How My Heart Finds Christmas

by Gail MacMillan

  Thirty years. In the encroaching dusk, I eased the sagging door of the stove shut a little more to keep out the weather. Maybe that nesting mouse was a descendant of the one that hadn’t fallen into the stew that night many years ago.

  I wanted to protect him. He and the old camp had joined the ranks of precious Christmas memories.

  A Place of Peace

  Christmas and its cards bring images of beautifully bucolic little churches nestled in the snow. For our family and especially for my father, these images have been poignant reminders of St. Stephens.

  It was natural that his most beloved place of worship was pastoral St. Stephen’s. My father always found peace and spiritual renewal in nature. He saw God in a summer’s sunset, the first pussy willows of spring, autumn’s golden glow, and winter’s silent purity.

  Established on a small island in Black River in northeastern New Brunswick nearly 170 years ago, St. Stephen’s has remained isolated from the bustle of daily life. The little country church, surrounded by lofty maples and venerable pines, has continued to be what it has been since its beginnings…a place of peace.

  With its ambiance of reverend tranquility, St. Stephen’s has drawn our family to worship for nearly two centuries. Over the years, five generations of my ancestors have formed a generous portion of its congregation.

  At any given time, its choir has consisted at least in half of our relatives. One of my aunts (great-great, etc.) usually played the organ. In the days before electricity came to the little community one of my ancestral uncles manned the bellows that provided its power. My great-great uncle James preached there briefly in the 1850’s…until his free thinking made him unpopular and he felt compelled to move on. (Later he would become the first professor of Natural Science at Queen’s University.) We still have our own special pew in St. Stephen’s. The stained glass window my great grandmother donated in memory of my great grandfather stretches upward above it.

  This window was installed in the second building that became St. Stephen’s. Scottish settlers built the original structure in 1836. Among them was my great, great grandfather George Fowlie from Aberdeenshire. That original church building housed the small, rural congregation until shortly after the advent of the 20th century. By that time, it had fallen into disrepair and the congregation thought it wisest to replace it with an entirely new structure, the present day St. Stephen’s.

  My earliest memory of the second St. Stephen’s embodies standing beside my six-foot, three-inch father when I was five years old, awkwardly sharing a hymnbook with the man towering above me. A lower section of the family stained glass window had been opened to let in the July breeze. Sunlight streamed in through the remainder of the closed panes, making rainbows in the dust motes floating in the air. Each time we reseated ourselves after a song of praise, the old, much-varnished pews would creak kindly, a sound as familiarly reassuring as the voice of an old friend.

  Like a trusted old friend, St. Stephen’s always put my father at ease. A shy man who found the big town church with its finer trappings and more formal atmosphere intimidating, he felt at home in the little church on the island. He and I attended services there in all seasons. In summer, through open windows, bird song and gently rustling leaves accompanied the sermon. Sometimes a seasonal storm bucketed rain down the steep roof and lightning flashed. In fall we made our way up its steps over a carpet of golden leaves. In winter, this changed to a blanket of snow. In spring, at Easter, the island’s burgeoning pussy willows proved and welcomed nature’s revival.

  My father drew strength from the little church’s intimacy with nature and felt inspired by it. Certainly the tales he told me reflected a deep kinship with the old church. A gifted storyteller, he always spoke of St. Stephen’s with a kindly affection usually reserved for a trusted companion with whom he’d shared some of the best moments of his life.

  One of my favorites involved the church’s Christmas tree. In the days before electricity reached the little church on the island, real candles illuminated the boughs of the fir brought inside for seasonal celebrations.

  “Your uncles and I were given the task of manning the water buckets kept near the tree in case it caught fire,” I remember my father telling me with a grin. “And it usually did. For young fellows our age, dousing that burning tree became the highlight of our Christmas Eve.”

  My father saw nothing sacrilegious in their enjoyment of the event. The God he met at St. Stephen’s had a sense of humor and understood young boys.

  Christmas Eve gatherings were only one of the many events held at St. Stephen’s. In the days before television or even radio intruded on the peaceful rural community, the church served as a community center. My father told me stories of frosty sleigh rides to attend a Sunday evening youth group called Christian Endeavour. Lucky lads often got to see their favorite girl home afterwards.

  And then there were the basket socials where the men of the congregation bid on lunches prepared by their wives and sweethearts (or, hopefully, their future sweethearts). I recall my father telling me about one such event when he and his brother were both interested in the same young lady. During the course of the evening, my father managed to switch her basket with his sister’s. As a result, his brother ended up sharing the picnic supper with his sister while my father enjoyed the meal with his heart’s desire. Again, he was sure God chuckled.

  Perhaps the most endearing story my father told me about St. Stephen’s took place during another courtship, when he was dating my mother. Justifiably proud of his community’s beautiful little church, he took her to services there one fine autumn Sunday evening. As usual, one of my uncles controlled the bellows that powered the pump organ.

  This process later was a source of amusement for me whenever, as a child, I became bored with the service. Each time we stood to sing another hymn, I’d watch, fascinated, as the top of one of my father’s six foot plus brothers’ head would pop up and down behind the screen designed to hide shorter human sources of power from the congregation. I often played a little game in which I tried to guess which of my uncles was at the pump that day. On the evening my father took my mother to his church for the first time, my Uncle William manned the bellows.

  “That sermon never seemed to end,” I recall my father telling me. “Every time I thought he’d finished, he’d start up again.”

  When it finally did conclude and the choir got up to sing the last hymn, the congregation quickly followed suit. My aunt at the organ brought her fingers to the keys with gusto to play the opening bars.

  Nothing happened. Absolute silence filled the little church.

  She tried again. Still nothing.

  With a mutter of disgust, my father recognized the problem and leaped to his feet. Chagrined before the lady he was trying to impress, he strode out of the church, around its side and into the small space behind the pulpit that housed the organ’s source of power. With all the passion of a knight-errant, my father thrust aside his sleeping brother and took to the bellows.

  A great gust of air gushed into the organ all but lifting my startled aunt off her seat at the keyboard.

  His brash actions must have impressed his lady love. The following September, he and my mother were married. Years later they were laid to rest together in the serenity of St. Stephen’s cemetery.

  Whenever I need to talk to my father, I only have to walk into that peaceful place and stand beside his grave. Amid the soft music of the breeze soughing through the pines and maples, I know he’ll always be there for me.

  At Christmas when I visit St. Stephens and gaze at it snuggled in the virgin white of the season beneath snow frosted pines sparkling in winter sunlight, I find the same sense of serenity that he did. It never fails to help my heart find the true spirit of Christmas once again.

  The Enduring Christmas Wish

  Christmas is a time for wishing. Some wishes are attainable; others we recognize, even as we make them, as being in the realm of fantasy. One of my mos
t cherished ones fell into the latter category. Learning to ride a horse and having one of my very own went right to the top of my wish list when I was five and fell in love with a photographer’s pony.

  I recall falling hopelessly in love with its soft, brown eyes and velvet nose. Oh, how I longed to scramble onto its chubby back, even for a few seconds, to fun my fingers through its wiry, black-and-white mane, and pat its sturdy neck.

  My mother didn’t approve of those people who went door to door leading a sleepy-looking Shetland pony and offering to take children’s pictures on its back. Therefore, I didn’t get the brief, momentary thrill of being placed in its saddle that day. Denied the opportunity, the incident left an unquenched longing in my soul.

  That year at Christmas I squeezed my eyes shut as tight as I could and wished and wished. It didn’t work.

  Over the years, my maternal grandfather, a life-long horse fancier himself, would indulge my wish as best he could by taking me to pony rides at the local county fair. He’d stand patiently by the rail while I circled the ring time and time again on a bored, plodding pony, fantasies of cantering across a field full of daisies dancing through my head.

  When I reached the age of twelve and became too big for the pony circuit, my paternal grandfather allowed me to saddle up one of his Percherons and ride, always well within his view, at a sedate walk or shambling trot up and down the lane behind his barn.

  Neither of my grandfathers’ kindnesses could fully quench my desire to ride a real saddle horse of my very own. Consequently each Christmas I continued to wish.

  Through my teen years, I managed a few trail rides at local stables and even a couple of riding lessons from a neighbor who owned a lofty hunter. Brief and transitory, these equine encounters failed to satisfy my desire for a personal bonding with one special mount.

  Marriage and children followed and I shelved my dream. I had a wonderful family; to ask for more from life would have been greedy. Nevertheless each Wednesday when our weekly newspaper arrived, I read an ad offering riding lessons at a nearby stable. Each Wednesday I’d fantasize about having the time and money to indulge myself without the faintest belief it could ever be possible. My canter across that field of daisies would remain a fantasy.

  But when Christmas rolled around, I still couldn’t resist wishing.

  Years passed. Children grew up and graduated from university. Money became less of an issue. But by then, I was nearly fifty, too old to achieve my dream. Or so I thought.

  “I think it’s time you took those riding lessons you’ve always wanted,” daughter Joan startled me by suggesting one Saturday morning. “I’ve called the number in that ad you’ve been reading for years. They can fit you in this afternoon.”

  I tried to protest. I was old enough to be a grandmother. It was too late. My words fell on deaf ears. Joan bundled me into her car and off we went.

  Someone once said (I think it might have been Winston Churchill) that the outside of a horse is good for the inside of a man (or in this case, a woman). He was right. From the moment I first scrambled aboard my mount, Dee, I discovered a new world. Stress, fatigue, and old-fashioned depression vanished immediately. Nothing could match a good, long ride in fresh, country air. Even when it was raining. Even if it was at a shambling walk.

  Dee, like myself, didn’t mind the rain. In fact, she seemed to prefer a silver-cool morning to hot, fly-infested bluebird days. I’d let her shuffle to a walk as we turned down a trail into the trees. Dee at nineteen, an equine equivalent to my own age, felt no need to hurry. Trained from filly-hood to the familiar Western Pleasure gaits of walk, trot, and lope she could make these transitions as smooth as good milk chocolate.

  In an effort to bring myself up to speed with Dee’s superior knowledge, I took riding lessons from her owners and became the bane of their existence by proving no great prospect for the next Olympic Equestrian team or even a winner at the local pony club show. I didn’t care. My absolute pleasure in spending time with Dee overshadowed my lack of skill. As kind and gentle with me as she was with the ten-year-old who’d learned balance and coordination on her back the previous summer, Dee only looked puzzled the day I led her from the barn, her saddle tilted to one side, one ear flattened under an improperly positioned bridle strap.

  The tolerant mare taught me how to keep the bit straight when I put it into her mouth and told me with a shake of her head when I pulled the girth too tight too fast. She waited patiently as I climbed aboard and then steadied my wobbly body with the rhythm of her even gaits.

  That autumn the stable owner asked me if I’d like to lease Dee. She knew I wasn’t in a position to buy the mare and take her from the property. With the lease, Dee would be my horse exclusively while remaining at the stable for care.

  I was ecstatic. After decades of longing for a horse of my very own, I’d finally achieved my dream. Oh, I’ve never succeeded in cantering across a field of daisies...a faulty sense of balance has never allowed me to speed, steer, and stay in place all at the same time. But each morning when this fifty-something lady saddles up and heads out, she knows dreams can come true.

  These days, each Christmas I give thanks for the magic of a season that can keep a dream alive for forty-five years.

  Lassie Never Did Come Home

  My dogs, with their unconditional love, boundless joie de vivre, and eternal optimism have always showed my heart the way to the true spirit of Christmas. They’ve shared my good times and bad and never once faltered in their love for me or their belief that I will do the right thing.

  Through the years, over a dozen dogs have shared my life and brightened my days. This past year, four monikered stockings hang from our mantel this Christmas. They read, left to right, Molly, Bruiser, Scout, and Barbie-Q. Curled up on the rug in front of them are the four canine characters for which they’ve been monogrammed; a Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever, a Pug, a Beagle, and a little no-name brand.

  In my wildest dreams I could never have imagined this mixed four-pack all those years ago when I first began wishing with all my heart and soul for a dog, any dog, just as long as it had four legs and barked. Nor could have I imagined my Christmas wish would eventually lead to over a dozen dogs a-barking instead of the twelve drummers drumming that the lyrics of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” promised.

  I was twelve when I’d finally managed by blatant trickery to get my first puppy on the Christmas of the China Dog. Like Agatha Christie who was so overwhelmed with delight on being presented with her first dog she ran away and hid, I could barely contain my joy. When Prince finally left me to cross the rainbow bridge, I thought the pain of his passing would never subside.

  For a few years I remained dog-free, not able to once again give my “heart to a dog to tear.” Then, shortly after my marriage, Ron, knowing my love for all things canine, found a dog, a Samoyed husky whose owner was terminally ill and desperately seeking a good permanent home for his beloved dog. We were living in an old farm house in the country at the time and had room for a big dog.

  When Ron arrived home with Star in tow, I instantly broke my vow about never again giving my heart to a dog. A Samoyed husky was still a very long way from the Collie of my dreams but Star was a wonderful dog, she needed a place to live, and we had room both in our hearts and our home. Little did we realize then that this would become a pattern for our lives.

  Later Ron would adopt Smokey, a lovely Yellow Lab. A gentle giant who loved our children as toddlers and accepted small hands pulling his fur as each struggled to their feet to make their first steps. Smokey exhibited nothing but love during his days with us. When a job placement forced us to move to the city, Smokey remained to live with friends on a nearby farm. A small urban apartment wouldn’t have been a fair or decent place for a large dog who loved country freedom.

  Three years later I took our seven-year-old son to the local SPCA to look at dogs. I kept reminding Steve that we were “just looking.” Although we’d recently bought our own hom
e with a yard and might possibly be able to manage a dog, the time just didn’t seem right. As we were leaving the shelter, I noticed Steve clutching his jacket that seemed to be quivering independent of my son’s movements. I understood a moment later when a tiny puppy head appeared near the neckline.

  “This little dog needs a place to live.” My son looked up at me. His tone and expression brooked no refusal.

  We went back inside, paid for the puppy, and signed the necessary adoption papers. Twenty minutes later Ben, a beagle mix, was on his way home with us, unplanned but definitely not unwelcome.

  Sadly Ben ran away from our cottage one summer day two years later and was struck by a car. All three of our children were devastated especially Carol, the middle child. To placate her tears I promised we’d get a beagle puppy…a breed about which I knew absolutely nothing except that they definitely were not Lassie-type dogs.

  Three weeks later Brandy a purebred beagle joined our family. The following Christmas Jet a Black Lab arrived to companion him. For the next sixteen years, Brandy led us through a series of adventures, some of which would have made James Bond cringe. Jet watched from the sidelines, good naturedly wagging his tail and taking it all in his stride. I remember looking at them more than a few times over that decade and a half and thinking there were few pairs of dogs that could be further from my dream Collie.

  But what the heck! They were great dogs and everyone in the family loved them. Those are the most important ingredients to a satisfying human-canine relationship.

  One day when both our dogs were well into the double digit years of their lives, I saw an article in a magazine article about Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retrievers. At last here was a dog that appeared tailor made for me. Over the years I’d felt my need for a Collie diminishing as I became more and more enamored with retrievers. But these little red dogs had somewhat the look of a Collie combined with the wonderful temperament of a retriever.