AUGUST 5, 1947
CAMPOBELLO ISLAND, N.B., Monday—A year ago, at the dedication of a monument to my husband in front of the little library at Welchpool on this island, John Calder, the president of the Board of Trade, said that every year the people of Campobello Island would hold a memorial service at the monument. This year's service was held last Saturday morning.
With four very well-scrubbed children, Miss Thompson and I went down with the rest of our household. Some of the summer people and many of the island people were there. The service was conducted by the Church of England minister, Rev. Norman Fairweather, and the pastor of the Baptist Church in Wilson's Beach, the other village on this island, and an American minister from Salem, Mass., who is staying here. The hymns were sung by a choir from Wilson's Beach. The blue sky overhead and the fresh breeze made all of us think how much such a day would have meant to the man we were commemorating if he had been sailing his boat in these waters.
Afterwards, the ladies of the church served a very nice lunch in the parish hall, and as many of us attended as could possibly squeeze into the hall. I was asked to talk about the United Nations since it was one of my husband's greatest interests, and I was glad of the opportunity to do so.
The memorial tablet is a particularly nice one and stresses the fact that my husband, like his mother, always called this island "beloved island."
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Our land here is covered with blueberries just beginning to ripen. And under the little blueberry bushes, there is a carpet of cranberries. They are a little more tart than the cranberries farther south, but very good nevertheless. As yet, however, they are not ready for picking.
The blueberries can be picked if you are careful to take only the ripe ones, and the children and I went out to get enough for a pie on Saturday. We succeeded but, with a sigh, my 5-year-old grandson said: "It takes a lot of trouble to get good things to eat, doesn't it?" He wandered away from us, quite clearly having decided that the trouble was going to be ours and not his.
Yesterday we went for a long walk in the pine woods, gathering sweet pine for pillows which will smell sweet all through the year, when we are far away from the fragrant woods themselves. Sad to say, Fala got himself entangled with a little black and white animal and returned so smelly that we had to give him a bath and cover him with the contents of my cologne bottle. Even now, I don't know whether we can let him in the house.