Not Home for Christmas

November 15, 1914

My Dear Emily,

This is my first bit of leave time since starting basic training. None of have been allowed any correspondence until now, so I hope you will forgive my not having written until now.

The drills we go through are relentless. There are some nights when we don’t sleep because we have to practice nighttime maneuvers.

We don’t behave like real people here. The officers yell at you for things that need to be done exactly like they want; like making the bed. I used to think I knew how to make my bed, but I was yelled at in front of the entire unit, given twenty push ups and made to remake it, because the warrant officer couldn’t bounce a coin on it. It almost makes me glad you aren’t here to endure it; but I’d anything to see you again. I actually think you might appreciate some of the army’s attention to detail. I’ve never seen so many men who keep themselves so well groomed, even if it is just to avoid punishments. They’ve taken some photographs of us in our full uniforms – I’m enclosing mine in this letter, so you can see for yourself what I mean.

I’m beginning to appreciate the diversity of our country. One of my new friends in our unit is from Newfoundland – so he had to travel west before we go back east again. My other friend, Jean, is from right here in Quebec, and he’s been teaching me a little French whenever we have down time. He says I’m a bit slow with it, but I think it’s important if we end up in France to understand some of the language. There are fellows from all over the country here of all ages. It makes me feel that I’ve made the right decision in enlisting. I feel proud to serve with these men who all agree on one thing: That we’ve got to do our part in this war.

We’re still a few weeks away from graduation, but we are supposed to deploy from Halifax shortly after. I will write again before that.

It’s already beginning to snow here. I hope the harvest went well, and that Mom and Dad are helping you settle in. I hope you’re getting on with Mom – she’ll never admit when she needs help, and I’d like to think that you can take care of each other. I hope you let Dad do the physical labour; I’d feel guilty over you straining yourself, and I think Dad would too – it’s already killing him not to be coming with me, so he needs to feel useful.

I think the papers might have been wrong about the fight being over by Christmas. It’s almost December, and we haven’t even left Canada yet. I hope at least I’ll be home by the spring.

I’m sorry that our first holidays have to be apart. I’m sorry we didn’t get a longer honeymoon. I’ll make them all up to you as soon as I’m home.

If you do me one favour Emily, it’s to not worry. Keep busy. Keep warm. Keep each other company, all of you, and find things to be happy about. I want to hear all about them. I want to hear from you always, even if it’s just words on a page.

Love always,

George

December 21, 1914

Dear George,

I was so happy to read your last letter. I shared it with Charlie and Annie (your parents asked me to call them by name, if you can believe that.) and they hung on your every word as I read it aloud. We all miss you so much.

When I got to the part about you not being home for Christmas, Annie did her trick where she pretended to go fix something in the kitchen. You’d be proud of me I think, I’ve been breaking down that shell little by little. Every time she disappears, I follow her into the kitchen insisting on doing anything to help. I’d wash dishes, I’d put things away, I’d fetch things for her recipe. And, since she’d do anything but reveal her own bluff, she finally started teaching me recipes. Just yesterday, I made my first ever pecan pie by myself. I’m certain I burned the crust, but Annie served it anyway, and Charlie insisted it was delicious.

Charlie spent the first few days of harvest insistently working alone. But with Annie determinedly monopolizing the household chores, I got desperate for anything useful to do. So, I began accompanying Charlie to the fields. I would pick the crops, and Charlie would wheel the loads to the wagon. I think you should know that I actually like farm work. I like being able to look back from the wagon and very clearly see everything I’ve accomplished in a day. I’m not calling it easy. I still often go to bed feeling the aches in all my muscles, but I’ve started to get used to them. I pretend they aren’t there like Annie pretends she doesn’t cry. I’ve also started to believe that phrases like “man’s work” are silly, because it’s mostly women doing that work around here now. It’s funny how a fight halfway across the world can change things here so drastically, and it’s not all terrible things.

I hope that’s what you meant in finding things to be happy about. Aside from missing you, we’re alright here. We’re not alone. I’m glad to hear you’re in good company. I’d like to hear some of the French you’ve been learning.

I can only imagine how long letters across the sea will take to reach you, if your letter from Quebec took nearly a month.

I hope this reaches you before you leave. I hope you’re allowed to keep it with you. I’ve enclosed a family portrait of us. We’ll have to have a proper one taken when this is all over – this one is incomplete without you.

Remember to take your own advice: Don’t worry. Stay focused, stay safe. You’re already a hero to me. I will miss you until you are home.

Love always,

Emily