Voyager

Marjorie Wiltse was a time traveller. She moved easily through time and space with nothing more than an old photograph, a newspaper clipping or an artefact from her vast collection. When burrowing through her binders of images, decades fell away from the nonagenarian—effortlessly. Joyfully. Wholly. She was transported to another place, another time.

We look at old images, and emotions are stirred. Remembrances rekindled. For Marjorie, the transformation was more profound. More complete. When recounting the circumstances of a snapshot, Marjorie became that teenager on the porch. The child with a new bike. She could hear her mother’s voice. Her grandfather’s admonishment. A dog barking. Waves lapping on the shore. She could feel the sun on her face. She sensed the weight of guilt, remorse, and the release of triumphant joy. Not sentimentally or clouded by time—but with the impact and poignancy she felt then. When sitting with Marjorie—I understood that in those precious moments—she was seeing the world through a 16-year-old’s eyes. Curious. Mischievous. Carefree. Energetic.

One day a booklet of ration coupons fell out of one of her binders. It conjured the story of how, during the latter stages of World War II, the government managed the supply of sugar and other goods. Marjorie and several of her teenage friends gathered one evening, each bringing a sugar coupon permitting them to purchase enough to make fudge. So decadent. But the girls lost track of time and neglected the sugar boiling on the stove. That is until they smelled it burning. It was ruined, yet it mattered not at all.

In Marjorie’s telling, her friends were with her in the room with us—75 years later. Laughing, telling stories of budding romances, of adventures they would have, their futures still before them. The evening was recounted with a hint of the contrariness of a teenager and the moral cloud of wasting rationed goods. But it was the joy of friendship in which she immersed herself in those memories. She called their names as though they were with us still.

The Times first encountered Marjorie and her collection of photographs through Pat Whittaker. For about a decade, Pat and her husband, Roger, proofed the newspaper each week. Among Pat’s many contributions to this community is that she compiled and produced a walking tour guide of Wellington. (I commend it to anyone interested in the village story—and perhaps updating the guide.) The images of homes, streetscapes, library, and such were mostly pulled from Marjorie’s collection.

Marjorie had a particular fondness for the Alexandra Hotel, a sprawling resort located on the corner upon which the library stands today. Though it operated for just a decade and was destroyed by fire before she was born, the grand hotel epitomized the Wellington she aspired the place to be again. Lavish, sprawling grounds rolling down to the lakeshore, tennis courts, croquet lawns, elegant lunches on the balcony featuring fine linen and exciting people. Summering in elegance on Lake Ontario.

She could be mildly irked by the busy streets in the village in the summer, but puzzled by the view that it was somehow new or different. In her experience and those captured in her collection, Wellington was always a humming and lively spot in the summer months. Had always been. Visitors arriving by the trainload to soak up the ‘Coolest spot when the weather is hot.’

The canning industry defined the village economy, and Marjorie knew it well. Her husband, Murray, worked at the Canadian Canners plant on the lakeshore, roughly where Wellington Willows and Lakeside Motel are currently located. Marjorie worked as a bookkeeper for the company. She saw the rhythm of time flow through the village.

I knew Marjorie later in life through her collection of images, the stories they told, and the memories they invoked. I would explain that her ‘Looking back’ feature in these pages prompted positive feedback each week—that it was always the most viewed and commented upon feature online. She would look back at me, puzzled, processing this idea before letting it go. An amusing notion, but nothing more.

Marjorie was interested in the history of the place and she enjoyed correcting the reporter with big gaps in his understanding of the village. But she wasn’t a documentarian. She kept her collection orderly and manageable. With time she could find the item the inquisitor sought. But Marjorie wasn’t keeping history—she held these things close to relive these moments. To travel through time.

She was a witness. She still wandered through the orchards that once lined Lake Ontario west of the village from Carla Court to Lewisville. Smell the fruit fragrance in the air. Feel the breeze on her shoulder. See the smile on her mother’s face.

rick@wellingtontimes.ca