Tuesday, February 4, 2025

The Greatest Of These is Love

 



This is a love story, a real love story, with all of life's challenges and successes.It features my grandparents who shaped the lives and values of their children and grandchildren

 

This is a brief memoir of my Acadian grandparents, Ben and Clara Ramsay. It followed their lives as young adults when they struggled independently to survive, and then as parents, where the challenges were different but no less difficult. Despite the obstacles, they provided a powerful legacy and a safe and loving environment for their large family.

I knew her as Momma Ramsay. Some remembered her as a grandmère, others as a great-grandmother, and even fewer remembered her as a mother. A vivid image I have is of her sitting on the big wooden rocker in the kitchen. Her left hand drumming on the arm of the chair, worn from her wedding band, tapping out animated conversations for decades. At 5 feet 4 inches, the tiny feet didn't quite reach the floor. Her impact on her immediate and extended family of some 300 members contrasted sharply with her petit stature. 

As a child, visiting my mother's parents on a Sunday afternoon, I curiously watched as Momma adjusted her glasses with a practiced hand, brushing stray hairs while ensuring the mock hair bun remained in place. She wore comfortable dresses, loose fitting with bright floral designs. And, of course, the outfits were only complete with a pocket apron.

Papa Ramsay was less known to some of the grandchildren. His commitment and constant love ensured that his children would continue to improve the lot of his family. He could usually be found sitting in his worn red recliner. 

It was beside a window, providing a vista of passing freight and passenger trains and occasionally mischievous children, waving as they passed through the yard. The chair's side was stained from striking matches for his pipe that he was rarely without. Even into his latter years, his grey hair remained thick on the sides with a tuft fighting for survival topside. Momma kept it in check with a soft comb. This was in the event company appeared unexpectedly.

His frame was medium, but somehow, he looked smaller in the chair. She ensured his shirt, with glasses in the pocket, was kept clean and tidy. It was neatly tucked into the heavy dark trousers. Bulky wool socks were snuggled against Stanfield underwear, whatever the season. Thick insulated slippers completed his cozy wardrobe.

Momma Ramsay reminded me of a small bird, moving with a swiftness and agility that defied her age. She had an outgoing, engaging personality, receiving everyone equally. Many a grandchild sought out her warm, generous hugs, providing reassurance that they were loved.

Papa was content to have his wife steal the show. He was always a quiet, gentle man, content to watch folks and events as they passed his way.

Their shared space was the kitchen. It was a welcoming place, especially on cold winter days. The clock ticked in rhythm with the woodstove's crackle. Momma kept the stove well-fired with a few large pieces of hardwood she carried from the adjoining shed. The warmth spread gently to all corners of the room. Her family often encouraged her to get a new and much safer electric range. Still, she resisted despite the occasional scorched arm.

The stove, like everything in the house, was spotless. The white enamel sides and the upper warming tray gleamed. She cleaned and polished it once a week, applying a "stove black polish" coating to the cooking surface. Her vantage point on the rocker beside the stove allowed her to see visitors coming to the back door, and there were many, even after several generations. 

One or more of her daughters would often drop by while they were "in town." Ovilda, who lived steps away, regularly joined her parents for tea and a chat while ensuring everything was safe and comfortable for them.

As devout Catholics, an occasional visit from Father McGrath, the parish priest, was a welcomed event for Momma and Papa. He would call beforehand, giving her time to have a fresh batch of his favourite treat (molasses cookies) ready with hot tea (King Cole, black).

In their eighties, when they could no longer get to Sunday Mass, his visit would include a quick Confession followed by Communion. 

For the caring and gentle priest, it was a call to which he looked forward.

Over the many years in this predominantly English-speaking parish, he came to know and respect these two humble Acadian parishioners and their families. "Mrs. Ramsay," and he would catch up on current events in the community. At the same time, Ben sat quietly in his chair, occasionally joining in the conversation.

He found time passed too quickly in the company of the kind couple. Before leaving, he always blessed them, which they accepted gratefully.

 

The description of my grandparents could be of many older couples fortunate to remain in their home well into their eighties. There was, however, something distinctive about this pair for me. As a child and eventually a young man, they always personified love. To proceed, we need to disavow ourselves of today's media-based definition, which tends toward the frivolous and superficial. The love of these two persons was deep, built on commitment and trust, patience and kindness, particularly in the challenging times which defined much of their lives.

Over thirty years after Momma and Papa passed, I wanted to get a mature understanding of them and their relationship. Maybe I had created some youthful romantic image which would not stand up to the scrutiny of impartial observation.

I arranged to meet with two of the couple's remaining three children.

Gerald (Tinker) Ramsay is the son of Ben and Marie-Claire (Clara) Ramsay. At the time of this writing, Tinker was ninety-two years old. Appearance and character gave little indication of his age. The frame was slight but solid, with a fresh face and clear eyes. He inherited Papa's calm and quiet personality, not comfortable drawing attention to himself.

Iona (Noonie) was born on May 24, 1938. She is the youngest of the Ramsay children, seventeen years apart from her oldest family member. Noonie's effervescent personality and enthusiasm are her hallmarks. At 85, she seemed ready to leap up and dance at the slightest provocation.

 

Tinker begins with a bit of history about his parents. "Momma and Papa were born 'downriver,' near the small Acadian community of Neguac. Poverty and hard physical labour were their shared experiences growing up. It was common for families struggling to keep everybody fed to have a child live with a relative or someone who could provide lodging in return for employment. 

So it was that Clara, at age 13, found herself indentured to Miss Francis Fish, the first female graduate of Dalhousie University Law School and a prominent Miramichi lawyer.

"She didn't mention it much to us growing up except to say she was treated well, and Miss Fish helped her learn to read. She also helped sharpen Momma's inquiring mind. Being so far away from her family at that age must have been frightening.

"Later, she was a housekeeper for a prominent family in Newcastle. Their kids especially loved her, and for many years after, they would come to visit. They spoke of her kindness and gentle manner while she guided their young lives.

"When life at home improved slightly, and she was a bit older, Momma returned to live with her family. Millie, our oldest sister, often told the story that Momma was invited to a community dance by an aspiring suitor. She enjoyed the outing. On leaving the hall, she spotted a second suitor, young Ben Ramsay. He had been too shy to ask her to the dance. Now, he sat waiting with his old horse and buggy. Clara thanked her escort and climbed in beside Ben. 

Asked about that years later, she replied, 'Now, would I want to marry some fool who will dance all night or someone like Papa?' She and Ben were married on November 27, 1917. She was 24, and Ben was 23."

Noonie offered her perspective. "Momma and Papa never experienced a real childhood, which probably affected how they raised us. Their parenting styles differed. His was the authority that was seldom questioned. She respected his wishes."

"From spring to late fall, we didn't see much of our father," adds Tinker. "He worked on a dredge around the mouth of the bay (Miramichi) until 'Freeze Up' in November. Then he would be home till spring. Being a bit distant with the older children, Papa had more patience with Noonie as she was the youngest."

Noonie readily agreed. "I would wait until Papa was in his chair, reading the paper after supper. I would climb up on his lap and snuggle into him. I can almost smell his pipe tobacco now".

After several years on the dredge, Ben was hired at CN (Canadian National Railway). It meant more financial security for his family.

"He was on a crew that carried the creosoted rail ties where the line was being built or repaired," Tinker recalls. "He was probably in his late forties. I remember him coming home with his shoulders, arms and hands raw from creosote burns. Momma would put some ointment and strands of gauze on him to help with the pain. He would never complain.

His last job with CN was as a Fireman. The locomotives were coal-fired. At the end of the shift, they would come into the yard. The clinkers (burnt coal pieces) would be dumped into a pit. His job was to keep it shovelled out. The space was tiny, with choking fumes and heat.

"One day, when I was about five or six, somebody came to the door to tell Momma that Papa had been injured and taken to the hospital. While he was in the pit, a locomotive pulled in and accidentally dumped a load of clinkers, nearly burying him. They got him out fast, but he was badly hurt. He stayed in the hospital for about a week and returned to work. There was some sick leave, but he was proud and wanted to keep his family fed and safe. He was independent as well as tough."

Despite the many challenges of raising a family of twelve children (one child, Ramona, died in infancy), Clara and Ben seldom exchanged a cross word. This was confirmed in conversations with many of their adult children. Doubtless, they were preoccupied with surviving, but something more substantial was holding them together. Tinker and Noonie agreed.

"Where our father was the provider, Momma was the heart of our family," Noonie said. "She maintained the order that he set. There weren't many times any of us would challenge her."

"I don't recall being physically punished," Tinker said. "I think it was because she was also the person, we all went to when we had a problem or needed someone to talk with. I never felt alone as a kid. We were busy with our chores, from feeding and caring for the pig, hens and chickens to helping with the housework. One of my jobs as a small lad was to keep the kindling bin filled beside the stove. I can still smell the cedar and the snap it made when split."

There was a comforting routine to the Ramsay family household machine, and their mother was the refined oil that kept it working smoothly.

 

Clara (Robichaud) Ramsay was of Acadian descent, coming from a long line of resilient peace-seeking people. Her parents' history dates back to the earliest Acadian settlement in the 1600s.

It was then the French territory of Acadie.

One of her ancestors was Prudent Robichaud.

Prudent was an accomplished individual. He taught himself to read and write French and English and spoke Micmac fluently. He also learned to calculate and could conduct trade in all three languages.

Over time, Prudent would become a leader within the community, which thrived through his efforts. For years, he skillfully navigated a way for the Acadians through the treacherous divide involving three players: the Mig'maw, the authorities representing the British Crown and the French representatives.

With the three parties' conflicting interests, the thin line of trust Prudent and others had established could not be sustained. 

The Acadian Expulsion (Le Grand Dérangement) of 1755 was brutal, and the motivations were no less than actual genocide. The intention was to wipe out the Acadian people.

While being transported from his home, Prudent led a revolt that resulted in the ship carrying them being burnt.

He later died, leading his family and others to freedom on a mid-winter trek from Fredericton to Quebec. 

Eventually, the Acadians were allowed to return to their homeland.

Some of Prudent's children and descendants finally settled in Neguac, including his son Otho. He was appointed local Justice and proved himself a strong community leader. His residence has been restored and remains a historic site today. Clara (Robichaud) Ramsay was a descendant of Otho.

While her ancestors' survival characteristics and pride were intrinsic to Clara's personality, she attempted unsuccessfully to pass along the love of her language and culture to all of her children.

"That failure was a real disappointment to Momma," Tinker said. "She tried teaching the older kids first. You need to remember our town was mainly English-speaking, and as teens, if you wanted to fit in, you wouldn't do it talking French. By the time it came to the younger kids, she had given up."

Early in their marriage, Momma Ramsay felt she was losing the connection with her Acadian family and culture. She and Ben often spoke French, but she wanted more. Her sisters occasionally visited, but that only increased her sense of isolation.

The story was told by their daughter Julia that early in Clara's life as wife and mother, the burden became too much.

She retreated to her parent's home, looking to her mother for solace. Still, Marie Evangeline Robichaud insisted her young daughter return to her own family and bear the consequences of her decision. 

Clara returned to Newcastle chastened but resolved to make the best of her situation. If she ever doubted Ben's love, that was erased as she shuffled up the street to their home; the man who struggled to express his emotions had spread a sheet across the door where he had painted in his cryptic handwriting, "Welcome Home Momma"!

 

The death of a family member is always a tragedy. It often shakes the foundation of the unit to its core.

Norman Joseph Ramsay was the first-born son of Clara and Ben. He came into the world on a bright, sunny June 1921. In February 1936, fourteen-year-old Norman marched to the local recruitment officer for the North Shore Regiment Militia (Reserves). The minimum age to join the Militia (Reserves) was 16. Norman listed his date of birth as June 16, 1919, whereas he was born June 16, 1921.

The assertive youngster impressed the officer, and he signed him up on the spot. He served as a reservist for four years. In 1939, when Canada declared war on Germany, Norman was ready and, at 18, was said to be one of the first men in uniform from the Miramichi region.

The handsome young Acadian soldier gained a reputation in the primarily English North Shore regiment (he would later be transferred to the Carleton and York) as a courageous, quick-witted fellow who made friends quickly. He wrote often to his parents and his older sister, Rita (my mom), with whom he was very close. In his final letter home, he could not tell his parents that he was part of a unit breaking through Nazi lines in Italy.

 

Clara was unable to sleep the night of May 22, 1944. Earlier, she had been thinking of her son overseas in Europe. Awake now, she turned to lie on her side. In doing so, she saw what appeared to be a figure at the foot of the bed. She put on her glasses and partially sat up. An image of her son was sitting beside her.

His tear-stained face was visible in the moonlight through the window. Speaking in a voice that she could barely hear, she was told of his death in battle. But she was not to worry. Now, he was at peace. The figure disappeared as his words drained away. Her shock at the apparition's appearance was total and left her unable to move until the morning light. 

She didn't wake Ben, fearing he would not believe her. In the morning, she shared the news. Try as he might, Ben could not convince her it was simply a bad dream. Three days later, the comfort of their home was shattered by a knock on the back door.

A young boy produced a telegram advising them that their son Norman Joseph died bravely in battle at Pontecorvo, Italy, on May 23, 1944. Her children shared this account over the decades. The factualness is not as significant as the love the parents felt for their child and the intense suffering it caused them and the rest of the family.

 

Post-war Canada saw rapid industrialization and economic growth. The ripple effect was felt even in the sleepy town of Newcastle. Plans for employment and families that had been put on hold now began in earnest.

The Ramsay clan saw several marriages in the following years and the beginning of new career paths. The large home, once a hive of activity, grew increasingly silent. But even when they left the nest, the children maintained close contact with their parents. 

Several of the daughters remained on the Miramichi to raise their families. They often gathered at their parents' home on weekends to catch up with current events and local activities.

 

One of the lasting and precious memories of my grandparents happened on a late Sunday afternoon visit. There had been the usual bustle as their children and grandchildren visited. My mother and I were the last of the company as Mom (forever the nurse) finished checking her father's blood pressure and recording it in her notebook.

Momma looked over to Papa. He was nodding off but sat upright at the sound of the train whistle. It was the "Ocean Limited," leaving the station bound for Montreal. He pulled out his pocket watch to check the time. Confident the train was on schedule, he looked over to Mama and smiled shyly. She returned the silent greeting by responding, "You are a good man Ben Ramsay, eh bien, eh bien, eh bien."

 

 

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 5 It does not dishonour others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. 6 Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7 It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, and always perseveres."

Corinthians 13 vs. 4–7


Tuesday, January 21, 2025

Tell me what you think

I enjoy writing but it is a solitary experience. 

I need to understand what resonates with you or does not. 

After you read a story here, please take a moment to comment.

Thanks!

Doug

Tuesday, January 14, 2025

Lesson Learned


 In the summer of 1971, I was conscripted into my dad's work gang of two. Dad was 51, and I was 18 and no stranger to hard work.

The mill where my dad was a bookkeeper shut down for a few months in late spring, and start-up was uncertain. My parents were not ones to let an opportunity for worry slip by.

They furrowed their collective brows in anticipation of a lean winter. Despite having little debt, Dad always maintained a big garden where he spent hours coaxing young plants from the warm soil while inflicting maximum damage to errant weeds. I didn't shower the plants with the same enthusiasm.

The only redeeming feature of the job was working on my tan. My outlook for summer also included polishing my metallic green '69 Chevy Beaumont while ignoring the ribbing of my neighbouring uncles about me waxing the paint off.

 

High school was finally over. In my liberated mind, I was a racehorse restless for the greener fields, anywhere but here. My folks believed hard work and education were the mantras to follow. Like most of my generation, I sought new and exciting challenges. While my vision was of a thoroughbred, my dad's view of me was slightly different; he saw something closer to a Clydesdale—able, solid and ready for the harness.

 

During supper one evening, Dad announced the grand scheme in his usual taciturn fashion. He planned to cut pilings that once supported a long-abandoned shipping wharf near our home. Hindsight would suggest that it would have been the time for me to bolt. It became clear he was fitting me for the harness. But with few paying jobs available in the village and not wanting a guilt trip, I agreed to help.

In the early '40s, sawmills and wharves were strung like confetti along the Miramichi river banks. They often ended their good years by collapsing or burning.

In the case of the ruins at the end of Rodney Green Lane, near our home, all that remained was the skeleton of the wharf. Dad planned to cut timber from it to supplement our winter firewood.

 

Before I go further, I want to tell you about my dad. He was a man with some "book learning," as the locals would say. A whiz with a pen, he lacked the calloused hands of his older brothers and the practical knowledge that went with it. Dad was also a thoughtful but stubborn fellow. Once his mind was set, there was little room for course correction.

He was a leader in our village, not by choice. It was because he had a high school diploma. The collective thought was that if you were fortunate enough to get an education, you were expected to "pay it back" to the community with what skill set you had.

 

Dad could write and speak well, so he was chosen to represent the community on several committees and organizations. The arrangement generally worked until his views clashed with other folks.

The same summer of his grand-cutting scheme, a group of like-minded persons announced they wanted to see a volunteer fire department in our small village. They argued that it would provide more safety and security for property owners. It would also allow opportunities for the group to socialize, but that was conveniently left out of their promotional campaign.

Dad studied the idea, consulted other communities and governing bodies, and then spoke against the proposal. He reasoned it was too expensive for our hamlet, served by a community fire department two miles away.

His position was a cause for some lively and not-so-friendly public debate. He lost the argument and the first municipal election was won by the fire chief.

The fire department became a fixture in the community shortly after.

Dad was not disappointed or bitter. He saw his job as presenting facts as they were. My dad loved politics and was active in the back rooms but was no politician; principles and honesty mattered greatly to him.

 

Now, let me connect the parts of this story. Father and I spent a week in the summer of 1971 struggling with the remains of hundred-year-old sun-blanched pilings semi-submerged in sludge. It wasn't a pretty picture, and the smell was worse.

Every day of that long, sweltering week, he teetered on a rickety platform of his construction. He reminded me of a stork, standing on one leg with his tongue hanging out the corner of his mouth, for balance, maybe?

Each morning at 8 sharp, Dad would yank the starter cord of his old power saw, followed by a few choice curses when it refused to start. After some carburetor adjustments, the motor would gasp and cough into action with a plume of blue smoke announcing we were in business.

My job was, wheelbarrow operator. A relic from Dad's father it was falling apart. It featured a steel wheel forged by a sadistic blacksmith. The weld, joining the two metal bands that held the spokes together, left a lump, just enough to constantly throw me off balance. The wheel fought to slip out of its bracket.

I would load several fossilized pieces onto the shaky carrier and stagger down the street like the village drunk, trying to prevent the load from spilling. I looked a greater fool than I felt.

We kept a steady pace of cutting and hauling from sunrise to sunset for six solid days. The only respite was to devour Mom's tasty meals.

At week's end, a massive load of firewood sat like bleached dinosaur bones in the backyard. We split the works with a sledgehammer and a wedge. Safety glasses were deemed an unnecessary luxury.

Fast forward to a brutally cold night in mid-December. I was at the local community hall, where the village fire department hosted a family Christmas party. The volunteer firemen were dressed as Christmas characters. At one point, Santa and the elves (chief and crew) were called out to a fire.

I felt badly for them as the fire truck pulled from the station beneath the Center into the frigid winter night. Afterwards, as I drove into my parents' driveway, I was met by a small crowd watching tongues of flame shooting from the chimney of my parents' hundred-year-old house. My father was in the middle of the crowd, gazing up as though lost in some profound thought.

The fire chief, dressed as Santa, stood beside him. Other firemen dressed in elfin costumes professionally went about their work extinguishing the chimney fire.

Dad hadn't considered that while the pilings were old and dry, they had also been treated with creosote to extend their use. That made them highly flammable. I wondered if he was contemplating the fact as the remnants burned like Roman candles from the chimney top.

Lesson learned

Tuesday, December 31, 2024

Corned Beef Hash


 


Christmas as a memory is a mixture of what was, what could have been and what is still possible.

Christmas week, 1963, had been a combination of brisk sunny days and freezing nights. Dad was up before the family to rekindle the heart of the furnace. Lucky and Ash slept on opposite sides.

The dog, Lucky, was cautious when the man appeared. Ash was indifferent as she stretched and yawned. Sensing no danger, the collie watched him fill the strange, breathing beast that frightened the dog yet brought warmth. He gazed uneasily when the metal door was opened, revealing that most frightening of things: fire. He retreated to a corner of the basement.

Father acknowledged the dog and heaved another piece of firewood into the furnace. Then he reached down and stiffly patted his head. Instinctively, Lucky pulled away, not used to this man's kindness, but he sensed a change in him lately. The man and Lucky were not companions, but the previous week's events helped instill some trust in Lucky. For Dad, there was a new recognition of the dog's value. He was a beautiful collie with long black fur and a broad white patch on his chest. Lucky had come to us as a pup three years before. He was a gift from a local farmer Dad knew. He and I bonded immediately and were seldom apart.

            It was a Friday, our final school day before Christmas break. David, my cousin and best friend sat atop a snow bank in our shared backyard with Lucky between us. We had just finished building our fort. A mild spell the previous week brought a snowstorm perfect for making a fortification. The snow was easy to dig out, and it packed well as we made a central area with a tunnel leading into and out of it in case rival groups attacked us.

We were both ten years old and more like brothers, sharing the same space and, often, homes. Our imaginations and energy were boundless. We were having a "King of the Castle" game, knocking and pushing each other from the top of the snowbank. It was late in the day, and we were more tired than we realized. Our play started to turn rough. Suddenly, we were wildly punching each other. 

Lucky was used to our play-fighting, but he sensed something different and that I might be in trouble. He growled several warnings before deciding that wasn't enough. The dog latched onto David's wrist to pull him away. His strong jaws made my cousin realize he had crossed a line. David shrieked in pain, causing Lucky to release his grip. My cousin retreated to his home, howling. Lucky and I were left alone atop the snowbank in the gathering cold. He had protected me, yet I sensed this would end poorly for us.

Dad came home early from his work, looking angry. Things were worse than I feared. I heard him and Mom arguing. Lucky and I huddled on the concrete steps leading to the basement. I held on to him tightly. My Father approached. He pulled the dog from my grip and kicked him down the stairs. After sixty years, I can still hear my friend crying in pain as he limped into the wood room. I looked at my father with anger I didn't recognize as mine. I saw his confusion mixed with sorrow. In a moment, we both had crossed into a dark place.

 My Dad was not a violent man. He had never struck any of us in anger. I ran down the stairs after Lucky. He had curled himself up beside the warmth of the furnace. I pulled off my jacket and slipped it under him. We lay in silence until we both fell into a troubled sleep.

Sometime later, Mom came down with my supper and food for Lucky. I got up and brought his water dish over. "Your Father is sorry, Douglas. He has been under a lot of stress with the mill not going well. He would not intentionally hurt you or anybody you loved." But he had. She said it was time for bed now. "Lucky will be okay." But she didn't argue when I showed no intention of leaving.

Dad came down later to put some wood in the furnace. I ignored him. He started to go but turned back."I am sorry, Douglas. It was wrong of me to hurt your dog. We will bring him to the vet if he is not better in the morning." "Okay," I responded sullenly. I was stunned by his apology. The man I revered and sometimes feared was showing me his humanness. He took off his heavy jacket and covered us.

The following morning, Lucky whimpered quietly. It was his way of saying he needed to go out for a pee. He raised himself and walked a short distance, favouring his right paw. I picked him up and lovingly carried my companion upstairs into the cold December morning. He seemed to get his energy back as he sniffed around his territory. The limp was less noticeable now. Lucky licked my hand, and I scratched behind his ear. We were good. After he had done his business, we went inside to the kitchen. Father had just come up from tending the furnace. His face was clouded with concern, but now that I knew my friend would be okay, I reverted to a petulant ten-year-old boy, saying nothing.

Dad was making my favourite breakfast, corned beef hash. He gathered the ingredients, deftly peeled a few potatoes chopped onion and tossed them into the warming frying pan. Immediately, the rich aroma of the golden-brown potatoes combined with the corned beef and seasoning put us at ease. "How is Lucky feeling?" he asked cautiously. "He isn't limping as much," I offered."Good," he replied.

I willingly inherited my father’s quiet nature; neither of us was given to idle chatter. I pulled a chair over to the cupboard, climbed up and got two plates. Dad stirred the meal a few more times and declared it was ready. He reached into the cupboard and brought out a bowl. He filled it with the tasty mixture and put it in front of Lucky, who hesitated a moment before diving in. The three of us ate in comfortable silence. 

After that experience of hurting the one I loved, my father seemed to pay more attention to my feelings. I never knew why Dad responded so violently to Lucky. But as I got older and became a father, I gained an appreciation for the demands of parenthood and ensuring family security. Sadly, I also repeated my father’s mistake of not sharing my burden with my spouse. It does the soul no good.




Sunday, December 15, 2024

The Mill


Due to unexpected demand, the book is temporarily out of stock in Miramichi outlets. I will be signing copies at Mill Cove Cafe on Saturday, January 11, from 1 to 3 p.m.

I hope you enjoy a peaceful Christmas.

Doug 

Friday, December 13, 2024

A Tree On The Island


 
This story combines a time of self-discovery with family security at Christmas time.

Our family home was approximately a quarter mile from beautiful Beaubear's island, cloaked in an evergreen canvas.

As children, my sisters and I went with our parents one year to cut a Christmas tree. Recalling the occasion evokes wonderful memories over a half-century later. It also underlines some of the internal conflicts I was experiencing.

Winter brings its unique character to the river. The wind screamed from the northwest like a banshee, hurtling itself at our old house, which crouched like an animal awaiting the next blow. Father tended to the ancient wood furnace, struggling to satisfy the behemoth's insatiable appetite.

Upstairs, I swaddled myself in a blanket over the hot air register. Mother shooed me away; fearful the water pipes would freeze if the heat were blocked. At bedtime, I dreaded the cold sheets, which took forever to absorb the warmth of my body. We wore thick wool socks on these extra cold nights. This luxury ultimately meant an extra washer load, an unwanted expense in a household where every penny was turned twice.

The wind screeched unabated for forty-eight hours. When the howling finally subsided, the resulting snowscape was breathtakingly beautiful, highlighted by the brilliant sun against the cobalt-blue sky.

It was mid-December; Dad had spent two long days with his frenzied brood. He announced that the family would go in search of a Christmas tree. My older brothers were excused as they were studying for exams. This left my two sisters and me, aged six and seven. I was eleven at the time.

Father sharpened his axe. Mother began her preparations, happy to break out of the usual domestic routine. She put a large pot of water on the hot stove for tea and made ham sandwiches with her freshly baked bread. "Ann, you get the old mugs from the basement and Sharon, you take the blankets from your beds and bring them here. It will be a chilly trip," Mom said, sending the girls to their tasks.

My sisters sensed this was a special occasion and struggled to contain their excitement. I helped them put on their bulky snow pants and thick socks. Mittens were already warming on the registers. The blue and green wooden sleds were pulled from beneath the snow. Dad buffed the metal runners with sandpaper for easier hauling, then firmly tied the sleds together.

Sharon brought the two thick red "army blankets" from their beds. These were reserved for extra cold nights, like those we just experienced.

 They were so-called as Dad had ordered them from the Army Surplus catalogue. At the same time, much to the embarrassment of the older children, he bought five used olive-green army "knapsacks" for school book bags. The younger kids' imaginations ran wild with images of dried blood from used bayonets. The rest of us initially struggled to hide them from our schoolmates in embarrassment, but eventually, we gave up.

"Douglas, Dad called to me. Make sure the girls are well covered with the blankets. I don't want to hear them crying to go back. Understand?" "Yes, Dad and Lucky can come too?"

Our young black and white collie wasn't waiting for permission as he bounded across the yard to the river.

"You watch him," responded Dad. "I'm not caring for him too."

Mom packed ham sandwiches with a half dozen fresh-from-the-oven molasses cookies and several King Cole tea bags to be used in thermoses of hot tea. She got her heavy black seal skin coat from the downstairs closet. It was one of the few luxuries she allowed herself when she married. It was usually worn only to church and on infrequent trips to town. She knew the coat would help make for a comfortable walk across to the island, which lay in the middle of the sleeping river. After a quick final readiness check, our troop set out across the road, down the bank, and onto the frozen river.

 

It was about a twenty-minute walk from our house to Beaubear's Island on the snowy crust. The island measures approximately one mile in length and a quarter mile at its widest point. A prominent landmark in the region, it is heavily forested with substantial white pine, many over a hundred feet tall. Patches of spruce and fir fight for sunlight and rich nutrients.

The path carved through the center by the Mig'maw people several centuries ago still exists. White settlers, including the Acadians, Scottish, Irish and English, gradually widened the trail with ox carts and horse-drawn wagons.

It was once home to each of these peoples, even earning a place in world commerce as a ship-building center. The prized straight and strong white pines were cut to make ship masts.

We looked at the island. It seemed to be resting, ready to offer a peaceful retreat for travellers such as our family making the pilgrimage.

Father led the pack, pulling the tandem sleds. The girls sat like statues on the first sled. The girls were securely wrapped in their heavy snowsuits. The blankets served as windbreakers. Their cheeks were rosy from the light breeze and sub-zero temperature.

I sometimes padded beside Dad, struggling to keep the pace he set. Mother followed on the trail opened by us. Lucky broke into intermittent spurts, throwing himself onto the packed snow and rubbing his back with the joy and pleasure known only to dogs.

The ferocious wind of the past two days had compacted the snow to resemble concrete. It made a wonderful sound, like crunching a bag of potato chips. Sledding was easy for Father. We were enjoying the freedom from being caged in during the storm. Even Dad occasionally erupted into laughter at Lucky's antics and our sliding sleds.

About halfway across, we stopped. The sun was warming us, and I thought Dad wanted to take a break. He called our group together and smiled as he looked across to the west.

"I was thinking, when your mother and I were married, we came to live with my mother, Ma. My dad died when I was a few years older than you, Douglas.

She was alone and said we could help each other by living with her in Nelson.

Mary Dolan was a strong and good person. She treated anybody at her door with respect and generosity.

"It was about this time of year after we moved in with Ma. I was splitting firewood in the backyard. I looked over from our place to where we are now. The wind was blowing heavily across the river. I saw a line of five women coming toward our side. They didn't break formation. When they got to the Nelson side, they came to our, your grandmother's home. They looked tired but determined.

"They didn't say anything but nodded when they walked past. I waited a while. When I went in, they had gathered around the kitchen's old woodstove, drinking tea. Ma introduced each of the group.

The last person was sitting beside her. She introduced her as Mrs. Ginnish. The lady said hello, and that was it. I asked Ma what was happening after they left. She said that Mrs. Ginnish and the other ladies travelled from Eel Ground (Natoaganeg) to Loggieville three times a year to sell their beadwork and crafts. Ma said she and Mrs. Ginnish had been good friends since they met forty years before.

 

"Your grandmother worked with Father Ryan. He was a parish priest here, famous for healing people with natural plants and herbs. That is where Ma and Mrs. Ginnish met. They prepared the mixtures, and with Father Ryan, they did some amazing work curing some very sick folks. They were two incredible people who were quiet leaders in their communities."

We were amazed by the story our father shared. And just as suddenly as it started, it was over. We were on our way again. That was Dad's style.

 

 I recall that story today, I think of how successive generations of leaders are formed within a family. My father was an active community leader, as was I. George, a descendant of Mrs. Ginnish, was Chief of the Natoaganeg community for several years. In my work in adult education, I always enjoyed working with him.

 

The island welcomed us. The light breezes stilled—a pair of blue jays exchanged raucous greetings. A small group of chickadees eagerly picked up the sunflower seeds the girls sprinkled on the frozen beach sand. Crows peeked out from their perches and saw no threat. They continued to doze in a sunlit meadow.

We picked our way to the island's central corridor. The silence was total and comforting. It reminded me of the entrance to our century-old church, which lay a short distance away on the opposite shore.

First-time visitors to the island in winter are often astonished as they gaze at the cathedral walls of white pines plastered with snow. Huge branches with dark green needles were draped in dazzling white shawls. In a single file, we moved into the fir and spruce groves.

The hunt was on for the best Christmas tree. Mother was the judge in consultation with the girls. Dad had long since admitted his appreciation for things aesthetic was woefully lacking. I instinctively deferred to his position.

Lucky showed no interest in the humans as he chased squirrels that he had discovered snoozing in a log.

The smell of a fir tree on a cold winter's day awakens the senses. The sharp scent of resin and the needles offer a bracing fragrance. Careful inspections were carried out, and comparisons were made. Finally, Mother and the girls selected a tall, bushy fir. Dad lifted the axe from the sled.

With the first blow, the tree threw off its snowy coat. Thousands of tiny iridescent particles sparkled in the bright sun, gently floating to the ground. Three more strikes, and the tree gave way. I stood it up, displaying it like a trophy I had won, and then secured it to the second sled.

It was time for lunch. This outing for the girls and me remained one of our treasured Christmas memories into adulthood. I restrained my enthusiasm for fear of appearing soft before my father. I was always conscious of my role as his son, being of the generation where showing emotion was discouraged.

We collected dried twigs and branches off the beach. We chose a leeward location for our lunch, out of reach from the gathering afternoon breeze. The fire caught quickly. The soothing comfort of orange and yellow flames licking the driftwood quickly warmed us. Dad and I dragged over a log that had drifted up in a big fall tide.

We pulled it close to the fire, making a comfortable seat for the group. Mother took the two thermoses of still-hot water from her insulated satchel. She put two King Cole tea bags in each, ensuring it was strong enough for Father.

She reached deeper into the bag and pulled out five white metal cups Ann had brought from the basement. They were old, with cracked black lips and some enamel on the sides chipped. But they served the purpose.

Lucky, picking up the scent of a possible meal, appeared out of a snowdrift with his lush black tail wagging. Knowing not to annoy the man, he quietly sat beside the youngest, Sharon. He knew from experience that she was the most generous of this human family.

While I continued gathering heavier wood for the fire, Mother passed around the thick sandwiches. We threw ourselves into the tasty task of devouring them.

Between bites, the girls and I talked about the Christmas parties we had enjoyed on the final day of the school term. They snuggled into the warmth of Mom and her seal skin coat. It sheltered them from the cold and offered an extra measure of sanctuary.

With the demands of seven offspring and a husband, Mother had little time to indulge her children. This was a special moment the girls savoured.

I envied my sisters. I had few opportunities to be close to our mother. I felt myself drifting from her, conflicted with the secret of my growing sexual curiosity. But again, I smothered the urge to be comforted, content to be a part of this moment.

Even at the age of eleven, I had seen and heard enough to believe my life, as I knew it, would be destroyed if my true self became known to others.

I would be shunned and hated by people who didn't care that all I wanted was to love freely. I would not take the chance with my mother's love to share with her that I was gay. Decades later, I have learned that silence can be like a pool of water left in the cold too long; it will freeze and break your heart.

Unobserved, Sharon dropped pieces of her sandwich to Lucky, who discreetly received and gobbled them up. Portions from the molasses cookies followed. Lucky had struck gold, and he knew it. There were even a few gentle scratches behind his ear.

This human was a gentle spirit.

Where Sharon lacked confidence, our sister Ann was strong and, at times, defiant. Sharon had come to rely on her sister to defend her in occasional conflicts with five growing and boisterous brothers.

When Ann thought her sister was being mistreated or threatened, she would gather her long braids into her mouth and launch a pre-emptive attack on the unsuspecting assailant. The two were inseparable and utterly devoted to each other, a relationship that would survive into adulthood.

With the snack finished, Father announced it was time to return home. The fire was extinguished, with cups and pans stored away. I secured the girls on one of the sleds with the tree stowed on the other behind.

Our small troop trekked home with Dad in the lead and Mom taking up the rear guard. We reached the shoreline in front of our home just as the meagre mid-afternoon sun softened the ice to slush.

Emboldened and energized by our experience, we hurried up the bank with the girls walking beside the prized Christmas tree. I placed the tree on the side verandah. Since it was mid-December, several days remained before it would be brought into the house for trimming.

The girls were curious why the tree could not be trimmed immediately. In my adult voice, I said the tree’s natural juices must be kept fresh using the cold temperature, or needles would quickly drop off when brought into the house. 

The Greatest Of These is Love

  This is a love story, a real love story, with all of life's challenges and successes. It features my grandparents who shaped the lives...