Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul (31 page)

Unknown to Mum, I had been selling Christmas trees, shovelling snow and doing odd jobs to earn enough money to buy a new pair of boots—boots that weren’t patched; boots with no cardboard in the soles. I knew exactly which boots I wanted. They were ten-inch, Top-Genuine, Pierre Paris boots, and they cost $23.

The big day for getting my boots came on Christmas Eve afternoon. I was very excited as I hurried up the road to catch the bus into town. It was only a half-mile walk, but on the way I noticed a house with Christmas lights and decorations. It was then I realized that at our house, we had no lights, no decorations and no money for Christmas goodies. I also knew we would have no turkey or ham for Christmas dinner. But at least there would be French toast.

As I continued walking, I began to feel bewildered. I was eleven years old, and I was feeling a strange sense of guilt. Here I was going to buy a new pair of boots, while Mum was probably home in tears, thinking of ways to explain why there were no presents. As I arrived at the bus stop, the driver opened the big manual-hinged door. I stood there for what seemed an eternity, until eventually the driver asked, “Son, are you getting on this bus or not?” I finally blurted out, “No thanks, sir. I’ve changed my mind.”

The bus drove off without me, and I stood alone in a daze, feeling as if a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. My mind was made up, and I realized what I had to do.

Across the street from the bus stop was a big grocery store called the Piggly Wiggly. Into the store I went, brimming with happiness and excitement. I realized that the twenty-five dollars I had worked so hard for went a long way toward groceries. I bought a turkey, ham, oranges and all the Christmas trimmings. I spent every dime of my hard-earned money.

The owner of the grocery store said, “Son, you can’t pack all those groceries and carry them home yourself.” So I asked two boys with carriers on their bicycles to run them the half-mile down to our house. As I walked behind the delivery boys, I whispered to them to quietly unload the groceries on the porch and pile them against the door. Once they had done this, I knocked on the door. I could hardly wait to see my mother’s face! When Mum opened the door, some of the groceries fell inside onto the floor, and she just stood there, dumbfounded. Holding back the tears, I hollered, “Merry Christmas, Mother! There really is a Santa Claus!”

I had a lot of explaining to do as we unpacked all the food and put it away. That day I got enough hugs and kisses from Mum to last two lifetimes. To see my mother’s prayers answered more than made up for the boots I never got. It was a Merry Christmas for us after all!

George Mapson
Burnaby, British Columbia
Submitted by his niece, Diane Pitts

Monsieur Gaton

When I was a young girl, I spent several weeks each summer with my grandparents in Callander, Ontario. Those were wonderful times. Besides being doted on by Grandma and Poppa, I was quickly included in the activities of the neighbourhood kids, and, of course, adopted their brand of devilment. One of the objects of our attention was a local character everyone called Bozo. His real name was Raoul Gaton, but I would not discover this for some time.

When I first became aware of Bozo, I was almost eight years old; he might have been in his late teens or early twenties. People said he was retarded. He seldom spoke, and he wore a vacant expression below puppy dog eyes that belied the unintentionally cruel remarks we directed his way. His appearance seldom varied: green work pants, peaked green cap, plaid flannel shirt and sneakers. He rode an ancient girl’s bicycle with a basket carrier in front, and that bike was as much a part of him as his clothes. Bozo and his bike were a familiar sight in town as he carried out odd jobs for local shopkeepers and the church. He was considered too slow for anything more challenging.

We kids offered up our own brand of harassment each time he rattled down the dirt road past my grandparents’ home. His approach would be relayed down the street by the hoots of neighbourhood kids. We’d hurl ourselves into position at the edge of my grandparents’ property and wait—but well back from the road, fearful in the knowledge that he was “different.” As he passed, we would taunt him with yells of “Bozo! Hey, Bozo.” He would look our way, smile and wave, oblivious to our cruelty. With this acknowledgment we would tumble on the grass in fits of laughter, crossing our eyes, belting out nonsensical words in throaty voices, amusing ourselves with our Bozo performances.

His brief appearances did not hold our attention for long. As children on summer holiday, we’d soon look for amusement elsewhere. Hanging out at my grandfather’s barbershop was a favourite haunt of mine, despite the fact that it was the only place I had to wear shoes and remain quiet while customers were present.

A red and white pole outside the shop flagged down local gentlemen for haircuts, shaves or just conversation. The front window displayed models of local logging boats—either defunct or soon-to-be—and sailing ships with rigging that defied imagination. Inside, I would watch my grandfather wield scissors and razor as he trimmed a month’s growth of hair from the head of the boy or man in the chair. Often, haircutting was secondary to the flow of conversation that slipped easily into French to hide adult secrets from my young ears.

I can’t remember what the conversation was about the afternoon that Bozo showed up, but I do recall that my grandfather was preparing to close for the day when he came through the door. I was sitting on the long oak bench that ran the length of the shop, leafing through a comic book, when my grandfather greeted him with,
“Bonjour
Monsieur, comment ça va?”
and waved him to the chair that grandfather used while doing his paperwork.

My cheeks began to burn as grandfather and Bozo huddled over something the young man had put on the desk. Although my grandfather did most of the talking and the conversation was in French, I was certain that the gist of it was a complaint by Bozo that I was one of the children who was being cruel to him. I hunched deeper on the oak bench, wishing that the hardness of the wood would give way to a secret doorway through which I might escape.

After what seemed an eternity, Bozo rose from his seat, shook my grandfather’s hand and left. My grandfather waved me to the chair where Bozo had been sitting, and my fear of being reprimanded increased. Instead, my grandfather showed me a piece of paper on which the name “Raoul Gaton” had been repeatedly printed in clear but painfully drawn letters. The humble document was the first inkling I had that my grandfather was teaching this unteachable young man how to write his own name. “Without knowing how to sign your own name,” he told me solemnly, “you can go nowhere.”

I learned sometime later that my grandfather had helped arrange for Raoul to receive a government grant in lieu of his disabilities. Raoul had signed his first disability cheque with an “X” and cashed it at the credit union my grandfather ran from the barbershop. From that moment on, my grandfather was determined to teach the young man to write his name.

Many years later, my grandfather passed away. At the funeral home in the nearby city of North Bay, the crowds of mourners who had made their last farewells left, and only the family remained by the casket. My grandmother felt a presence in the room and glanced back through the shadows to the small pool of light that illuminated the visitor’s book. There, with green hat in hand, stood Raoul Gaton.

As we left the room, my grandmother placed a comforting hand on Raoul’s shoulder, and her heart welled at the depth of sadness in his eyes. With a slight turn of her head and a nod toward the casket, she acknowledged his desire for a moment alone with the man who had been his friend.

I found I could not move as I watched Raoul walk hesitatingly through the dim light to the casket. After a moment he stretched out his hand and rested it on my grandfather’s chest. “
Bon homme
—good man,” he said in little more than a whisper, then he slowly turned my way.

As he walked towards me, I glanced at the visitor book. There, written boldly in neat and legible script, was the final entry on the page: “Raoul Gaton.” For a brief second, as he passed me, our eyes met. I hoped that he could detect the respect that I felt for him. I had been allowed to glimpse into the window of his being, and I had discovered a dignity there that humbled me.

As I accompanied the other family members from the funeral home, I noticed a battered girl’s bicycle, with a basket up front, leaning against the wall. I remembered my grandfather’s words: “Without knowing how to sign your own name, you can go nowhere.” Monsieur Gaton and his battered bicycle had indeed gone many places, and one of them was into my heart.

Jayne Harvey
Keswick, Ontario

Finding Your Own Medicine

B
eing oneself . . . is really the essence of all
wisdom!

Roland Goodchild

Those who analyze such things say children who lack parental love don’t thrive. It was true for me—I didn’t thrive, I didn’t want to thrive. Specifically, I lacked the will to live. So, when in my early thirties, I found myself faced with death within a year, I chose not to take radiation and chemotherapy. Instead, I embraced death.

I didn’t have any close friends and had severed family ties long ago. It was easy to slip away from my urban life. I had enough money on hand to last a year—six months more than I figured I needed. I chose Quadra Island for my retreat, just across an inlet from Campbell River in British Columbia. I found and rented a small cabin by the Pacific shore at Cape Mudge near an old Indian village. Then I settled in with booze, smokes, music, books and death on my mind. I walked and contemplated, cried and laughed. I met people here and there, and when they got curious about me, I would make up a story. Whatever came to mind was the theme for the day.

Some days I was sick and scared. On most days, however, I had a surprisingly uncommon feeling of security, of being held and nurtured. My days were filled with wandering the shore and tidal pools and the high meadows.

I first saw the woman in a high meadow—a native woman gathering plants. “Medicine,” she later told me. I watched as she gathered leaves, flowers and roots— stooping low to bury tobacco offerings in Mother Earth. Her connection with the plants made me conscious of the tall graceful shaggy-headed plants circling my cabin. My landlord had told me to get rid of them.

“They take over,” he said. “They’re just weeds.”

I’d put it off. I just couldn’t do it. The plants seemed to be there for me—guarding me, looking after me in some way. I came to think of them as “my standing people.”

The next time I saw the woman she was digging up the root of the very same plants that circled my cabin. Surprised by this synchronicity, I asked her to tell me about them.

“You’ve found your medicine,” she said. “This root is good for the blood and good for tumours. This is your medicine.” She handed me a small shovel and we dug maybe twenty roots together. For every root she dug up, she dropped tobacco in the hole, making an offering of thanks to the plant. She gave me some tobacco so I could do the same. It made me feel connected to the earth, and part of something. I began to feel the power of earth medicine.

I learned her name was Standing Woman, and she was Kwakiutl. Words weren’t needed between us; she seemed to know everything she needed to know about me. That day she invited me for tea at her summerhouse—a tent beside a creek at the edge of the tree line. The tent was large, airy and filled with earthy smells. It was furnished with a cot, table and chairs. As we sipped our tea she told me she had known about me even before we met, and knew she could help me. The grandmothers had told her this. It was simply understood between us that I would stay with her and use her medicines to get well.

I stayed with her for three months. She took me with her to gather plants for my daily needs, telling me their story and how to prepare them. We would make the medicine together. Some days I wasn’t well enough to venture out, and on those days she sat with me and cared for my needs with more love and tenderness than I had ever known. As the days passed I became stronger, more confident, and more deeply connected to the earth—the same earth I had wanted to leave just a short time before. One morning, I awoke and simply knew my disease was gone. I also knew my apprenticeship with nature had just begun.

Now, some twenty-five years later, I walk close to the earth, and like her, I listen to the stories the plants have to tell. They teach me their medicine, and I pass it on to those who want to learn. Before she died, Standing Woman asked me to carry on her work. I cannot replace her, but I can walk with people to help them find the medicine they are seeking.

Some want to walk this way and some do not. For those who do, I am here in the meadow.

Kahlee Keane, Root Woman
Saskatoon, Saskatchewan