by Dorothy Nixon All Rights Reserved

Norman Nicholson, my husband's great grandfather liked to keep track of things: Indeed, that was his one extraordinary trait. He kept track of his every expense, business or household, over five decades (right down to 5 cents tossed to a tramp).

He kept balances, inventories, invoices and lists.

He kept all this information in dozens of ledgers, diaries and notebooks and he kept these booklets neatly arranged in a trunk under the window in his daughter's room. ( I know because it said so in one of many letters he kept, which the daughter in her turn kept, and which eventually, fell into my hands as the wife of his great grandson). That's how history-challenged Yours Truly came to have a real appreciation for the life of a 1^st generation Canadian living in the Eastern Townships of Quebec at the turn of the 20^th century, that is Norman Nicholson, son of Malcolm Nicolson, he who came to this country in 1841 at age 26 with his parents and 8 siblings after being cleared from the family farm on the nearly treeless Isle of Lewis, Hebrides; who walked from Port St Francis to Flodden and settled on crown land, earning money by burning wood for potash and clearing trails through the forest.

That's how I've come to understand that my husband's great grandfather, Canadian-born, Canadian schooled  Norman Nicholson, hemlock bark dealer, turkey salesman, Town Public Works Clerk, Inspector for the Transcontinental Railway and The Quebec Streams Commission, (I have all the documentation) was a work-a-day sort, devoted husband to the spirited feminist-minded Margaret McLeod, (also a Lewis descendant) doting father to three feisty and ambitious daughters Edith, Marion, Flora and one lost soul of a son, Herb.

He was the kind of ordinary man who lives a full life, with all its joys and sorrows and broken dreams, and dies, the memory of him quickly fading to black until, one day, (with any luck at all) a glimmer, as a great great grandson, flipping through the brittle pages of a photo album, points to one particular picture and asks. "Who's this 'sick - looking' dude with the white moustache and beard?" And the boy's middle aged father answers: "Oh, that's Norman Nicholson, your great great grandfather, or at least, I think it is."

"Was he a general or something, too?" the boy asks referring to the man's mason uniform - because the boy is related to General Douglas MacArthur on another branch of his family tree.

"No, Norman Nicholson was just an ordinary man."

Now, after perusing the ledgers and reading all his diaries, that I can confirm: ordinary, in every possible way, not a hero like Alexander Mackenzie, the Lewis born explorer, for whom a great Canadian river is named, although Norman did have a thing for bodies of water. From his 1912 diary: List of Rivers East of Cochrane, Abitibbi River, Sucker Creek, Mistango River, Low Bush Creek

Not a villain like Lewis descendant Donald Morrison, the Megantic Outlaw, subject of Canada's largest ever manhunt and at least two books and one documentary, although Norman did have a part in the man's post capture defense.

From an 1889 press clipping:  Let it be hereby resolved that Norman Nicholson be appointed by the Richmond Royal Caledonia Society to press the authorities for an interview with  Donald Morrison.

Neither famous, nor infamous, neither scoundrel nor saint; ergo NOT  the kind of man whose exploits are chronicled for future generations in plodding high school history texts or low budget straight to cable documentaries; just a loyal husband, protective father, dutiful citizen. An ordinary man, the kind of man who reaches a point in life where he feels the need to lay down the law to his kids: November 14, 1902 Future Regulations: All must be up and downstairs by 7:30 oclock in the morning, Sunday included, breakfast at 7:30. …. The kind of man who, lonely on the job in middle age, writes love letters to his wife:  I don't want a concrete hall or a little birch canoe;  just want a place with you by the fireside."
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