Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul (29 page)

But he always came to visit us on his birthday, which was on New Year’s Eve, and each time he would ask to see his tangerine tree.

In the twenty years that had passed since the little tree sprang up, it had grown amazingly. Each year I would put it into a bigger pot and place it in a warm, sunny spot in the garden, then bring it inside for the winter. But by the fall of 1981, I had no receptacle large enough to hold it, as it was now six feet tall.

Our daughter, who lived near us, offered to look after it as she had a very large urn, which she placed in a sunny window. When Tom came that New Year’s Eve, he wanted to see his tangerine tree in his sister’s home.

“Do you think it will ever bear fruit?” he asked.

I told him not to hold his breath—that although it would bear both male and female flowers if it ever bloomed, it was a Japanese tree and probably our climate was too cold for the flowers to set. He decided that he would take it down to his home in Nova Scotia the following summer. The foliage was beautiful anyway, he thought.

At that time he was working as a geologist on the
Ocean
Ranger
oil rig off the coast of Newfoundland, and he was very proud to be doing exploration on what was probably the largest and most modern oil rig in the world. It was like a huge man-made island—indeed, the crew called it “Fantasy Island.” They had to go out to it by helicopter, the only time, Tom said, that he was actually nervous. “It’s a long, long way down there, Mum!”

I said, “I do wish you didn’t have to go out in this bitter winter weather.”

“I’m safer than you are, driving out of your driveway between ten-foot snowbanks,” he assured me. “Besides, the rig’s unsinkable!”

“So was the
Titanic!
” I said.

“You’re mixing apples and oranges,” he replied.

So when he telephoned us after he had returned to Nova Scotia and said he would be going out on the next shift change in a few days’ time, I said, as I always did, “Be careful!”

Early on the morning of February 15, my husband turned on the radio and woke me.

“Tommy’s in trouble,” he said. “The
Ocean Ranger
is listing!” We did not know it then, but it had already gone under the waves around one o’clock that morning.

There followed grief mixed with desperate fear, until we finally realized the unthinkable had occurred. Our dear, kindhearted, life-loving son had been taken from us. Amidst the wild despair and unbearable sorrow, we were borne by the belief that a spirit such as our beloved son’s could not possibly disappear completely—that he was still with us and loving us.

But I longed for some kind of assurance. And how I dreaded the coming of Easter that year! How could I join in the celebration of eternal life when I was not sure of it myself?

Then, on Good Friday, I got an answer. When our daughter telephoned, she said excitedly, “Mum, you won’t believe this, but Tom’s tangerine tree is full of blossoms!”

It was true. On Easter Sunday they opened fully, and their fragrance filled the house. Surely no flowers had ever been so beautiful! Someone had responded to my doubt and hopelessness with this little miracle.

Since the tree was inside, with no honeybees to pollinate it, we did not expect the blossoms to set. But again a miracle happened! Four tiny tangerines appeared. A short time later, two of them dropped off. Over the next few months, however, two more beautiful tangerines grew and eventually ripened. On the following Christmas Day we ceremoniously divided and ate Tom’s tangerines. We felt that he knew it, and we were comforted.

A horticulturist has said that perhaps people had spread the pollen when they smelled the fragrant blooms. But I believe “someone” sent those blossoms to comfort us when we most needed a miracle—the miracle of Tom’s tangerine tree.

Now, five years later, another little tangerine tree, a child of Tommy’s tree, is growing on my windowsill. We had planted the seeds of the tangerines we ate on Christmas Day, 1982. I shall not live to see it blossom, but I shall nurture it as a symbol of life everlasting.

Ruth Hilton Hatfield
Rosemere, Québec
Submitted by her daughter, Margaret Herman

[MARGARET’S NOTE:
My mother died peacefully in my arms
in 1998 at the age of ninety. I have three “children” of Tommy’s
tree now growing in a single pot on my windowsill, but to date,
they have not blossomed. The original tree stands beside the
smaller pot for comfort. Tommy’s tree took over twenty years to
blossom, so I have not yet given up hope.
]

The Littlest Angel

C
ome, O wind, from the dreaming west,
Sweeping over the water’s breast;
Bring my unquiet spirit rest.

Norah Halland

It was the winter that I taught in a small country school on the West Coast of Vancouver Island. I had three grades of little people in my class, all beaming with the desire to learn all they could. One little boy named David from my grade one class wanted to learn more than all the others. His round puffy face would smile up at me, reminding me over and over that perhaps one day he would leave us. His frail, six-year-old body harboured a dreadful disease— leukemia. More often than not, he would be missing from our classroom because when he was subjected to another round of treatments, he would take his schooling in Vancouver.

All of us were so pleased, then, to have that happy little boy with us for Christmas. We decorated our classroom, practised for the concert, and coloured many pictures of Santa, snowmen and angels. We read Christmas stories, and some of the older children wrote very good ones of their own.

Two days before school let out for the three-week Christmas holiday, I read a new story to the class. It was the story of “The Littlest Angel.” This little angel had an awful time in heaven. He could not adjust to the routine. He was always in trouble, bumping into other angels, tripping over clouds or dropping his halo. Nothing seemed to make his time easier until one celestial day an archangel suggested that the little angel return to earth and retrieve some items from his home. Just a few things to remind him of his past time on earth.

As I read the story, a heavenly silence fell over the class as each child became more involved in the plight of the angel. In hushed voices we discussed the story as the end of the school day drew to a close.

The following day during our regular show-and-tell time, David asked if he could share something with the class.

He sat in front of us on the old worn carpet holding a small wooden box.

“This is my first tooth,” he explained. “This is a ribbon from my sister’s hair, and this is my puppy’s collar. My dad gave me this old key. My mom says this big coin is for good luck.”

Even before he told us the purpose of the box, we all seemed to know. Shiny tears went dot-to-dot down the faces of the other children—we were all thinking of the story of “The Littlest Angel.”

“I have all these things so when I go to heaven I won’t be too scared. Maybe you guys could make a picture for me to take so I will always remember you?”

The rest of the day was spent doing just that. Each of us prepared a picture, folded it carefully and placed it in David’s wooden box.

The day ended with all of us saying good-bye to each other. Everyone gave David a special hug and received a beautiful smile in return. I went home that day with the memory of a little boy who fought his disease bravely and would one day accept his destiny.

When the holidays came to a close, we all returned to our class—all except David. He had died over Christmas in a hospital, clutching the wooden box that held his hopes and memories, and ours.

I have never forgotten him. I am sure many of the students from that class, who are now grown with youngsters of their own, also remember “The Littlest Angel”— and the gifts of love he gave to us all.

Brenda Mallory
Telkwa, British Columbia

8
A MATTER OF
PERSPECTIVE

I
f we had no winter, the spring would not
be so pleasant. If we did not sometimes
taste of adversity, prosperity would not
be so welcome.

Anne Bradstreet

Motherly Advice

A
man, to see far, must climb to some height.

Ralph Connor, 1900

I had the kind of mom who was never in a hurry. This would sometimes drive my dad crazy, as he prides himself in being always on time and totally organized. I sure know where I get my relaxed attitude from, and it’s not my dad!

During all those years of early morning skating practices, mom would wake me up at 4:50 A.M. with a gentle nudge and a soothing voice. She followed this up five minutes later with another wake-up call. My dad had a different style altogether. He would call from the door of my room and then again only ten seconds later. He had no sympathy!

Mom would have breakfast for me in the car, and truthfully, I think we really savoured that thirty-minute drive from our home in Caroline, Alberta, to the rink in Rocky Mountain House. She would think nothing of stopping to look at some deer at the side of the road, or to sit on the hood of the car and wonder about the northern lights. Sometimes it seemed like we had the whole country to ourselves. Sure we would be a little late, but she knew that sometimes there were just more important things to experience. Well, the years went by, and eventually more important things did come along.

My coach, Louis, and I were on the bus on the way to the arena when we heard the news. It seemed most of my toughest competitors, including Brian Boitano and Victor Petrenko, had already finished skating, and the results were not what we had expected. Since I pulled last to skate, I had a perfect opportunity to see most of the event unfold before I even stepped on the ice—and so far it was looking good. The event just happened to be the 1994 Olympics in Lillihamer, Norway, and I just happened to be the reigning Men’s World Figure Skating Champion.

Jogging around the arena, I felt optimistic. A clean skate without even a triple-triple combo would leave me in the necessary top three spots; heck, it might even leave me first! The path to Olympic gold had been cleared for me, and now I just needed to get out there and do it. But the Olympics sometimes have a way of twisting destiny. They had already put a bend in the road for Brian and Victor a few hours earlier. Little did I know they would do the same for me.

The Olympics had been good to both of those guys in Calgary ’88, and then in Albertville, France, in ’92, and then they had turned pro. By the rules, neither of them should even have been allowed into these games—but these games were different. Only two years had passed since Victor had won his Olympic gold, and Brian, one of the toughest competitors ever, had played a big role in getting professionals into these Olympics. It would be the toughest Olympic Games ever with these names back in the pot, and now, here I was set up to take the gold.

The Albertville Olympics two years earlier had not been so good for me. Then, as now, I was coming in as World Champion, but I was recovering from a slipped disk and was not even close to being the skater I could be. I had always dreamed that when the Olympic experience came to an athlete, everything would be perfect and you performed to the best of your ability. But why should the Olympics be different than any other aspect of life? You have to play the cards you are dealt. Now, like Brian and Victor, I was being handed a second chance. It was starting to look like this time it might just be my turn.

The warm-up before the short program was going well. With only one minute left, I had already run through everything I needed. And then I started to think. That was my mistake.

Anybody who knows me well would have chuckled a bit there. You see, there are only two really big moments in a short program: the necessary combination of jumps, and the necessary triple jump out of footwork. Once these two are out of the way, you are flying. I had a triple axel planned with a double toe for the combo, and a triple flip out of footwork. I was a little worried about the flip, so I decided in that moment of “thinking” to practice the takeoff for that jump. I did this by trying a double flip. This is a very easy jump, and I never practice it. I simply warm up and then just do the triple flip.