Cousin Agam Fhein

by Frank Macdonald

Reading John’s story about getting Greet to peel the grapes reminded me of a Christmas in my early 20s when I was home in Trenton [Nova Scotia] for a visit. I was watching television with my father, Freddie, and reached over to the coffee table and took some gumdrops out of a bowls and began eating them.

Dad looked at me funny then asked, “Can you eat gumdrops?” and when I said yes, went on to tell me the following story.

He had come home from work one afternoon in Inverness and walked into the kitchen in our house on Campbell Street. I was sitting in a high chair and my mother, Kit, was sitting in a chair in front of me with a scowl on her face shoving gumdrops into my mouth one after another.

When dad asked what was going on she told him that she had been trying to bake a gumdrop cake and had given me a gumdrop to chew on to keep me quiet. Big mistake because my first tooth was a sweet tooth. I began crying for more, and got another one, and then cried some more and got another one until she finally became so fed up with me that she sat with the bowl of gumdrops feeding them to me, telling my father, “When he finishes this bowl he’ll never want another one!”

My father had assumed until that night that my mother was right and gumdrops would be off my life’s menu. How wrong she was! I’m not too fond of gumdrop cake, though, which is probably is rooted in childhood guilt acquired while seated in a high chair.

Freddie: Freddie Macdonald, Frank’s dad
Kit: Catherine Gillies, Freddie’s wife and Frank’s mother

by Frank Macdonald

During World War II “Rugged” MacDonald enlisted in the Seaforth Highlanders out of Vancouver as a soldier and piper. My father (Freddie), was turned down by the air force because of a busted ear drum and joined the Merchant Marines for a time.

At some point, probably 1943-44, Dad was in England. In what he described as a time of misunderstanding and confusion he tried to locate Rugged. There was a pub where Canadians in England frequented, and they had a blackboard there where Canadians could write their names and how to contact them in case “somebody from home” happened into the same bar.

Dad and Rugged may have found each other far sooner except for Cape Breton’s odd association with names and nicknames. Because they were in the service they had to use their birth names. Well Freddie Macdonald’s name was actually Donald Angus, and Rugged MacDonald’s name was Francis, so even though both names were scribbled on the blackboard neither of these old friends from back home recognized the other.

Eventually, though, Dad learned where Rugged’s outfit was training and took a train to there and went to visit him. He described to me that once he got on the base and followed directions, he found Rugged sitting on a hill in his uniform playing his chanter. They spent a couple of days together before Dad had to get back to his ship and before Rugged shipped out for…even he didn’t know where.

As they parted, they decided to swap souvenirs. Rugged took off his army belt and Dad took out his wallet. “I’ll get this back to you after the war,” Rugged told Dad.

What happened next was that the Seaforth Highlanders took part in the invasion of Sicily and Rugged was killed by a sniper while playing the pipes. This took place after the battle, I was told, and when the soldiers thought the area was secure.

Dad left the Merchant Marines and went to Montreal where he met my mother (Catherine, called Kit Gillies). This period in their lives is a story in itself, but the outcome was that they decided to marry and made their way back to Inverness.

Shortly after returning, Angus Gillies, my mother’s father, died suddenly. My parents had bought a small bungalow on Campbell Street and were building a house around it. (It is now 33 Campbell Street.)

One day, the station master arrived at their house with a trunk. It was addressed to Angus Gillies but since he was no longer living the station master brought it to my mother.

My father told me that one of the most haunted moments of his life was standing in the kitchen watching my mother open the trunk and seeing, sitting on the very top of the contents, his leather wallet.

What had never come up in their conversations was that Rugged, one of my father’s best friends, was a first cousin to my mother, and as his ‘next of kin’ he had written Angus Gillies when he enlisted.

As a boy, the wallet and the belt were always around the house. Unfortunately, in the many moves (and lack of understanding and respect for these items) they became lost. The wallet accidently went through the washing machine and became stiff and useless. I have sent it to my nephew, Michael, in Calgary because if it can be rehabilitated at all, he’s the person who can do it.

This is a story I remember my father telling me, although lots of the details have been forgotten so I’m posting what remains before that, too, becomes lost.

Kind of spooky, huh?