the lakeshore below.
It was at that moment, lost in his reverie, that out of the corner of his eye Dan espied a fenced-in area encircled by several old oak trees. Amid this setting there was a large tombstone made of granite and cut stones, on top of which rested a rather imposing black cross: it appeared to be made of iron, with a white angel and lilies upon it. That must be the family plot, Dan thought to himself, walking toward the impressive stone edifice. At the gate to the monument Dan stopped and peered through, trying to read the names on the tall and magnificent tombstone. He could just barely see the name ‘Lacroix’, but the letters carved into the tombstone were faded and difficult to read from the gate of the family cemetery. Dan tried to open the gate, but unlike the one at the end of the laneway, this one was locked.
At that moment Dan had the uneasy feeling that he was being watched; he had the sensation that someone was close at hand. He turned slowly, looking toward the house. There was no one in sight. Then Dan looked away from the house, toward the wooded area above the family plot. An old man stood there, in overalls and barn boots, holding a pitchfork in one hand. The look on the old man’s face was inexplicable; the stance of his body was neither threatening nor friendly. “You always go around trespassing on other people’s property, son?” the old man asked, his voice harsh but his eyes holding an amused glint in them.
Dan took a step back, flustered and embarrassed. “My utmost apologies, sir. I was driving by and saw the sign for the property,” Dan blurted out, “and being a bit of a history nut, I took the chance of having a look at the old house.”
The old man seemed to weigh Dan’s words in his mind. He pulled a threadbare and stained handkerchief out of the side pocket of his faded overalls, then proceeded to blow his nose with the vigor of a much younger man. “I don’t rightly know about you and history,” the old man said slowly, measuring out his words as if they were precious, a wheeze in his voice as he spoke. “But I would have to agree with that part about you being a nut. You might have been killed. What if I were the kind of feller that shot first and asked questions later?”
Dan paused, inwardly smiling at the thought of this old man being a threat to anyone. “Well, sir, you aren’t holding a gun…you’re holding a pitchfork.”
The old man looked down at the pitchfork that he was firmly gripping. A hint of a smile crossed his face, and then he broke out in a fit of wheezing laughter. Hearing the man laugh so heartily, Dan began to smile. Suddenly, the old man began to cough; it seemed to come from the bottom of his feet and work its way up to his lungs and then out through his mouth. There was a hoarse rumble and a series of attempts by the old man to clear his throat. His face reddened and contused, the old man began to spit out gobs of phlegm. As suddenly as he had started, the old man stopped. Using the pitchfork to keep himself upright, he began to breathe deeply, his body hunched over. His eyes were rheumy but still, with a glint hidden behind the glaze, the old man peered down at where Dan stood looking up at him. Dan was concerned for the old man but did not know what he should do.
“Can I help you in any way?” Dan asked.
“Nope, I’ll be fine in a moment,” the old man responded hoarsely. “I just need a cigarette, and then I’ll be in tip-top shape.”
Dan exclaimed, “You smoke!”
The old man shook his head in the affirmative. “That I do indeed!” the old man stated. “I suppose you don’t smoke,” the old man observed with an air of censure. Dan acknowledged he did not smoke with a nod of his head. “Doesn’t surprise me, son, you don’t look like a smoker,” the old man growled gruffly. Changing the topic abruptly, the old man gave Dan a searching look and asked, “Who are you and what are you doing here?”
There was a quality about the old man that Dan very much liked. A lover of history, Dan had always made time for his grandparents and others of their generation. He enjoyed their company and respected their wisdom. Smiling earnestly at the old man, Dan replied, “My name is Daniel Farnsworth, and I am a reporter for the London Free Press.”
“A reporter for the London Free Press!” the old man exclaimed. Dan smiled and nodded, pleased that his position and workplace gave him credence and credibility. “Are you up here doing a story? Did you come to Erie Manor for that reason?”
“No, I was just out for a drive,” Dan responded. “Last week I was in Port Bruce covering the drowning of an American boy. Did you read about that?”
The old man shifted the pitchfork to his other hand, took out his grimy handkerchief, and then spat into it. Wiping his lower lip, the old man said, “Yep, I heard tell of it when I went down to Port Burwell to the store last week. And then of course I read about it in the newspaper.” The old man stared at Dan for a long moment. “So, you are Daniel Farnsworth! I do like reading what you write in the London Free Press.” He paused reflectively. “Pleased to meet you, Daniel. My name is Will Jordan,” he said, extending his hand and motioning for Dan to walk up the little hill.
Dan moved quickly up the incline and shook the old man’s hand; the grip was surprisingly firm and vigorous. “You can call me, Dan…my friends do. I only use ‘Daniel’ for my writing in the newspaper.”
The old man nodded slowly, a slight smile on his face. Looking down at the pitchfork in his hand, and then back at Dan, the old man chuckled and said, “Well, I guess I won’t be using the pitchfork on you now, will I son!” Suddenly the old man became serious. “Seeing as you are a writer for the newspaper, and a history buff, if you’d like I can show you around this place.”
“That would be fantastic!” Dan exclaimed. “Are you the owner of Erie Manor?”
The old man scoffed at the question, merriment in his watery eyes. “Not the owner, just the caretaker. Used to be the hired help, years ago, but I still mind the place.” Pointing back behind him, the old man gestured to a bench that sat below a tree. “We can have a sit-down, see the lake from there, and I can have a smoke!” Grabbing Dan’s sleeve, the old man walked toward the bench. Dan obediently followed, thinking to himself how fortunate he was to have made the journey that day along Lake Erie; how providential it had been for him to throw caution to the wind and explore the property known as Erie Manor. The writer in Dan knew that, at the very least, the chance to meet with the old man – Will Jordan – would be interesting. At best, it would possibly give Dan the fodder for a story.
Will Jordan took a few minutes to sit down on the bench comfortably, shifting about to find just the right spot to plant himself, with time taken to thrust the pitchfork into the compliant ground beside him. With a sigh, the old man ferreted around in one of the pockets of his overalls. With a gleam in his eye that suggested he had struck gold and grunting with satisfaction, he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of the depths of his left hip pocket, along with a box of matches.
Dan noticed that cigarettes were one of the strongest brands of cigarettes a person could purchase thereabouts. “You like your cigarettes strong, I see,” Dan observed.
The old man snorted. “Yep, that I do,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice. The old man opened the matchbox and took out a match with one hand, and then in a flash of the eye ran it across the seat of the bench and put the lit match to the cigarette. Inhaling from the depths of his very being, he took a long drag of the cigarette and seemed to draw the smoke as far as possible down into his aged lungs.
Dan was a non-smoker, although he had tried smoking when in high school, as many teenagers did as a rite of passage; but he was no grandstander about those who chose to smoke. Dan watched in fascination as the old man, his eyes closed and a faint smile on his face, finally let the smoke come up from inside his lungs and out his mouth and nose. Dan half-expected to see some curls of smoke also make their way out of the old man’s ears, but a quick glance revealed that any smoke would have a difficult time passing through those hairy old orifices.
Dan glanced at his watch. It was 11.00 in the morning. “I guess the first cigarette of the day is always the best,” Dan said, cheerfully.
The old man guffawed and wheezed at Dan’s statement. “If you think this cigarette is the first that I’ve had today, lad,” he snorted, his voice a rattle, “you are sadly mistaken. The first cigarette of the day was half a pack ago!” Dragging on the cigarette until it was little more than a glimmer of ash between his thumb and finger, the old man sat back and stretched out his legs. “Beautiful view ain’t it, son?” he commented, staring past Dan and out to the choppy waters of Lake Erie.
“That it is,” Dan agreed, following the old man’s gaze. Turning back to him, Dan asked, “If you don’t mind me asking, Mr. Jordan, how old are you?”
“85 years young!” came the response, “and for Heaven’s sake, call me Will. Enough of that formal Mister stuff.” The old man paused and then began wheezing and coughing, his lungs sounding congested, from which an irregular pattern of inhaling and exhaling could not seem to shake free sufficient phlegm to allow for ease of access. With a deep rumble, the old man bent over his knees and spat on the ground with vigour. His lungs now somewhat cleared, the old man turned slightly and peering at Dan out of the corner of his eye he stated, “It’s these G-D-M allergies of mine that make my lungs work so hard. Never had an allergy when I was a young buck, but the last few years my old lungs get a working from all the crap floating around in the air.”
Dan smiled inwardly, knowing it was the nicotine and tar in the cigarettes that were coating Will Jordan’s lungs and making it difficult for him to breathe. The old man, however, would never admit it. “Do you live in the Manor, Will?”
“Oh, no,” the old man said, practically, tsk-tsking at the notion. “Back behind us here, up that hill and through those apple trees, there is the hired help’s cottage” he explained matter-of-factly, gesturing over his shoulder. “Before you came to the gate to Erie Manor, you would have passed a laneway at the very bottom of the hill, but it is easy to miss. You can’t see my place from the road either but walking across the old apple orchard it is not far from my cottage to the big house.” Dan looked to where the old man was pointing, and asked, “Do you live alone, Will?”
“I do now,” the old man answered. “Last year I had to put my wife in Sun Haven Retirement Lodge, this side of Aylmer.” He paused meditatively, casting his eyes out to Lake Erie. “That was a damned hard thing to do, putting Eloise in an old folk’s home, but I had no choice. She had hardening of the arteries. She used to do the house cleaning at the big house, and she helped me keep the grounds looking good. But it got too much for her. Now I get help for that.”
“Hardening of the arteries? What is that?” Dan asked, thinking the term sounded rather quaint and old-fashioned.
“You don’t know what that means!” the old man snorted, “and you being educated and a newspaper writer and all! It means she started losing her memory, and that her heart and brain weren’t working well anymore!” The old man spat on the ground for effect, almost hitting Dan on one of his shiny leather shoes. Dan decided that it was probably not intentional. The old man continued, “I’m saying she lost her memory, but I sure ain’t saying she lost her mind, if that’s what you be thinking, lad!”
“But Sir…Will…Will Sir,” Dan spluttered, “I didn’t think any such thing! I only asked what you meant.”
The old man sat back and folded his arms across his chest in defense. “It ain’t fun getting old, lad, and one day you’ll get old just like the rest of us,” he said, his voice low and made weightier by the many decades of accumulated tar and nicotine on his aging lungs. “You get old in body, but inside you are still that younger person.”
“I think I know what you mean,” Dan commented. “My grandmother said almost the same thing to me when she had to go live in a senior’s home. She took one look around the place and told me that everyone in there was so old…she was in her early eighties then, but everyone else seemed so much older in comparison. She just did not see herself as an old woman. She didn’t feel like one.”
“I still feel like a young whippersnapper some days!” the old man exclaimed, “Inside this old wreck of a body is a younger Will Jordan.” The old man looked south to the rolling waters, his eyes on a distant place that was somewhere in his past. “One day you too will wake up and look in the mirror and wonder who the old fart is staring back at you.” The old man, reflectively and somewhat absentmindedly, fumbled in his pocket and brought out his pack of cigarettes, then lit one with his customary flourish. “Anyway, my wife lives in an old folk’s home, in a wing of the place with a bunch of gossiping and crazy old biddies. But she lives alone…alone with a bunch of strangers. I just live alone,” he said, almost bitterly, “but I am the lucky one.”
Looking at the cigarette pinched between his yellowed thumb and forefinger, the old man exclaimed, “Something has to get you in the end,” he observed, “it may as well be these cancer sticks than dying by degrees in a home for old farts!” Taking a long and satisfied drag of his cigarette, the old man then blew the smoke back out his mouth and inadvertently aimed it directly in Dan’s face. When Dan coughed and waved the smoke away with his hands, the old man said apologetically, “Sorry about that, son, my aim ain’t what it used to be. Meant to blow that smoke over your head.”
Recovered, Dan asked, “Do you have any children?”
“Two,” came the response. “My daughter and her husband live out southwest of Calgary. They own a motel with an attached restaurant, not too awful far from the Rockies. I went to visit them a few times there. They have two children. My son and his wife live in Toronto. I have visited there more often because I can drive to see them, but I am not big on cities! My son, Dave, he be like you…an educated feller. He is a professor at the University of Toronto. His wife is a nurse at a hospital and works in the cancer unit. They have a son. My grandson and his girlfriend are backpacking it around Europe, trying to find themselves or some such thing.”
“That’s impressive that your son is a professor at the U of T,” Dan said. “A professor of what?”
“He’s a professor of…Thinkology…I think,” said the old man, grinning. “He teaches about how people think and learn. Wrote a book on the brain. Sounded grim to me. I tried reading a bit of it, but I couldn’t make head nor tail of it,” the old man stated. “Dave has his Ph.D.! Are you impressed? But then again, like I tell people, I have my Ph.D. too!”
Disbelieving, and wondering where this was leading, Dan exclaimed, “You have your Ph.D.?”
“I sure do,” the old man said, a smile beginning to form on his lips, the curl at each end quivering with anticipation at the explanation that was to come. “I have my Ph.D.,” he stated emphatically, pausing for dramatic effect. “I am a Post-Hole-Digger from a way back! Do you get the joke?” The old man began to guffaw and slap his raised knees, and with each bellow of laughter there was wheezing from the depths of his lungs, his breathing apparatus obviously strained and worked beyond its limit, but still somehow working, nonetheless.
Dan laughed too, more at the obvious delight the old man took in his own joke than in the joke itself. The old man was a real character, and Dan liked characters, those individuals who seemed larger than life. Will Jordon, Dan thought to himself, belonged in a book! He was the fodder for a story. The old man had finished chuckling and was wiping away at his eyes with the dirty old handkerchief he kept wadded in one hip pocket of his overalls. “Will, you said a little earlier that I could see around the place. Would it be possible for me to go into the family plot and see the tombstone, and could you take me on a tour inside the house?” Dan asked, his voice earnest. “This is a wonderful opportunity for me, and you have certainly piqued my interest in this place and the family.”
Silent and thoughtful now, the old man looked directly into the young man’s eyes. “I know I said I’d show you around, but why exactly do you want to see everything?” The old man seemed to have forgotten that he had already extended an invitation to Dan to see the place. Rather than mention that fact and possibly embarrass the old man, Dan took another tactic. “Well, this place has so much atmosphere,” Dan responded, “and I think there was a reason I took the drive today and found this place…there must be a reason why I met you.” Dan’s voice faltered slightly, in that he himself was not quite sure why he was so keen to see the house – to peer into the past – the past of a family that was closed and forgotten. “Will, the main reason I want to see the house and to have you tell me about the family is that, at heart, I am a writer…and this place appeals to my sense of history, it has inspired my imagination. Erie Manor would be a great setting for a story!” Dan paused, looking at the family tombstone in the distance, and further past the stone edifice to the dark waters of Lake Erie in the distance. Looking back at the old man, Dan said lowly, “It is as simple as that.”
The old man nodded, contemplating Dan’s words and the sincerity therein. “I like you, Dan, and I trust you,” he said. “My instincts on people are usually spot on. You are a nice young man. You are respectful and kind, and that means a great deal to someone of my generation. Plus, you are a reporter and a writer. You like a good story; I can see that.” The old man paused, looking now towards the imposing old house that sat in the distance. “I won’t – I mean, I can’t – give you the material for any story,” the old man ruminated. “But I can give you the setting. Erie Manor would make for a good setting in a book, I’ll give you that.” The old man rose to his feet slowly, and Dan did likewise. Will Jordan was not a short man, but Dan seemed to tower above him. Looking up at the younger man, he exclaimed, “My, but you are a tall drink of water, lad!”
“Six foot four,” Dan said, a proud note in his voice.
“You don’t say!” the old man exclaimed. Working a thought around in his mind, he finally said, “If memory serves, I think that there be the very same dimensions as a grave!” Then, working the creaks out of the joints in his arms and legs, the old man commanded, “Come with me, Dan, my boy. I can show you what you want to see…but it be just an old place with its best days in the past. Most everyone’s dead that ever lived here. Their stories were put to rest with them.” Placing his hands on his back as if to give himself some much-needed relief, the old man peered down the hill and toward the house. “If that old house could talk,” Will said in a low voice, more to himself than to Dan, “just think the stories it could tell.”
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Walking down the incline toward the house, Will paused at the gateway to the family burial plot. ‘I guess the place to start would be here, lad,” the old man said. He drew a ring of keys from a pocket of his overalls, and then put it in the lock of the gate, turning the key slowly. Opening the gate, Will looked back at Dan and said with a chuckle, “Come on in. I’ll introduce you to the Lacroix family!”
The large tombstone was quite beautiful if rather imposing in nature, inset with cut stone blocks, some rose in colour, but most were grey, white, or black. Dan could see etched lettering inside a type of frontispiece that was now somewhat faded and weathered. The iron cross at the top of the monument was black except for the angel and lilies, which were white. Standing immediately in front of the monument, Dan could now read the inscriptions. “Do you mind if I take some notes, Will?” Dan asked courteously, taking a small notebook from his back pocket.
“I guess that’s the writer in you asking, so go ahead” the old man intoned.
Dan glanced at the tombstone again and up at the cross that was adorned with an angel and lilies. “Judging by this tombstone, the Lacroix’s were Roman Catholic, correct?” he asked.
“Yep, that they were,” the old man responded. “They sometimes attended Our Lady of Sorrows, the Catholic church in Aylmer, especially in the good weather, but mostly they worshipped at home.” Looking upward, he continued, “The names at the top, those are the grandparents. They built Erie Manor.”
Will directed the young man’s attention to the two names at the top of the monument, etched as they were in the semblance of a page in a book. It occurred to Dan that the monument must have cost a small fortune when it was made. Dan took notes as he read: Louis Lacroix - Born 21 February 1787 in Placentia – Died 5 December 1869. ‘In God’s Garden’. Just below was another inscription. Sophie Gilliott Lacroix – Born 19 September 1809 in Placentia – Died 14 November 1885. ‘At Peace with God’.
“Where is Placentia?” he asked the old man. Lighting a cigarette, Will replied, “That be in Newfoundland. The old ones moved to this part of Ontario – it was called Upper Canada then – in 1834. They bought this land and a year later, in 1835, the manor house was finished.” The old man took a deep drag of his cigarette and then nodded toward the tombstone. “You’ll see their son was born in 1840 – the same year the Port Burwell Lighthouse was built.”
Dan looked back to the tombstone, jotting down the information that seemed as prosaic on paper as did the engravings in the granite; the bare bones of family history, that he hoped could be fleshed out and given life. The next generation’s life was encapsulated in another briefly written but beautifully sculpted scroll: Henri Lacroix – Born at Erie Manor on 1 March 1840 – Died on 15 August 1900. ‘With Christ, which is far better’. Adelaide Van Ness Lacroix – Born 20 October 1851 in London – Died 24 March 1910. ‘In the hand of God’.
Dan looked over at Will as he stood nearby. “Mr. Lacroix, being a Catholic who committed suicide, that must have been an issue,” he said, quietly. The old man continued to stare at the tombstone, but responded, “Yep, as I recall the priest did not, or would not, come here; however, my mother told me that Mrs. Lacroix was ashamed and may not have wanted the priest to be present for the service.” Then, looking at the young man, he stated, “Good thing there is the family plot here on the property.” Will shook his head slowly and sighed. “Anyway, I have never much understood religion and how some people look at it.”
Dan read down further and saw that some of their children had predeceased the parents. The names were contained in the same scroll as the parents. Albert Louis Lacroix – Born at Erie Manor 3 December 1879 – Died 16 January 1880. Philip Martin Lacroix – Born at Erie Manor 4 November 1882 – Died 1 February 1883. Above the two names were written only two words: ‘Sleep Peacefully’. Dan assumed the parents had decided the one inscription was sufficient for their two sons, who had died as babies, albeit three years apart.
Clearing his throat with a hearty growl, the old man informed Dan, “I knew all the other children. We grew up together on this land.” Pointing an arthritic finger at the next scroll on the tombstone, Will said, “She was the oldest. They named her after Queen Victoria in England – and believe me, she was a real Queen Bee!” Dan looked at the place on the tombstone where the old man was indicating. Victoria Anne Lacroix – Born at Erie Manor 1 June 1874 – Died 15 August 1955. ‘In my Father’s house’. “She would have been 81 years old when she died,” Dan said. “She lived to a good age.”
“A good age!” the old man retorted. “She went young! I’m 85 years old, and I like to think I have quite a few years remaining.” Shaking his head, the old man said, “81 years old when she went, and miserable to the end.” He pointed to the tombstone again. “The others were nice folk, gentle people.” Dan continued to read the names. Helena Sophie Lacroix – Born at Erie Manor 7 July 1877 – Died 1 September 1919. ‘In Thy light shall we see light’. “She was only 42 when she died. What did she die of?” he asked the old man. “Stomach cancer,” Will stated. “It was a terrible death, but she never seemed happy. It seemed like she willed herself to die. She never gave it a good fight.”
Dan turned his attention back to the tombstone. Evangeline Mary Lacroix – Born at Erie Manor on 12 April 1888. “Is she still alive?” Dan asked incredulously. “She must be ancient…she would be 92 years old!”
The old man looked askance at Dan. “If she is ancient, what does that make me, lad?” Dan reddened and was about to offer an apology when Will continued speaking. “Miss Evangeline – Evie – was my favourite; she and her brother, Jared, were both fine people, the best in the family. Evie was always such a fine lady, and never put on airs. Treated me like an equal, almost like a brother, actually.” The old man continued staring at the tombstone, his mind seemingly going back to a distant past.
Dan asked quietly, “Where is she now?”
The old man looked up at him, scratched the furry patch in his left ear, and replied, “She lives in France, on the west coast. Moved there after the First World War. Has lived there ever since. The only time Miss Evangeline came back was to bury her sister, Victoria. At that time, she sold the acreage but kept the house and property surrounding it; she said she would move back one day but that never happened.” Will looked in the distance at the rolling farmland. “The old tobacco drying sheds were falling down anyway, and the man who purchased the land uses it for pasture.”
The old man fumbled in his pocket for his pack of cigarettes, found them and opened the pack. Dan noticed that the old man did not take out a cigarette; instead, he merely held the pack in a tight grip. “Miss Evangeline maintains this old place financially – she can’t find it in her heart to sell it. She pays me to look after Erie Manor. I do the banking and take care of the business side of things. Mostly we keep in touch by mail, but sometimes she calls me on the telephone.” Finally, the old man extracted a cigarette and lit it. “I’m not sure what will happen if I go before her. I guess she will be forced to sell this place.” Will looked past the tombstone and far out to Lake Erie, his thoughts churning along with the dark waters of the undulating lake.
There was one more name on the tombstone. Dan peered closely at the last name. Jared Henri Lacroix – Born 20 February 1892 in Placentia – Died 11 October 1915 in Turkey. ‘Many waters cannot quench love.’ Looking at the old man, Dan asked, “That’s interesting…the son was born in Placentia and died in Turkey, and that would have been during World War One!”
The old man stopped staring at the lake in the distance and turned to look at Dan. “Yep, he was killed at Gallipoli, that be a place in Turkey. You would have heard tell of the battles fought at Gallipoli, right?” Dan nodded, solemn but fascinated. Will continued, “Of course, the young lad was not buried here, there’s just the inscription to honour his memory.” The young man looked back at the tombstone and said, “I didn’t know that Canadian soldiers had fought in Turkey.”
Will paused, his face solemn. “Jared enlisted with the Newfoundland Regiment. As you no doubt know, Newfoundland was a British colony until 1949. Jared was born in Placentia, the only child not born here at Erie Manor. The family had a house there for years because it was the ancestral home; the grandparents were from Placentia. The property was eventually sold but was used by the family for vacations over the years. Up till then, there was a couple who maintained it.”
The old man seemed to enjoy the telling of his tale and continued with further details. “Well, when Mrs. Lacroix was pregnant with her last child, she and the children went to stay at the home in Placentia for several months and she ended up giving birth to Jared there. Then years later he was living there when the Great War started. That is why he was able to enlist with the Newfoundlanders. The Newfoundland Regiment fought with the British 29th Division at Gallipoli. But unfortunately, Jared was one of the boys who didn’t come home.” The old man shook his head, a look of pain touching his countenance. “It just about killed his sister, Miss Evangeline. They were like two peas in a pod.”
Dan thought of the family, about the births, their lives, and the deaths. One ordinary family, but a family touched by war and death. It was only then that Dan saw a final inscription at the very bottom of the tombstone, under the names of the four Lacroix children who had survived to become adults. The writing was contained within a gentle granite scroll: And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free – John 8:32. Dan knew it was a biblical passage, and although he was not much of a churchgoer, he was aware that it came from the King James Version.
“Was that passage inscribed after the son died?” Dan asked.
The old man stared at the tombstone in a reflective manner, then replied, “No. It was put on years later, after the oldest sister died. Until her death in 1955, it was Miss Victoria who ran this place. I worked for her. Then when she died, Miss Evangeline came back from France and saw to the burial. It was Miss Evie who put on the inscription at the bottom, even though she had one inscribed for Miss Victoria, as had been done with all the others before. I have to admit, it seemed a little strange to me using that passage from the Bible, but I guess Miss Evie had her reasons.”
The old man seemed to be getting tired. He had left his pitchfork on the bench and now did not have it to lean on. Archly and with one hand on his lower back, the old man moved to a stone bench that sat in a clump of bushes to one side of the gate. “I just need a bit of a sit-down, then I’ll be fit as a fiddle.” Will took the soiled hanky from his pocket, blew into it rather explosively, then turned his attention back to the younger man.
“They’re all gone now, the Lacroix family,” he stated matter-of-factly. “All but Miss Evangeline—Evie. All those years, all those lives. Gone. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and so forth. Now there is just this big old tombstone to give testament to their lives and deaths. And that old house,” he said lowly. “Just Miss Evie and me still on this side of the great divide, so to speak.” He chuckled lowly. “Yep, she’s on the other side of the Atlantic, and me here on the edge of Lake Erie. Two old bodies with a lot of memories. I sometimes wonder who will go first – me or her.” The old man peered at Dan over his bushy eyebrows. “The problem with getting old is you think about the past too much. And here you are, a young lad, and you want to dig up the past to find a story buried somewhere,” he said.
Dan did not respond to that statement. Instead, he looked up at the imposing tombstone with the cross at the top. Looking at the old man he said, “Interesting, the family name; in French, it means ‘the cross’.”
Will turned his head inquiringly toward the young man and retorted, “You don’t say!” and then continued looking up at the top of the tombstone.
The old man stood up suddenly. “Well, we can take a gander over to the house. Here, with this old tombstone, all you have are names and dates on a piece of rock. In the house, you can see how a family once lived, at the turn-of-the-century. All the furniture is there, and the paintings and pictures – everything has been left the same from when Miss Victoria died. A couple of times a year a few ladies come from Port Burwell and give the house a proper cleaning. The furniture is not even covered. When you see the house, it is like walking back in time.” The old man fumbled in his pocket for the ring of keys, extracting it with a jangle. “I was born in the hired help’s house back in 1895. As I told you, I still live there. I grew up on the Erie Manor property. Sometimes when I close my eyes and open them suddenly, it could be years ago, when I was a boy. It gives me a funny feeling, but a comforting one too.”
At that moment it seemed to Dan that the old man’s eyes were somewhat misty. Before Dan could say anything, Will shook his head slightly. “I need to clear the cobwebs sometimes,” he commented ruefully. “There’s no sense in getting nostalgic. The past is gone.” The old man walked out the gates of the family plot, spat into the tall grass growing beside the gate, and turned back to Dan. “Come along, lad. I am going to take you on a journey into yesteryear!” With that, the old man began ambling down the hill and to the steps that led to the manor house below. Dan hurried quickly behind him, in anticipation of a visit to the house known as Erie Manor.
John RC Potter is an international educator. He was born in the small town of Clinton in Canada, but is currently living in Istanbul, Turkey. John completed his Honours Bachelor of Arts (English & Drama), degree as well as his Master of Education degree, at the University of Western Ontario (London, Canada). When in high school in Clinton, John had the opportunity to interview the Nobel Prize-winning author, Alice Munro, who resided in his hometown. It inspired John to begin creative writing. Due to the demands of work during the intervening years as a teacher, principal, and college counsellor, his creative writing endeavours have been irregular. He had poems and stories previously (Bosphorus Review of Books, Literary Yard, Down in the Dirt, The National Library of Poetry, Jabberwocky); most recently in July 2022 his creative non-fiction story, ‘In Search of Alice Munro’ was published in BROB.
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