by Shelley Wood
My own mother is back up on two feet and I’m out at the nursery full-time again, delighted to be here when the girls wake in the morning and to tuck them in after dusk.
The rules and schedules are more complicated now that we are potty training, according to Dr. Blatz’s methods. Doh-Doh Blah-Blah, the girls call him now, which makes me want to laugh out loud. I need to remember to put that in a letter to Ivy. We still have them in diapers, of course, but they don’t need changing as much as before—not surprising given how many times per day we plunk them on the toilets and tell them to “go.” Cécile has become Miss Beaulieu’s favorite because she has the fewest accidents. Me, I love Cécile for her silly pranks, and for the make-believe flowers she picks for me in the nursery “garden.” What a beautiful bouquet! I’ll say, and when she leans in to give them a pretend sniff, I get to kiss her on her soft head.
Miss Beaulieu does not approve of the kisses.
March 3, 1937
IVY CAME TO the nursery today, her first visit since leaving in December and the first time I’ve seen her since the court case in January. She could stay only a few hours before going back to Toronto, where she is the speaker at a fund-raiser for Havergal College. It wasn’t enough, not for any of us. I’d hoped we’d have time for a quiet word, just the two of us, but in the end that didn’t happen. She seemed to want to spend every moment with the quintuplets, and I understand that, I do.
The girls recognized her right away and were utterly astounded that she’d materialized again. They turned and looked to the door when they heard someone enter the quiet room, then hesitated only an instant before trundling over to her, shrieking her name, Nurse Lewoo! She sat down on the floor to gather them all to her, and they swarmed her, practically wrestling to be the one to climb into prime position on her lap. Ivy had tears in her eyes when she looked up at me, managing to keep her arms around all five of them while they chattered away at her in a mix of French and their own incomprehensible babble, their eyes wide and earnest.
“You missed me,” she said, unable to keep the wonder out of her voice. “You missed me! I missed you too.”
Soon they were on their feet again and pulling her in five different directions, wanting to show her their new toys or new dresses or latest works of art. Fred was there with his camera, snapping away. I could be mistaken, but I think he looked a bit misty-eyed too. He’s seen Ivy several times over the past few months—meeting her at different points of her tour, but he must have loved seeing her back in the place where they’d first gotten to know each other, among the girls that I know mean the world to him too. I had the sense that maybe these pictures wouldn’t be for the papers at all; they’ll be for Ivy herself, and for Fred.
Ivy glanced back over her shoulder at me, beaming with pleasure, as Yvonne and Cécile dragged her toward the games room. “I missed you too, Emma Trimpany,” she called back.
I missed you too, Ivy.
APRIL 10, 1937
AN ACT FOR THE PROTECTION OF THE DIONNE QUINTUPLETS
WHEREAS YVONNE DIONNE, ANNETTE DIONNE, MARIE DIONNE, CÉCILE DIONNE, AND ÉMELIE [SIC] DIONNE, THE QUINTUPLET INFANT DAUGHTERS OF OLIVA DIONNE AND ELZIRE DIONNE, HIS WIFE, RESIDING AT OR NEAR CALLANDER, IN THE PROVINCE OF ONTARIO, AND WHO WERE BORN ON OR ABOUT THE TWENTY-NINTH [SIC] DAY OF MAY, 1934, ARE THE ONLY KNOWN LIVING QUINTUPLETS IN THE WORLD AND AS SUCH ARE THEREFORE OF SPECIAL INTEREST TO THE PEOPLE OF CANADA AND TO PEOPLE OF OTHER COUNTRIES; AND
WHEREAS THE LEGISLATURE OF ONTARIO HAS PASSED AN ACT (1935) FOR THE BETTER PROTECTION OF THE PERSONS AND ESTATES OF THE SAID QUINTUPLETS AND FOR THEIR ADVANCEMENT, EDUCATION AND WELFARE; AND
WHEREAS UNDER THE SAID ACT, A BOARD OF GUARDIANS HAS BEEN APPOINTED AND ARE ENTITLED BY LAW TO POSSESS, HAVE, HOLD, DEMAND, AND RECOVER THE ESTATES OF THE SAID QUINTUPLETS AND THEIR PROPERTIES, MONEYS, FUNDS, ASSETS . . . AND THE BENEFIT AND ADVANTAGE OF ALL CONTRACTS, ARRANGEMENTS, ENGAGEMENTS AND OBLIGATIONS, AND TO PROTECT SAID QUINTUPLETS AGAINST EXPLOITATION.
THEREFORE, NOTWITHSTANDING ANYTHING CONTAINED IN THE UNFAIR COMPETITION ACT, 1932, THE WORDS “QUINS,”™ “QUINTS,”™ “QUINTUPLETS,”™ AND “CINQ JUMELLES”™ SHALL BE TRADEMARKS AND THE EXCLUSIVE PROPERTY IN AND THE RIGHT TO THE USE OF SUCH TRADEMARKS IS HEREBY DECLARED TO BE VESTED IN THE GUARDIANS.
THE GUARDIANS MAY LICENSE THE USE OR CONCURRENT USE OF THE WORDS “QUINS,”™ “QUINTS,”™ “QUINTUPLETS,”™ AND “CINQ JUMELLES”™ AS APPLIED TO ANY NUMBER OF ARTICLES AND MAY ALSO LIMIT SUCH USE BY THE TERMS OF THEIR LICENCE, AND THE GUARDIANS MAY BRING ACTION IN ANY COURTS OF COMPETENT JURISDICTION TO ENFORCE THEIR RIGHTS UNDER SUCH LICENCES.
ACTS OF THE PARLIAMENT OF CANADA (18TH PARLIAMENT, 2ND SESSION). ASSENTED TO 10TH APRIL, 1937.
April 23, 1937
I met the famous aviatrix Amelia Earhart today. So many dignitaries, film stars, and industrialists have passed through our little nursery and gaped at our girls. Just last week, the brother of the emperor of Japan stopped in to meet the girls on his way to the coronation of King George VI—somewhat out of his way, I would think. Jimmy Stewart and Mae West are rumored to be planning a visit for later this summer. Still, I think my encounter with Miss Earhart may stay with me longer than most. Mrs. Earhart-Putnam, I should say. But isn’t it extraordinary that she should still go by Earhart? That’s how she introduced herself to Dr. Dafoe, and it didn’t seem to annoy Mr. Putnam one bit.
The Putnams missed the public visiting time this morning due to some car trouble in Orillia, but Dr. Dafoe swept them through the door and into the nursery without hesitation. Fred, who had already left for the day, was rustled up from somewhere by telephone and arrived in time to snap a few photos of the doctor with Miss Earhart. The girls were busy with their crayons and books and scarcely looked up at Dr. Dafoe when he ushered the guests into the playroom.
Mr. Putnam trailed right at the doctor’s heels, his eyes popping at the sight of the girls, squatting down beside their tables and marveling at their identical little bodies, their soft brown hair and gentle eyes. Miss Earhart hung back, as if she wasn’t sure what to make of them. She’s like me, I realized, or like I used to be. Unsure around children or not particularly interested in them. We women are supposed to gasp and cluck, yet here it was clearly Mr. Putnam who was entranced, exclaiming at the girls’ drawings and glancing up at his wife, hoping to draw her in. But Miss Earhart had crossed the room and was pacing by the windows, looking out at the sun sinking low over the trees. She kept tousling her own short curls, then raking her fingers through them again as if to set them back in place. There was an energy radiating from her unlike anything I’d ever felt before, at least not from a woman, as if she was pent up in some way, a foal in a stable, kicking to be free. Or not like a foal, I suppose, nothing so earthbound as that. Like a bird in a cage, itching to fly away from all her earthly tethers. I wish I could say I’d had the gumption to ask her about her flying, about her plan to try to fly across the Pacific, but I could not even bring myself to interrupt her thoughts and introduce myself.
Imagine what Lewis, lover of all things aeronautical, will say when I tell him I met the famous Miss Amelia Earhart!
May 1, 1937
DR. DAFOE’S NEW secretary arrived today, a dapper young man named George Sinclair, who will work here at the nursery, in Dr. Dafoe’s expanded office. The doctor says Mr. Sinclair’s primary concerns will be handling correspondence and helping with a number of columns the doctor now contributes to newspapers in Canada and the United States. We are to give him full access to the girls’ medical records that we keep for Dr. Blatz, as well as the freedom to observe them at play, indoors and out.
Mr. Sinclair is in his early twenties, I’d say, mild mannered, and clearly awestruck by the quintuplets. “Bo-jo,” they greeted him, then cheerfully persuaded him to join their game, which involved him lying facedown on the floor while they piled their toys on top of him, leaving his jacket and trousers—expensive, by the look of it—much rumpled. Nurse Dubois—Sylvie, she in
sists I call her—remarked several times today that he is “easy on the eye,” which may be true, but I’m not going to give her the satisfaction of agreeing with her. Everything going on in Sylvie’s head ends up being said aloud, it seems. Somehow she managed to winkle out of Mr. Sinclair that he’d been a competitive swimmer and was good enough that he might have gone to the Olympic Games, had times been different. Surely he was still within earshot when Sylvie started twittering about his broad chest and how nice it will be to have a big, strong man around to help with any heavy lifting. As if we don’t have a selection of burly policemen at our beck and call every hour of every day! I blush just listening to her. Besides, Mr. Sinclair isn’t particularly tall.
May 9, 1937
DR. DAFOE ASKED me to stop by his office after lunch. He now has a little seating area with a large table and chairs, where he can meet with some of his many guests, as well as a second desk for Mr. Sinclair, situated just inside the door.
The doctor led me to the new table and offered me tea, summoned by the ring of a bell on the wall. Then he laid out my latest sketches and paintings for Mrs. Fangel, the ones I did last month. I had presumed they’d been sent off weeks ago.
“You’ve really done extraordinarily well with your art, Nurse Trimpany. I know little of these things, but people who do understand art tell me it’s unusual for someone to develop her talents so swiftly, with so little tutelage.”
He pulled out the two sketches and a small painting that I’d done of the girls playing with their umbrellas. The umbrellas were a gift from the Star newspaper, one in each of the girls’ colors, and Fred had taken a series of pictures with the girls holding them in the garden on a sunny day last month. Émilie, my little monkey, was the funniest, peeping up at the sky and holding out her hand as if to feel for imaginary raindrops. Fred’s pictures wouldn’t have done them justice, of course, being in black and white. Same thing with the quick charcoal sketches I’d done at the time. But over the next few weeks, I’d played around with my watercolor paints and, in the end, painted what I think is one of my best works so far. The watercolors give the painting a true spring feel, and the colors are really the thing that everyone associates with the girls now that each has her own official color. Call it a tiny act of rebellion, but I mixed up the colors in my painting, matching green with Annette, cream with Yvonne, and so on. I suppose I wanted to show that each girl is more than a single color; as far as I’m concerned each is a rainbow unto herself. I expect no one else will notice. I knew Maud would like this one, but here it was in Dr. Dafoe’s office, presumably having never made it to New York.
“This is really lovely, really lovely,” Dr. Dafoe was murmuring, brushing his mustache with his index finger. “I thought of keeping it for myself, you know.”
So had I.
“But no, no,” he said, waggling his round head. “The other guardians and I, the minute we saw it, we knew it must be shared with the world.”
He eased himself into a chair across from me. “What would you think, Nurse Trimpany—Emma—what would you say if this picture was sold to an advertiser?”
He paused and waited. I opened my mouth and closed it, unsure of what to say. He chuckled at my reticence. “We didn’t send this work to Mrs. Fangel because we are of the belief that she could not improve on it, not at all. Instead, we have met with a company man and he has expressed an interest in buying this painting for an advertisement.”
I blinked at him for a minute, then managed to say: “An umbrella advertisement?”
Dr. Dafoe chuckled again. “No, no, Emma. A candy bar advertisement. Do you know Baby Ruth chocolate bars? This man was from the Curtiss Candy Company. They would like to use this for Baby Ruth.”
I have an entrenched habit of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.
“But the girls aren’t allowed to eat candy.”
A shadow crossed Dr. Dafoe’s face, I’m sure of it, but he answered kindly enough. “For now, yes, we cannot expose them to too much sugar. Dr. Blatz is in full agreement with me.”
He cleared his throat, then said, “But, Emma, we have discussed this before, how important it is that we build up the trust fund for the quintuplets with whatever opportunities come their way. Our poor girls”—here he gave a deep sigh—“people will always be interested in their lives, won’t they? They will always need to have sufficient funds to make sure they can live as publicly or as privately as they like.”
I didn’t know what to think, not about the girls and their trust fund. But what was dawning on me at that very moment was that my art, something I myself had painted with no help from anyone else, was going to be seen by the wider world. Something I had created would help my girls.
“Will it go in magazines, Dr. Dafoe?” I asked.
“Indeed.” He nodded. “It is so beautiful in color, is it not? It would be a shame to have it be seen only in black and white.”
He must have read my mind, which I am grateful for, because he said: “The Curtiss Candy Company is paying no small sum for the opportunity to have our girls endorse their candy bar, Emma. And a portion of that revenue will be paid to you for your work.”
He stood and started collecting the pictures from the table, carefully putting pieces of tissue paper between them and returning behind the wall to wherever it was he was storing them.
“How much will they pay?” I managed to croak out when he returned, his pipe in the corner of his mouth. It was hard for me to imagine what amount of money this painting would be worth. I would like to ask someone, Fred maybe, or perhaps Mrs. Fangel.
“And Mrs. Fangel, what will she say?”
Dr. Dafoe took his pipe out of his mouth. “I expect she’ll be pleased for you. She thinks of you as a student.”
“So she knows?” I repeated.
“She will soon,” he said.
It was only later that I realized he hadn’t answered my question about how much money I was to be paid. I will talk to Fred when he’s back from New York. And I will write to Ivy to tell her the news.
May 22, 1937 (Toronto Star)
* * *
THREE YEARS OLD FRIDAY QUINTS WORTH $861,148
CALLANDER, Ontario—Impish young capitalists with the world at their feet and a future no one can predict, the Dionne quintuplets toddled on today toward their third birthday, the wonder babies of the universe.
They will be three years old next Friday, May 28—these babies who were grudgingly given a million to one chance to live.
It will be just another 24 hours in the lives of the Quints with little to distinguish it from the birthdays they already have celebrated for newspapers and motion picture photographers. They may be urged to chatter into a microphone for an international broadcast and perhaps thousands will visit them, but that won’t make up an unusual day for the Quints.
But with the coming of their fourth year serious efforts will be started to educate the children now worth almost $1,000,000. Now they have $573,765 in cash or bonds and money due them under 24 contracts will bring that to $861,148. In the past year their wealth has increased by about $300,000.
Without even trying, Cécile, Marie, Annette, Émilie, and Yvonne (TOP LEFT TO RIGHT) have enriched the whole Callander district, as well as made a fortune for themselves. A screen of trees (SECOND ROW LEFT) has been planted outside the nursery this spring to keep them less conscious of the crowds. Oliva Dionne, the quintuplets’ father, has recently replaced the porch roof and put new sides on the humble home that was the quintuplets’ birthplace (SECOND ROW RIGHT). Tourists will find a new straight road through the bush from Callander to Dafoe hospital before the summer is out. Pictured here, part of the 100 men working on the new highway are shown either side of the old winding road.
Used with permission.
May 23, 1937
Miss Emma Trimpany
Dafoe Hospital and Nursery
Callander, ON
Dear Em,
That’s extraordinary news about yo
ur painting, I’m so proud of you. You must insist on a reasonable payment, and you must have it paid directly into that account set up for you earlier.
I’m enjoying my time in the southern states; their ways are certainly different from the North, although they seem equally interested in hearing about my time in Quintland. Everyone here calls it that, not the Dafoe nursery or the Dafoe hospital. It makes it seem more exotic, I suppose.
Fred and I have finally set a tentative date for the wedding for next summer. Any longer and I think my father would need to be institutionalized. We are thinking late July, and we will likely have it in Toronto. You must set the last two weeks aside, okay? That’s because I’m insisting you be my bridesmaid. Don’t try to get out of it with your customary protests about your birthmark; I won’t hear of it. I’m coming home for a few days next month and I will tell you about everything then.
All my love, and give a special birthday hug to each of the babies from me.
Ivy
June 5, 1937
Father’s fiftieth birthday. Dr. Dafoe continues to be very worried about kidnappers, believing even the nurses may be at risk, so he arranged for the Cartwrights to take me into Callander tonight. Father and son pulled up to the rear door of the nursery a little after five in the evening. Lewis seemed to have lost his tongue again, although he smiled broadly and tipped his hat before hoisting himself up into the flat bed of the truck, leaving the passenger seat for me. Lewis has many of the same mannerisms I do, I realize, that of ducking his head and turning his face from view.