Christmas

Celebrating Christmas that first year seemed unimportant to me and I wouldn’t have had anything to do with it if it hadn’t been for the girls; they were so excited.  “We have to have a tree.”  Finding and chopping down a suitable evergreen was not how I planned to spend the season, as any Christmas without my family was meaningless to me, but with a bit of arm twisting and begging on the part of the girls, they were able to get Bruce to cooperate.  In retrospect, he had been willing to do it all along, but just wanted the girls to give him a little attention.

It was easy to find a pail to hold the tree.  And, there was sand and gravel lying about that added heft to the pail, so it would not fall over from the weight of the tree placed inside.  Once Bruce had added all the rock and sand he could find, then he added water to try to keep the plant alive during the two week season.   

When depression arrived and for me, this was depressing, I often turned to the past as I privately relived enjoyable memories with old friends in other parts of the country.  These were at least some happy moments I could escape to, even for a short while, away from the here and now.  Bruce’s treatment of the tree had sparked a memory of long ago.  I sat in a corner, staring at a naked spruce tree and felt myself drifting off to that place in the Eastern part of the country where I had briefly lived.   

I remember that property well.  We'd been living outside of town, near the Bay of Fundy, on an old farm that shared both sides of a narrow, winding road that bordered the bay.  We rented the place for a year.  The man of the house had died, leaving a widow to look after things and eventually, she had to live with someone else for she was unable to care for herself and the large house, to say nothing of the barns and adjacent fields.  The fields had begun to sprout alders and other obstacles on this once beautiful country property. 

The large, white house itself was really two buildings attached together.  There were two and a half stories above the ground and a basement below the southern portion of the home.   That basement was unique in my experience, for there was a very small stream of water that flowed through a tiny canal from the west end of the floor to where it disappeared under the eastern wall.  Needless to say, it was a damp cellar.  We were told that it was spring water.  That was possible.  One had to be careful when handling the freezer that was located there.  It was an old one that didn't use the now standard three prong plug and it was not uncommon to feel a small surge of electricity pass through the hands and arms when lifting and closing the lid. 

The kitchen wasn’t large, but the dining room, on the other hand, was huge.  The only Christmas we celebrated there we shared with my cousin and his family seated around the largest dinner table I had seen up to that time.  Having a cell phone would have made it easier to talk to the person seated on the far end. “Could you please pass the bread?  What is that you said?”  We dined on a very large goose, potatoes & gravy, carrots, salad, and dessert.  I do remember that it was a very greasy meal.  I think it was the last goose I ever purchased. 

I briefly returned to the present as I observed Tammy, Shari and Lise jumping around with glee, now ecstatic because the tree was going to be sharing their apartment.   It was the only one large enough to hold it and still allow navigation in and out of the door.  I smiled briefly and returned to my internal memoires.

We'd been given permission to make use of part of the barn across the road from the house for some hens.  I had purchased four birds, leghorns, earlier in the summer while staying further north visiting some of Lynn Eve’s relatives.   These white birds, I was told, were the most efficient layers of all breeds, producing one egg per day.  Whenever you see birds living in cages, with their heads sticking out pecking at a moving tray of grain, most likely it is this bird you are looking at.  Being very skinny, they are not very useful for meat, but I did hear a story about how a certain soup company would buy up the older birds and use them for their chicken noodle soup.  What was it they said, “One bird per one hundred cans of soup?”   Another breed I purchased as pullets, Buff Sussex, didn't produce as many eggs, and they used more feed, but they were particularly friendly, often following us around like puppies eating whatever we disturbed in the grass.  They also ate out of our hands and didn’t mind us picking them up. 

In the fall, I purchased hay to keep the dirt floor of the hen house dry.  As I picked the bales apart, I noticed that there were small dry flowers, most likely clover, mixed with the grasses.  The birds clucked and danced as they pushed closer to me trying to get this tasty treat into their mouths.

And the eggs!  For another moment, I began to feel sorry for myself as I remembered those bright orange yolks.  The eggs from the store had yellow yolks and little flavor.  What I would do for one of those now!  I can still remember my mother visiting and after cooking a couple of eggs fresh from the barn saying, “This is the way to eat an egg.”  I hadn’t seen my mother dip a piece of toast into a runny yolk for as long as I could remember. My, she enjoyed it!

I remembered that the birds would not cross the road until they saw our vehicle pull into the driveway.  It was comical to see them poke up their heads and turn them sideways to get a good look before sauntering over.  One Saturday afternoon after eating, Lynn Eve and I were resting in the small bedroom off the dining room when we heard car horns blaring.  I jumped off the bed and sped to the window to see a peeved driver waiting impatiently for our pets to trot across the roadway.  I have to add that for the entire year that we spent there, we didn't lose a single member of our flock.  The people who drove that road knew what to expect when they crested the hill by our dwelling and peeved or otherwise wouldn't run over the birds.

Besides the green grass on our side of the lane, there was also the brook that flowed down the hill and under the road where they loved to scratch and pick up small stones to fill their gizzards.  Many people don’t know it, but birds must swallow stones to help grind the food they eat.  It may also supply calcium for the shells they later put on the eggs.

Ah, the brook.  That was what Bruce had reminded me of.  The brook never froze.  Unlike all the other streams in the area, it never froze over, but like that canal in the basement, continued to gurgle and flow throughout the year.  I had chopped down a tree from the far side of the property, where it wouldn't be missed by anyone except maybe a passing sailboat and dragged it back to the house.  I had no professional stand in which to secure it, so I found a metal pail and stood the tree in the middle of it in a little room off the kitchen.  It wouldn't stand up on its own, so I took some fishing line and attached it to a couple of places in the room and went looking for something substantial to keep it vertical.  That’s when I spotted the brook.  There was fresh water and lots of fine gravel and sand.  After placing this into the pail up to the top, the tree needed no other support.  It also needed no other care, for it remained watered until New Years.  Only after stupidly leaving it for another two weeks without addressing its needs, did I realize my folly.  Whereas at New Years, the needles had been firmly affixed to the limbs, now, they dropped like pepper from a shaker.  By the time I had wrestled the tree out the door, there wasn't a single, visible needle attached to the now naked skeleton of this once beautiful specimen.

“How are we going to decorate?” Shari asked. 

“How about with popped corn.  I heard that they used to do that ages ago,” Tammy replied.  “What do you think, Lise?” Tammy gave her a questioning look.

“I’m not too much into Christmas trees, at least it was not a big deal in Africa.  But here, we decorated our tree with all the things that we kids brought home from school.”

“I like that idea.”  Shari smiled.

“So do I,” added Tammy.  “But I’d like to have an angel or a star at the top.  We always had one of those at home.”  I noticed Tammy’s face cloud over and I thought she was going to cry, but she suddenly shook it off and got back into the planning.  “Maybe we can add some other things that we find around here.  There are pine cones.  They would look nice.”  I looked at the tree and surprisingly, there were no cones on it.  Two of the girls raced for the door and disappeared outside. 

Lise remained.  She approached me and seemingly reading my thoughts, tenderly placed her warm hand on my upper arm.  “Come on, Mr. W.  We can use your help.  And you could use a change of scenery.” 

“Go on without me.  I’d just get in the way.”  I tried to brush her off, but she was unrelenting. 

“I might need you to reach some things that are too high for me.  Besides, when have you ever been in the way?”  She grabbed my hand and began to pull.  She had an awful grip, more like a man than the woman she was becoming.

I liked Lise.  I like her a lot.  She didn’t like to see me alone or without a smile.  She seemed to make it her job in life to make sure I was happy and busy.  In spite of myself, I enjoyed her touch, not something that I would have wanted anyone else to know, even here in our small camp.  Teachers who enjoyed such things did not long remain in the teaching profession.  They were a risk that school boards could ill afford.  But here, alone and innocent, her touch did something to me.  It was almost like it was saying that everything was going to be all right, that I didn’t have to worry any more.

I gave in to her tugging and followed her out the door as we headed to the surrounding woods to gather cones and whatever else the woods might offer to decorate a Christmas tree.  I was surprised at the junk that lay around the camp and what use we could make of it.  Some objects had missed the trip to the dump.  Plastic could be reshaped with a little heat to represent an ornament.  Aluminum cans retrieved from our dump, could be easily cut up into strips and twisted into spirals that could pass for icicles.  And so the group project took shape.  The only person seemingly not involved was Doctor Manning.  Where was she?  Finally, when the job was nearly complete, the good doctor made her appearance.  Admiringly, she gazed at the tree.  There was not one ornament that came from a store, but everything had some meaning to the ones who had chosen them and hung them in place. 

Carol nodded her head, then, quietly withdrew from the room.  She reappeared a couple of minutes later and handed something to Bruce, who stretched himself to his full height and placed a homemade angel on the top.  Carol had made it from cloth, medical supplies and some dried grass that she had collected.  The tree was complete.  We all sat down, to enjoy its beauty. 

That was not enough for Shari.  She wanted to sing some carols, which we did for about fifteen minutes.  Then, it was time to leave.  Lise stuck close to me again as I began to make my way to the door.  She took me by the arm as if she were escorting me.  But after leaving the girls’ room, Lise reattached herself more firmly and proceeded to walk me the short distance to my place.  “You don’t have to be alone if you don’t want to,” she said. 

I wasn’t too sure what to make of her remark.  Did she think I’d let her stay with me in my room?  Even if all she meant was to just talk or keep me company, that would not only appear indiscrete, but could bring trouble on both of us as well.  But knowing Lise as I did, I decided that she was just concerned about my mental state at the moment, for she had discerned rightly that the carols had rekindled memories that were better left buried.  And after all, she hadn’t said she wanted to keep me company in my room.  “I’ll be okay,” I lied.

“If you change your mind, you know where you can find me.”  She hugged me good night and as I returned her affection, she gave me a slight kiss on the cheek.  Before I had time to react, she had turned and was gone.  I didn’t know how to respond to her actions.  I put my hand to my cheek and held it there, as if by the simple pressure of my fingers I could contain her gentle caress and maintain the warmth of her lips on my face. 

I lay awake in my bed, unwilling to drift off, even though I was tired.  What was Lise saying to me?  In word?  In action?  Why did my heart skip a beat as I began a mental debate of the opposing propositions?  Lise was my student.  Or what she?  I was old enough to be her father.  That much was true.  Talk about an age difference!  What was the rest of the world doing?  Was there a world out there?  Were we all that were left of humanity?  If so, did any of the rules even matter?  Was the teacher-student relationship still forbidden?  It was as if I were caught in a tug of war.  On one side was my mind with all it had learned over the years about right and wrong.  On the other, was my heart.  But as I thought about this, I also thought about how silly I was being.  Maybe Lise was just being nice to an old fool.  I would put these thoughts out of my head and lead my normal everyday life, just as I always had.  This old boy was not going to act the part of a teenager and make a play for a young lady.  As I thought over that theme for a moment, I realized that I really had to put the idea to rest.  Lise was not even 18 yet.  And, I was barely a widower.  How tragedy can mess with one’s mind!

On the floor, beside the far side of my bed was a new bottle of ice wine.  That would keep me company and warm my insides on this dark, lonely night.  I lit a candle, found my cork screw and enjoyed the sweetness before falling asleep.