Dear Julie,

We didn’t see the turn until the third drive-by. Like L. M. Montgomery, we traveled into Charlottetown via North River Road. Many times, she’d passed Elmwood―the mansion she used as a model for Beechwood, Miss Barry’s house in Anne of Green Gables. “It was quite a fine old mansion, set back from the street in a seclusion of green elms and branching beeches.” [ch. 29] But our midnight-dark arrival obscured the trees and the black iron gate marking the driveway.

Spence parked the rental car, and we lugged baggage to the porch. A sign read, Use this door. The door opened to a musty-wood fragrance. A yellow arrow pointed upstairs. We climbed. Wood creaked. More arrows led through a drawing room, down two halls, and up more stairs. A door had a yellow sticky note with Room for Janet Wells.

That door opened into the living room of Peake Suite. Spence kicked off his shoes, and sat on one of the daybeds covered by a Trip Around the World quilt.

Pulling my camera out of its bag, I said, “Don’t touch anything yet.”

He stood, and I took pictures of the daybeds, the table by the turret windows, and the fireplace. “Okay. You can touch stuff.” While he hung his suit jacket on the coat tree, I took photos of the canopy bed in the bedroom, a green antique tub in the bathroom, and a heart made of lavender flowers hanging in the kitchen. I set the camera on the dresser and strolled back to Spence. “Sit with me at the table in the turret window.”

Spence poured me a sip of champagne, a gift from Viola the B&B owner, and a half glass for himself. We toasted our 50^th anniversary, the reason for the PEI trip.

Love,

Janet

Dear Natalie,

My quest began at midnight with a camera in the Peake Suite of Charlottetown’s Elmwood Heritage Inn. I photographed the Trip Around the World quilt on the living room daybed then the Cactus Pot quilt in the bedroom. These machine pieced, hand quilted fabrics blended like Monet paintings. The promise of handmade quilts in every guest room had lured me to this B&B. Seven more rooms with quilts to explore.

The next morning, the door adjacent to ours stood ajar. I gazed in at a blue and pink Double Irish Chain quilt. “Do you think anyone would mind if I took a picture?”

Spence shrugged. “Why would they?”

I tiptoed over with my camera for the picture, then met a lady carrying an armful of sheets out of another room. “I hope it’s okay to take photos of the quilt,” I said.

“Sure. Take this quilt too.” She dropped the sheets and smoothed the pink and green Double Irish Chain. “I finished the Cook’s Room. Ask Viola to open it for you.”

That had a Checkerboard quilt. Watching for open doors resulted in an Amish Log Cabin Barn Raising, another Trip Around the World, and a sideways Hanging Gardens.

On our last day, I met the lady in the hall by the washing machine.

Her voice vibrated with a thick Canadian accent. “Did you get all the quilts?”

“All but the bicycler’s room.” It was closed daily before I’d finished breakfast.

“I’ll open the door for you,” she said and let me in. While I took photos of the third Double Irish Chain, the lady said, “Look here,” and opened a door. “There’s more in the closet.” I took a photo of the closeted quilts too. Mission accomplished.

Love,

Janet

Dear Amy,

Montgomery’s settings lured me, and therefore Spence, to Prince Edward Island.

A September day on Prince Edward Island hills; a crisp wind blowing up over the sand dunes from the sea; a long red road, winding through fields and woods, now looping itself about a corner of thick set spruces, now threading a plantation of young maples with great feathery sheets of ferns beneath them, now dipping down into a hollow where a brook flashed out of the woods and into them again, now basking in open sunshine between ribbons of golden-rod and smoke-blue asters . . . (Anne of Avonlea Ch.6)

On a sunny, blue sky day, Spence drove and I navigated past spruce groves, tidy farm houses, grazing cows, and fields of corn. We joined visitors from around the world at Green Gables. Spence behaved as if visiting a museum for cultural enrichment― studying shingles, analyzing fence construction, and admiring antique tools.

I reacted like a tourist. I gawked at Montgomery’s typewriter, gazed at the green gables, and sat in Mathew’s buggy while wearing Anne’s hat and red braids. Once in the house, I tiptoed past a lace filled parlor, through the quaint kitchen, and up the wooden stairway to Anne’s room. Barriers wouldn’t let me look out her window, but I admired the “rich brown” dress that Matthew requested Mrs. Lynde make with puffed sleeves―

“and—and—I dunno—but I’d like—I think they make the sleeves different nowadays to what they used to be. If it wouldn’t be asking too much I—I’d like them made in the new way.” (Anne of Green Gables Ch. 25)

Because I stared at the dress so long and reverently, Spence touched my elbow. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” I sighed. Like Anne, I’d found plenty of “scope for imagination.”

Love,

Janet

Dear Leanne, ,

On our Anne of Green Gables day in Cavendish, PEI, Spence and I hiked the Haunted Wood Trail. Hard packed by millions of tourists’ feet, the rutted dirt path began across from the wooden bridge from Green Gables’ front yard. The woods smelled of fresh cut pine. Spence inspected plants. I read plaques―the English part, not the French. Small squirrels chattered and posed for photos. We traipsed up and down hills all the way―about twice as long as the advertised twenty minutes―to the end of the woods. Then we passed a farm to the stone foundation of the house where Montgomery’s grandparents raised her. A caretaker raked fallen apples. Another walked inside the foundation, talked on his cell phone, and tossed apples out to the first worker. He saw me photographing and crouched to get out of view. When I shouted, “I’m done. Thank you,” he resumed apple-tossing.

On the way back, Spence asked why the lovely trail was called Haunted Wood.

I explained Anne’s harrowing walk to get an apron pattern after dark because―

“Diana and I just imagined the wood was haunted . . . There’s a white lady walks along the brook just about this time of the night and wrings her hands and utters wailing cries . . . And the ghost of a little murdered child haunts the corner . . . it creeps up behind you and lays its cold fingers on your hand . . . And there’s a headless man stalks up and down the path and skeletons glower at you between the boughs . . . I wouldn’t go through the Haunted Wood after dark . . . I’d be sure that white things would reach out from behind the trees and grab me.” (Anne of Green Gables Ch. 20)

After we returned, I drank a bottle of raspberry cordial (really raspberry soda), another cause of a misadventure for Anne.

Love,

Janet

Dear Sister Julie,

After a day exploring Montgomery’s haunts in Cavendish, we attended Anne and Gilbert at the Guild in Charlottetown. Dragging Spence to a musical based on the second and third Anne novels (Anne of Avonlea and Anne of the Island), made me nervous. Would the performance bore him? Would he fall asleep when the lights dimmed?

We sat several rows above a trio of musicians and beside an excited young woman who quoted lines from the musical before it started and guffawed during the performance.

I hushed my internal editor, which noted lines spoken by the wrong character, and enjoyed the drama with subplots and the spirit of Anne’s story despite content cuts.

Spence didn’t drift off during the first act. “I’m enjoying it,” he said at intermission. “Such great voices and acting from the small Island community.” The cast couldn’t have been more enthusiastic or energetic in singing and dancing.

Near the end of the second act, I crammed a handkerchief into my mouth to stifle sobs. Spence, who’d later say he’d had tears in his eyes, reached over and hugged me tight. After the show he had good questions. “Did Gilbert really give Anne letters her parents had written before they died? That didn’t seem logical.” Spence was right. The writers took a shortcut. In the novel, Anne learns the information in the musical’s letters when she visits her birthplace and talks with her parent’s former neighbor.

For days after the musical, Spence surprised me by humming “You’re Island Through and Through,” a song included for the locals. Anne couldn’t have imagined a more romantic adventure for our fiftieth wedding anniversary trip.

Love,

Janet

Dear Lori,

Spence forgot to pack beach shoes and shorts. So, on the way to Tea Cup Rock on Thunder Cove Beach, we stopped at Walmart. After getting lost and gawking at scenic farms, we found Thunder Cove Road. Spence parked behind a line of cars on the berm, and we squirmed into shorts and beach shoes. In long sleeve shirts and adding sun hats, we stepped out. Spence pulled keys from his jeans pocket, closed our jeans in the trunk, and pushed the fob button. No click. He pushed again. “The button’s not working.”

“Maybe the battery’s dead.” I bit into a granola bar, my snack to delay lunch.

Spence pushed the lock button three more times. “How will we lock the car?”

“Easy.” I opened the driver’s door and flicked the lock button on the side panel. “We can lock it from the inside.” I pushed the door―

“Wait―”

Slam!

“What if the key doesn’t work either?”

I grabbed the key. “Of course it will work.” I stuck the key into the slot. It didn’t fit. I glared at the grooves on both edges. Didn’t the rental car key have straight edges?

Spence took the key. “It’s the Subaru key. The rental key must be in my jeans.”

We stared at the locked trunk. We were locked out of our rental car 18 km (11 mi.) from the nearest service station, and our cell phones couldn’t call in Canada. Great.

Spence approached a woman in the car parked in front of us. “Can you help me?”

Love,

Janet

Dear Eliza,

After Spence asked for help, the woman, sitting sideways on her driver’s seat and resting her bare feet on the red dirt road, looked up. “I can try.”

“We locked ourselves out of the car, and our phone doesn’t work here,” he said.

“Do you have CAA?”

CAA? “No,” I said. “We have AAA.”

She tapped her phone “Maybe CAA will work.” She explained our dilemma to the CAA operator, asked me questions, and relayed answers. “The card’s in the car . . . Janet Wells . . . Pennsylvania . . . 106 West Creek Road . . . phone doesn’t work here . . .” She turned her phone off. “The tow truck will be here within forty-five minutes.”

“Thanks for rescuing us,” Spence and I said in unison.

She smiled with the corners of her lips, pulled in her feet, and drove away.

“We have time to see Tea Cup Rock before the tow truck arrives,” I said.

Spence shook his head. “I’m not taking the chance. I’m staying with the car.”

“But the tide is low now. We can only get to it at low tide.”

“You go. I’ll look at your photos. I don’t want to miss the tow. I’ll wait here.”

His here stretched to walking along the top of the cliff to help me find a path down to the beach. When we found one, he descended first and held my hand to ease my descent. Then he climbed back up, stood like a sentry, and waved.

I ambled through soft red-tinged sand to the hard deep-red sand edging the Gulf of St. Lawrence. Then I turned west for my kilometer walk (5/8 mile) to find Tea Cup Rock.

Love,

Janet

Dear Nancy,

Sunshine sparkled off the Gulf of St. Lawrence. As I waded west on Thunder Cove beach, waves felt as cool as our creek in spring. I waved to Spence, who waited atop the cliff for the tow truck to rescue us after we locked ourselves out of the rental car.

A few couples and other single beach goers crossed the kilometer [5/8 mile] of sand in search of Tea Cup Rock too. When I reached the red cliffs extending to the gulf, waves lapped the rocks―not a problem since I’d been wading for pleasure. Rounding that cliff brought me to a second cliff rather than a view of the famous Canadian rock. Determined, I rounded the second cliff. Tea Cup Rock towered above me. The base alone rose to my waist. I took a dozen pictures of the formation that waves and weather had carved from red sandstone. Several people came and went, but I lingered, circled the rock, and rubbed my hand along its smooth base before returning to Spence.

He still stood on the cliff―waiting and responding to questions about how to find Tea Cup Rock with answers Viola, the B&B owner, had given us at breakfast.

I climbed up the cliff. “Did the tow truck come?

“Not yet.”

After Spence explained how to find the rock to several more groups of visitors, the tow truck arrived. It had a bed long enough to haul three of our rental cars, but the driver didn’t need the space. He inserted two air pump wedges in the door, inflated the wedges, stuck a long reach tool in the resulting crack, and unlocked the door. Sixty seconds. He needed another two minutes for the paper work. Vacation rescued!

Love,

Janet

Dear Reid and Claire,

Spence and I watched the long-bed tow truck back up the red dirt road to Thunder Cove Beach. Then Spence pulled the rental car key from his jeans stowed in the trunk, and I grabbed the Subaru key from him. “I’ll put this in my camera bag until we’re at the Pittsburgh airport.” I stuffed lunch into a Walmart bag. “Come with me to Tea Cut Rock.”

“It’s late. You need to eat lunch.”

“I’m fine. I had a snack.” I handed him two beach towels from the B&B. “I’ll eat on the beach after we see the rock.”

“You can eat before we see the rock.”

“No, the tide turned. It won’t take long.” I headed for the path to the beach.

He muttered about the female race, and we edged down the cliff. Spence walked on dry sand. I splashed in the surf until we reached the first cliff barring the view of Tea Cup Rock. The tide had risen several inches since my solo trip. We waded then rounded the second cliff. I threw my arms wide and shouted, “There it is!”

In a deadpan voice he said, “It’s awesome. Now will you eat?”

I circled Tea Cup Rock for a last view then walked back around the cliffs with Spence. I spread the beach towels on a large red sandstone rock. We perched. While I dipped bread sticks into a jar of almond butter and munched dried berries, lunch-skipper Spence watched people. “It’s a twenty-first century beach on a sunny Monday in September―old people, gay couples, and families with preschoolers and dogs.”

Hand in hand, we walked back across the red sands of Thunder Cove Beach.

Love,

Janet

Dear Jeanette,

Camera hanging from my neck, I strolled with Spence on a romantic walk for two along a boardwalk between Charlottetown’s waterfront and Victoria Park. Wind whipped waves against a barrier containing red stones. Were they sandstone? I asked Spence.

He studied them. “They’re red sandstone from the Island.”

A woman, power-walking, stopped. “They dump junk rocks and cement there. Only the red stones are natural to the Island.” Hustling on, she called over her shoulder, “Sorry to dissolution you.”

Spence and I raised eyebrows at each other.

Overcast skies and a gray water made a dim view, but I focused the camera on a the opening between Charlottetown and Hillsborough Bays. A jogger in orange sneakers shouted, “It’s beautiful when the sun shines.”

Spence hummed a verse of the catchy song from the Anne and Gilbert musical― “You’re Island Through and Through.”

At the end of the boardwalk, my knees―as if encased in jagged cement― rebelled. I collapsed onto a bench and gazed at a boat with red sails.

A woman and her corgi stopped. “You’re lucky to visit now. Last week the town was packed.” She chatted about tourists until― “Look behind you. You’ll want to see it.”

I looked. Two horses pulled a wooden wagon with five rows of tourists.

When the woman and corgi left to greet a man with his retriever, Spence sang a new verse. “If you’re nosy and you want to help, you’re Island through and through.”

Love,

Janet

Dear Joyce,

On a chilly, overcast morning, Spence and I sat on a bench gazing into Charlottetown Bay. We’d walked the boardwalk around Victoria Park, and my hips felt like they were being crushed by a lobster cracker. I couldn’t take another step.

A man and Golden Retriever stopped. “You know,” the man pointed behind us, “the Government House grounds are open to visitors. You’d enjoy the beautiful garden.”

We thanked him and, after five minutes rest, headed for the garden.

First we read historical plaques in the guard house by the gate―2017 Antoinette Perry appointed Lieutenant Governor of PEI. Then we walked past the mansion―with two painters on ladders―and through the opening in the boxwood to the formal English garden. Fragrance of phlox permeated the air, and colors attracted my eyes―red canna lilies, white hydrangea, golden Helen’s flower, salmon geraniums, purple impatiens, silver dusty miller, and green-green boxwood. Spence meandered to the back where a couple from Calgary rested on a bench in an ivy covered shelter. The three chatted while I took photos and asked the garden worker for names of plants. He didn’t know them either, but said, “There’s a vegetable garden over there.” He waved toward the house. “It’s done for the year, though.” He wheeled a barrow away, and I meandered through the rose garden with three flowers left. Its sundial was worth my extra steps.

When Spence joined me, I needed to sit again. I plopped onto a bench under a maple. While I gazed at the garden, Spence sat beside me and sang a line from the Beatles song, “I Am the Walrus.”―Sitting in an English Garden waiting for the sun.

Love,

Janet

Dear Marion,

Like Aunt Marge always said, “It’s the people that matter.” We met friendly, helpful Canadians. A woman on Thunder Beach called CAA when we locked ourselves out of the car. A young man at Walmart gave us Canadian coins in change for US money so we could feed Charlottetown parking meters. The friendliest and most helpful was Viola, the owner of Elmwood Heritage Inn. For our midnight arrival, she left the door unlocked, hung yellow arrows pointing the way to our third floor room, and provided champaign and chocolates to celebrate our 50^th wedding anniversary. She served special breakfasts to accommodate our diets. And with enthusiasm, she answered hundreds of questions. “That map isn’t detailed enough. Use this one . . . Park free on the street Sunday . . . Check the tides. You can only walk around the cliffs at low tide . . .”

We also enjoyed other guests. The couple from Nova Scotia sipped red wine, relaxed in drawing room chairs, and chatted with us about Charlottetown walks. The North Carolinians shared stories of riding the train from Montreal and driving around the east end of the Island. Nancy and Neil more than shared pleasant moments. Like us, they’d flown on the late night Air Canada jet and followed the yellow arrows up to their third floor room. We discovered that Nancy and I shared a passion for Anne of Green Gables. Every day at breakfast we discussed what we’d done the day before and our plans for the day ahead. We laughed about having car issues the same day―our locks, their dead cell batteries so no GPS to get back. Before Spence and I flew home, the four of us exchanged hugs or handshakes, email addresses, and promises to keep in touch.

Love,

Janet

Dear Barb,

By the end of our Prince Edward Island vacation, I was mellow. In Montreal’s airport, I sipped water, played blocks on my phone, and munched almond butter crackers.

Spence stood up. “Time to go.”

I’d only heard the call for wheelchair passengers. “We load with zone three.”

“They called zone three. Are you coming?”

I closed the water bottle, tossed it and my food into the lunch bag, and stuffed the bag in Spence’s tote. Lugging suitcases, we passed through the gate, walked down a zig-zagging ramp, and boarded the jet. We settled into row nine.

Spence opened his tote. “The bag’s wet. Is your water leaking?”

I pulled out my lunch bag. The cap of the water bottle was loose.

Spence took everything out of his tote. “There’s water in here.”

I grabbed the tote and inverted it. His camera and mini flashlight fell out of the side pocket. I reached under the seat, but couldn’t feel them. When the aisle cleared, Spence stood, dropped to his knees and searched beneath our seats. He shrugged so I got up and crawled on the floor. The stewardess stopped beside us. “Is something wrong?”

I sat on my heels. “We dropped a camera and flashlight but can’t find them.”

“When everyone gets off the plane, I’ll help you find them. Sit down now.”

Fastening my seatbelt, I decided to finish lunch. I reached into my lunch bag and pulled out Spence’s camera and flashlight.

Maybe airport security is right about water bottles being hazardous items.

Love,

Janet