McDonald: When a small-town newspaper dies, a bit of history dies too

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My father was a laconic Scot. If he couldn’t say it in Gaelic, it wasn’t worth saying, especially if it involved his past. As a result, I knew next to nothing about his childhood.

Eventually, I took up genealogy. I set myself up in the county archives, and would leaf through the yellowed pages of our small-town weekly newspaper.

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What I uncovered there allowed me to appreciate my family more. It also gave me insights into my wife’s family. I recognized the magic of a small newspaper, and its importance in the everyday life of its readership.

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One day, in an 1898 edition, I got to meet my father’s mother for the first time. A rural correspondent painted a word picture for me: “Both bride and bridesmaid were becomingly attired in changeable English goods trimmed with parmeterri (sic) and chiffon. After dinner, the time was spent in singing Gaelic and English songs until evening when all left for their homes.”

Then, in a 1904 edition, I found out that my grandmother had died on the farm, at the age of 37, and that my father was four years old at the time. Perhaps this was why he did not speak of her.

My paternal grandfather remarried after his wife’s death, and  moved into town. He would eventually live with my parents and me, in the house he had built.

I had heard about my half uncles with names like “Alec and a Half” and Satchel. I knew very little about them, except that they liked to guzzle from a paper bag containing sherry.

Then one day I happened upon a 1946 edition of the paper in which my grandparents were seeking information on the whereabouts of Alec and a Half.

They had sent out an anxiety-ridden notice on the front page of the newspaper, asking for help in finding their missing son. He had not returned home for a week and a half: “The family of Alex McDonald, son of Mr. And Mrs. Archie McDonald is concerned as to his whereabouts and would appreciate any information as to his recent movements. Though he had been considering going north to do bush work, he has taken no  extra clothing or effects.”

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In a subsequent edition, I read that my uncle’s body was found two weeks later at a bootlegger’s property, in a seedy part of town. Apparently, an inquest found negligence on the part of witnesses, who heard my uncle crying for help, and did nothing.

I was shocked and sickened by this knowledge, and I sympathized with my grandparents for opening their hearts to the public, and appealing for help during this family crisis.

In a 1953 edition, I got to see another family’s gratitude and joy at the news that their little four-year-old daughter would be returning home. She had suffered a life-threatening bout of meningitis and, after three weeks of hospitalization, was back in her parents’ arms: “Mr. And Mrs. Leopold Lalonde are happy to announce that their daughter, Louise, has returned to their home. Glory be to God and sincere thanks to all who prayed for her recovery.”

I would eventually marry Louise, and remain grateful for her recovery 53 years later, and for her parents’ dedication and love. Reading their card of thanks brought it all home in a very special way.

After 130 years of circulation, our small-town weekly shut its doors this past summer, and we lost a cultural touchstone. Some were heard to say: “How will we go on without it?”

And writers like me will continue to wonder where we can possibly find a similar place to search out our past, and perhaps, therein, find out who we really are.

The Glengarry News published its last edition Wednesday, Sept. 13, 2023.

Rod McDonald lives in Cornwall. He has written for several newspapers, including The Glengarry News.

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