We have babies! “We” being the pair of doves that nest in the vines just outside our window.
These birds are monogamous. Their roles are quite specific at first and perfectly illustrate the term “nesting”. The male selects the spot for the nest (“Hey Babe: I’ve found us a nice piece of property!”) He also collects the twigs and brings them to the female, who builds the nest.
After that, the parenting duties are shared equally: the egg-sitting (the male sits on the eggs during the day, the female at night) and the baby-feeding duties, and watching out for predators.
This morning, we noticed that the mother/father had left the nest for a little while, so Hamlin took this photo through the window:
Isn’t it a strange-looking little grey bundle? They hardly look like birds!
Meanwhile, under our deck, the robins have built a nest. This couple shares the gathering of twigs, and the female builds the nest alone. It usually takes her 2 to 6 days.
I’m wondering if the female had help this time because the nest was built in just one day. (It was built after a night of soaking rain, which is ideal for gathering building materials.)
And that, in my uninformed opinion, is an amazing feat. So we’ve decided to let the nest be.
Which means, when the robin babies are born, we’ll be dive-bombed every time we pass. Yikes.
We’ve had all kinds of weather in the last four days: wind, rain, snow, freezin’ rain. Then more snow and freezin’ rain and wind again.
Hamlin froze his tush off to get these photos today!
We hear the birds singing loudly — though methinks it sounds more like complaining today. Who can blame them?
This wall must be warm, because a dove has taken refuge on the climbing ivy branches just outside our window. We’re so sorry for him/her that we almost opened the window and said “Come on in!”
Our snowdrops are encased in ice.
The frog, we imagine, is playing a requiem for Spring, because it sure feels like Spring has died and Winter is resurrected.
The poor daffodil buds, about to bloom, have frozen too.
In our eagerness for Spring, we put out the warm-weather table and chairs days ago.
The laugh’s on us for forgetting it’s April in Canada. They don’t call our country The Frozen North for nothin’.
Every so often, I wish I had a well-behaved garden.
The kind where everything does what I want, when I want.
Where flowers don’t stray into lawns and lawns don’t stray into flowerbeds, and the strong wind didn’t break one of the arches on the arbour my dear husband so carefully built.
But this I know:
Real gardens offer up surprises each week, each day and sometimes, each hour.
Like flowers blooming in unexpected colours.
And interesting visitors.
Like this large bird in the apple tree.
And wild rabbits.
Cleaning themselves without a care in the world.
Like this mother duck, with her ducklings.
She must have squeezed herself under the fence.
This ant, dragging a dead moth many times its size. It took the moth way across the verandah.
This beet, expected to be dark red, is somehow orange.
A single squash. It’s from a vine that strayed from our neighbours’ squash plantation.
“It’s yours”, he says. The thing will grow to almost half my height. No kidding.
These onions, because they delight and surprise me each late summer.
And the garlic, just because the sight of them when newly harvested always surprises me.
The sight of our daughter’s little doggie, coming around the corner at full speed. Well, sort of.
And this shadow “selfie”, which I didn’t know was there till I downloaded it and nearly jumped in surprise.
Ron has invested untold time, love and money into his home.
“This place has nurtured me. Not just me but others too. One friend stayed here in the winter, healing from an accident. It’s nurtured her.”
The children are grown up. Ron says it’s time to leave. Ebor House is too big for one person.
He looks around at rooms sparkling with sunshine, beauty and a strong sense of well-being. He tells me yet another story about the house and the Farncombs. He calls each family member by first name.
I say: “You don’t sound like a man who’s selling this house.”
He says he is.
“I truly believe the house is looking for a buyer, rather than a person looking for this house. It’s a very special place. Last evening four of us had a wonderful supper under the trees and at the end of our meal we were visited by one of the hawks that have decided to call this place home this year. Just magical!”
**
As for me?
It started when I got lost a few weeks ago and saw this house.
I wanted to know more.
But the single discovery that kept me searching was the August 1901 New York Times story about the drowning of the two Farncomb boys.
My heart sank when I read it.
A parent myself, I wanted – perhaps even needed – to know that things turned out well for the family.
Of course — since this is real life and not a fairy tale — they did and they didn’t.
**
The Farncomb family survived and, over the decades, many thrived.
John and Jane and the boys were not forgotten.
But life had to go on, at least after a while.
And so it did.
Dorothea, Frederick and Jane’s only daughter, was a woman of strong faith who wrote for the Farmer’s Advocate, and published religious books. Other Farncomb descendants became successful in Canadian business, education, law, medicine and other fields such as literature and media.
Family members still own property in Bond Head, and still have influence. In 2002, one descendant (among other residents) protested against a plan to change the name of a local street. He argued it made no sense. He also pointed out that Farncombs had lived there for 150 years and that he owned much of the land in the area.
His side won.
**
My interest in a house became a story about a multi-generation family. Their joys, sorrows, achievements. Their lives.
The trail had many twists and turns, and sometimes, they alarmed me. Combing through the city of London’s archives, I found a court case involving slave-ship owners. Thomas Farncomb, the wealthy ship owner who became London’s Lord Mayor, was involved.
A descendant of enslaved people myself, my hackles immediately went up. Had I spent all this time researching a house built with money earned from the slave trade? After all, it was Frederick Farncomb’s inheritance from his uncle Thomas that was used to build Ebor House.
I was relieved to discover that Thomas had been brought to court by two men whom he had disparaged over their ownership of slave ships. It appears he was opposed to the slave trade.
There were other discoveries along the way. Some are included in this story, and some are not.
I double-checked each of my findings, then asked homeowner Ron and Myno Van Dyke, secretary of the local historical society, to read much of what I’d written. I thank them for their help.
I conclude the series knowing I’ve done my best to make it fair, factual — and kind. There is much more to the story of Ebor House and its family than I’ve written here, but this is the story I wanted to share.
One Farncomb descendant is writing a historical novel on Dorothea Farncomb and the family. Another, Balfour Le Gresley (who sold the house to Ron), has studiously researched his family history. I decided to leave it tothem to make their own discoveries and decide what to share. (Though I’ve met them both, neither contributed to this series in any way.)
This series is dedicated to the descendants of Frederick and Jane Farncomb.
**
Thanks to: Newcastle Village and District Historical Society; Library and Archives Canada; Archives of the City of London, England; Trinity College, Port Hope; Canadian Anglican Church; St. George’s, Newcastle; the Canadian Encyclopaedia; The New York Times and several other Canadian and American newspapers; other sources. Some photos of Ebor House came from Promise First Realty’s website.
Cynthia Reyes 
