Discovering The Voices Of The Past

After reviewing a draft of my first book, a collection of fictional short stories depicting the lives of everyday workers during the construction of the Rideau Canal, a local publisher suggested major changes — specifically, that I rewrite it as a nonfiction. I reflected long and hard on their advice. After all, this was my first foray into writing. Any suggestion, particularly one from an established publisher or editor, could only result in a better product.

But what sources could I draw from to find the common worker’s voice? Up to that point, my research had taken me to several established authors of canal history. Robert Leggett, whose book Rideau Waterway offered a comprehensive history, was big on events and dates. Others, like the well-respected Ken Watson, had written works that were equally rich in detail. But nothing I could lay my hands on offered a first-hand account of the lives of the ordinary people. 

Undaunted, I continued my research. I spent many days at the National Archives of Canada, The Ottawa Room at the Ottawa Library, and The Gatineau Valley Historical Society, greedily absorbing all I could lay my hands on. There was much to get through, of course, but the more I read, the more convinced I became that what I was looking for did not exist. The historical record consisted of memoirs written by those in senior positions, as opposed to any coming from the perspective of those whose stories I was most interested in writing about.

Nineteenth century scribes such as W Pittman Lett, Bytown’s first poet laureate, or John McTaggert, Rideau Canal Clerk of Works (in his memoir “Seven Years In Canada”) were prime examples. Both wrote richly-worded descriptions of their experiences at the time. Both are entertaining reads, particularly W.P. Lett’s, whose simple limericks are charged with gentle barbs aimed mostly at, one assumes, the ruling class and his compatriots. But both came up short insofar as giving me what I needed.

I also came across the works of contemporary author, Larry Cotton. His “Whisky and Wickedness” series was particularly insightful as they contain actual news articles and advertisements of the time detailing specific events and players. And yet, there was still little to grab onto regarding the human experience of the ordinary laborer and their families.

Worse still, virtually every piece of material I read came across as dismissive and even derogatory as it related to people I was interested in writing about. The phrase ‘drunken Irish’ was used so often that the two words seem all but inseparable. Moreover, the deplorable living conditions of the time were all but glossed over. In one case there was even the suggestion that families “ignored the natural wealth of pine, preferring to dig damp cave-homes in the piles of dirt excavated from the canal in an effort to imitate the sod huts of Ireland.”

Yeah … sure.

Absurdities like this served to unfairly characterize an entire population in a negative and cartoonish light. Drinking, for example, was known to be a common vice — and in no way exclusive to Irish laborers. Particularly ironic was the case of John McTaggert himself, whose excessive alcohol consumption was cited as a contributing factor to his dismissal prior to canal completion. 

So, I once again broadened my gaze in search of this missing piece. This time, I read W. Carleton’s The Black Prophet: Tales of the Irish Famine, hoping to find something there.  Although written more than a decade after the events I was depicting, and taking place in Ireland, it should help fill the gap, right? But, here again, the depictions tended to be somewhat lampooning, even cartoonish, and without any real substance insofar as depicting the deeper complexities and harshness of everyday life that I hoped would infuse my own prose. More stories of drunkenness, thievery and hooliganism, without context, were not going to cut it.

My initial goal, to depict the lives of everyday canal workers, had not changed. However, the approach had now come full circle. Convinced that a fictional account was my only option, I set myself to the task, still knowing that more was required to come close to reflecting the human condition of the time.

But where else to look?

Despondent, and perhaps a little desperate, I turned to the works of Irish author and poet, W.B. Yeats, hoping for any sort of deeper connection with the people and the broader experience, albeit this time through poetry.

The Celtic Twilight turned out to be both less and more than what I had hoped for. Although there was no historical meat, per se, it captured the humanity, the pain and the hopes of those who were linked, if not directly by blood, at least through shared experience and beliefs, with my protagonists. Yeats’ book is comprised mainly of candid interviews. It is rich with the insights of interesting people, all packaged in elegant poetry and prose. Turns of phrase such as “The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper,” resonate as much now as when I first read them.

So, in the end, I wrote stories based on true events, as they were recorded. But the perspective and the lens through which the characters see their lives unfold is an ‘inspired’ fiction of my own making, albeit informed by history and poetry. To put it more eloquently, and to use one of my favorite quotes from Ann Patchett, “none of it happened, and all of it’s true.”

Author’s note: I’ve since discovered a richly informative source of material in the form of oral history. But that’s a subject for a future blog :).