The Mummers Are Coming

Wind whistled and moaned through the windows mocking Charley’s guarantee to Mary that the putty applied that fall had been sufficient to do the trick. The flame on the candle on the windowsill flickered and danced in synchronicity with snow drifts that passed close enough to the dim light to be seen through the frost rimmed circle in the single pane of glass. 

“Are you sure they’re coming, Mommy?” Clara asked as she glanced at the window once more. Even with the excitement and anticipation, the little girl’s eyes continued to focus on her toy she named Marly. Her daughter was still in awe of the present Santa Claus had brought her. Clara smoothed her hand over the knitted doll with the pretty dress that Mary had fashioned from a long outgrown garment. 

“They’ll be here, darling,” Mary replied as she loosened the apron string behind her neck and in one swift movement, grabbed it and slung it on the nail behind the woodstove. She took the leftovers of the lamb roast from the warmer to the pantry and stopped near Clara when she returned. “Now, get out of the draft before you catch your death.”

Mary hoisted her daughter from the daybed and laid her on the chair beside the stove. She checked the wicks on the oil lamps on the wall and adjusted them so that the room was brighter. Mary poked the fire and threw a junk of dried spruce in the firebox, enough to keep the heat in the house and the kettles hot for a cup of tea or a toddy later. 

The Mummers would be here, she was sure of it. And not just because Charley had said so when he left. It just wasn’t Christmas without them. 

The house trembled and the window moaned once more as the fire crescendoed and ebbed to the tune of the fierce Northeasterly gust. Charley would be back, she reassured herself as her body shivered in the draught that found her. “He’ll be back,” she whispered and brushed her fingertips across the blessed medal hanging from her neck.

As if conjured, bells jingled and were followed by a sharp knock. The door burst open as several masked characters surged in. One grabbed the birch broom near the door and swept snow out over the stoop only for it to be carried back in by the stampede of the rubber booted crowd. 

Mary took the broom, chuckled, and nodded dismissively as she tossed it behind the door. The gathering spilled into the kitchen in a flurry of snow, shouts, and cold air. Clara squealed and clapped her hands, strewing Marly aside then following her to the woodbox seat. Her vacated spot went to the leading visitor who held an accordion.

The instrument was playing before the person’s rear end hit the chair. The others began shouting, swirling, and stamping to the beat in the now crowded kitchen. One of them took Mary and swung her around before hugging her and lifting her off her feet. She swiped at the lace covered face and grinned.

“Put me down, you fool,” she said as she giggled and pushed on the person’s shoulders. The figure prattled loudly and swung her again. 

“That’s Daddy,” Clara shouted as she bounced on her perch. “I know it is.” She clapped once more and smiled widely at the shrouded figure which laid her mother down then reached for her. Mary was grabbed by somebody else and swung to the music from the disguised accordion player. 

“That has to be David,” Mary said as she lowered her face to peer through the eye-holes of the disguise at the musician. The music stopped for just a second as the man pulled off his cap and pillowcase mask.

“Thank God,” he said as he gave a heavy sigh and wiped the beads of perspiration from his glistening red forehead. “I’d die in this heat.” He started up a feisty jig which sent the other costumed crowd stamping, swinging, and hollering once again. 

Clara shrieked as she helped pull the mask from the one that carried her. “I knew it was you, Daddy,” she shouted as she threw the lace doily and hat on top of Marly. Her father twirled her around the floor in his arms.

By now the kettles and even the dampers on the stove began to rattle as the herd of revelers renewed their steps to a faster tune on the accordion. One of them pushed at David and he laughed before ending the dance with a long and piercing note. 

“Mary, get the lads some spruce beer from the pantry,” Charly yelled to be heard above the racket. She nodded at him from across the room, untangled herself from her dancing partner and headed through the door on the far side of the kitchen. David began playing a slower tune to settle the crowd and Mary made three trips to the pantry bringing brown bottles back to the table.

Charley opened one snub-nosed bottle and gave it to David while he took another for himself. The masked crowd spread out and sat down on the daybed and on the chairs, while more backed up against the wall and waited for Mary to guess their identity.

“Are you from down the Lane?” Mary asked the closest fellow. He or she had a raglan on which was wrong-side-out and hung to the edge of the knee-high rubber boots.  The disguise was too long and big to determine the shape of the person. The mummer shook its head and spoke gibberish. She recognized the voice, “Wilfred Barnes, I know that’s you.” 

Wilfred tore off his head gear and grabbed the beer she offered. “Indeed, it is, Mary my dear. You were the first one to guess me so quickly.”

“I recognized the cut of your mother’s coat,” Mary said with a grin before she moved to the next person. This one had long johns on over their clothes and wool socks covered their hands. Mary pushed on the belly. “Stuffed,” she said. “You’re trying to throw me off.” Mary held her hand to her brow and then tapped the figure’s head. “My height.” She looked at Wilfred and then back again. “Marie, Marie Barnes.” But the figure shook its head vigorously. Mary squinted her eyes. “Do you have anything to do with this fellow here?” she said as she pointed to Wilfred. The figure nodded. “Got anything to say?” she asked but the figure shook its head. Mary inspected the socks. “You can’t be Mrs. Barnes, can you?” Mary asked. 

The woman shed her head garb. “Well, what’s got into your mother, Wilfred,” Mary said, “to be out on a night like this.” Mary chuckled as the older woman ran her fingers through her hair. She laughed and shook her dissent as Mary offered the beer. “I got a drop of sherry there we can have after I’m through with this crowd,” Mary said, and Mrs. Barnes nodded.

“I’m a fool, Mary girl. But it was one of those nights I didn’t feel like being home by myself.”

“Good for you,” Mary said as she patted the woman’s shoulder then moved to the next person. She questioned the patrons one by one. She guessed several names until she had the group figured out and unmasked.  Wilfred’s wife and his mother were the only two women among the bunch. 

When the spruce beer was all passed around, Mary took Mrs. Barnes and her daughter-in-law into the front room. She motioned for Clara to join them, but Clara wanted to stay with her father. 

Mary lit the candles on the Christmas tree and poured a glass of sherry for the Barnes women as well as one for herself. 

They sipped the thick red liquid and listened to one of the men as he spoke a recitation he’d learned from his father. The only sound was the deep and languid tones of the man’s voice and the crackle of the log in the fire. A cheer erupted when the man finished, bottles clinked, and the music started again. 

“Drink up,” one man shouted, and the two Barnes women followed Mary to the kitchen. 

“Mind the candles, now,” the older Mrs. Barnes said as she nodded toward the tree. 

“I will, Ma’am,” Mary said making a mental note to blow them out as soon as the crowd was gone.

“Merry Christmas,” David shouted over his shoulder as he pulled the door open and began playing Jingle Bells which was carried away on the drifting snow by a furious gust. Hearty shouts and yips followed as the others danced along behind him out into the night.

“Only two more houses to go,” Charly said as he kissed Mary and Clara then pulled the disguise on over his face. “I’ll put the horse away in the stable when I get back and then I’ll be home.”

Mary and Clara shouted goodbye as the group jumped on the sled behind the mare and waved. Jingling bells mixed with the music from the accordion and came in whisps on the frigid air as the group pulled into the inky blackness of the night.

Mary guided Clara onto the bench on the woodbox while she grabbed the mop and wiped up the water puddles. She smiled. Mummers. It wouldn’t be Christmas without them. 

The North Shore Rebuilds

On November 30^th I drove along the North Shore heading to Old Perlican Library. This was my first drive through since the last devastating wildfires. There was a distinctive smell that might have been my imagination or remembering but stayed with me long after I left the area. It was quite humbling.

Blackened earth with white rocks beneath stark limbless sticks and washed by recent rains show the once bogs and marshes along the sides of the road. The rocks probably never saw daylight in hundreds of years. The swath of destruction that scarred to the right of one house and the opposite side of another across the road and left them standing and unharmed was remarkable. While numerous and unseen holes exist and are hidden in the wake that held homes and lives and stories.

The appliance cemeteries stood out. Full of mostly hot water heaters and fridges and are showing signs of rust. I hope they don’t winter and decay on the side of the road. Not because of the eye-soreness it will become, but because it will always be a stark and unbidden reminder of loss until it is gone.

We were silent in awe at the randomness, the bigness of it all. We are not familiar enough with the area to know how many were gone, how many remain. But gone was evident by the tidy piles of burnt debris, which I’m sure was messy and so much worse on the residents’ return.

The scraped earth where somebody plans to start over, the shells of those who’ve already begun to rebuild offer hope to the North Shore. This hope will take time.

I remember my own first look at destruction at fifteen. My own return to a blackened earth. My own hope that things would return to normal. My own having nothing, no clothes on my back. Our family’s loss was different, of course. Luckily nobody was killed on the North Shore. But that suffering is real and is not diminished just because it could have been worse. No, being grateful that it wasn’t worse may soften the edges, but the suffering is still great.

It was nice to see lights on in businesses. Open signs. On the return drive it was nearing dark and we saw a few Christmas lights in some of the communities. The ones who had a place to come back to seemed to be offering hope of normalcy to those not so lucky. It was beautiful, really. Like spring when green returns. Like time when it takes its time to pass.

We’ll move on as we did in the drive, but the residents will stay, rebuild, return, and revitalize. The North Shore is beautiful, resilient, and will rise again. Its spirit isn’t broken; it just needs a bit of polishing to make it shine once more. That polishing has started. Renewal comes with tears and sadness and fear, but it comes, and is coming.

I wouldn’t take pictures, not my place to do so. I am, however, glad I drove that route. I won’t pretend I know anything about what they are all going through except to know I went through something similar. Sometimes a bit of empathy and humbleness at it all is well warranted. I’m grateful for the grounding. I wish nothing but continued hope in rebuilding on the North Shore and what comes in time, brings smiles and fond memories from before. With the in-between time being something you got through with the help of others and with your own determination and a stronger you on this side of the disaster.

Generational Comforts from Accidental Beginnings

I was three, certainly not four when they first came. Tall, straight men with buzz cut styles and square stubble on the middle of their top lips. And they had guns but didn’t bring them into the house. They were loud and lively, and my father smelled of yeasty homebrew after they were gone. They were Americans.

I was four, certainly not five when they came again. They brought a bombardier, and boxes and boxes of stuff the likes of which we had never seen before. Not even at Christmas had these wonders ever entered our realm. Even the black and white television when it was first turned on didn’t compare. The biggest box could hold a fridge if we had known of such a thing at the time. There were clothes, bicycles, footsies, and boardgames. Payday, Monopoly, Life, and a yellow box with a word on it none of us could pronounce.

I was five, certainly not six when I first heard the rattle. The American’s were back. They brought their children. And dolls. We named them after their American children. Tammy and Sherry were cherished for years. As our bellies hit the floor, feet dancing in the air, we dressed and undressed those dolls. In the background, Bonnie and Lloyd were teaching my parents the game in the yellow box. It was Yahtzee.

I was six, certainly not seven when I watched my parents play Yahtzee as we gathered around the trouble game, the older ones played Life, a storm raged outside and there were no Americans. The plastic cup was loud and sometimes one of them would let me shake their turn and spill out the die across the kitchen table. Perhaps one would fall and clatter across the floor and pause the game in the scramble to find it. All the score sheets were gone so they used scribblers or paper bags to keep track.

I was seven, certainly not eight when I played Yahtzee for the first time. Dad wanted somebody to play and Mom was making bread. There was a storm outside. I had learned by watching and keeping score for Dad or Mom on times. I loved the game. I was hooked.

I was nineteen, certainly not twenty when my then boyfriend, now husband, learned to play. There would be a table full of us in stiff competition. The shaking can had been worn out ten times over. The cardboard baking powder tin made less noise. Tally sheets, scribblers, loose leaves were worn out, numbers scratched into the table top through the brown paper bags. The Yahtzee die shaking was a constant and the shout of Yahtzee for five of a kind turned everyone’s head.

I was forty, certainly not forty-one when I played my last game of Yahtzee with my father. He was keen to win and would play from morning to night. By then my children had interest and played with him, too. We knew the game had been passed on when we bought a game for our house in St. Brides and the can made a racket without either of my parents there. Nor the Americans.

I was fifty-five, certainly not fifty-six when I taught my grandson how to play Yahtzee. He’d come from upstairs after school. Sometimes his Poppy would play with us and sometimes his Mommy. The familiar rattle of the die before they were upset on the table and the one that would sometimes take off and end up under the chesterfield held a generational comfort.

I was fifty-eight, certainly not fifty-nine when I played my last game of Yahtzee with my mother. It was at the long-term care facility and she could neither shake the can nor keep the score but she wanted to play anyway. We had endless games as we passed away the days at Pleasantview Towers telling stories about my father and the Americans. I have her game tucked in beside my own at the house.

I was sixty, certainly not sixty-one when I opened a gift this past Christmas from my daughter. It was a new-fangled Yahtzee game that is just waiting to be opened on a stormy day and stories told about my father, my mother, and the Americans.

Yahtzee!

Sammy's Wonderous Adventure

Sammy was the shy sort. Perhaps not shy, but not interesting. Certainly not like the others. His whole life had been spent in the box or on the lowest bough of the tree. Not the inside tree either where tales from the other bells regaled of sparkling-coloured lights, shiny tinsels, toys and presents, big and small, all ensconced in wrappings even fancier than the lights. Exclaiming of children’s laughter brought gasps and oohs and awes as the inside bells told tales that made the long winter stored in the boxes so exciting.

Then the outside bells, the ones on the tree on the hillside, would talk about the twinkling stars on the indigo and inky canvas above, the brilliant Christmas moons, and the cape of white draped across the trees and fences and the diamonds on the ground when the sun shone bright.  They described the children racing down the hillside on their latest slide or skating on the pond, each story told from a different perspective depending where the bell hung on the tree.

When it came to Sammy’s turn, he had nothing to say. He spent his time on the lowest bough, covered in the fluffy snow and not even privy to the wind though, admittedly, sometimes the shaking did reach the lowest perch. His only view was through the eyes of those on the higher branches. He reveled in the tales from those above him and, on a rare occasion, wished that he could get to experience what they did. But for all his years on the outdoor tree, he took the lowest bough.

Excitement built in the trunk when the noises from the attic grew loud. It was always the same. Scraping and hauling and pushing clamours grew louder and louder until the lid was lifted on the trunk and the momentary blinding light signaled it was time.

Their cardboard beds were carried to the tree and as the tree grew, some of the inside bells even joined them. Those ones were welcomed heartily and got to see both sides of Christmas. How fortunate they were. For Sammy nothing had changed. He’d make his yearly debut as the last one to go on and with a little pat from the mitted hand the tree was ready.  

Whispers of the wonders of the night sky reached him through the limbs though he could only see darkness or green and white. Daytime adventures rang out through the fields and tickled his ears. Sammy enjoyed this time outside the box. It was what he was made for.

As snow piled higher, Sammy’s view turned white then black and then a gray that distinguished night from day. The tree shook more than usual, and the muffled sounds and whispers grew quieter until they were gone. At first Sammy paid no heed to the quiet. It had happened before when the winter storms had been a little more forceful. They’d hung outside for longer and regaled of swinging round limbs and clinking together when they finally got back to the time packed away in the trunk. Sammy knew nothing of the swinging and clinking as he’d always been buried in the snow.

Sammy’s worries grew when the snow began to melt, and the whispers were no longer there. He shouted in case the other bells couldn’t hear him but didn’t get a response. Rain began to drip from the limbs overhead as rain pelted the tree. A few drops ran down his string, but he was mostly dry and protected. The snow melted and he was freed. It was when he noticed plants peeking through the ground and the quiet above him was long that he realized he’d been forgotten.

He wasn’t the first this had happened to. He had heard of breezy and sunny days, but they were rare. One little bell had told of the birds that had nested in the tree and how she watched the babies fly off in the summer.  But that was so long ago, he barely remembered. They had missed her in the cardboard in the trunk, but she fit right in when she was collected after Christmas the next year. Sammy wouldn’t see the birds because he was too low. He wouldn’t have those stories to tell.

He had been reminiscing when he felt the soft touch up on. A baby fawn had taken refuge under the tree. She brushed her new fur against him as she settled beneath the bows. He watched her doze in the sun before she rose and knocked into him again. She sent him swinging on the branch. He hadn’t felt that exhilarating rush of air before. Sammy was gleeful as the fawn returned every day to visit the resting place and keep him company.

Before too long the bees began to visit. They tickled his outsides and insides as they looked for flowers. Sometimes they were tired and took a break at the very top of him or took shelter from the wind within his hollowed interior. He was happy to give them a safe place to rest before they buzzed happily away. Flowers grew, the wild hay danced in the breeze, and the young ones frolicked in the field while their parents kept a watchful eye. Foxes came to sniff at him with their cold noses making him laugh. It was an exhausting time.

Sammy grew tired when the first cold winds played around the base of the tree. The hay had been cut, the animals were gone, and leaves of various colours swirled by before moving on. His eyes grew heavy.

He heard his name called in chorus when he realized the other bells were back. It must be Christmas again, he thought. He shouted to them and welcomed them back to the tree and told them how glad he was to know they were there and how he’d missed them. He listened to their whispers over the next few weeks before they returned to the cardboard beds in the trunk.

“We want Sammy to go first,” the bells all said. “We want to hear about his adventures.”

Sammy regaled of the fawn, the foxes, and the bees and all that he had seen from beneath the lowest bough. The oohs and awes of the others warmed his heart as he was asked several times to tell them again what he’d seen.

One of the bells from the inside tree proclaimed that Sammy had outshone them all and they allowed they’d all like to be on the lowest bough where the best things happened.

Sammy smiled at his luck at being able to bring all these new experiences to the others before they returned to the tree once again and Sammy took his rightful place on the lowest bough.

Checklist Advice From the Very Best

My dearest Santa, I’m a long-time believer but first-time writer to you. This is not the conventional letter. You see, I am writing to get some advice about lists. With all the goings on and the busyness of life yesterday I wrote down five things to do this morning that I’ve been putting off and forgetting, whether convenient or not until after business hours, or it’s too late to start, etc.

He’s making a list and checking it twice was on the radio yesterday as an anthem to you and your prowess at keeping all the kids across the world straight so I thought list was the appropriate way to go, check them off, and put them behind me. My piddly remove trailer from NL Services, remove trailer from insurance, call doctors office (for the third time) to get the portal set up, package the Starlink and return via Fedex, and order some books, didn’t seem that daunting. My list was added to the pink sticky note and laid on my laptop for bright and early this morning.

I got a head start on it, first by going into NL Services Online and it was a 24/7 operation. But the details weren’t correct from the trailer buyer, and I had to look up the postal code for her address. That was just a tiny glitch. Figured it out and got an email from NL Services Online that the trailer was removed. Now for the morning, I only had four things. How hard could it be, Santa?

The insurance company had an app as well but I wasn’t falling for that twenty minute q&a session with Janet the chatbot a second time. She lured me down a rabbit hole only to tell me that I had to call. So, Janet basically lied when she said all services could be done online. However, a nice lady from NL did answer promptly when I called and took care of the matter in short order. This time I wasn’t getting caught with Janet again, but she was prompt in saying to call. I guess Janet learned a lesson from our last encounter. That is not checked off yet though because of the next item I tackled on the list. Santa, how do you do it when things go wrong?

I called the doctors office and lo and behold the email that I had called about for two weeks finally arrived. Third time lucky, I guess. It was easy. Just click the link and enroll. So, I did. I got a host of questions, the second one was automatically populated with the correct email address but I got an error saying it was already registered. Which I can safely say it was not because if I don’t do the registering, it doesn’t get registered, just saying. I called the office back and the lady told me just to click on the help button and get it resolved. For ten minutes I looked for the help button, clicked every place on the site and not a helper to be seen. I found a toll-free number which I called and there was another Janet who lured me through a dozen menu options and finally disposed of me with a hang up without resolution. I started again and clicked some more and found a random page which allowed me to enter information and it is in the Janetverse somewhere waiting for somebody to take pity on me. Tell me Santa, if they don’t get back to me, do you put Janet on the Naughty list?

My frustration level was rising now so I printed off the Starlink return label for the courier from the third reminder email and readied the box. I had to schedule a pick-up. Well now Santa, if I had to call the North Pole and asked you to pick it up and drop it off in California, I think I’d be better off. I’m not insensitive to the plight of the carriers but Starlink don’t really show mercy when they give you ten days to return the bad equipment or be charged. (Another few people for your naughty list I do believe). But I digress.

I went online to schedule a pick up. IMPOSSIBLE, yes all capitalized for a reason. After twenty minutes of the site telling me I had to pay like $600 on a pre-shipped label and fill out a custom’s form I gave up when Janet said she couldn’t help me and that I really should speak to an agent. Thanks Janet, at least give me a number or connect me. No, nothing like that so Janet should be bolded on your naughty list. I found a 1800 number through some sleuthing and connected with another Janet who finally allowed me to speak to an agent. That poor fellow was patient and kind but couldn’t help. He talked to me for about fifteen minutes, collected all the details, twice, but then he tried to schedule a pickup. It was in vain, only to tell me to call back the next day and see if he could get me on a list. Oh Starlink, do you understand these troubles. Please show mercy.

Then I looked online again for places to drop it off. I was pointed to a pit at Kent’s in CBS. Then I said to myself, I wonder does Kent take the packages. I called and a nice lady said sure, drop it off here and don’t worry about it. She is going on the nice list, eh Santa. Let’s just put everyone there on the nice list, please.

Forty-five minutes later, I’m at item number three. That was easy. Took about two minutes. Sylvia was pleasant and took my book order. She definitely gets on the nice list. Don’t forget her Santa.

Item number four was also easy, took about ten minutes and the insurance company guy, Jeff, he should make the nice list as well. I got a few discounts when he reviewed my file since he had me on the line. Nice list please. Only a suggestion though Santa since you are the authority.

I guess, Santa, I worked my way through the problems, tested my patience to the highest limits, and have all but one item fully checked (and scratched and crossed out and gouged) since I’m waiting on Naughty-list-Janet to get back to me with the medical portal details. It’s out of my hands now but I managed to get through it on my own. That was only five things. Santa, how do you do it with the millions you get? Hero worship here.

If I’m not too old for a Christmas wish and since I never really bothered you before, please bring Janet a book to properly educate her in checklist etiquette. That will make me and many others very happy.

Merry Christmas Santa. Keep on doing what you do. You are a bright light in the darkening world and I, for one, appreciate you. Thanks for letting me vent.

First Encounters

I was ten years old, and spring had come to North Harbour. Mud tracked in on white tile floors, runny noses, and the first dregs of heat from the sun were tell-tale signs. Lambs were dropping from the twenty-two ewes in pairs and triplets and my father spent a lot of time in the stable.

This was different than other springs in that the lambs were more plentiful. We’d lost neither sheep to a dog over the winter. Dad was allowing we’d have a good fall when the meat man came, and money was exchanged for the youngest in the flock.

Long-term plans meant the pantry would be filled and we could get an extra blouse or shirt for school in September. A good spring lambing season made things easier in the fall.

Every day we’d get off the school bus and run in the lane to a chorus of bleats from the meadow as the tiny lambs found their legs and gamboled in murmuration as if conducted by some invisible sheep orchestrator.

There were still three or four left to lamb when Dad came in and mentioned one of the sheep was having a hard time. Through the window he pointed as the sheep spasmed in labour on the side of the hill. She tried to get up when Mom and Dad went to her, but the poor thing wasn’t able to stand.

As children do, we lost interest to the supper table and forgot about the sheep until much later when Mom returned. Since it was still fairly cold at night for the littlest, and two sheep had yet to birth, Dad put all the animals in the stable and the one that struggled had finally given birth to three.

The next morning, he came in with a lamb draped over his hand and asked Mom to make a bottle of milk. She had bottles for just such things since it was commonplace to help a struggling lamb along until it was big enough to be put back with the others. Sometimes the ewe needed help and sometimes she wouldn’t accept the lamb. The latter, Dad dreaded because what it cost in milk to keep them wouldn’t be made up in the fall. He’d make several attempts to ply the ewe with her lamb.

Mom dreaded these “legacies” as she called them for a different reason. The bottle-fed ones hung around the door long after they’d been weaned. She’d often come from Nanny’s in the dark and when she’d near the step, the sheep would scramble to life on the other side of the fence and start to baa, that would frighten the others and there’d be a big racket. She’d get a start and batter them away, but they’d be back bawling for milk at sunrise.

So, this morning, Mom was making porridge and she gave me the lamb to feed. She dipped her finger in the molasses and spread it on the rubber nipple and laid the warm bottle in my hand.

I was excited to take on this new activity. It, among other things, made me feel more mature than my ten years. The little thing shivered, and its heart thumped softly beneath my fingers. I was smitten.

Once it got the taste of the sweet molasses, it slowly drew on the milk. The little lamb’s mouth foamed as it suckled once it got the hang of it. I decided to name it Lambchops after a puppet I’d seen on television.

Dad put a carboard box behind the stove and covered the bottom with an old towel. Once the lamb had fed, I laid Lambchops into the box where it could stay warm. The fire was low, just enough to take a chill off the house so Dad figured it was the best place for my first pet.

After school I sat on the daybed and fed the tiny lamb a few more times. Dad said he didn’t hold out much hope for its survival, but we’d do everything we could to make it possible.

By the weekend, the lamb became stronger. Lambchops was three days old and could almost stand without falling over. Dad tried to put the lamb under its mother, but she had two thriving others and refused to feed Lambchops. She pucked it away and Dad decided we’d feed it for a few more days and then try again.

I was delighted. Sunday was sunny so I took Lambchops to the meadow and sat on a piece of cardboard as the lamb fed and slept. I stroked its side and petted the tiny body as the other lambs played around me. Lambchops wasn’t as big as any of them now and all the ewes had lambed. Still, though a runt, she’d have a chance and catch up to them in no time.

The Carnation Milk was getting a good cutting from the pantry as I kept Lambchops fed. My time before and after the school bus came and went was dedicated to Lambchops.

By this time the back gap was opened and the sheep, no longer corralled, wandered off and fed on grass around the community. I stayed longer in the meadow with Lambchops. She was standing now and making attempts to gambol as she figured out she had legs. Dad moved the box to the stable, added some hay for comfort, and she stayed with the others at night. I went out to feed her as the rest of the flock took off for the day.

Lambchops was about two weeks old when I came home from school to find she’d gone. Dad said she’d found her mother and the ewe had finally accepted her.

I was happy for Lambchops but saddened just the same. A part of me wanted to care for Lambchops forever. Though I knew it was selfish, I was disappointed at Lambchops independence.

When the sheep returned that evening, I looked for her but she wasn’t with the flock. Dad checked the stable and around the back gap but the lamb was not to be found. I stayed on the top of the hill and listened for the sound of the little lamb bawling but there was none. I searched the woods on Soaker’s Path just beyond the gate. I was usually a bit frightened to go beyond the gap alone, so I didn’t do it. But my desire to find my little charge was more important and fear knew that so didn’t bubble to the surface.

Dad believed Lambchops had made it so far with the sheep but hadn’t been able to keep up. He said the ewe might have left her behind then as she kept up with the flock.

I was flabbergasted by this notion and simply couldn’t believe it. I thought the lamb had wandered away from the rest, probably fell asleep and didn’t wake when the draw to home took over and the sheep returned. I pictured Lambchops wandering in the drizzle of the late evening frantically searching for me or her mother. I believed it was in that order and that I had a responsibility to find her.

I took a flashlight and scoured the ridge outside the fence calling to Lambchops and listening for her. I imagined her coming to the top of the path and seeing me and running to me. She’d never go with her mother again but stay under my protection.

But alas, Mom called me home for the night and Lambchops was scared and alone in my thoughts and my dreams that night. The next day I met Dad by the stable to see if a miracle had happened and Lambchops was there. But he shook his head.

I went to school with a heavy heart, thinking of Lambchops and hoping she’d be there when I got home. Lambchops hadn’t returned. I went on a wider search, looking for the sheep hangout and didn’t find Lambchops.

By the third day I became frantic to find her. She’d be hungry and cold, and I just wanted to feed her and lay her behind the stove and protect the essence of her.

After supper Dad mentioned that somebody had found the lamb dead in the woods. Well to say I was devastated would put it mildly. I flung myself on the couch, my face buried into the pillow, and I screeched unconsolably for hours. I went to bed with a headache and drank a glass of water so I could have more tears for Lambchops. I didn’t think I’d cried enough.

The next day I wanted to find the lamb’s mother that had lured Lambchops away, but all the sheep looked alike to me. I wanted to shout at her and call her a bad ewe for what she’d done to Lambchops. I was sad and heartbroken for my poor little lamb.

I was two or three weeks trying to get over her loss, the maddening anger I felt toward Lambchops’ mother, and the devastation of being without the love of the lamb stayed with me until I woke up one day and was no longer sad.

This was my first encounter with loss and grief. It changed the child I was, and I fed lambs the next year but didn’t want the attachment that I’d came to have to Lambchops for fear of losing them and being that hurt again. Or maybe I just grew out of the notions my younger self had.

Spring, when the shoots of new grass poke through the yellowed and muddied tangle blanketing the meadows, I sometimes think of Lambchops and my lesson on grief. I smile at the silliness of how it all played out and my childish beliefs but at the time it was very real for my wounded and compassionate ten-year-old heart.

 

 

The Kite

Once upon a time ago I was a kite. I was stored with the other kites, content and happy to be the shape of the wind and to wait for my time. And when it was my time, somebody was there to help me take off. One, two, three attempts, or as many as needed, they’d run through the meadow with me, and the hands would let me go off on my own when I was ready. But I wasn’t really on my own.

I climbed the sky and faltered but the string on the spool of the hand that held me played me on the breeze so I could get high enough to be my full kite self. I soared and danced on a breeze laughing and happy to just be a kite. My string guided me. It pulled me in when things got rough, or conditions weren’t right. It gave me more lead when I wanted to explore, but all the while I knew it was there to ground me.

Once upon another time ago I graduated to a string on a spool. When my time was done, I was remade and repurposed. I had a big responsibility which I earned and understood through the wings of the kite I’d once been. Now I held something precious, a beautiful, coloured kite that fluttered and glided and tugged and strained while I gave it the reins it needed to be the best kite it could become.

People would look up and remark on our outline against the sky. Some said I should let the kite go off on its own to be a better kite without me. It could go higher than I ever dared to let it go and beyond the length I could become. But that wasn’t my job. I had to stay fastened, or the kite wouldn’t be a kite, now would it. Oh yes, it would be for a little while when the breeze was just right, but when the wind blew hard or not at all, the kite would have no way to get back, to wait, to play on the wind and just be a kite.

It would somersault and cartwheel for a bit and think it was still a magnificent kite until it could no longer sustain the unattachment. In the frenzy of unattachment, it would whip and fold onto itself. The kite would fall and crash and scrunch and tumble along the streets. Its parts would break off or snap and tangle, it’s fabric would tear, and fray and it would become refuse. People would walk past it, probably the same ones who had wanted you to let go, and some may comment on its colour or remark that it used to be a beautiful kite. But alas none would do for the kite what I’d once done.

I, too then, would no longer be a string. I would lay in the soil having failed at my kite holding job and perhaps feel sorry for myself because I could no longer see nor hold the kite. I would fade and ravel and fret for what once was. I would look for another, perhaps smaller kite, but my hopes of tying to another would be slim the longer I remained rotting and useless on the ground.

Then I would doubt myself as a string like the kite surely doubted itself as it lay broken and forgotten in an alley behind a dumpster and out of sight of everyone.

Once upon a later time we could be found by the kind-hearted who believed we still have purpose. They put us in blue bins and bring us to a facility where we are re-engineered. The kite is remade, and I am cleaned, refreshed, and respooled. I will never be a kite like I once was but if I’m lucky, I’ll measure my length as a kite string and hold on tight enough that the kite can be itself, but not too hard that it will want to let go or tear free.

Alas, as I think on my time as the string, I discover it is me no longer. I am now the spool. I have to teach the kite and the string the lessons I once learned about holding on just right and about the abandon of being a kite. Though I let them both go, I know I’ll be there to reel them in and stay with them when the conditions aren’t right to be neither kite, nor string, nor spool. They mightn’t like not being able to fly and soar all the time or laced to the kite and the grounding, but I remind them that there are worse things than having boundaries. Part of being the spool is to pass on that they should enjoy their time as a kite and a string while that time is upon them and do all the kitey and stringy things they can instead. If they waste their time on wanting to be free of the string or the spool it is time they can’t get back, they will have missed the best breezes looking for freedom that can’t be given to a kite nor a string. It’s a glorious thing to be a kite when you’re a kite. It’s a glorious thing to be a string when you’re a string. It’s a glorious thing to be a spool when you’re a spool.

But the kite can’t be a kite without the support of the string and the spool. They are a package deal in this wild and windy and sometimes unforgiving world where being recycled is not always available when the lending hand can’t find what’s become of you when you went so far you couldn’t get back to being anything repurposed, remade, or respooled and you pine for the time when you were a kite eagerly climbing the air.