ADA FLORENCE KINTON BORN IN BATTERSEA ENGLAND
BUT ADORED MUSKOKA-
By Ted Currie
A preamble to today’s post.
I was a dirty rotten scoundrel, a bully by any other description, only twice in my life. And the two separate acts on the same victim, represented about five full minutes of my young life thus far; but wee George had to endure the pain for about an hour after my combined misdeeds.
Ray Green and I were playing with our school chum, George, in the playground of Burlington’s Lakeshore Public School. It was a typical recess in the middle of a Southern Ontario winter, meaning there was just enough snow to create some beds of sliding-ice, but not enough to fully justify heavy boots or snowsuits. We had been warned by all the school officials that we were to stay away from the coal chute at the corner of the building for obvious safety reasons. I don’t know what Ray and I were thinking, or not, when we conned George into his near legendary slide down the chute with our hands on his shoulders to increase the speed of his ride. George was pretty nimble as I remember, and he was able to do a quick turn onto his belly, like the kid on the Santa slide in the movie “Christmas Story,” (George even looked like the kid), and to stop him screaming for the teacher on duty, we hauled him out by his coal black hands. Let’s just say, George got busted first on re-entry to the school, and it wasn’t hard to pick us off as well, considering we had coal dust on our faces and hands. George had his new winter coat, of faux fur I believe, totally destroyed by the coal dust, and his mother was furious with Ray and I for our involvement in the misadventure. We wound up in the principal’s office, Mr. Shantz at that time, and Ray began crying long before he was invited into the waiting room. I was in kind of a daze, and I had never before been in any trouble with the law, in school terms that is, so I didn’t really have any expectation of what trouble I might be in; or if the strap was going to be brought down on my outstretched hand. All I would have been worried about at that time, was the call the principal would make to my mother, because that was the worse case scenario. We all got lucky on this particular day, and the school coughed up the money to have George’s coat professionally cleaned. It seems we got off because the janitorial staff had mistakenly left the chute door open, at a time when students were milling around in close proximity.
The singular bullying event I took sole ownership of, was when George and I were playing various games one Saturday afternoon in the school playground. For whatever reason, and I have never understood the event in all these years, I approached him with some stealth, and sensing his vulnerability at that precise moment, I punched him as hard as I could in the stomach. It hurt my fist so I know it really stunned poor George, who was doubled over in pain for about ten minutes. He actually started having dry heaves, the impact had been so severe, and I know that for the next hour, I did worry that my physical assault could have serious consequences. I tried to apologize for my punch to the gut, but George would have none of it, and even when I walked him home, he made it clear that our brief friendship was over. It was one thing to be stuffed down a coal chute, but quite another to be physically assaulted for sheer entertainment. I have had that incident on my mind since I was seven years of age, and obviously looking at a life of crime. Actually, it turned out that it was a short-lived period of being a jerk, that I believe saved the rest of my life from punching any one else, or ever again stuffing a victim down a rabbit hole to get a laugh. In fact, by the time I was twelve, I was getting the snot beat out of me just about every day, over one brutal school year, by many raging bullies at Bracebridge Public School. I did get payback for my own misdeeds.
When I work on biographical and historical research these days, I am most definitely drawn to stories like the journal “Gillmor of Algoma,” the truly inspiring story of Anglican Archdeacon Gowan Gillmor, and his most generous and faithful work in Muskoka to assist the less fortunate and the sick, regardless of how poorly he himself felt at the time; and it never mattered to him if a needy individual was of his flock or not, he never turned his back on someone in greater need. And it often meant that he would give away his winter coat and boots, or any other needed garments, to keep someone else from freezing to death, or in any way, going without. It was quite common to have Gowan Gillmor show up at his charge in Rosseau, without the clothing his congregation had helped finance for his safe travel. Ada Florence Kinton was similar in her own missionary work, and when she joined the Salvation Army, she turned her back willingly on what could have been a brilliantly prosperous art career, as both a painter and an instructor. She preferred instead, to devote her life to assisting others who had greater needs than her own. She died at only thirty-seven years of age, having been physically exhausted by her benevolent work helping those who could not help themselves.
On my desk for many years now, I have had both Gillmor’s and Ada Kinton’s published journals, put together by those who knew them best, and who genuinely believed that by doing so, their inspiring stories would stir benevolence well into the future. It has certainly been this way for me, and of course, for my research assistant Suzanne, who has worked with me for decades, re-visiting both these biographies for the benefit of our readers. Both Archdeacon Gillmor and Ada Kinton were true to God, and in that devotion, was the sincere desire to help improve society by demonstrating themselves, what greatness can generate from the seeding of kindness and compassion. While I can not say that it was the work of these two missionaries that influenced me to be a better human being, after the “George incident,” (I did reckon with my conscience quite on my own, with, I think, God’s hand resting firmly yet gently on my shoulder), I don’t think it was all that surprising that both of these kindly souls needed access to the rest of my life. I consult them frequently when I’m feeling as if I might again take up arms against the innocent, to embrace the bully ilk once again. The story today of Ada Kinton was composed in the winter season originally, and was part of a fundraising effort we undertook, to assist the Gravenhurst branch of the Salvation Army and their food bank. So this is why there is a winter reference. This is part one of the multi-part series upcoming. I’ll dedicate this one now, to good old George, who I hope has finally forgiven me; although I would understand if he hadn’t. Amazing how such an indiscretion can last a lifetime.
This has not been a typical Muskoka winter. At this moment there is a wonderful stream of sunlight coming through my office window, currently being enjoyed by two old cats, sitting on the sill, purring in that gentle, calming harmony. It feels good on my arthritic knuckles, and I apologize for taking this hiatus from typing, to let the warm rays sooth these gnarled hands. While we expect snowfall every other day, here in the lakeland, this year, as last winter, has prevailed with a milder version of Canadian winter. While others across the continent have had brutal weather, ours has been quite kind. So far, of course. Knock wood, things can change.
There has been a wonderful amount of sunshine across our region, and despite some very cold days and wood-snapping temperatures overnight, for anyone who suffers the ill-effects of light deprivation, these past few months have been more cheerfully bright than usual. Today it’s sparkling out over the birch hollow, the diamond light of ice and sun, creates a stark contrast of light and shadow. I think this would be the kind of morning artist Ada Florence Kinton would find compelling and inspirational. She very much enjoyed sunny winter days likes this, wandering along the well trodden paths through the woodlands, to sketch and make notes about the surroundings.
This was in the 1880's, while staying with her family in Huntsville, a picturesque community in North Muskoka.
"Her first experience of picking primroses was a delight to be recorded and unforgotten; and not seldom did it happen that flowers would awaken in her mind ‘thoughts too deep for tears’," This passage was written by Ada’s friend, Agnes Maule Machar, a well known Canadian writer, and was published in the biography, "Just One Blue Bonnet." The book is a compilation of Miss Kinton’s letters and journal entries, released in 1907, two years following her death in Huntsville. The book had been prepared by her sister Sara Randleson, as a lasting memorial to a life well spent.
"Her vivid imagination and playful fancy often prompted her to read into their (flowers) passive life, human feelings and emotions, resulting in graceful little parables which she wrote with as delicate a touch as that which characterizes her drawings, wrote Machar, who frequently corresponded with the artist. "This habit of mind would come out frequently in talk as, for instance, when on a country visit in June, she referred lovingly to a ‘conscientious little lilac,’ which had unfolded its first snowy bloom at an age when such an effort could hardly have been expected of it. That shrub is still distinguished by the epithet which she then bestowed. Of all the many exquisite blossoms which Florence loved and idealized through her large gift of sympathetic imagination, the nearest to her heart were the Passion flower and the pansy - the Passion-flower reminded her of a suffering Saviour, from whom she always drew her deepest inspiration; the pansy for the heart’s ease, which she found only in following him,"wrote Agnes Machar.
"Ada Florence Kinton was born in Battersea, England on April 1st, 1859, to parents John Louis Kinton and Sarah Curtis Mackie. She would become the third of four surviving children born to the Kintons. John Kinton was an instructor of English literature, at the Westminster Wesleyan Training College. He once said of himself that, ‘Gladly would he learn, and gladly teach’." Florence’s mother died when the youngster was only ten years of age. "How great the sorrow and loss was to this sensitive girl needs not be told. Hence forward I was all the mother she had," wrote her sister Sara Randleson. "The days of childhood and youth sped away all too fast. Study at home, visits to relatives in the lovely Thames Valley, scenery of Maidenhead or on the chalk cliffs of Kent, girlish friendships, and letters from Canada, whither her two brothers emigrated, gave these years their character."
Mrs. Randleson noted that, "In the summer vacation of 1880, we two sisters crossed the Atlantic to visit our brothers in the charming backwoods village of Huntsville. The romance and excitement of this expedition into the new world can not be told. Florence was too taken up with absorbing new impressions to make any record of it, except by a number of pretty pencil sketches of pioneer life."
According to her sister however, another profound event in her young life was about to occur. "The blow of her father’s death, (December 1882) was almost paralyzing. Florence’s health and life, even seemed to hang in the balance, and only the sustaining power of religion helped us endure the severe bereavement. Miss Leonard, an American lady, had lately been holding meetings for the promotion of holiness, which brought great comfort to our hearts. Our eldest brother, Edward, receiving the news by cable, came swiftly to us by sleigh and steamer, the tears freezing on his cheeks in the bitter winter cold. We decided that the home should be broken-up, and he shortly took Florence back with him to Muskoka. This change, while a solemn one, was to afford her a new beginning."
At 24 years of age, Miss Kinton wrote a card to her sister, while having a wretched cross-Atlantic voyage aboard the S.S. Sarmatian. "February 6, 1883. "You will be sorry to hear that we have had a very rough voyage. It is said to have been the stormiest that the Sarmatian has ever had. As soon as we got away from Liverpool, the fun commenced. We had eight lady passengers, and we were all sick in our berths before Thursday dinner-time. The captain told someone that we ‘were just in the nick of time to catch the whole storm.’ Then for about a week we had a real merry time. A storm at sea is certainly a fine sight, particularly to anyone who may be reclining in their cabin. On Sunday there were only three gentle men to dinner. I won’t try to describe how the rest of us felt. Suffice to say we were knocked down, whacked and banged and battered about until we were just worn out, even after the feeling of deathly nausea had passed away. The universal cry was for rest - just one half hour of dry land."
The artist writes, "For a week I lived mainly on ice. I didn’t grow much fatter. It was greatly amusing to hear the sea coming over the deck and down the stairs and past the cabin door, hissing and seething, fizzing like champagne in a passion. Once the stewardess could not get to me unless she waded knee deep in water through the passage. And the doctor was taking a mustard plaster to a patient, and he fell and dislocated his knee, and a passenger slipped on deck, cut his head open and knocked himself insensible.”
The next letter however, was composed on February 21, 1883, and was posted from the Town of Huntsville. It contained information about the train and sleigh journey west and north to Muskoka. It presented an unexpected, abrupt arrival at the cross-roads in her life, between mourning for her old life, homesickness, fear of failure, and yet the spark of challenge liberation presented. It would allow the artist to flourish, with a period of solitude yet inspiration, a deep well that would bring her back to Muskoka many times, following world-wide missions with the Salvation Army. It was the place she would choose for her final vigil, due to illness, simply enjoying the view from the porch of her brother’s Huntsville home.
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