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.