William Lyon Mackenzie King. lian goodall
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cherubic. His innocent blue eyes were full of curiosity, his blond hair curled sweetly around his chubby face, and his plump little legs peeked out like German sausages from under his dress, the garb for both boys and girls of the day.
Two years later there was another baby in the family, when Janet (known as Jennie) arrived in 1876. During her pregnancies and confinements, Isabel might not always feel like romping across the carpet with her children and roaring like a lion. A nursemaid helped her with the children’s care, but their mother was always available for merriment! After dinner she played the piano and sang hymns and other songs. Sometimes John joined in and even accompanied her with clacking castanets. The little family had a lot of fun before quieting down later each evening to games and stories read aloud. As both John and Isabel King were of Scottish ancestry and very devout Presbyterians, they would read the bible and hear the children say their prayers every night before they went to bed.
Willie awoke to the sound of little Jennie’s crying. He couldn’t get back to sleep.
“Tell me the grandfather story,” he demanded of his mother as she perched on the edge of his bed.
“Which grandfather story?” Isabel queried, tucking the coverlet around Willie’s small frame. “You have two grandfathers, young lad. Both came from Scotland and both were very brave and important men, like you shall be one day. Would you like to hear about Father’s father, Bombardier King? At the Battle of the Windmill the Royal Artillery fought off the Rebel sympathizers!”
“No, not that grandfather – my grandfather,” the little boy insisted. He didn’t mean any disrespect toward his soldier grandfather who had fought against the other grandfather’s forces. But Willie wanted to hear about the person for whom he was named.
“Oh!” Isabel chuckled. So her father’s exploits had become the story.
“My father, William Lyon Mackenzie, was a man with strong ideas who wanted to help people.” In the lamplight she wove a story of good and evil – the brave farmers and their leader against the government and its selfish, powerful friends. “Grandfather felt he had to take more action than writing or editing a newspaper or even than he could when he had been mayor of York.” Isabel’s account contained many exciting details – but Willie liked best the part after the Rebel forces lost the battle. He was thrilled each time he heard Isabel tell about the daring escape through the countryside “just a few miles from here. There was a large reward offered for Grandfather’s capture, one thousand pounds to any one who would ‘apprehend and deliver’ him. You’ve seen the very poster that many greedy men also saw that day. However, a good man and lover of reform posted scouts, who found Grandfather before his enemies did. They took him across the Grand River and gave him shelter for the night. The next day they sent him on his way to safety across the border to Buffalo. Grandfather never forgot their kindness.”
Although she made her father’s life sound like an adventure story, Isabel couldn’t help adding her own personal colouring in a quieter voice.
“I was born the same year as your father, in 1843. Only I was born in the United States, after Grandmother Isabel, who is an angel now, joined Grandfather in New York State. I was the youngest of thirteen children, although not all survived. Things were very difficult.” She told Willie of the hardships she had known, how her father was often without work, and once even imprisoned for breach of the American neutrality laws! Her life continued to be difficult and some people snubbed them, even after a pardon permitted the family to return to York. When her father died in 1861, they had bravely struggled on. “Then your Uncle Charles Lindsey introduced me to a good and handsome student from the University of Toronto – but now we’re getting into another story and it’s time for you to go back to sleep!”
She smoothed his hair and kissed his face tenderly before she took the lamp and left the room.
The importance of family traditions is reflected in the names the Kings gave their four children. The first baby girl was named Isabel Christina Grace, after her mother and grandmothers. The second child, the couples first born son, was given the name of Isabel’s father, William Lyon Mackenzie. Their third child, a daughter, was Janet Lindsey (but called Jennie). Her namesake was her mothers sister, Aunt Janet, who had married Charles Lindsey. When the fourth and last King child was born in 1878, he was given the name of John’s uncle, Dougall Macdougall. The young Dougall Macdougall, however, would be always known as Mac or Max.
John and Isabel had grown up in an age when it was expected that families would help each other. In the days before government programs provided any help, it was common for elderly or widowed people to be looked after by their family. John King’s father had died before he was born, so he and his mother had lived with his uncle, Dougall Macdougall, a Berlin newspaper editor.
When John finished school, he returned to Berlin and opened his law practice. He and Isabel had a long courtship, but John wasn’t established enough to marry her and bring her from Toronto to Berlin until 1872. Like most parents, John and Isabel created hopes and dreams for the four precious children they had. They wanted their offspring to be respected people and important citizens – the girls to have secure marriages and the boys to have important careers. Helping their children achieve these goals meant sacrifices. True, John King wanted to make the world a better place, but his first commitment was to see that his children had education, connections, and opportunities to ensure their success. The Kings did much more than provide food and shelter for their family. They opened doors to their children’s futures by exposing them to important people and ideas – even when they were very young.
The crowd pressing around Willie made him hot in his suit jacket and woollen knickers. He squeezed his father’s hand for reassurance. John smiled at his seven-year-old son. “Can you see?” he asked. When the lad shook his head “no,” John lifted him up.
Now Willie could see the speaker on the platform. The tall, dark-haired man with a funny nose, Willie knew, was Prime Minister Sir John A. Macdonald, the most important person in Canada. That was why his father had brought him to the meeting.
“I would like to thank you,” Macdonald concluded. The audience clapped, Willie very enthusiastically.
A young woman crossed the stage, curtsied, and held out a posy. The prime minister bent to receive the flowers, and the giver innocently placed a kiss on his cheek. Macdonald was enchanted. So was Willie. He would never remember what it was that Macdonald had said, but he would never forget the charming rewards that political greatness could hold.
Willie enjoyed the benefits of having parents who were well known in Berlin, but he was not growing up in a rich family. The Kings’ bills exceeded John’s income. However, while John and Isabel did not belong to the upper classes, they wanted to appear to be people of means. Even though John would never own a home, the Kings felt they should live in a place that would impress their friends and potential clients. They needed enough room for their children, their visitors, the family members who stayed with them, and the servants they often employed. In 1886, when Bella was twelve, Willie eleven, Jennie nine, and Max seven, the family rented the last home they would live in in Berlin – Woodside. They would remember it as a warm nest where they had their best family times.
Woodside was a golden-bricked showpiece just outside of town, with over five and a half wooded hectares for enjoying the pleasures of Nature. There were flower gardens to dream in; Lovers’ Lane for rambles; a lily pond for reflecting; a hilltop above the orchard where the children could camp; shady nooks for sharing books of poetry, and woodsy knolls, where on sunny days, Isabel could set up her easel and paint.
Inside,