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A Good Home, Bond Head Harbour, Country Homes, Frederick Farncomb, John Farncomb, St. George's Anglican Church in Newcastle Ontario, The Farncombs of Bond Head

The Farncombs of Ebor House – Pt 3 in the Ebor House series

August 9, 2014October 15, 2020 Cynthia Reyes

“Who would have built such a grand home?”

That’s what I wondered on that first day when — having become lost on an obscure country road — I sat in my car, gawking at Ebor House.

Frederick Farncomb would have.

And he did.

1867 was a great year. After years of debate, Canada’s separate parts became one country under God and queen.

**Robert Harris painting, via wikipedia**

East, west, north and south.

Former adversaries. Aboriginal, French and English. Different languages. Different back-stories. Different customs and beliefs.

Starting in 1867, confederation brought these parts together under one national ‘roof’.

And the glory of that moment inspired many Canadians to reach higher, dream bigger.

Some of Canada’s finest residences were built in the period just before, during and after 1867.

Ravenscrag Photo Built in 1860's

Shaughnessy House in Montreal

At the Bond Head Harbour, east of Toronto, a customs officer named Frederick Farncomb had ambitions for a roof of his own. But not just any roof.

Orphaned at 7 years of age, Frederick left England for Canada as a young man. He married Jane Robson, also of British background. Together they had 7 children.

Bond Head Harbour (also called Port Newcastle) thrived, as ships plied their trade with various cities in North America.

Cargoes of wheat, oats, flour and lumber sailed across Lake Ontario.

Frederick’s uncle Thomas Farncomb, the wealthy Lord Mayor of London, England, was also a merchant and ship owner. After he died (in 1865) Frederick inherited a large amount of money from his estate. In 1867, Frederick hired a Toronto architect to design a house for his family on land he already owned and within 18 months, the 17-room house was completed.

Some of the furniture was from Jacques & Hay, who made furniture for Canada’s wealthiest citizens and British royalty.

York, England, had special significance for the Farncomb family and they called their home Ebor House. In Latin, “Ebor” means “York”.

Frederick was influential in his community and church. When local Anglicans built St. George’s Church, Newcastle, (just up the road from Bond Head) it was “patterned from a church near Leeds, England, the old parish church of Frederick Farncomb, a member of the building committee and an avid supporter of the new church.

“When the design was accepted and the building commenced, money was raised from far and near. Even the Lord Mayor of London, Mr. Farncomb’s uncle, contributed generously to the fund.”

The Farncombs were undoubtedly one of the most prominent families in the Bond Head-Newcastle area. When son Alfred became a doctor and John became “Reverend Canon John Farncomb” at St. George’s Church, their influence grew even more.

One of the biggest symbols of the Farncombs’ success was their beautiful lakeside home. With its stately rooms and beautiful grounds, Ebor House was the perfect setting for family weddings, dinner parties, picnics and important social events.

Next: Joyful Times at Ebor House.

A Good Home, Blessings, Canadians, Couples, Family Stories, Gardening, Garlic, Home, Inspiration, Love letters, Loving Acts, Vegetable Garden

“If you are reading this, it means….”

August 5, 2014August 5, 2014 Cynthia Reyes

Our friend Jacqui phoned.

“Are you going to be there in a few minutes? I’m coming for a visit.”

I smiled. It was almost exactly what Paddy used to say. Minutes later, he and his wife Jacqui would be at our door.

Married for decades, they were always together, these two.

Our family loved their visits.

But Paddy died from cancer earlier this year.

We wondered if Jacqui would continue the impromptu visits. I was very pleased with her call.

As usual, I let her in through the kitchen door, and we hugged.

We sat at the harvest table.

It was the same table that just last October was laden with produce from the garden — including the lone Jamaican pumpkin that grew from a seedling that Paddy and Jacqui had given us that spring.

“Come for your share of the pumpkin harvest,” we’d phoned them, laughing.

When they came, we handed them a bag filled with herbs, garlic, tomatoes and half of the Jamaican pumpkin.

Now, 8 months later, Jacqui and I sat together at the table for the first time without Paddy.

We sipped our tea.

She’d been going through Paddy’s belongings, she said. Deciding what to give away, and identifying matters that needed her immediate attention.

She opened Paddy’s briefcase.

She saw an envelope addressed “To My Wife”.

She ripped it open and started to read:

“My dearest Jacqui.

So faithful and true!

… Without you, I would have had nothing. It was due to your sacrifices that we survived. You gave so much and demanded so little. Thank you for being so much to me over the years….”

“I want you to read it,” Jacqui said now, handing me the long white envelope. She had torn it open at one end, but the writing on the front was clear: “To My Wife”, it said.

I reached into the envelope, pulled out the letter.

I got goosebumps.

Paddy’s letter to Jacqui ends with this paragraph:

“If you are reading this, it means that I’ve passed on. Don’t be sad. Our life together was good! Although I won’t be here in body, I will always be at your side in spirit.

“Good bye my love!”

Moved by his love for her and their daughter Donna — and by this considerate act – Jacqui cried.

But here’s what surprised her most: the letter was dated August 9, 1999.

Paddy wrote it 14 years before – and put it in his briefcase, where he knew Jacqui would find it.

The impact on Jacqui was so positive that on a subsequent visit, as we sat on the verandah, she agreed to let me share excerpts from the letter.

The lesson here:

There’s no need to wait. You can write that letter to someone you love right now.

A Good Home, Canadian Gardens, Garden Humour, Gardening, Gardens, Wild Carrot, Wild flowers

Her Royal Lacy-ness

July 30, 2014February 28, 2020 Cynthia Reyes

There is a place

For Queen Anne’s Lace

In nature’s open garden.

“But not in mine!”

Gardeners decline

And – oh, their hearts they harden.

Tis true, Lace will

Self-seed — and still

I love her gentle beauty

But gardeners think

That in one blink

She’ll multiply their duty.

I spied the Lace

Her pretty face

Not showing in the open

She hid herself

In clever stealth

With mint in our herb garden.

She stayed alive

Two years survived

Unseen by Garden Minder

Till recent days

He cast his gaze

And was quite shocked to find her.

Her stem he gripped

He pulled and ripped

And stared at her in horror

And thought he had

Removed it all

For he’s a true weed warrior.

I found her in

The compost bin

— This tale is not fallacious —

No-one about,

I pulled her out

Aggrieved that one so gracious

Should be thrown down

With newly-mown

Grass, in a heap of greenery

I picked her up

And filled a cup

Of water to redeem her.

And here’s the grace:

She’s fine, our Lace

She flowers now at leisure

Indeed, she blooms

Inside our rooms

For Gardener’s “viewing pleasure”.

If he’s aware

– Our Gardener Dear –

That Lace is what is blooming

He has said nought

Of what he thought

And there has been no fuming

But hold your glee

Don’t “hooray” me

For trouble’s yet a-foot

The Lacy weed

Has done the deed

And left behind a root

Though Gardener Dear

Does not know there

Is still a small plant thriving

In his herb bed

The weed so dread

Is quietly surviving.

Dedicated to people who love wildflowers.

–AND with a smiling apology to my favorite gardener–

There’s more information on the wild carrot AKA Queen Anne’s Lace, at:

http://ontariowildflowers.com/mondaygarden/article.php?id=169

A Good Home, Flowers, Garden, Gardening, Gardens, Home, Writers

The Guilty Gardener

July 17, 2014July 20, 2014 Cynthia Reyes

I love gardening.

But for a smart person, I can be really stupid.

A pain-filled fall and winter got worse as we headed toward spring: the few times I went out, I caught something.

Flu.

Bronchitis.

A cough that wouldn’t end.

Worn out and afraid of falling, I rarely even went into the garden.

Stuck in bed, I tried to write my way back to sanity and health.

Spring came.

And then.

“You’ve relapsed,” the specialist said flatly during my hospital visit.

“Guilty,” I replied. “Sorry.”

“Do NOT feel guilty,” she answered. “It was an awful winter. All my patients with complex injuries had a very tough time.”

“But your immune system is also weak,” she warned. “Be very careful this spring.”

I listened.

I promised.

And I was. And then.

It was gardening season.

Day after day, my husband worked hard in the garden.

I watched, feeling entirely useless.

He left, on an errand.

And then.

I spied a large crop of forget-me-not growing into the lawn from the garden beds. I know they bug him, and I know they’re easy to dig with a trowel. And so I thought I’d help.

A small thing.

A good thing.

I could do this. I crouched over the lawn and started digging, feeling useful. When the back and leg pain intensified, I lay on my front, face just above the grass.

I dug, sneezing as dust went into my nose.

Then I spied a few dandelions nearby. Now I crouched over them, trowel engaged.

“Stop!” said my wiser self.

I listened.

I meant to.

In just a few seconds.

And then.

My sense of time did not kick in. It rarely does.

When I got up, the pain almost knocked me out. I staggered. Stumbled. Fought against falling, my cane desperately trying to find purchase in the ground.

“Cynthia! Cynthia!” came the panicked shout.

I had not heard my husband return.

I ask you: which is worse?

To watch your partner struggle to do the gardening duties that you loved doing — on top of everything else on his plate? Or risk even worse pain — and his distress — by doing a few small gardening things to help? Some days, I’m almost used to the pain. It’s with me all the bloody time.