Anne Girl

Spending every Summer and Thanksgiving visiting my extended family in Prince Edward Island, Anne of Green Gables was unavoidable. The spunky little redheaded orphan is basically a provincial symbol – like the lady’s slipper flower, the red oak tree, or the rust-colored soil that lines the shore and roadsides. Some Islanders embrace her, others are indifferent to what they might see as another part of the all-too-important tourism industry. But for me? As Anne herself would have put it, she and I are Kindred Spirits.

Anne first came to me in the form of several years of birthday presents from my Great-Grandparents. Grammie was one of those Islanders that loved Anne and, knowing how much I loved reading, she started sending me each successive book in the series as my birthday presents from the time I was maybe about eight years old until I had the entire set. They quickly became ranked among my favourites.

I saw a lot of myself in Anne. We both had very active imaginations, both had a love of nature and fairy stories, both had large vocabularies, and both loved to write and tell stories. I also had freckles like hers and eyes that changed colours in “different lights and moods” like hers. I did not have her red hair – not entirely, at least – and that was as much a source of grief for me as having it seemed to be for her. There was red hair in my family and I had red undertones to my brown hair that would turn it auburn in the sun, but I was always jealous of Anne’s bright red braids. Something I’ve since remedied, as the Covid years did see me developing a relationship with hair dye.

When I was twelve, I dressed up as Anne for Halloween. I had a green plaid dress (that I would continue to wear around my house until it got too small for me) and a straw hat with red braids purchased at a souvenir shop during one of our many trips to PEI. I think it’s still one of my favourite Halloween costumes I ever wore. The memory that stands out most from that year though is how many people apparently didn’t know who I was supposed to be! So many other kids – and a few teachers and parents, too – assumed I was dressed as Pippi Longstocking! I was one very offended sixth grader. No disrespect to Miss Longstocking, I’ve always been very fond of her too, but how did so many people not realize I was Anne Shirley? How did so many of my classmates apparently not even know who she was? We lived in Nova Scotia, for goodness sakes! PEI was just across the strait! Even if they weren’t bookworms like me, how had they never had any exposure to one of the most famous works of Canadian literature that dominated the tourist market of one of our neighbouring provinces? I swear, the education system and Canadian cultural identity have failed them all.

Anne’s influence has persisted into my adulthood. I’ve been in a long-distance relationship for six years now and my partner and I have talked a few times about getting married once one of us is able to move. One thing I’ve held firm to when the subject of marriage comes up is that I do not want a diamond engagement ring. Diamonds are pretty, but they aren’t really for me. What I want is a pearl ring, much like the one Anne asked Gilbert for when she agreed to marry him. There’s a passage in Anne’s House of Dreams (which I actually just re-read recently) that has stuck with me since the first time I ever read it:

“But pearls are for tears, the old legend says,” Gilbert had objected.

“I’m not afraid of that. And tears can be happy as well as sad. My very happiest moments have been when I had tears in my eyes – when Marilla told me I might stay at Green Gables, when Matthew gave me the first pretty dress I ever had – when I heard that you were going to recover from the fever. So give me pearls for our troth ring, Gilbert, and I’ll willingly accept the sorrow of life with its joy.”

I can’t think of a better justification for this particular engagement ring choice than that.

Anne and I also both share a love of writing. Like Anne and her story club, I’ve loved to create my own stories since I was a child. And like Anne, that has continued into adulthood as I try to work in writing around the hustle of my day job and the demands of living as an adult. It was only in the last few years that I started submitting and publishing things, and I have come to know the frustration of rejections and deadlines and trying to find ways to make your work fit what contests and publications are looking for. But like Anne, I keep at it. Maybe I’ll never have fame or riches or influence as a great author, but I know I love my stories. And my friends and family love them too. Time and time again, with each piece I get out there, I have heard how much the people around me are proud of me and consistent assurance to keep going, to keep writing. And while money would definitely be nice, maybe that’s all l need.

To close out this series of reminiscences, I’d like to go back to where this all began: with my Great-Grandmother. My Grammie passed away this past spring, a few months shy of her 94th birthday. She lived a long life full of dancing, traveling, card games, and so many books. Her love for Anne of Green Gables and the way she would read it to her daughters came up in the many rounds of family reminiscings during the week of her funeral, and I couldn’t help but mention how she and Grampie were the ones who first gave me my Anne books. My mom commented on how Grammie had always loved that I was an “Anne Girl”.

At every stage in my life, I have related to Anne in various ways. I have grown with her in the years since I got that first book in the mail. I feel connected to her, and she further connects me to my family home and to my Grammie. The gift of those books stands out in my mind even all these years later. Grammie loved that I was an Anne Girl, and I love that she gave me the gift of being one.