Dancing In a Jar Read Online Free PDF Page A

too well looked after since I had imagined my married life would begin with slaving over a hot stove and tending to my beloved, much like you and Bill. I hope you know I am teasing, dear one, and it is closer to the truth that I admire you and Bill more and more as I begin my married life.
    I knew things would be different for Don and me given the adventure we were undertaking. But the truth is I am not seeing much that resembles the picture I had in my head. Of course that picture was probably at odds with living in a small room in a small house in a small town in a small country. To be honest, that part isn’t as hard as I might have imagined. The hard part is watching Don start a mine from a small room in a small house in a small town in a small country. And with what seems to be a small amount of money.
    Don’t tell anyone at home, but I don’t think anything at the mine site is as Don was expecting. He doesn’t say much about it, but his sleep is always troubled. He is consumed with getting this right and I can see he steps very carefully as his every move is watched and interpreted. I encourage him to talk to me about it when we are alone, much as I saw you and Bill in your early days. But my heart could burst when I look at him and I see so many ways to bring happiness into our married life. I cannot imagine a day without him.
    Please find time to send some news and give Bill a big hug from his favorite Crammond. The post here works much better than I had anticipated. At least something is not as I pictured.
    Big hugs to you both,
Urla
    St. Lawrence, Newfoundland
    November 5, 1933
    Dear Pop,
    I have just an hour to get this letter off to you before the mail comes or else it would have to wait a week or two. The weather is closing in and it’s occasionally too stormy or foggy for the mail boat to make it into the harbor.
    Your last letter made good time and it’s always great to hear the news from home. I’m not sure anyone would be surprised to learn that Paul DeNilo went down in a mob shooting. Even as kids we knew something wasn’t right in that house. But you needn’t worry about the Italian mafia here. There is only one family group, all descended from a few brothers who came to Newfoundland from Italy in the 1860s. They left war behind in Europe and came here to engage in the salt fish trade. They send salt fish to New England and bring back goods for their general store. The family is from the north, and have pale skin and blue eyes, bearing no resemblance to the more suspicious crowd from the south of Italy. So I don’t have to watch my back here.
    In fact, on several evenings now I have visited Mr. Gregory Giovannini, cousin to our landlord of the same name. By the way, that happens a lot here, so it is a town of nicknames. Our landlord goes by Dudler, not Gregory because there are too many of them. There is a Rubber Jack Fitzpatrick to distinguish him from the other Jack Fitzpatricks and on it goes. Urla wonders why in a town of 900 people there couldn’t be more variety in their names!
    I enjoy Mr. Giovannini’s company very much and he is full of stories of the early days of the salt fish trade. He is a darn fine gin rummy player too. Like so many around here, Mr. Giovannini almost lost his business when world trade collapsed in 1929. There is a general store left but the business is only a shell of its earlier glory days. It still amazes me to see how far-reaching are the effects of the ’29 crash.
    The government here has yet to recover. It is faced with empty coffers, high unemployment, and desperate people in every outport and town. I don’t tell Urla this, but it is far more impoverished than I was expecting. Of course the government now does everything it can to raise money even if it’s self-defeating. You cannot imagine the tariff situation in this little country. Everything you hate about government is on display in spades. All goods that come through Newfoundland customs have a flat