Finding My Own Way by Peggy Dymond Leavey Page A

sorting and reading.
    From Alex’s story I learned that the Countess GalinaBalenskaya had been married to a Count, a minister in the last cabinet of Tsar Nicholas II. So she wasn’t, as Alex had supposed before our interview, related to the Romanovs. She had fled Russia in 1919 ahead of the Red Army, going first to Finland to await her husband. The Count, unfortunately, did not survive, and some weeks later his widow came to Canada.
    The Countess’ brother, Dimitri Mordkin, had already come to this country with a group of Russian workers and now worked in a mine in northern Ontario. He arranged for his widowed sister to work as a cook at the mine. Eventually, the Countess ended up living in a boarding house in Pinkney Corners, the same one she operated herself in later years.
    The focus of Alex’s story was on the woman’s philanthropic work. She worked tirelessly to better the cultural lives of the citizens of Pinkney Corners, arranging for touring artists and performers to visit the town. That wouldn’t have been my focus had I been doing the interview, but it appeared from many of the clippings that Alex, at that time, was writing a series on people who had contributed to Pinkney Corners’ society.
    Inspired by the sheer volume of Alex’s writing and knowing this was only a portion of her creative output, I spent the rest of the weekend writing myself. When Sunday night came, I had another finished article for Mr. Thomas.
    I biked to town a half-hour early, through a grey morning with rain in the air. Mr. Thomas was just getting out of his station wagon in front of the newspaper office. His wife Marjory had come with himto do her monthly cleaning. I helped her lift her pail and mops out of the back seat.
    â€œAnd if she doesn’t do a good job,” Mr. Thomas said, unlocking the door and winking at me over his shoulder, “I told her I had someone else who wanted the position.” Marjory gave me an amused look.
    Marjory Thomas had a stout figure and a ruddy complexion. Her close-cropped hair was thin and wispy, but the hug she gave me was strong and warm. “Libby, so nice to see you,” she said. “I think of you so much.”
    We went inside together and Mr. Thomas flicked on the lights. Marjory took her supplies through to the washroom and began to run some water, while I hung around, hoping her husband and I could talk. “Did you like the piece I wrote about life with Alex?” I asked.
    â€œI did,” said William Thomas, tossing his keys into a drawer of the desk.
    â€œWould you like to use it in the paper?”
    â€œWell, it’s like this, Libby,” he explained. “It’s a bit too personal. I have to print stories that will appeal to the majority of my readers.”
    â€œOh,” I said, disappointed. “You did say your readers loved my mother.”
    â€œThey loved her style of writing, Libby. Now, I’m not saying there isn’t a market for that kind of sentimental story. It’s just not what we print in a weekly.”
    â€œBut you keep trying,” Marjory encouraged, smiling from the doorway, where she was drying her hands. “William told me you want to be a writer.”
    â€œOh, I don’t give up that easily,” I promised, thinking of Alex’s many rejections.
    â€œGood for you,” said Marjory.
    â€œI have another article this morning, as a matter of fact.” I slipped my sheets of paper onto the pile already on the desk. “Over the weekend I was reading some of the columns Alex wrote.” Mr. Thomas was patting his pockets in search of something. “Do you remember her writing a story about the Russian Countess, the woman who used to run the boarding house down the street?”
    â€œI do, indeed,” said Mr. Thomas. He’d found the fountain pen he’d been looking for.
    â€œI went with her to that interview, you know. Since I got back I’ve been