70

Many, many people, older and younger, also grew spiritually as is indicated by the number of young men and women from the parish who felt called by God, either to ordained ministry, or to missionary work in various isolated areas of Canada, or simply to serve in the local parish as workers in innumerable efforts.

Staff Tanton was also a modern Isaiah, travelling the hills and valleys of the Israel of Tangier Parish. He drove the miles over those country roads, in the course of his parish work, night and day, summer and winter. I travelled with him each Sunday for a number of years; as an acolyte/server, and as a lay reader, conducting from time to time Morning Prayer or Evening Prayer. On one occasion, as we were journeying to Mooseland for the Sunday morning Eucharist tragedy was averted a number of times only by the skill of our reverend driver. It was a snowy, icy day in January. The car was all over the road on the ice - no such thing as salt on the road was even thought of in those days. And there were no chains. A number oftimes we were travelling "on a wing and a prayer", truly! We travelled sideways; we even went part ofthe way backwards! We eventually arrived at the church in Mooseland to find only a dozen people, who had not really expected us to make it. But they had just lit the fire in the wood stove, in case. As they attempted to warm the building Father Tanton brushed the snow off the altar (it had come in through a broken window) and proceeded to set things up for the Eucharist. And we did have the Eucharist, all of it, including hymns and sermon.

On many occasions while driving from one end ofthe parish to the other, Father Tanton would toot loudly on the car hom as we passed the homes of parishioners. When I finally mustered the courage to inquire as to why he sounded a loud horn so often at 7 to 7:30 in the morning he replied, "l'm waking them up so they will be in Church on my way back for their later service." Indeed, they were there!

Finally, Staff Tanton was the prophet who woke up the whole of the eastern Shore ofNova Scotia with his demands for service for and care ofthose who could not care for themselves. Almost single-handedly he pushed, pulled, coaxed, shamed and persuaded local and provincial authorities that a hospital was urgently needed for the Eastern Shore area. The nearest hospital at that time was in Halifax, some 60 miles distant, over treacherous, 25—to-30 miles per hour, dirt and gravel roads. The cottage hospital was constructed within a few years, and has served that widespead population with distinction for almost 50 years. My eldest sister, Verna Mason, RN, FRAHA, eldest of 16 of us, children of James and Myrtle Mason of Tangier, former teacher and